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myself. Thank God, Lucyā€™s health keeps up. Mr. Holmwood has been suddenly called to Ring to see his father, who has been taken seriously ill. Lucy frets at the postponement of seeing him, but it does not touch her looks; she is a trifle stouter, and her cheeks are a lovely rose-pink. She has lost that anƦmic look which she had. I pray it will all last.

3 August.ā ā€”Another week gone, 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.

6 August.ā ā€”Another three days, and no news. This suspense is getting dreadful. If I only knew where to write to or where to go to, I should feel easier; but no one has heard a word of Jonathan since that last letter. I must only pray to God for patience. Lucy is more excitable than ever, but is otherwise well. Last night was very threatening, and the fishermen say that we are in for a storm. I must try to watch it and learn the weather signs. Today is a grey day, and the sun as I write is hidden in thick clouds, high over Kettleness. Everything is greyā ā€”except the green grass, which seems like emerald amongst it; grey earthy rock; grey clouds, tinged with the sunburst at the far edge, hang over the grey sea, into which the sand-points stretch like grey fingers. The sea is tumbling in over the shallows and the sandy flats with a roar, muffled in the sea-mists drifting inland. The horizon is lost in a grey mist. All is vastness; the clouds are piled up like giant rocks, and there is a ā€œbroolā€ over the sea that sounds like some presage of doom. Dark figures are on the beach here and there, sometimes half shrouded in the mist, and seem ā€œmen like trees walking.ā€ The fishing-boats are racing for home, and rise and dip in the ground swell as they sweep into the harbour, bending to the scuppers. Here comes old Mr. Swales. He is making straight for me, and I can see, by the way he lifts his hat, that he wants to talk.ā ā€Šā ā€¦

I have been quite touched by the change in the poor old man. When he sat down beside me, he said in a very gentle way:ā ā€”

ā€œI want to say something to you, miss.ā€ I could see he was not at ease, so I took his poor old wrinkled hand in mine and asked him to speak fully; so he said, leaving his hand in mine:ā ā€”

ā€œIā€™m afraid, my deary, that I must have shocked you by all the wicked things Iā€™ve been sayinā€™ about the dead, and suchlike, for weeks past; but I didnā€™t mean them, and I want ye to remember that when Iā€™m gone. We aud folks that be daffled, and with one foot abaft the krok-hooal, donā€™t altogether like to think of it, and we donā€™t want to feel scart of it; anā€™ thatā€™s why Iā€™ve took to makinā€™ light of it, so that Iā€™d cheer up my own heart a bit. But, Lord love ye, miss, I ainā€™t afraid of dyinā€™, not a bit; only I donā€™t want to die if I can help it. My time must be nigh at hand now, for I be aud, and a hundred years is too much for any man to expect; and Iā€™m so nigh it that the Aud Man is already whettinā€™ his scythe. Ye see, I canā€™t get out oā€™ the habit of caffinā€™ about it all at once; the chafts will wag as they be used to. Some day soon the Angel of Death will sound his trumpet for me. But donā€™t ye dooal anā€™ greet, my deary!ā€ā ā€”for he saw that I was cryingā ā€”ā€œif he should come this very night Iā€™d not refuse to answer his call. For life be, after all, only a waitinā€™ for somethinā€™ else than what weā€™re doinā€™; and death be all that we can rightly depend on. But Iā€™m content, for itā€™s cominā€™ to me, my deary, and cominā€™ quick. It may be cominā€™ while we be lookinā€™ and wonderinā€™. Maybe itā€™s in that wind out over the sea thatā€™s bringinā€™ with it loss and wreck, and sore distress, and sad hearts. Look! look!ā€ he cried suddenly. ā€œThereā€™s something in that wind and in the hoast beyont that sounds, and looks, and tastes, and smells like death. Itā€™s in the air; I feel it cominā€™. Lord, make me answer cheerful when my call comes!ā€ He held up his arms devoutly, and raised his hat. His mouth moved as though he were praying. After a few minutesā€™ silence, he got up, shook hands with me, and blessed me, and said goodbye, and hobbled off. It all touched me, and upset me very much.

I was glad when the coastguard came along, with his spyglass under his arm. He stopped to talk with me, as he always does, but all the time kept looking at a strange ship.

ā€œI canā€™t make her out,ā€ he said; ā€œsheā€™s a Russian, by the look of her; but sheā€™s knocking about in the queerest way. She doesnā€™t know her mind a bit; she seems to see the storm coming, but canā€™t decide whether to run up north in the open, or to put in here. Look there again! She is steered mighty strangely, for she doesnā€™t mind the hand on the wheel; changes about with every puff of wind. Weā€™ll

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