Did not rise until quite late. Time hangs heavy upon my hands and the elasticity of my mind is temporarily destroyed. At the Office, wrote a letter to my Mother and received two from George at New York.1
He will have reached Washington this afternoon. To day is his birth day and commences his twenty eighth year. Time begins to set heavily on him but he listens not enough to it’s admonitions. Abby is in town at Mrs. P. C. Brooks’ who is ill. I consequently remain in Boston but did not go to see her as I expected she would send to tell me when she could see me. But she did not and I passed the afternoon and evening
much as usual. Finished Cyril Thornton. My spirits still excessively depressed but more quiet and calm than they have been.