not having sooner placed myself and my household at your
disposal. You have met, as I am sorry to hear, with an accident.
Will you permit me to send for medical help? I ask the question a
little abruptly, fearing that time may be of importance, and
knowing that our nearest doctor lives at some distance from this
house."

He speaks with a certain quaintly precise choice of words--more
like a man dictating a letter than holding a conversation. The
subdued sadness of his manner is reflected in the subdued sadness
of his face. He and sorrow have apparently been old
acquaintances, and have become used to each other for years past.
The shadow of some past grief rests quietly and impenetrably over
the whole man; I see it in his faded blue eyes, on his broad
forehead, on his delicate lips, on his pale shriveled cheeks. My
uneasy sense of committing an intrusion on him steadily
increases, in spite of his courteous welcome. I explain to him
that I am capable of treating my own case, having been myself in
practice as a medical man; and this said, I revert to my
interrupted excuses. I assure him that it is only within the last
few moments that my traveling companion and I have become aware
of the liberty which our guide has taken in introducing us, on
his own sole responsibility, to the house. Mr. Dunross looks at
me, as if he, like the guide, failed entirely to understand what
my scruples and excuses mean. After a while the truth dawns on
him. A faint smile flickers over his face; he lays his hand in a
gentle, fatherly way on my shoulder.

"We are so used here to our Shetland hospitality," he says, "that
we are slow to understand the hesitation which a stranger feels
in taking advantage of it. Your guide is in no respect to blame,
gentlemen. Every house in these islands which is large enough to
contain a spare room has its Guests' Chamber, always kept ready
for occupation. When you travel my way, you come here as a matter
of course; you stay here as long as you like; and, when you go
away, I only do my duty as a good Shetlander in accompanying you
on the first stage of your journey to bid you godspeed. The
customs of centuries past elsewhere are modern customs here. I
beg of you to give my servant all the directions which are
necessary to your comfort, just as freely as you could give them
in your own house."

He turns aside to ring a hand-bell on the table as he speaks; and
notices in the guide's face plain signs that the man has taken
offense at my disparaging allusion to him.

"Strangers cannot be expected to understand our ways, Andrew,"
says The Master of Books. "But you and I understand one
another--and that is enough."

The guide's rough face reddens with pleasure. If a crowned king
on a throne had spoken condescendingly to him, he could hardly
have looked more proud of the honor conferred than he looks now.
He makes a clumsy attempt to take the Master's hand and kiss it.
Mr. Dunross gently repels the attempt, and gives him a little pat
on the head. The guide looks at me and my friend as if he had
been honored with the highest distinction that an earthly being
can receive. The Master's hand had touched him kindly!

In a moment more, the gardener-groom appears at the door to
answer the bell.

"You will move the medicine-chest into this room, Peter," says
Mr. Dunross. "And you will wait on this gentleman, who is
confined to his bed by an accident, exactly as you would wait on
me if I were ill. If we both happen to ring for you together, you
will answer his bell before you answer mine. The usual changes of
linen are, of course, ready in the wardrobe there? Very good. Go
now, and tell the cook to prepare a little dinner; and get a
bottle of the old Madeira
out of the cellar. You will spread the table, for to-day at
least, in this room. These two gentlemen will be best pleased to
dine together. Return here in five minutes' time, in case you are
wanted; and show my guest, Peter, that I am right in believing
you to be a good nurse as well as a good servant."

The silent and surly Peter brightens under the expression of the
Master's confidence in him, as the guide brightened under the
influence of the Master s caressing touch. The two men leave the
room together.

We take advantage of the momentary silence that follows to
introduce ourselves by name to our host, and to inform him of the
circumstances under which we happen to be visiting Shetland. He
listens in his subdued, courteous way; but he makes no inquiries
about our relatives; he shows no interest in the arrival of the
Government yacht and the Commissioner for Northern Lights. All
sympathy with the doings of the outer world, all curiosity about
persons of social position and notoriety, is evidently at an end
in Mr. Dunross. For twenty years the little round of his duties
and his occupations has been enough for him. Life has lost its
priceless value to this man; and when Death comes to him he will
receive the king of terrors as he might receive the last of his
guests.

"Is there anything else I can do," he says, speaking more to
himself than to us, "before I go back to my books?"

Something else occurs to him, even as he puts the question. He
addresses my companion, with his faint, sad smile. "This will be


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