Another week gone by, and no news from
Jonathan, not even to Mr. Hawkins, from whom I have heard. Oh, I do hope he is
not ill. He surely would have written. I look at that last letter of his, but
somehow it does not satisfy me. It does not read like him, and yet it is his writing.
There is no mistake of that.
Lucy has not walked much in her sleep the last
week, but there is an odd concentration about her which I do not understand, even
in her sleep she seems to be watching me. She tries the door, and finding it locked,
goes about the room searching for the key.
pray it will all last.