One night as he lay in bed he wakened suddenly from his sleep with the feeling that somebody was in the room. For a moment he could see nothing, only hear the snores of the man on the floor. Then as he looked he saw the moonlight streaming through the open window, and right in its light stood a man, not anyone he knew, but a white man with a kindly face, his brown hair drawn back and tied behind with a ribbon, and his brown coat, knee-breeches, stockings and shoes those of other days. He said nothing, but, smiling quietly, came towards the bed and laying his hand on the injured leg began slowly stroking it up and down. It was infinitely soothing, and presently to his surprise my friend closed his eyes, and when he opened them again his strange visitor had gone. He felt strangely at ease and fell asleep. When he waked in the morning he rose up, and, discarding the board on which he had been carried, told everyone he was going to get well and would require it no more. And sure enough he never did. From that day he mended and now hardly knows which leg was bad. But instead of wondering, as I should have done, whether the Duke of Albemarle's physician had visited him, he says, “Only fancy, I'm sure it was only fancy.” He is not a reading man, and I don't think he has ever heard of Hans Sloane. But if I skipped some of Hans Sloane's two great volumes, I must confess to having raced through at a much faster rate many of the other books on early Jamaica. There is a novel called _Marly_, the scene of which is laid in the beginning of the last century, and so dull it is I can hardly believe it was presented to people for amusement. If they had nothing else to read, it almost excuses the ignorance and easy-going ways of the planters and their families. Not that these regarded themselves as ignorant by any means. Uncultured as they were, they held themselves far above any of their dependents, though the ladies might, and often did, sit round the pepper pot with their black serving women, ate as they did, and talked as they did. Lady Nugent, the Governor's wife, between 1801 and 1805, found great difficulty in talking to them, and she, of course, met the best. “A party of ladies with me at the Penn,” she writes, “and never was there anything so completely stupid. All I could get out of them was, 'Yes, ma'am,' 'No, ma'am,' with now and then a simper or a giggle. At last I set them to work stringing beads, which is now one of my occupations; and I was heartily glad when their carriages came at 2 o'clock.”