6 August. 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 gray day, and the sun as I write is hidden in thick clouds, high over Kettleness.

Everything is gray except the green grass, which seems like emerald amongst it, gray earthy rock, gray clouds, tinged with the sunburst at the far edge, hang over the gray sea, into which the sandspits stretch like gray figures. The sea is tumbling in over the shallows and the sand with a roar, muffled in the sea-mists drifting inland.

Vocabulary:

Suspense: Waiting for something important to happen
Dreadful: Extreme, awful
Kettleness: A part of the town of Whitby
Sandspits: Sand reaching out to sea
Tumble: Fall untidily
Muffle: Sound blocked by something soft
Drift: Move with the wind or water