had
suffered eclipse, and then marry again before their graves are green.
So, having begun on my great scheme of pretending that I am getting
better every day, and shall be "ready to go, never fear," I have to keep
it up.

I begin to suspect, though, that I am not such a wonderful actress after
all. Sometimes in the midst of my raptures I see him looking at me
uneasily as if he were conscious of a certain effort. At such moments I
have to avoid his eyes lest anything should happen, for my great love
seems to be always lying in wait to break down my make-believe.

To-day (though I had resolved not to give way to tears) when he was
talking about the voyage out, and how it would "set me up" and how the
invigorating air of the Antarctic would "make another woman of me," I
cried:

"How splendid! How glorious!"

"Then why are you crying?" he asked.

"Oh, good gracious, that's nothing--for _me_," I answered.

But if I am throwing dust in Martin's eyes I am deceiving nobody else,
it seems. To-night after he and Dr. O'Sullivan had gone back to the
"Plough," Father Dan came in to ask Christian Ann how she found me, and
being answered rather sadly, I heard him say:

"_Ugh cha nee!_ [Woe is me!] What is life? It is even a vapour which
appeareth for a little while and then vanisheth away."

And half an hour later, when old Tommy came to bring me some lobsters
(he still declares they are the only food for invalids) and to ask
"how's the lil woman now?" I heard him moaning, as he was going out:

"There'll be no shelter for her this voyage, the _vogh!_ She'll carry
the sea in with her to the Head, I'm thinking."

* * * * *

JULY 27. I _must_ keep it up--I must, I must! To allow Martin's hopes
and dreams to be broken in upon now would be enough to kill me outright.

I don't want to be unkind, but some explorers leave the impression that
their highest impulse is the praise of achievement, and once they have
done something all they've got to do next is to stay at home and talk
about it. Martin is not like that. Exploration is a passion with him.
The "lure of the little voices" and the "call of the Unknown" have been
with him from the beginning, and they will be with him to the end.

I cannot possibly think of Martin dying in bed, and being laid to rest
in the green peace of English earth--dear and sweet as that is to tamer
natures, mine for instance. I can only think of that wild heroic soul