[Boston—Wednesday, 7 March 1877]
Wednesday March 7th It is a daily regret that I cannot or do not make time to write down here some of the many interesting things which absorb our lives, but while my dear mother is so ill every extra thought and moment is directed her way if I am not by her side. Last night Lily Phelps came down and we had another club meeting. Miss Townsend read a simple description of the Greek theatres and actors—afterward Mrs Bell sang. The chords which she has fitted to the exquisite verses she has chosen produce a setting for the words which like the background of a picture only seems to throw them into higher relief. The feeling in her voice is sometimes almost too deep to hear. She sang a few verses from Shelley’s “Hellas”, Christina Rossetti’s Court Gate poem, Tennyson’s Come not when I am dead—a few verses by Mrs Pratt, her sister—and a nun’s prayer I think it is called, also by Miss Rossetti. It was a delightful treat.
Wednesday—this morning Miss Phelps returned—went to mothers and now am going to Cambridge to talk of new plans for taking care of the Poor.
