the purposes of _my_ poor existence. I can read and write in
these shadows--I can see you, and be of use to you in many little
ways, if you will let me. There is really nothing to be
distressed about. My life will not be a long one--I know and feel
that. But I hope to be spared long enough to be my father's
companion through the closing years of his life. Beyond that, I
have no prospect. In the meanwhile, I have my pleasures; and I
mean to add to my scanty little stack the pleasure of attending
on you. You are quite an event in my life. I look forward to
reading to you and writing for you, as some girls look forward to
a new dress, or a first ball. Do you think it very strange of me
to tell you so openly just what I have in my mind? I can't help
it! I say what I think to my father and to our poor neighbors
hereabouts--and I can't alter my ways at a moment's notice. I own
it when I like people; and I own it when I don't. I have been
looking at you while you were asleep; and I have read your face
as I might read a book. There are signs of sorrow on your
forehead and your lips which it is strange to see in so young a
face as yours. I am afraid I shall trouble you with many
questions about yourself when we become better acquainted with
each other. Let me begin with a question, in my capacity as
nurse. Are your pillows comfortable? I can see they want shaking
up. Shall I send for Peter to raise you? I am unhappily not
strong enough to be able to help you in that way. No? You are
able to raise yourself? Wait a little. There! Now lie back--and
tell me if I know how to establish the right sort of sympathy
between a tumbled pillow and a weary head."

She had so indescribably touched and interested me, stranger as I
was, that the sudden cessation of her faint, sweet tones affected
me almost with a sense of pain. In trying (clumsily enough) to
help her with the pillows, I accidentally touched her hand. It
felt so cold and so thin, that even the momentary contact with it
startled me. I tried vainly to see her face, now that it was more
within reach of my range of view. The merciless darkness kept it
as complete a mystery as ever. Had my curiosity escaped her
notice? Nothing escaped her notice. Her next words told me
plainly that I had been discovered.

"You have been trying to see me," she said. "Has my hand warned
you not to try again? I felt that it startled you when you
touched it just now."

Such quickness of perception as this was not to be deceived; such
fearless candor demanded as a right a similar frankness on my
side. I owned the truth, and left it to her indulgence to forgive
me.

She returned slowly to her chair at the foot of the bed.

"If we are to be friends," she said, "we must begin by
understanding one another. Don't associate any romantic ideas of
invisible beauty with _me_, Mr. Germaine. I had but one beauty to
boast of before I fell ill--my complexion--and that has gone
forever. There is nothing to see in me now but the poor
reflection of my former self; the ruin of what was once a woman.
I don't say this to distress you--I say it to reconcile you to
the darkness as a perpetual obstacle, so far as your eyes are
concerned, between you and me. Make the best instead of the worst
of your strange position here. It offers you a new sensation to
amuse you while you are ill. You have a nurse who is an
impersonal creature--a shadow among shadows; a voice to speak to
you, and a hand to help you, and nothing more. Enough of myself!"
she exclaimed, rising and changing her tone. "What can I do to
amuse you?" She considered a little. "I have some odd tastes,"
she resumed; "and I think I may entertain you if I make you
acquainted with one of them. Are you like most other men, Mr.
Germaine? Do you hate cats?"

The question startled me. However, I could honestly answer that,
in this respect at least, I was not like other men.

"To my thinking," I added, "the cat is a cruelly misunderstood
creature--especially in England. Women, no doubt, generally do
justice to the affectionate nature of cats. But the men treat
them as if they were the natural enemies of the human race. The
men drive a cat out of their presence if it ventures upstairs,
and set their dogs at it if it shows itself in the street--and
then they turn round and accuse the poor creature (whose genial
nature must attach itself to something) of being only fond of the
kitchen!"

The expression of these unpopular sentiments appeared to raise me
greatly in the estimation of Miss Dunross.

"We have one sympathy in common, at any rate," she said. "Now I
can amuse you! Prepare for a surprise."

She drew her veil over her face as she spoke, and, partially
opening the door, rang my handbell. Peter appeared, and received
his instructions.

"Move the screen," said Miss Dunross. Peter obeyed; the ruddy
firelight streamed over the floor. Miss Dunross proceeded with
her directions. "Open the door of the cats' room, Peter; and
bring me my harp. Don't suppose that you are going to listen to a
great player, Mr. Germaine," she went on, when Peter had departed
on his singular errand, "or that you are likely to see the sort
of harp to which you are accustomed, as a man of the modern time.
I can only play some old Scotch airs; and my harp is an ancient


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