Such simple, straight, natural writing!  There may have been a thousand errors but my ears heard none of them.  The breathless bits about the moments when death was near; the humorous bits about patching the tent with the tails of their shirts when an overturned lamp burnt a hole in the canvas—­this was all I was conscious of until I was startled by the sound of a sepulchral voice, groaning out “Oh Lord a-massy me!” and by the sight of a Glengarry cap over the top of the fuchsia hedge.  Old Tommy was listening from the road.

We sat late over our proofs and then, the dew having begun to fall, Martin said he must carry me indoors lest my feet should get wet—­which he did, with the result that, remembering what had happened on our first evening at Castle Raa, I had a pretty fit of hysterics as soon as we reached the house.

“Let’s skip, Commanther,” was the next thing I heard, and then I was helped upstairs to bed.

* * * * *

JULY 18.  What a flirt I am becoming!  Having conceived the idea that Dr. O’Sullivan is a little wee bit in love with me too, I have been playing him off against Martin.

It was so delicious (after all I have gone through) to have two magnificent men, out of the heroic youth of the world, waiting hand and foot on one little woman, that the feminine soul in me to-day couldn’t resist the temptation to an innocent effort at coquetry.

So before we began business on the proofs I told Martin that, if he was determined to leave me behind at winter quarters while he went away to the Pole, he must allow Dr. O’Sullivan to remain behind to take care of me.

Of course the doctor rose to my bait like a dear, crying: 

“He will too—­by St. Patrick and St. Thomas he will, and a mighty proud man he’ll be entirely. . . .”

But good gracious!  A momentary shadow passed over Martin’s face, then came one of his big broad smiles, then out shot his clinched fist, and . . . the poor doctor and his garden seat were rolling over each other on the grass.

However, we got through without bloodshed, and did good day’s work on the book.

I must not write any more.  I have always written in my own book at night, when I haven’t been able to get any kind of Christian sleep; but I’m weaker now, so must stop, lest I shouldn’t have strength enough for Martin’s.

* * * * *

JULY 20.  Oh dear!  I am dragging all these other poor dears into my deceptions.  Christian Ann does not mind what lies, or half-lies, she has to tell in order to save pain to her beloved son.  But the old doctor!  And Father Dan!

To-day itself, as Martin’s mother would say, I had to make my poor old priest into a shocking story-teller.

I developed a cough a few weeks ago, and though it is not really of much account I have been struggling to smother it while Martin has been about, knowing he is a doctor himself, and fearing his ear might detect the note.