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

We are not content with merely thanking him; we naturally attemptto apologize for our intrusion. Our host defeats the attempt atthe 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 thehouse that nobody interrupts me over my books. Be pleased, sir,to accept my excuses," he adds, addressing himself to me, "fornot having sooner placed myself and my household at yourdisposal. 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 alittle abruptly, fearing that time may be of importance, andknowing that our nearest doctor lives at some distance from thishouse."

He speaks with a certain quaintly precise choice of words--morelike a man dictating a letter than holding a conversation. Thesubdued sadness of his manner is reflected in the subdued sadnessof his face. He and sorrow have apparently been oldacquaintances, and have become used to each other for years past.The shadow of some past grief rests quietly and impenetrably overthe whole man; I see it in his faded blue eyes, on his broadforehead, on his delicate lips, on his pale shriveled cheeks. Myuneasy sense of committing an intrusion on him steadilyincreases, in spite of his courteous welcome. I explain to himthat I am capable of treating my own case, having been myself inpractice as a medical man; and this said, I revert to myinterrupted excuses. I assure him that it is only within the lastfew moments that my traveling companion and I have become awareof the liberty which our guide has taken in introducing us, onhis own sole responsibility, to the house. Mr. Dunross looks atme, as if he, like the guide, failed entirely to understand whatmy scruples and excuses mean. After a while the truth dawns onhim. A faint smile flickers over his face; he lays his hand in agentle, fatherly way on my shoulder.

"We are so used here to our Shetland hospitality," he says, "thatwe are slow to understand the hesitation which a stranger feelsin taking advantage of it. Your guide is in no respect to blame,gentlemen. Every house in these islands which is large enough tocontain a spare room has its Guests' Chamber, always kept readyfor occupation. When you travel my way, you come here as a matterof course; you stay here as long as you like; and, when you goaway, I only do my duty as a good Shetlander in accompanying youon the first stage of your journey to bid you godspeed. Thecustoms of centuries past elsewhere are modern customs here. Ibeg of you to give my servant all the directions which arenecessary to your comfort, just as freely as you could give themin your own house."

He turns aside to ring a hand-bell on the table as he speaks; andnotices in the guide's face plain signs that the man has takenoffense 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 oneanother--and that is enough."

The guide's rough face reddens with pleasure. If a crowned kingon a throne had spoken condescendingly to him, he could hardlyhave 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 paton the head. The guide looks at me and my friend as if he hadbeen honored with the highest distinction that an earthly beingcan receive. The Master's hand had touched him kindly!

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

"You will move the medicine-chest into this room, Peter," saysMr. Dunross. "And you will wait on this gentleman, who isconfined to his bed by an accident, exactly as you would wait onme if I were ill. If we both happen to ring for you together, youwill answer his bell before you answer mine. The usual changes oflinen are, of course, ready in the wardrobe there? Very good. Gonow, and tell the cook to prepare a little dinner; and get abottle of the old Madeiraout of the cellar. You will spread the table, for to-day atleast, in this room. These two gentlemen will be best pleased todine together. Return here in five minutes' time, in case you arewanted; and show my guest, Peter, that I am right in believingyou to be a good nurse as well as a good servant."

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

We take advantage of the momentary silence that follows tointroduce ourselves by name to our host, and to inform him of thecircumstances under which we happen to be visiting Shetland. Helistens in his subdued, courteous way; but he makes no inquiriesabout our relatives; he shows no interest in the arrival of theGovernment yacht and the Commissioner for Northern Lights. Allsympathy with the doings of the outer world, all curiosity aboutpersons of social position and notoriety, is evidently at an endin Mr. Dunross. For twenty years the little round of his dutiesand his occupations has been enough for him. Life has lost itspriceless value to this man; and when Death comes to him he willreceive the king of terrors as he might receive the last of hisguests.

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

Something else occurs to him, even as he puts the question. Headdresses my companion, with his faint, sad smile. "This will bea dull life, I am afraid, sir, for you. If you happen to be fondof angling, I can offer you some little amusement in that way.The lake is well stocked with fish; and I have a boy employed inthe garden, who will be glad to attend on you in the boat."

My friend happens to be fond of fishing, and gladly accepts theinvitation. The Master says his parting words to me before hegoes 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. Hehas the advantage (in cases of illness) of being a very silent,undemonstrative person. At the same time he is careful andconsiderate, in his own reserved way. As to what I may term thelighter duties at your bedside such as reading to you, writingyour letters for you while your right hand is still disabled,regulating the temperature in the room, and so on--though Icannot speak positively, I think it likely that these littleservices may be rendered to you by another person whom I have notmentioned yet. We shall see what happens in a few hours' time. Inthe meanwhile, sir, I ask permission to leave you to your rest."

