Morning at the Office. Received at last a letter from my Father with a remittance. There was not in it exactly what I expected. Although in noticing my allusion he made some kind of apology, yet it was not so kind as I expected after so long a silence. He attempts also to make me in the wrong, when I believe myself entirely right, or at any rate when I still feel as if I had suffered from his harshness.1 The larger part of his letter was upon other subjects. I read, but very loosely, and on the whole both morning and afternoon were not passed profitably owing to the difficulty which I found in fixing my thoughts. Evening, occupied in reading Mr. Boswell.