a dull life, I am afraid, sir, for you. If you happen to be fond
of angling, I can offer you some little amusement in that way.
The lake is well stocked with fish; and I have a boy employed in
the garden, who will be glad to attend on you in the boat."

My friend happens to be fond of fishing, and gladly accepts the
invitation. The Master says his parting words to me before he
goes back to his books.

"You may safely trust my man Peter to wait on you, Mr. Germaine,
while you are so unfortunate as to be confined to this room. He
has the advantage (in cases of illness) of being a very silent,
undemonstrative person. At the same time he is careful and
considerate, in his own reserved way. As to what I may term the
lighter duties at your bedside such as reading to you, writing
your letters for you while your right hand is still disabled,
regulating the temperature in the room, and so on--though I
cannot speak positively, I think it likely that these little
services may be rendered to you by another person whom I have not
mentioned yet. We shall see what happens in a few hours' time. In
the meanwhile, sir, I ask permission to leave you to your rest."

With those words, he walks out of the room as quietly as he
walked into it, and leaves his two guests to meditate gratefully
on Shetland hospitality. We both wonder what those last
mysterious words of our host mean; and we exchange more or less
ingenious guesses on the subject of that nameless "other person"
who may possibly attend on me--until the arrival of dinner turns
our thoughts into a new course.

The dishes are few in number, but cooked to perfection and
admirably served. I am too weary to eat much: a glass of the fine
old Madeira revives me. We arrange our future plans while we are
engaged over the meal. Our return to the yacht in Lerwick harbor
is expected on the next day at the latest. As things are, I can
only leave my companion to go back to the vessel, and relieve the
minds of our friends of any needless alarm about me. On the day
after, I engage to send on board a written report of the state of
my health, by a messenger who can bring my portmanteau back with
him.

These arrangements decided on, my friend goes away (at my own
request) to try his skill as an angler in the lake. Assisted by
the silent Peter and the well-stocked medicine-chest, I apply the
necessary dressings to my wound, wrap myself in the comfortable
morning-gown which is always kept ready in the Guests' Chamber,
and lie down again on the bed to try the restorative virtues of
sleep.

Before he leaves the room, silent Peter goes to the window, and
asks in fewest possible words if he shall draw the curtains. In
fewer words still--for I am feeling drowsy already--I answer No.
I dislike shutting out the cheering light of day. To my morbid
fancy, at that moment, it looks like resigning myself
deliberately to the horrors of a long illness. The hand-bell is
on my bedside table; and I can always ring for Peter if the light
keeps me from sleeping. On this understanding, Peter mutely nods
his head, and goes out.

For some minutes I lie in lazy contemplation of the companionable
fire. Meanwhile the dressings on my wound and the embrocation on
my sprained wrist steadily subdue the pains which I have felt so
far. Little by little, the bright fire seems to be fading. Little
by little, sleep steals on me, and all my troubles are forgotten.

I wake, after what seems to have been a long repose--I wake,
feeling the bewilderment which we all experience on opening our
eyes for the first time in a bed and a room that are new to us.
Gradually collecting my thoughts, I find my perplexity
considerably increased by a trifling but curious circumstance.
The curtains which I had forbidden Peter to touch are
drawn--closely drawn, so as to plunge the whole room in
obscurity. And, more surprising still, a high screen with folding
sides stands before the fire, and confines the light which it
might otherwise give exclusively to the ceiling. I am literally
enveloped in shadows. Has night come?

In lazy wonder, I turn my head on the pillow, and look on the
other side of my bed.

Dark as it is, I discover instantly that I am not alone.

A shadowy figure stands by my bedside. The dim outline of the
dress tells me that it is the figure of a woman. Straining my
eyes, I fancy I can discern a wavy black object covering her head
and shoulders which looks like a large veil. Her face is turned
toward me, but no distinguishing feature in it is visible. She
stands like a statue, with her hands crossed in front of her,
faintly relieved against the dark substance of her dress. This I
can see--and this is all.

There is a moment of silence. The shadowy being finds its voice,
and speaks first.

"I hope you feel better, sir, after your rest?"

The voice is low, with a certain faint sweetness or tone which
falls soothingly on my ear. The accent is unmistakably the accent
of a refined and cultivated person. After making my
acknowledgments to the unknown and half-seen lady, I venture to


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