I hesitated at first, to promise, but on thinking of the state of her mother’s health, and how the knowledge of such a thing would fret her, and think too, of how such a story might become distorted, nay, infallibly would, in case it should leak out, I thought it wiser to do so.  I hope I did right.  I have locked the door, and the key is tied to my wrist, so perhaps I shall not be again disturbed.  Lucy is sleeping soundly.  The reflex of the dawn is high and far over the sea . . .

Same day, noon.—­All goes well.  Lucy slept till I woke her and seemed not to have even changed her side.  The adventure of the night does not seem to have harmed her, on the contrary, it has benefited her, for she looks better this morning than she has done for weeks.  I was sorry to notice that my clumsiness with the safety-pin hurt her.  Indeed, it might have been serious, for the skin of her throat was pierced.  I must have pinched up a piece of loose skin and have transfixed it, for there are two little red points like pin-pricks, and on the band of her nightdress was a drop of blood.  When I apologised and was concerned about it, she laughed and petted me, and said she did not even feel it.  Fortunately it cannot leave a scar, as it is so tiny.

Same day, night.—­We passed a happy day.  The air was clear, and the sun bright, and there was a cool breeze.  We took our lunch to Mulgrave Woods, Mrs. Westenra driving by the road and Lucy and I walking by the cliff-path and joining her at the gate.  I felt a little sad myself, for I could not but feel how absolutely happy it would have been had Jonathan been with me.  But there!  I must only be patient.  In the evening we strolled in the Casino Terrace, and heard some good music by Spohr and Mackenzie, and went to bed early.  Lucy seems more restful than she has been for some time, and fell asleep at once.  I shall lock the door and secure the key the same as before, though I do not expect any trouble tonight.

12 August.—­My expectations were wrong, for twice during the night I was wakened by Lucy trying to get out.  She seemed, even in her sleep, to be a little impatient at finding the door shut, and went back to bed under a sort of protest.  I woke with the dawn, and heard the birds chirping outside of the window.  Lucy woke, too, and I was glad to see, was even better than on the previous morning.  All her old gaiety of manner seemed to have come back, and she came and snuggled in beside me and told me all about Arthur.  I told her how anxious I was about Jonathan, and then she tried to comfort me.  Well, she succeeded somewhat, for, though sympathy can’t alter facts, it can make them more bearable.