All day poor Páp was very ill and I was running up and down and going for countless messages to settle up with his affairs. In the evening, Mám went to Piggott’s ((Cork’s music store which supplied grand pianos for concerts.)) to play her programme. She evidently got through splendidly. Páp got nervous that it might be diphtheria he had, so I went for Dr. Donovan. And it was well, for Dr. said it was the beginning of it and injected him. Poor Mám was, of course, in a terrible state. It is rotten luck. Drove with the doctor to get his tools in South Mall. He has a lovely Audi-Johnson. Poor Mám is terribly nervy. I get heart-ache when I think of the concert, and Páp lying sick at home. I know how distracted she will be.
