No More Learning

_2 August, midnight. _--Woke up from few minutes' sleep by hearing a cry,
seemingly outside my port. Could see nothing in fog. Rushed on deck,
and ran against mate. Tells me heard cry and ran, but no sign of man on
watch. One more gone. Lord, help us! Mate says we must be past Straits
of Dover, as in a moment of fog lifting he saw North Foreland, just as
he heard the man cry out. If so we are now off in the North Sea, and
only God can guide us in the fog, which seems to move with us; and God
seems to have deserted us.

_3 August. _--At midnight I went to relieve the man at the wheel, but
when I got to it found no one there. The wind was steady, and as we ran
before it there was no yawing. I dared not leave it, so shouted for
the mate. After a few seconds he rushed up on deck in his flannels. He
looked wild-eyed and haggard, and I greatly fear his reason has given
way. He came close to me and whispered hoarsely, with his mouth to my
ear, as though fearing the very air might hear: "_It_ is here; I know
it, now. On the watch last night I saw It, like a man, tall and thin,
and ghastly pale. It was in the bows, and looking out. I crept behind
It, and gave It my knife; but the knife went through It, empty as the
air. " And as he spoke he took his knife and drove it savagely into
space. Then he went on: "But It is here, and I'll find it. It is in the
hold, perhaps, in one of those boxes. I'll unscrew them one by one and
see. You work the helm. " And, with a warning look and his finger on his
lip, he went below. There was springing up a choppy wind, and I could
not leave the helm. I saw him come out on deck again with a tool-chest
and a lantern, and go down the forward hatchway. He is mad, stark,
raving mad, and it's no use my trying to stop him. He can't hurt those
big boxes: they are invoiced as "clay," and to pull them about is as
harmless a thing as he can do. So here I stay, and mind the helm, and
write these notes. I can only trust in God and wait till the fog clears.
Then, if I can't steer to any harbour with the wind that is, I shall cut
down sails and lie by, and signal for help. . . .

It is nearly all over now. Just as I was beginning to hope that the mate
would come out calmer--for I heard him knocking away at something in the
hold, and work is good for him--there came up the hatchway a sudden,
startled scream, which made my blood run cold, and up on the deck he
came as if shot from a gun--a raging madman, with his eyes rolling and
his face convulsed with fear. "Save me! save me! " he cried, and then
looked round on the blanket of fog. His horror turned to despair, and
in a steady voice he said: "You had better come too, captain, before it
is too late. _He_ is there. I know the secret now. The sea will save me
from Him, and it is all that is left! " Before I could say a word, or
move forward to seize him, he sprang on the bulwark and deliberately
threw himself into the sea. I suppose I know the secret too, now. It
was this madman who had got rid of the men one by one, and now he has
followed them himself. God help me! How am I to account for all these
horrors when I get to port? _When_ I get to port! Will that ever be?

_4 August. _--Still fog, which the sunrise cannot pierce. I know there
is sunrise because I am a sailor, why else I know not. I dared not go
below, I dared not leave the helm; so here all night I stayed, and in
the dimness of the night I saw It--Him! God forgive me, but the mate was
right to jump overboard. It is better to die like a man; to die like a
sailor in blue water no man can object. But I am captain, and I must not
leave my ship. But I shall baffle this fiend or monster, for I shall
tie my hands to the wheel when my strength begins to fail, and along
with them I shall tie that which He--It! --dare not touch; and then, come
good wind or foul, I shall save my soul, and my honour as a captain. I
am growing weaker, and the night is coming on. If He can look me in the
face again, I may not have time to act. . . . If we are wrecked, mayhap
this bottle may be found, and those who find it may understand; if not,
. . . well, then all men shall know that I have been true to my trust. God
and the Blessed Virgin and the saints help a poor ignorant soul trying
to do his duty. . . .

