The poor dear was evidently terrified at something, very greatly terrified.  I do believe that if he had not had me to lean on and to support him he would have sunk down.  He kept staring.  A man came out of the shop with a small parcel, and gave it to the lady, who then drove off.  The dark man kept his eyes fixed on her, and when the carriage moved up Piccadilly he followed in the same direction, and hailed a hansom.  Jonathan kept looking after him, and said, as if to himself,

“I believe it is the Count, but he has grown young.  My God, if this be so!  Oh, my God!  My God!  If only I knew!  If only I knew!” He was distressing himself so much that I feared to keep his mind on the subject by asking him any questions, so I remained silent.  I drew away quietly, and he, holding my arm, came easily.  We walked a little further, and then went in and sat for a while in the Green Park.  It was a hot day for autumn, and there was a comfortable seat in a shady place.  After a few minutes’ staring at nothing, Jonathan’s eyes closed, and he went quickly into a sleep, with his head on my shoulder.  I thought it was the best thing for him, so did not disturb him.  In about twenty minutes he woke up, and said to me quite cheerfully,

“Why, Mina, have I been asleep!  Oh, do forgive me for being so rude.  Come, and we’ll have a cup of tea somewhere.”

He had evidently forgotten all about the dark stranger, as in his illness he had forgotten all that this episode had reminded him of.  I don’t like this lapsing into forgetfulness.  It may make or continue some injury to the brain.  I must not ask him, for fear I shall do more harm than good, but I must somehow learn the facts of his journey abroad.  The time is come, I fear, when I must open the parcel, and know what is written.  Oh, Jonathan, you will, I know, forgive me if I do wrong, but it is for your own dear sake.

Later.—­A sad homecoming in every way, the house empty of the dear soul who was so good to us.  Jonathan still pale and dizzy under a slight relapse of his malady, and now a telegram from Van Helsing, whoever he may be.  “You will be grieved to hear that Mrs. Westenra died five days ago, and that Lucy died the day before yesterday.  They were both buried today.”

Oh, what a wealth of sorrow in a few words!  Poor Mrs. Westenra!  Poor Lucy!  Gone, gone, never to return to us!  And poor, poor Arthur, to have lost such a sweetness out of his life!  God help us all to bear our troubles.

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY-CONT.

22 September.—­It is all over.  Arthur has gone back to Ring, and has taken Quincey Morris with him.  What a fine fellow is Quincey!  I believe in my heart of hearts that he suffered as much about Lucy’s death as any of us, but he bore himself through it like a moral Viking.  If America can go on breeding men like that, she will be a power in the world indeed.  Van Helsing