Tuesday 26 March
We are all in turmoil. Uncle Norris has died. I cannot believe it. He seemed so well, and he was so young. He ate too much, to be sure, and drank perhaps too freely, but none of us expected this. My aunt has been bearing up bravely; Tom has spent the afternoon standing about looking grave and Papa has given his attention to all the business naturally following on from the calamity. It has come as another burden to him at a time when he is already burdened with worries about his business affairs, and I am sorry I cannot do more to help him.