17 August. I have not written in the diary for two whole days. I just have not felt like doing it. Some sort of shadowy cloud seems to be coming over our happiness. There is no news from Jonathan. Lucy seems to be growing weaker, whilst her mother's life is coming to the end. I do not understand why Lucy is getting weaker, but she is. She eats well and sleeps well, and enjoys the fresh air. But all the time the her cheeks lose colour. And each day she gets weaker. At night I hear her gasping as if she needs air.

At night I always keep the key of our door tied to my wrist. But she gets up and walks around the room, and sits at the open window. Last night I found her leaning out when I woke up. When I tried to wake her up I could not. She had fainted. When I finally woke her, she was weak as water, and cried quietly and had trouble breathing. When I asked her why she was at the window she shook her head and turned away.

I hope her feeling ill may not be from that unlucky prick of the safety-pin. I looked at her throat just now as she lay asleep, and the tiny wounds have not healed. They are still there, and seem larger than before. The edges are a bit white, like little white dots with red centres. Unless they get better in a day or two, I want the doctor to see them.