Of course the verdict was an open one. There is no evidence to adduce;
and whether or not the man himself committed the murders there is now
none to say. The folk hold almost universally here that the captain
is simply a hero, and he is to be given a public funeral. Already it
is arranged that his body is to be taken with a train of boats up the
Esk for a piece and then brought back to Tate Hill Pier and up the
Abbey steps; for he is to be buried in the churchyard on the cliff. The
owners of more than a hundred boats have already given in their names as
wishing to follow him to the grave.

No trace has ever been found of the great dog; at which there is much
mourning, for, with public opinion in its present state, he would, I
believe, be adopted by the town. To-morrow will see the funeral; and so
will end this one more "mystery of the sea. "


/Mina Murray's Journal. /

_8 August. _--Lucy was very restless all night, and I, too, could
not sleep. The storm was fearful, and as it boomed loudly among the
chimney-pots, it made me shudder. When a sharp puff came it seemed to
be like a distant gun. Strangely enough, Lucy did not wake; but she got
up twice and dressed herself. Fortunately, each time I awoke in time,
and managed to undress her without waking her, and got her back to bed.
It is a very strange thing, this sleep-walking, for as soon as her
will is thwarted in any physical way, her intention, if there be any,
disappears, and she yields herself almost exactly to the routine of her
life.

Early in the morning we both got up and went down to the harbour to see
if anything had happened in the night. There were very few people about,
and though the sun was bright, and the air clear and fresh, the big,
grim-looking waves, that seemed dark themselves because the foam that
topped them was like snow, forced themselves in through the narrow mouth
of the harbour--like a bullying man going through a crowd. Somehow I
felt glad that Jonathan was not on the sea last night, but on land. But,
oh, is he on land or sea? Where is he, and how? I am getting fearfully
anxious about him. If I only knew what to do, and could do anything!

_10 August. _--The funeral of the poor sea-captain to-day was most
touching. Every boat in the harbour seemed to be there, and the coffin
was carried by captains all the way from Tate Hill Pier up to the
churchyard. Lucy came with me, and we went early to our old seat, whilst
the cortege of boats went up the river to the Viaduct and came down
again. We had a lovely view, and saw the procession nearly all the
way. The poor fellow was laid to rest quite near our seat, so that we
stood on it when the time came and saw everything. Poor Lucy seemed
much upset. She was restless and uneasy all the time, and I cannot
but think that her dreaming at night is telling on her. She is quite
odd in one thing: she will not admit to me that there is any cause
for restlessness; or if there be, she does not understand it herself.
There is an additional cause in that poor old Mr. Swales was found dead
this morning on our seat, his neck being broken. He had evidently, as
the doctor said, fallen back in the seat in some sort of fright, for
there was a look of fear and horror on his face that the men said made
them shudder. Poor dear old man! Perhaps he had seen Death with his
dying eyes! Lucy is so sweet and sensitive that she feels influences
more acutely than other people do. Just now she was quite upset by a
little thing which I did not much heed, though I am myself very fond of
animals. One of the men who come up here often to look for the boats
was followed by his dog. The dog is always with him. They are both
quiet persons, and I never saw the man angry, nor heard the dog bark.
During the service the dog would not come to its master, who was on the
seat with us, but kept a few yards off, barking and howling. Its master
spoke to it gently, and then harshly, and then angrily; but it would
neither come nor cease to make a noise. It was in a sort of fury, with
its eyes savage, and all its hairs bristling out like a cat's tail when
puss is on the war-path. Finally the man, too, got angry, and jumped
down and kicked the dog, and then took it by the scruff of the neck and
half dragged and half threw it on the tombstone on which the seat is
fixed. The moment it touched the stone the poor thing became quiet and
fell all into a tremble. It did not try to get away, but crouched down,
quivering and cowering, and was in such a pitiable state of terror that
I tried, though without effect, to comfort it. Lucy was full of pity,
too, but she did not attempt to touch the dog, but looked at it in an
agonised sort of way. I greatly fear that she is of too supersensitive
a nature to go through the world without trouble. She will be dreaming
of this to-night, I am sure. The whole agglomeration of things--the ship
steered into port by a dead man; his attitude, tied to the wheel with a
crucifix and beads; the touching funeral; the dog, now furious and now
in terror--will all afford material for her dreams.

