"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 instrument (with new strings)--an heirloom in our family, some centuries old. When you see my harp, you will think of pictures of St. Cecilia--and you will be treating my performance kindly if you will remember, at the same time, that I am no saint!"