17 August. I have not written in the diary for two whole days. I have not had the heart to write. 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 approaching its end. I do not understand why Lucy is fading away, but she is. She eats well and sleeps well, and enjoys the fresh air. But all the time the her cheeks get more pale, and each day she gets weaker and more languid. At night I hear her gasping as if she needs air.

I keep the key of our door always tied to my wrist at night. But she gets up and walks about the room, and sits at the open window. Last night I found her leaning out when I woke up, and when I tried to wake her I could not. She had fainted. When I managed to revive her, she was weak as water, and cried silently between long, painful struggles for breath. When I asked her how she came to be 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 open, and seem larger than before. The edges of them are a bit white, like little white dots with red centres. Unless they heal within a day or two, I shall insist that the doctor sees them.