I think it will be best for her to go to bed tired out physically, so
I shall take her for a long walk by the cliffs to Robin Hood's Bay and
back. She ought not to have much inclination for sleep-walking then.




CHAPTER VIII.

/Mina Murray's Journal. /


_Same day, 11 o'clock p. m. _--Oh, but I am tired! If it were not that
I have made my diary a duty I should not open it to-night. We had a
lovely walk. Lucy, after a while, was in gay spirits, owing, I think,
to some dear cows who came nosing towards us in a field close to the
lighthouse, and frightened the wits out of us. I believe we forgot
everything, except, of course, personal fear, and it seemed to wipe the
slate clean and give us a fresh start. We had a capital "severe tea" at
Robin Hood's Bay in a sweet little old-fashioned inn, with a bow-window
right over the seaweed-covered rocks of the strand. I believe we should
have shocked the "New Woman" with our appetites. Men are more tolerant,
bless them! Then we walked home with some, or rather many, stoppages to
rest, and with our hearts full of a constant dread of wild bulls. Lucy
was really tired, and we intended to creep off to bed as soon as we
could. The young curate came in, however, and Mrs. Westenra asked him
to stay for supper. Lucy and I had both a fight for it with the dusty
miller; I know it was a hard fight on my part, and I am quite heroic. I
think that some day the bishops must get together and see about breeding
up a new class of curates, who don't take supper, no matter how they may
be pressed to, and who will know when girls are tired. Lucy is asleep
and breathing softly. She has more colour in her cheeks than usual, and
looks, oh, so sweet. If Mr. Holmwood fell in love with her seeing her
only in the drawing-room, I wonder what he would say if he saw her now.
Some of the "New Women" writers will some day start an idea that men and
women should be allowed to see each other asleep before proposing or
accepting. But I suppose the New Woman won't condescend in future to
accept; she will do the proposing herself. And a nice job she will make
of it, too! There's some consolation in that. I am so happy to-night,
because dear Lucy seems better. I really believe she has turned the
corner, and that we are over her troubles with dreaming. I should be
quite happy if I only knew if Jonathan. . . . God bless and keep him.

