r and the breeze is fresh, no
repose, no change comes to my thoughts. Time bright beauty of unclouded
daylight seems to have lost the happy influence over me which it used
formerly to possess.

25th.--All yesterday I had not energy enough even to add a line to this
journal. The strength to control myself seems to have gone from me.
The slightest accidental noise in the house, throws me into a fit of
trembling which I cannot subdue. Surely, if ever the death of one human
being brought release and salvation to another, the death of Mannion has
brought them to me; and yet, the effect left on my mind by the horror of
having seen it, is still not lessened--not even by the knowledge of all
that I have gained by being freed from the deadliest and most determined
enemy that man ever had.

26th.--Visions--half waking, half dreaming--all through the night.
Visions of my last lonely evening in the fishing-hamlet--of Mannion
again--the livid hands whirling to and fro over my head in the
darkness--then, glimpses of home; of Clara reading to me in my
study--then, a change to the room where Margaret died--the sight of her
again, with her long black hair streaming over her face--then, oblivion
for a little while--then, Mannion once more; walking backwards and
forwards by my bedside--his death, seeming like a dream; his watching
me through the night like a reality to which I had just awakened--Clara
walking opposite to him on the other side--Ralph between them, pointing
at me.

27th.--I am afraid my mind is seriously affected; it must have been
fatally weakened before I passed through the terrible scenes among the
rocks of the promontory. My nerves must have suffered far more than I
suspected at the time, under the constant suspense in which I have been
living since I left London, and under the incessant strain and agitation
of writing the narrative of all that has happened to me. Shall I send
a letter to Ralph? No--not yet. It might look like impatience, like not
being able to bear my necessary absence as calmly and resolutely as I
ought.

28th.--A wakeful night--tormented by morbid apprehensions that the
reports about me in the fishing-village may spread to this place; that
inquiries may be made after Mannion; and that I may be suspected of
having caused his death.

29th.--The people at the inn have sent to get me medical advice. The
doctor came to-day. He was kindness itself; but I fell into a fit of
trembling, the moment he e