change to this warm and cheerful place of shelter from the chilly
and misty solitude of the moor is so luxuriously delightful that
I am quite content, for the first few minutes, to stretch myself
on a bed, in lazy enjoyment of my new position; without caring to
inquire into whose house we have intruded; without even wondering
at the strange absence of master, mistress, or member of the
family to welcome our arrival under their hospitable roof.

After a while, the first sense of relief passes away. My dormant
curiosity revives. I begin to look about me.

The gardener-groom has disappeared. I discover my traveling
companion at the further end of the room, evidently occupied in
questioning the guide. A word from me brings him to my bedside.
What discoveries has he made? whose is the house in which we are
sheltered; and how is it that no member of the family appears to
welcome us?

My friend relates his discoveries. The guide listens as
attentively to the second-hand narrative as if it were quite new
to him.

The house that shelters us belongs to a gentleman of ancient
Northern lineage, whose name is Dunross. He has lived in unbroken
retirement on the barren island for twenty years past, with no
other companion than a daughter, who is his only child. He is
generally believed to be one of the most learned men living. The
inhabitants of Shetland know him far and wide, under a name in
their dialect which means, being interpreted, "The Master of
Books." The one occasion on which he and his daughter have been
known to leave their island retreat was at a past time when a
terrible epidemic disease broke out among the villages in the
neighborhood. Father and daughter labored day and night among
their poor and afflicted neighbors, with a courage which no
danger could shake, with a tender care which no fatigue could
exhaust. The father had escaped infection, and the violence of
the epidemic was beginning to wear itself out, when the daughter
caught the disease. Her life had been preserved, but she never
completely recovered her health. She is now an incurable sufferer
from some mysterious nervous disorder which nobody understands,
and which has kept her a prisoner on the island, self-withdrawn
from all human observation, for years past. Among the poor
inhabitants of the district, the father and daughter are
worshiped as semi-divine beings. Their names come after the
Sacred Name in the prayers which the parents teach to their
children.

Such is the household (so far as the guide's story goes) on whose
privacy we have intruded ourselves! The narrative has a certain
interest of its own, no doubt, but it has one defect--it fails
entirely to explain the continued absence of Mr. Dunross. Is it
possible that he is not aware of our presence in the house? We
apply the guide, and make a few further inquiries of him.

"Are we here," I ask, "by permission of Mr. Dunross?"

The guide stares. If I had spoken to him in Greek or Hebrew, I
could hardly have puzzled him more effectually. My friend tries
him with a simpler form of words.

"Did you ask leave to bring us here when you found your way to
the house?"

The guide stares harder than ever, with every appearance of
feeling perfectly scandalized by the question.

"Do you think," he asks, sternly, "'that I am fool enough to
disturb the Master over his books for such a little matter as
bringing you and your friend into this house?"

"Do you mean that you have brought us here without first asking
leave?" I exclaim in amazement.

The guide's face brightens; he has beaten the true state of the
case into our stupid heads at last! "That's just what I mean!" he
says, with an air of infinite relief.

The door opens before we have recovered the shock inflicted on us
by this extraordinary discovery. A little, lean, old gentleman,
shrouded in a long black dressing-gown, quietly enters the room.
The guide steps forward, and respectfully closes the door for
him. We are evidently in the presence of The Master of Books!

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE DARKENED ROOM.

THE little gentleman advances to my bedside. His silky white hair
flows over his shoulders; he looks at us with faded blue eyes; he
bows with a sad and subdued courtesy, and says, in the simplest
manner, "I bid you welcome, gentlemen, to my house."

We are not content with merely thanking him; we naturally attempt
to apologize for our intrusion. Our host defeats the attempt at
the outset by making an apology on his own behalf.

"I happened to send for my servant a minute since," he proceeds,
"and I only then heard that you were here. It is a custom of the
house that nobody interrupts me over my books. Be pleased, sir,
to accept my excuses," he adds, addressing himself to me, "for


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