_11 August, 3 a. m. _--Diary again. No sleep now, so I may as well write.
I am too agitated to sleep. We have had such an adventure, such an
agonising experience. I fell asleep as soon as I had closed my diary. . . .
Suddenly I became broad awake, and sat up, with a horrible sense of
fear upon me, and of some feeling of emptiness around me. The room was
dark, so I could not see Lucy's bed; I stole across and felt for her.
The bed was empty. I lit a match, and found that she was not in the
room. The door was shut, but not locked, as I had left it. I feared to
wake her mother, who has been more than usually ill lately, so threw on
some clothes and got ready to look for her. As I was leaving the room
it struck me that the clothes she wore might give me some clue to her
dreaming intention. Dressing-gown would mean house; dress, outside.
Dressing-gown and dress were both in their places. "Thank God," I said
to myself, "she cannot be far, as she is only in her nightdress. " I ran
downstairs and looked in the sitting-room. Not there! Then I looked
in all the other open rooms of the house, with an ever-growing fear
chilling my heart. Finally I came to the hall-door and found it open.
It was not wide open, but the catch of the lock had not caught. The
people of the house are careful to lock the door every night, so I
feared that Lucy must have gone out as she was. There was no time to
think of what might happen; a vague, overmastering fear obscured all
details. I took a big, heavy shawl and ran out. The clock was striking
one as I was in the Crescent, and there was not a soul in sight. I ran
along the North Terrace, but could see no sign of the white figure
which I expected. At the edge of the West Cliff above the pier I looked
across the harbour to the East Cliff, in the hope or fear--I don't know
which--of seeing Lucy in our favourite seat. There was a bright full
moon, with heavy black, driving clouds, which threw the whole scene
into a fleeting diorama of light and shade as they sailed across. For a
moment or two I could see nothing, as the shadow of a cloud obscured
St. Mary's Church and all around it. Then as the cloud passed I could
see the ruins of the Abbey coming into view; and as the edge of a narrow
band of light as sharp as a sword-cut moved along, the church and the
churchyard became gradually visible. Whatever my expectation was, it was
not disappointed, for there, on our favourite seat, the silver light of
the moon struck a half-reclining figure, snowy white. The coming of the
cloud was too quick for me to see much, for shadow shut down on light
almost immediately; but it seemed to me as though something dark stood
behind the seat where the white figure shone, and bent over it. What it
was, whether man or beast, I could not tell; I did not wait to catch
another glance, but flew down the steep steps to the pier and along by
the fish-market to the bridge, which was the only way to reach the East
Cliff. The town seemed as dead, for not a soul did I see; I rejoiced
that it was so, for I wanted no witness of poor Lucy's condition. The
time and distance seemed endless, and my knees trembled and my breath
came laboured as I toiled up the endless steps to the Abbey. I must
have gone fast, and yet it seemed to me as if my feet were weighted
with lead, and as though every joint in my body were rusty.
When I
got almost to the top I could see the seat and the white figure, for
I was now close enough to distinguish it even through the spells of
shadow. There was undoubtedly something, long and black, bending over
the half-reclining white figure. I called in fright, "Lucy! Lucy! "
and something raised a head, and from where I was I could see a white
face and red, gleaming eyes. Lucy did not answer, and I ran on to the
entrance of the churchyard. As I entered, the church was between me and
the seat, and for a minute or so I lost sight of her. When I came in
view again the cloud had passed, and the moonlight struck so brilliantly
that I could see Lucy half reclining with her head lying over the back
of the seat. She was quite alone, and there was not a sign of any living
thing about.

When I bent over her I could see that she was still asleep. Her lips
were parted, and she was breathing--not softly, as usual with her, but
in long, heavy gasps, as though striving to get her lungs full at every
breath. As I came close, she put up her hand in her sleep and pulled
the collar of her nightdress close round her throat. Whilst she did so
there came a little shudder through her, as though she felt the cold. I
flung the warm shawl over her, and drew the edges tight round her neck,
for I dreaded lest she should get some deadly chill from the night air,
unclad as she was. I feared to wake her all at once, so, in order to
have my hands free that I might help her, I fastened the shawl at her
throat with a big safety-pin; but I must have been clumsy in my anxiety
and pinched or pricked her with it, for by-and-by, when her breathing
became quieter, she put her hand to her throat again and moaned. When I
had her carefully wrapped up I put my shoes on her feet, and then began
very gently to wake her. At first she did not respond; but gradually
she became more and more uneasy in her sleep, moaning and sighing
occasionally. At last, as time was passing fast, and for many other
reasons, I wished to get her home at once, I shook her more forcibly,
till finally she opened her eyes and awoke. She did not seem surprised
to see me, as, of course, she did not realise all at once where she
was. Lucy always wakes prettily, and even at such a time, when her body
must have been chilled with cold, and her mind somewhat appalled at
waking unclad in a churchyard at night, she did not lose her grace. She
trembled a little, and clung to me; when I told her to come at once with
me home she rose without a word, with the obedience of a child. As we
passed along, the gravel hurt my feet, and Lucy noticed me wince. She
stopped and wanted to insist upon my taking my shoes; but I would not.
However, when we got to the pathway outside the churchyard, where there
was a puddle of water remaining from the storm, I daubed my feet with
mud, using each foot in turn on the other, so that as we went home no
one, in case we should meet any one, should notice my bare feet.

Fortune favoured us, and we got home without meeting a soul. Once we saw
a man, who seemed not quite sober, passing along a street in front of
us; but we hid in a door till he had disappeared up an opening such as
there are here, steep little closes, or "wynds," as they call them in
Scotland. My heart beat so loud all the time that sometimes I thought
I should faint. I was filled with anxiety about Lucy, not only for her
health, lest she should suffer from the exposure, but for her reputation
in case the story should get wind. When we got in, and had washed our
feet, and had said a prayer of thankfulness together, I tucked her into
bed. Before falling asleep she asked--even implored--me not to say a
word to any one, even her mother, about her sleep-walking adventure.
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 thinking, 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 to-night.