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

The dishes are few in number, but cooked to perfection andadmirably served. I am too weary to eat much: a glass of the fineold Madeira revives me. We arrange our future plans while we areengaged over the meal. Our return to the yacht in Lerwick harboris expected on the next day at the latest. As things are, I canonly leave my companion to go back to the vessel, and relieve theminds of our friends of any needless alarm about me. On the dayafter, I engage to send on board a written report of the state ofmy health, by a messenger who can bring my portmanteau back withhim.

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

Before he leaves the room, silent Peter goes to the window, andasks in fewest possible words if he shall draw the curtains. Infewer words still--for I am feeling drowsy already--I answer No.I dislike shutting out the cheering light of day. To my morbidfancy, at that moment, it looks like resigning myselfdeliberately to the horrors of a long illness. The hand-bell ison my bedside table; and I can always ring for Peter if the lightkeeps me from sleeping. On this understanding, Peter mutely nodshis head, and goes out.

For some minutes I lie in lazy contemplation of the companionablefire. Meanwhile the dressings on my wound and the embrocation onmy sprained wrist steadily subdue the pains which I have felt sofar. Little by little, the bright fire seems to be fading. Littleby 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 oureyes for the first time in a bed and a room that are new to us.Gradually collecting my thoughts, I find my perplexityconsiderably increased by a trifling but curious circumstance.The curtains which I had forbidden Peter to touch aredrawn--closely drawn, so as to plunge the whole room inobscurity. And, more surprising still, a high screen with foldingsides stands before the fire, and confines the light which itmight otherwise give exclusively to the ceiling. I am literallyenveloped in shadows. Has night come?

In lazy wonder, I turn my head on the pillow, and look on theother 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 thedress tells me that it is the figure of a woman. Straining myeyes, I fancy I can discern a wavy black object covering her headand shoulders which looks like a large veil. Her face is turnedtoward me, but no distinguishing feature in it is visible. Shestands like a statue, with her hands crossed in front of her,faintly relieved against the dark substance of her dress. This Ican 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 whichfalls soothingly on my ear. The accent is unmistakably the accentof a refined and cultivated person. After making myacknowledgments to the unknown and half-seen lady, I venture toask the inevitable question, "To whom have I the honor ofspeaking?"

The lady answers, "I am Miss Dunross; and I hope, if you have noobjection to it, to help Peter in nursing you."

This, then, is the "other person" dimly alluded to by our host! Ithink directly of the heroic conduct of Miss Dunross among herpoor and afflicted neighbors; and I do not forget the melancholyresult of her devotion to others which has left her an incurableinvalid. My anxiety to see this lady more plainly increases ahundred-fold. I beg her to add to my grateful sense of herkindness by telling me why the room is so dark "Surely," I say,"it cannot be night already?"

"You have not been asleep," she answers, "for more than twohours. The mist has disappeared, and the sun is shining."

I take up the bell, standing on the table at my side.

"May I ring for Peter, Miss Dunross?"

"To open the curtains, Mr. Germaine?"

"Yes--with your permission. I own I should like to see thesunlight."

"I will send Peter to you immediately."

The shadowy figure of my new nurse glides away. In anothermoment, unless I say something to stop her, the woman whom I amso eager to see will have left the room.

"Pray don't go!" I say. "I cannot think of troubling you to takea trifling message for me. The servant will come in, if I onlyring the bell."

She pauses--more shadowy than ever--halfway between the bed andthe door, and answers a little sadly:

"Peter will not let in the daylight while I am in the room. Heclosed the curtains by my order."

The reply puzzles me. Why should Peter keep the room dark whileMiss Dunro ss is in it? Are her eyes weak? No; if her eyes wereweak, they would be protected by a shade. Dark as it is, I cansee that she does not wear a shade. Why has the room beendarkened--if not for me? I cannot venture on asking thequestion--I can only make my excuses in due form.

"Invalids only think of themselves," I say. "I supposed that youhad kindly darkened the room on my account."

She glides back to my bedside before she speaks again. When shedoes answer, it is in these startling words:

"You were mistaken, Mr. Germaine. Your room has beendarkened--not on your account, but on _mine_."