I thought of seeing the boy once more, but I haven't the energy. I don't seem to care. If I should care, or love, or hate, or eat, it wouldn't be so horrible. But I am only a ghost, a sham. I am really dead. My nature is akin with the grave, and has no appetite but for that with which it is akin. Well, I will soon come. It shall be to-morrow night, just after Sarah is gone. But I must rouse myself first to do that which is my duty. I ought, as a friend, to cover up poor Hal's traces, and yet I must be just to the boy, too. He ought to know when he grows up that, if his mother was unfortunate, she was not abandoned, and it is my duty to leave for him the proofs of it. But how to do that, and at the same time protect Harry, is the question, for I suppose that the police will search the flat. It is very wearisome. I doubt if my poor head is too clear to-day.... It shall be like this: I'll hide the things somewhere where the police won't readily find them. I'll invent a place. Then I shall write to Vi, not telling her what is going to happen to me, but telling her that if in a few months' time she will thoroughly search a certain flat in London, she will find what will be good for her and mother and the boy. And I shall give the address; but I won't tell her exactly where I hide the things; for fear of the police getting hold of the letter and arresting Harry. And I will post it after Sarah is gone to-morrow night, just before I do it. That's what I shall do. I'm pretty artful, my brain is quite clear and calm. I don't know yet where I shall hide the things; but I shall find a place, I shall hoodwink them all, and manage everything just nicely. Sarah thinks that I'm mad, but I'm not. It is she who is raving mad, and people who are mad think that every one is, except themselves. I'll hide the diary in one place, the certificates in another, and the photograph of the boy's father in another. That's what I'll do. Then I'll tear up all other papers small. No, I'll hide as well the letter in which he says that he is Mrs. S.'s husband, and that I'm not his legal wife; for some day I should like Vi to know that I did not take my life for nothing, but was murdered before I killed myself. Then I'll do it. It isn't bitter; it's sweet. Death's a hole to creep in for shelter for one's poor head. Harry will be in England in five days' time, so I'll write him a letter to the Constitutional to say good-by. He loves me. He didn't mean to kill me. He only told me in order to stop me from going home. It is such a burden to write to him, but it is my duty to give him one last word of comfort, and I will.