The day was more like May than January. The baby makes us very uneasy. He has a cold which distresses us—The perils incident to children, and the misery of parents when they are ill.

I went to the Office—Reading and other incidental occupation. Then a walk. Home. Afternoon, reading but not to much purpose. Continued the 12th book of Virgil and came almost to the end. The vigor of the poet sustains him to the last. Read Patronage in the evening. Afterwards sat up in my room reading and writing an answer to my father’s last letter.1

The child was so restless and uneasy that I preferred sitting up to troubled sleep. As the amusement of occupation of any sort is better than the restless fancies of inaction, I endeavour to console myself with prayer and trust.