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I know these are anxious days for you, and I want you to know that I think of you very very often and hope all goes well. I have been ill ever since I got home2 from Maine5. I don't even try to do anything. I brought a new book6 home with me, but I have not had the energy to put it in order for 2Alfred Knopf7 to see, and I don't care whether it is ever published or not. Roscoe8's death broke the last spring in me. He was always the closest of my brothers to me, in years and in feeling. Douglass9 and I twice had a little quarrel, but Roscoe and I never. We always felt the same way about things. The three summers10 I spent in Wyoming11 with him and his wife12 were among the happiest of my life. Now I don't care 3about writing any more books. Now I know that nothing really matters to us but the people we love.
Of course, if we realized that when we are young, and just sat down and loved each other, the beds would not get made and very little of the world's work would ever get done. For years, two weeks never went by that I did not get a jolly letter from Roscoe. I loved his three daughters13 and was able to do nice 4 things for them. That gave him such great pleasure. When I last saw him in San Francisco14 he laughed and said "You know, the two summers you gave the twins in Grand Manan15 were the happiest summers of my life! I was so proud that you wanted them."Goodbye, dear Irene. God bless you. Willie