_12 August. _--My expectations were wrong, for twice during the night
I was awakened 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 help to make
them more bearable.

_13 August. _--Another quiet day, and to bed with the key on my wrist as
before. Again I woke in the night, and found Lucy sitting up in bed,
still asleep, pointing to the window. I got up quietly, and pulling
aside the blind, looked out. It was brilliant moonlight, and the soft
effect of the light over the sea and sky--merged together in one great,
silent mystery--was beautiful beyond words. Between me and the moonlight
flitted a great bat, coming and going in great, whirling circles. Once
or twice it came quite close, but was, I suppose, frightened at seeing
me, and flitted away across the harbour towards the Abbey. When I
came back from the window Lucy had lain down again, and was sleeping
peacefully. She did not stir again all night.

_14 August. _--On the East Cliff, reading and writing all day. Lucy seems
to have become as much in love with the spot as I am, and it is hard to
get her away from it when it is time to come home for lunch or tea or
dinner. This afternoon she made a funny remark. We were coming home for
dinner, and had come to the top of the steps up from the West Pier and
stopped to look at the view, as we generally do. The setting sun, low
down in the sky, was just dropping behind Kettleness; the red light was
thrown over on the East Cliff and the old Abbey, and seemed to bathe
everything in a beautiful rosy glow. We were silent for a while, and
suddenly Lucy murmured as if to herself:--

"His red eyes again! They are just the same. " It was such an odd
expression, coming _apropos_ of nothing, that it quite startled me. I
slewed round a little, so as to see Lucy well without seeming to stare
at her, and saw that she was in a half-dreamy state, with an odd look
on her face that I could not quite make out; so I said nothing, but
followed her eyes. She appeared to be looking over at our seat, whereon
was a dark figure seated alone. I was a little startled myself, for it
seemed for an instant as if the stranger had great eyes like burning
flames; but a second look dispelled the illusion. The red sunlight was
shining on the windows of St. Mary's Church behind our seat, and as
the sun dipped there was just sufficient change in the refraction and
reflection to make it appear as if the light moved. I called Lucy's
attention to the peculiar effect, and she became herself with a start,
but she looked sad all the same; it may have been that she was thinking
of that terrible night up there. We never refer to it; so I said
nothing, and we went home to dinner. Lucy had a headache and went early
to bed. I saw her asleep, and went out for a little stroll myself; 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 thought that perhaps she
was looking out for me, so 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 it
from 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 as 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. I trust her feeling ill may
not be from that unlucky prick of the safety-pin. I looked at her throat
just now as she lay asleep, and the tiny wounds seem not to have healed.
They are still open, and, if anything, larger, than before, and the
edges of them are faintly white. They are like little white dots with
red centres. Unless they heal within a day or two, I shall insist on the
doctor seeing about them.


_Letter, Samuel F. Billington & Son, Solicitors, Whitby, to Messrs.
Carter, Paterson & Co. , London. _

"_17 August. _

"Dear Sirs,--

"Herewith please receive invoice of goods sent by Great Northern
Railway. Same are to be delivered to Carfax, near Purfleet, immediately
on receipt at goods station King's Cross. The house is at present empty,
but enclosed please find keys, all of which are labelled.

"You will please deposit the boxes, fifty in number, which form the
consignment, in the partially ruined building forming part of the
house and marked 'A' on rough diagram enclosed. Your agent will easily
recognise the locality, as it is the ancient chapel of the mansion. The
goods leave by the train at 9. 30 to-night, and will be due at King's
Cross at 4. 30 to-morrow afternoon. As our client wishes the delivery
made as soon as possible, we shall be obliged by your having teams ready
at King's Cross at the time named and forthwith conveying the goods to
destination. In order to obviate any delays possible through any routine
requirements as to payment in your departments, we enclose cheque
herewith for ten pounds (? 10), receipt of which please acknowledge.
Should the charge be less than this amount, you can return balance; if
greater, we shall at once send cheque for difference on hearing from
you. You are to leave the keys on coming away in the main hall of the
house, where the proprietor may get them on his entering the house by
means of his duplicate key.

