I walked along the cliffs to the westward, and was full of sweet sadness, for I was thinking of Jonathan.  When coming home, it was then bright moonlight, so bright that, though the front of our part of the Crescent was in shadow, everything could be well seen, I threw a glance up at our window, and saw Lucy’s head leaning out.  I opened my handkerchief and waved it.  She did not notice or make any movement whatever.  Just then, the moonlight crept round an angle of the building, and the light fell on the window.  There distinctly was Lucy with her head lying up against the side of the window sill and her eyes shut.  She was fast asleep, and by her, seated on the window sill, was something that looked like a good-sized bird.  I was afraid she might get a chill, so I ran upstairs, but as I came into the room she was moving back to her bed, fast asleep, and breathing heavily.  She was holding her hand to her throat, as though to protect if from the cold.

I did not wake her, but tucked her up warmly.  I have taken care that the door is locked and the window securely fastened.

She looks so sweet as she sleeps, but she is paler than is her wont, and there is a drawn, haggard look under her eyes which I do not like.  I fear she is fretting about something.  I wish I could find out what it is.

15 August.—­Rose later than usual.  Lucy was languid and tired, and slept on after we had been called.  We had a happy surprise at breakfast.  Arthur’s father is better, and wants the marriage to come off soon.  Lucy is full of quiet joy, and her mother is glad and sorry at once.  Later on in the day she told me the cause.  She is grieved to lose Lucy as her very own, but she is rejoiced that she is soon to have some one to protect her.  Poor dear, sweet lady!  She confided to me that she has got her death warrant.  She has not told Lucy, and made me promise secrecy.  Her doctor told her that within a few months, at most, she must die, for her heart is weakening.  At any time, even now, a sudden shock would be almost sure to kill her.  Ah, we were wise to keep from her the affair of the dreadful night of Lucy’s sleep-walking.

17 August.—­No diary for two whole days.  I have not had the heart to write.  Some sort of shadowy pall seems to be coming over our happiness.  No news from Jonathan, and Lucy seems to be growing weaker, whilst her mother’s hours are numbering to a close.  I do not understand Lucy’s fading away as she is doing.  She eats well and sleeps well, and enjoys the fresh air, but all the time the roses in her cheeks are fading, and she gets weaker and more languid day by day.  At night I hear her gasping as if for air.

I keep the key of our door always fastened to my wrist at night, but she gets up and walks about the room, and sits at the open window.  Last night I found her leaning out when I woke up, and when I tried to wake her I could not.

She was in a faint.  When I managed to restore her, she was weak as water, and cried silently between long, painful struggles for breath.  When I asked her how she came to be at the window she shook her head and turned away.