MISS DUNROSS had so completely perplexed me, that I was at a losswhat to say next.

To ask her plainly why it was necessary to keep the room indarkness while she remained in it, might prove (for all I knew tothe contrary) to be an act of positive rudeness. To venture onany general expression of sympathy with her, knowing absolutelynothing of the circumstances, might place us both in anembarrassing position at the outset of our acquaintance. The onething I could do was to beg that the present arrangement of theroom might not be disturbed, and to leave her to decide as towhether she should admit me to her confidence or exclude me fromit, at her own sole discretion.

She perfectly understood what was going on in my mind. Taking achair at the foot of the bed, she told me simply and unreservedlythe sad secret of the darkened room.

"If you wish to see much of me, Mr. Germaine," she began, "youmust accustom yourself to the world of shadows in which it is mylot to live. Some time since, a dreadful illness raged among thepeople in our part of this island; and I was so unfortunate as tocatch the infection. When I recovered--no! 'Recovery' is not theright word to use--let me say, when I escaped death, I foundmyself afflicted by a nervous malady which has defied medicalhelp from that time to this. I am suffering (as the doctorsexplain it to me) from a morbidly sensitive condition of thenerves near the surface to the action of light. If I were to drawthe curtains, and look out of that window, I should feel theacutest pain all over my face. If I covered my face, and drew thecurtains with my bare hands, I should feel the same pain in myhands. You can just see, perhaps, that I have a very large andvery thick veil on my head. I let it fall over my face and neckand hands, when I have occasion to pass along the corridors or toenter my father's study--and I find it protection enough. Don'tbe too ready to deplore my sad condition, sir! I have got so usedto living in the dark that I can see quite well enough for allthe purposes of _my_ poor existence. I can read and write inthese shadows--I can see you, and be of use to you in many littleways, if you will let me. There is really nothing to bedistressed about. My life will not be a long one--I know and feelthat. But I hope to be spared long enough to be my father'scompanion through the closing years of his life. Beyond that, Ihave no prospect. In the meanwhile, I have my pleasures; and Imean to add to my scanty little stack the pleasure of attendingon you. You are quite an event in my life. I look forward toreading to you and writing for you, as some girls look forward toa new dress, or a first ball. Do you think it very strange of meto tell you so openly just what I have in my mind? I can't helpit! I say what I think to my father and to our poor neighborshereabouts--and I can't alter my ways at a moment's notice. I ownit when I like people; and I own it when I don't. I have beenlooking at you while you were asleep; and I have read your faceas I might read a book. There are signs of sorrow on yourforehead and your lips which it is strange to see in so young aface as yours. I am afraid I shall trouble you with manyquestions about yourself when we become better acquainted witheach other. Let me begin with a question, in my capacity asnurse. Are your pillows comfortable? I can see they want shakingup. Shall I send for Peter to raise you? I am unhappily notstrong enough to be able to help you in that way. No? You areable to raise yourself? Wait a little. There! Now lie back--andtell me if I know how to establish the right sort of sympathybetween a tumbled pillow and a weary head."

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

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

Such quickness of perception as this was not to be deceived; suchfearless candor demanded as a right a similar frankness on myside. I owned the truth, and left it to her indulgence to forgiveme.

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

"If we are to be friends," she said, "we must begin byunderstanding one another. Don't associate any romantic ideas ofinvisible beauty with _me_, Mr. Germaine. I had but one beauty toboast of before I fell ill--my complexion--and that has goneforever. There is nothing to see in me now but the poorreflection 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 tothe darkness as a perpetual obstacle, so far as your eyes areconcerned, between you and me. Make the best instead of the worstof your strange position here. It offers you a new sensation toamuse you while you are ill. You have a nurse who is animpersonal creature--a shadow among shadows; a voice to speak toyou, and a hand to help you, and nothing more. Enough of myself!"she exclaimed, rising and changing her tone. "What can I do toamuse you?" She considered a little. "I have some odd tastes,"she resumed; "and I think I may entertain you if I make youacquainted 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 misunderstoodcreature--especially in England. Women, no doubt, generally dojustice to the affectionate nature of cats. But the men treatthem as if they were the natural enemies of the human race. Themen drive a cat out of their presence if it ventures upstairs,and set their dogs at it if it shows itself in the street--andthen they turn round and accuse the poor creature (whose genialnature must attach itself to something) of being only fond of thekitchen!"

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

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

She drew her veil over her face as she spoke, and, partiallyopening the door, rang my handbell. Peter appeared, and receivedhis instructions.

"Move the screen," said Miss Dunross. Peter obeyed; the ruddyfirelight streamed over the floor. Miss Dunross proceeded withher directions. "Open the door of the cats' room, Peter; andbring me my harp. Don't suppose that you are going to listen to agreat player, Mr. Germaine," she went on, when Peter had departedon his singular errand, "or that you are likely to see the sortof 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 ancientinstrument (with new strings)--an heirloom in our family, somecenturies old. When you see my harp, you will think of picturesof St. Cecilia--and you will be treating my performance kindly ifyou will remember, at the sam e time, that I am no saint!"

She drew her chair into the firelight, and sounded a whistlewhich she took from the pocket of her dress. In another momentthe lithe and shadowy figures of the cats appeared noiselessly inthe red light, answering their mistress's call. I could justcount six of them, as the creatures seated themselves demurely ina circle round the chair. Peter followed with the harp, andclosed the door after him as he went out. The streak of daylightbeing now excluded from the room, Miss Dunross threw back herveil, and took the harp on her knee; seating herself, I observed,with her face turned away from the fire.

"You will have light enough to see the cats by," she said,"without having too much light for _me_. Firelight does not giveme the acute pain which I suffer when daylight falls on myface--I feel a certain inconvenience from it, and nothing more."

She touched the strings of her instrument--the ancient harp, asshe had said, of the pictured St. Cecilia; or, rather, as Ithought, the ancient harp of the Welsh bards. The sound was atfirst unpleasantly high in pitch, to my untutored ear. At theopening notes of the melody--a slow, wailing, dirgelike air--thecats rose, and circled round their mistress, marching to thetune. Now they followed each other singly; now, at a change inthe melody, they walked two and two; and, now again, theyseparated into divisions of three each, and circled round thechair in opposite directions. The music quickened, and the catsquickened their pace with it. Faster and faster the notes rangout, and faster and faster in the ruddy firelight, the cats, likeliving shadows, whirled round the still black figure in thechair, with the ancient harp on its knee. Anything so weird,wild, and ghostlike I never imagined before even in a dream! Themusic changed, and the whirling cats began to leap. One percheditself at a bound on the pedestal of the harp. Four sprung uptogether, and assumed their places, two on each of her shoulders.The last and smallest of the cats took the last leap, and lightedon her head! There the six creatures kept their positions,motionless as statues! Nothing moved but the wan, white handsover the harp-strings; no sound but the sound of the musicstirred in the room. Once more the melody changed. In an instantthe six cats were on the floor again, seated round the chair as Ihad seen them on their first entrance; the harp was laid aside;and the faint, sweet voice said quietly, "I am soon tired--I mustleave my cats to conclude their performances tomorrow."

She rose, and approached the bedside.

"I leave you to see the sunset through your window," she said."From the coming of the darkness to the coming of breakfast-time,you must not count on my services--I am taking my rest. I have nochoice but to remain in bed (sleeping when I can) for twelvehours or more. The long repose seems to keep my life in me. HaveI and my cats surprised you very much? Am I a witch; and are theymy familiar spirits? Remember how few amusements I have, and youwill not wonder why I devote myself to teaching these prettycreatures their tricks, and attaching them to me like dogs! Theywere slow at first, and they taught me excellent lessons ofpatience. Now they understand what I want of them, and they learnwonderfully well. How you will amuse your friend, when he comesback from fishing, with the story of the young lady who lives inthe dark, and keeps a company of performing cats! I shall expect_you_ to amuse _me_ to-morrow--I want you to tell me all aboutyourself, and how you came to visit these wild islands of ours.Perhaps, as the days go on, and we get better acquainted, youwill take me a little more into your confidence, and tell me thetrue meaning of that story of sorrow which I read on your facewhile you were asleep? I have just enough of the woman left in meto be the victim of curiosity, when I meet with a person whointerests me. Good-by till to-morrow! I wish you a tranquilnight, and a pleasant waking. - Come, my familiar spirits! Come,my cat children! it's time we went back to our own side of thehouse."

She dropped the veil over her face--and, followed by her train ofcats, glided out of the room.

Immediately on her departure, Peter appeared and drew back thecurtains. The light of the setting sun streamed in at the window.At the same moment my traveling companion returned in highspirits, eager to tell me about his fishing in the lake. Thecontrast between what I saw and heard now, and what I had seenand heard only a few minutes since, was so extraordinary and sostartling that I almost doubted whether the veiled figure withthe harp, and the dance of cats, were not the fantastic creationsof a dream. I actually asked my friend whether he had found meawake or asleep when he came into the room!

Evening merged into night. The Master of Books made hisappearance, to receive the latest news of my health. He spoke andlistened absently as if his mind were still pre-occupied by hisstudies--except when I referred gratefully to his daughter'skindness to me. At her name his faded blue eyes brightened; hisdrooping head became erect; his sad, subdued voice strengthenedin tone.

"Do not hesitate to let her attend on you," he said. "Whateverinterests or amuses her, lengthens her life. In _her_ life is thebreath of mine. She is more than my daughter; she is theguardian-angel of the house. Go where she may, she carries theair of heaven with her. When you say your prayers, sir, pray Godto leave my daughter here a little longer."

He sighed heavily; his head dropped again on his breast--he leftme.

The hour advanced; the evening meal was set by my bedside. SilentPeter, taking his leave for the night, developed into speech. "Isleep next door," he said. "Ring when you want me." My travelingcompanion, taking the second bed in the room, reposed in thehappy sleep of youth. In the house there was dead silence. Out ofthe house, the low song of the night-wind, rising and fallingover the lake and the moor, was the one sound to be heard. So thefirst day ended in the hospitable Shetland house.