I held it over her again.

Oh, Mary, Mary, the doctor was right! I ought to have only thought of you in heaven! Dead, without a word, without a sign--without even a look to tell the true story of the blow that killed her! I could not call to anybody, I could not cry, I could not so much as put the glass down and give her a kiss for the last time.

I don't know how long I had sat there with my eyes burning, and my hands deadly cold, when Sally came in with the shoes cleaned, and carried carefully in her apron for fear of a soil touching them.

At the sight of that-- I can write no more.

My tears drop so fast on the paper that I can see nothing.
March 12th.