27th.—­I am afraid my mind is seriously affected; it must have been fatally weakened before I passed through the terrible scenes among the rocks of the promontory.  My nerves must have suffered far more than I suspected at the time, under the constant suspense in which I have been living since I left London, and under the incessant strain and agitation of writing the narrative of all that has happened to me.  Shall I send a letter to Ralph?  No—­not yet.  It might look like impatience, like not being able to bear my necessary absence as calmly and resolutely as I ought.

28th.—­A wakeful night—­tormented by morbid apprehensions that the reports about me in the fishing-village may spread to this place; that inquiries may be made after Mannion; and that I may be suspected of having caused his death.

29th.—­The people at the inn have sent to get me medical advice.  The doctor came to-day.  He was kindness itself; but I fell into a fit of trembling, the moment he entered the room—­grew confused in attempting to tell him what was the matter with me—­and, at last, could not articulate a single word distinctly.  He looked very grave as he examined me and questioned the landlady.  I thought I heard him say something about sending for my friends, but could not be certain.

31st.—­Weaker and weaker.  I tried in despair, to-day, to write to Ralph; but knew not how to word the letter.  The simplest forms of expression confused themselves inextricably in my mind.  I was obliged to give it up.  It is a surprise to me to find that I can still add with my pencil to the entries in this Journal!  When I am no longer able to continue, in some sort, the employment to which I have been used for so many weeks past, what will become of me?  Shall I have lost the only safeguard that keeps me in my senses?

* * * * *

Worse! worse!  I have forgotten what day of the month it is; and cannot remember it for a moment together, when they tell me—­cannot even recollect how long I have been confined to my bed.  I feel as if my heart was wasting away.  Oh! if I could only see Clara again.

* * * * *

The doctor and a strange man have been looking among my papers.

My God! am I dying? dying at the very time when there is a chance of happiness for my future life?

* * * * *

Clara!—­far from her—­nothing but the little book-marker she worked for me—­leave it round my neck when I—­

I can’t move, or breathe, or think—­if I could only be taken back—­if my father could see me as I am now!  Night again—­the dreams that will come—­always of home; sometimes, the untried home in heaven, as well as the familiar home on earth—­

* * * * *

Clara!  I shall die out of my senses, unless Clara—­break the news gently—­it may kill her—­

Her face so bright and calm! her watchful, weeping eyes always looking at me, with a light in them that shines steady through the quivering tears.  While the light lasts, I shall live; when it begins to die out—­*