6 August. Another three days, and no news. The feeling of waiting for something to happen is dreadful. If I only knew where to write to or where to go to, I would feel better. But no one has heard a word of Jonathan since that last letter. I can only pray for patience.

Lucy is more excitable than ever, but she is otherwise well. Last night the weather was threatening. The fishermen say that a big storm is coming. I must try to watch it and learn the weather signs. Today is a gray day. As I write the sun is hidden in thick, high clouds.

Everything is gray except the green grass, which seems like emerald. There is gray rock and gray clouds, though these are lightened by the sun at the far edge. The clouds hang over the gray sea, in which the sandbanks lie like gray figures. The sea is roaring in over the shallows and the sand, the sound muffled in the sea-mists drifting in towards the land.