We were all indebted to Tom, who still lives (July 20, 1911) and sheds upon us the sweetness and light of a most lovable nature, a friend who grows more precious as the years roll by.
He has softened by age, and even his outbursts against theology as antagonistic to true religion are in his fine old age much less alarming.

We are all prone to grow philosophic in age, and perhaps this is well.

[In re-reading this--July 19, 1912--in our retreat upon the high moors at Aultnagar, I drop a tear for my bosom friend, dear Tom Miller, who died in Pittsburgh last winter.

Mrs.Carnegie and I attended his funeral.

Henceforth life lacks something, lacks much--my first partner in early years, my dearest friend in old age.