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 the room is so dark "Surely," I say, "it cannot be night already?" "You have not been asleep," she answers, "for more than two hours. 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 the sunlight." "I will send Peter to you immediately." The shadowy figure of my new nurse glides away. In another moment, unless I say something to stop her, the woman whom I am so eager to see will have left the room. "Pray don't go!" I say. "I cannot think of troubling you to take a trifling message for me. The servant will come in, if I only ring the bell." She pauses--more shadowy than ever--halfway between the bed and the door, and answers a little sadly: "Peter will not let in the daylight while I am in the room. He closed the curtains by my order." The reply puzzles me. Why should Peter keep the room dark while Miss Dunross is in it? Are her eyes weak? No; if her eyes were weak, they would be protected by a shade. Dark as it is, I can see that she does not wear a shade. Why has the room been darkened--if not for me? I cannot venture on asking the question--I can only make my excuses in due form. "Invalids only think of themselves," I say. "I supposed that you had kindly darkened the room on my account." She glides back to my bedside before she speaks again. When she does answer, it is in these startling words: