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 ask the inevitable question, "To whom
have I the honor of speaking?"

The lady answers, "I am Miss Dunross; and I hope, if you have no
objection to it, to help Peter in nursing you."

This, then, is the "other person" dimly alluded to by our host! I
think directly of the heroic conduct of Miss Dunross among her poor and
afflicted neighbors; and I do not forget the melancholy result of her
devotion to others which has left her an incurable invalid. My anxiety
to see this lady more plainly increases a hundred-fold. I beg her to add
to my grateful sense of her kindness by telling me why