"Pray do not take us as exceeding the bounds of business courtesy in
pressing you in all ways to use the utmost expedition.

"We are, dear Sirs,
"Faithfully yours,
"/Samuel F. Billington & Son. /"


_Letter, Messrs. Carter, Paterson & Co. , London, to Messrs. Billington &
Son, Whitby_

"_21 August. _

"Dear Sirs,--


"We beg to acknowledge ? 10 received and to return cheque ? 1 17_s. _
9_d. _, amount of overplus, as shown in receipted account herewith. Goods
are delivered in exact accordance with instructions, and keys left in
parcel in main hall, as directed.

"We are, dear Sirs,
"Yours respectfully,
"_Pro_ /Carter, Paterson & Co. /"

/Mina Murray's Journal. /

_18 August. _--I am happy to-day, and write sitting on the seat in the
churchyard. Lucy is ever so much better. Last night she slept well all
night, and did not disturb me once. The roses seem coming back already
to her cheeks, though she is still sadly pale and wan-looking. If she
were in any way anaemic I could understand it, but she is not. She is in
gay spirits and full of life and cheerfulness. All the morbid reticence
seems to have passed from her, and she has just reminded me, as if I
needed any reminding, of _that_ night, and that it was here, on this
very seat, I found her asleep. As she told me she tapped playfully with
the heel of her boot on the stone slab and said:--

"My poor little feet didn't make much noise then! I daresay poor old Mr.
Swales would have told me that it was because I didn't want to wake up
Geordie. " As she was in such a communicative humour, I asked her if she
had dreamed at all that night. Before she answered, that sweet, puckered
look came into her forehead, which Arthur--I call him Arthur from her
habit--says he loves; and, indeed, I don't wonder that he does. Then she
went on in a half-dreaming kind of way, as if trying to recall it to
herself:--

"I didn't quite dream; but it all seemed to be real. I only wanted to be
here in this spot--I don't know why, for I was afraid of something--I
don't know what. I remember, though I suppose I was asleep, passing
through the streets and over the bridge. A fish leaped as I went by,
and I leaned over to look at it, and I heard a lot of dogs howling--the
whole town seemed as if it must be full of dogs all howling at once--as
I went up the steps. Then I have a vague memory of something long and
dark with red eyes, just as we saw in the sunset, and something very
sweet and very bitter all around me at once; and then I seemed sinking
into deep green water, and there was a singing in my ears, as I have
heard there is to drowning men; and then everything seemed passing away
from me; my soul seemed to go out from my body and float about the air.
I seemed to remember that once the West Lighthouse was right under me,
and then there was a sort of agonising feeling, as if I were in an
earthquake, and I came back and found you shaking my body. I saw you do
it before I felt you. "

Then she began to laugh. It seemed a little uncanny to me, and I
listened to her breathlessly. I did not quite like it, and thought it
better not to keep her mind on the subject, so we drifted on to other
subjects, and Lucy was like her old self again. When we got home the
fresh breeze had braced her up, and her pale cheeks were really more
rosy. Her mother rejoiced when she saw her, and we all spent a very
happy evening together.

_19 August. _--Joy, joy, joy! although not all joy. At last, news of
Jonathan. The dear fellow has been ill; that is why he did not write.
I am not afraid to think it or to say it, now that I know. Mr. Hawkins
sent me on the letter, and wrote himself oh, so kindly. I am to leave
in the morning and to go over to Jonathan, and to help nurse him if
necessary, and to bring him home. Mr. Hawkins says it would not be a bad
thing if we were to be married out there. I have cried over the good
Sister's letter till I can feel it wet against my bosom, where it lies.