"Yes, yes, only a month to-day, and I shall be well enough then, dearest."

Oh, Mary O'Neill! How much longer will you be able to keep it up, dear?

JULY 17. Martin brought the proofs of his new book from London, and to-day in the summer-house (bluebells paling out and hanging their heads, but the air full of the odour of fruit trees) he and Dr.

O'Sullivan and I have been correcting "galleys"--the doctor reading aloud, Martin smoking his briar-root pipe, and I (in a crater of cushions) supposed to be sitting as judge and jury.

Such simple, straight, natural writing! There may have been a thousand errors but my ears heard none of them. The breathless bits about the moments when death was near; the humorous bits about patching the tent with the tails of their shirts when an overturned lamp burnt a hole in the canvas--this was all I was conscious of until I was startled by the sound of a sepulchral voice, groaning out "Oh Lord a-massy me!" and by the sight of a Glengarry cap over the top of the fuchsia hedge. Old Tommy was listening from the road.

We sat late over our proofs and then, the dew having begun to fall, Martin said he must carry me indoors lest my feet should get wet--which he did, with the result that, remembering what had happened on our first evening at Castle Raa, I had a pretty fit of hysterics as soon as we reached the house.

"Let's skip, Commanther," was the next thing I heard, and then I was helped upstairs to bed.

JULY 18. What a flirt I am becoming! Having conceived the idea that Dr.

O'Sullivan is a little wee bit in love with me too, I have been playing him off against Martin.

It was so delicious (after all I have gone through) to have two magnificent men, out of the heroic youth of the world, waiting hand and foot on one little woman, that the feminine soul in me to-day couldn't resist the temptation to an innocent effort at coquetry.

So before we began business on the proofs I told Martin that, if he was determined to leave me behind at winter quarters while he went away to the Pole, he must allow Dr. O'Sullivan to remain behind to take care of me.

Of course the doctor rose to my bait like a dear, crying:

"He will too--by St. Patrick and St. Thomas he will, and a mighty proud man he'll be entirely... ."

But good gracious! A momentary shadow passed over Martin's face, then came one of his big broad smiles, then out shot his clinched fist, and ... the poor doctor and his garden seat were rolling over each other on the grass.

However, we got through without bloodshed, and did good day's work on the book.

I must not write any more. I have always written in my own book at night, when I haven't been able to get any kind of Christian sleep; but I'm weaker now, so must stop, lest I shouldn't have strength enough for Martin's.

JULY 20. Oh dear! I am dragging all these other poor dears into my deceptions. Christian Ann does not mind what lies, or half-lies, she has to tell in order to save pain to her beloved son. But the old doctor!

And Father Dan!

To-day itself, as Martin's mother would say, I had to make my poor old priest into a shocking story-teller.

I developed a cough a few weeks ago, and though it is not really of much account I have been struggling to smother it while Martin has been about, knowing he is a doctor himself, and fearing his ear might detect the note.

But this afternoon (whether a little damp, with a soft patter of sweet rain on the trees and the bushes) I had a rather bad bout, at which Martin's face looked grave, until I laughed and said:

"It's nothing! I've had this sort of cough every summer since I was born--haven't I, Father Dan?"

"Ye-es."

I shall have to remember that in my next confession, but what Father Dan is to do I really don't know.

JULY 21. I have been rather down to-day about a newspaper that came to me anonymously from Paris, with a report marked for my special delectation.

"FASHIONABLE MARRIAGE OF AN ENGLISH PEER AND AN AMERICAN HEIRESS."

My husband's and Alma's! It took place at the American Embassy, and was attended by great numbers of smart people. There was a long account of the grandeur of the bride's dress and of the splendour of the bridegroom's presents. They have taken an apartment on the Champs Elysees and will spend most of the year in Paris.

Ah well, why should I trouble about a matter that so little concerns me?

Alma is still beautiful; she will be surrounded by admirers; her salon will be frequented by the fashionable parasites of Europe and America.

As for my husband, the straw-fire of his wife's passion for him will soon burn out, especially now that she has gained what she wanted--his name, his title.

Martin carried me upstairs to bed to-night. I was really feeling weaker than usual, but we made a great game of it. Nurse went first, behind a mountain of pillows; Martin and I came next, with his arms about my body and mine around his neck; and Dr. O'Sullivan last, carrying two tall brass candlesticks.

How we laughed! We all laughed together, as if trying to see which of us could laugh the loudest. Only Christian Ann looked serious, standing at the bottom of the stairs, nursing baby in her nightdress.

It is three o'clock in the morning as I write, and I can hear our laughter still--only it sounds like sobbing now.

JULY 22. Have heard something to-day that has taken all the warmth of life out of me. It is about my father, whom the old doctor still attends. Having been told of my husband's marriage he has announced his intention of claiming my child if anything happens to me!

What his object may be I do not know. He cannot be thinking of establishing a claim to my husband's title--Isabel being a girl.

Remembering something his lawyer said about the marriage settlement when I consulted him on the subject of divorce, I can only assume that (now he is poor) he is trying to recover the inheritance he settled on my husband.

It frightens me--raising my old nightmare of a lawsuit about the legitimacy of my child. I want to speak to Martin about it. Yet how can I do so without telling him the truth which I have been struggling so hard to conceal?

JULY 23. Oh, Mary O'Neill, what are you coming to?

I told Martin about father's threat, only I gave it another colour. He had heard of the Reverend Mother's visit, so I said the rumour had reached my father that I intended to enter a convent, and he had declared that, if I did so, he would claim my child from Christian Ann, being its nearest blood relation.

"Can he do so--when I am ... when we are gone?" I asked.

I thought Martin's strong face looked sterner than I had ever seen it.

He made a vague reply and left me soon afterwards on some sort of excuse.

About an hour later he came back to carry me upstairs, and just as he was setting me down, and Christian Ann was coming in with the candles, he whispered:

"Don't worry about Girlie. I've settled that matter, I'm thinking."

What has he done, I wonder?