Morning cloudy with occasional rain. My father came to town this morning and brought with him the two little girls. He proposes to go on the Wednesday of next week, and therefore to take home my brother’s widow who has been staying here for some days. She has made herself exceedingly pleasant during her residence with us, and her absence with that of Elizabeth who has also been very agreeable, will make us feel the change in the house.

I was occupied at the Office most of my morning as usual. Wrote Diary and drew up Accounts. Called to see Mr. Brooks and went down to the Athenaeum. Nothing further. I returned home at my hour to read Juvenal, but my father was there so that I spent it in conversation. He seemed not to be in very lively mood. I fancy things look unpleasantly to him. I asked no questions. My political course is one thing and his is another. I will not sacrifice my independence at all hazards.

They all went directly after dinner. Afternoon reading Aristotle, and evening quietly at home. Read Moore’s Epicurean, a singular, sprightly little nothing.1