March 4th. Evening
The house seems very quiet to-night. No more looking for telegrams. He is lying on his death-bed, looking very handsome, I know. The fatigue of the busy, aching day is on me. Many people have been here to-day to tender their sympathies. Hohler, the last, came in for tea after seeing Nelson, and has just gone.
Now the pouch is closed and everybody and everything has departed. Elim is lying on the floor in front of my little electric stove. The chords so strongly moved by the passing of my beloved brother are vibrating again, not alone because of death and parting, but because of life and the imperfections of its relationships. Nelson has accepted his father’s death, has pulled himself together, and is going on with his work, of which there is more than sufficient.
How true it is that men follow their destinies rather than their interests; a something innate and unalterable drives each one along. Genio y figura hasta la sepultura—a Spanish saying to the effect that mind, temperament, inclination, are unchanged by the circumstances of life, even to the grave.