uties at your bedside
such as reading to you, writing your letters for you while your right
hand is still disabled, regulating the temperature in the room, and
so on--though I cannot speak positively, I think it likely that these
little services may be rendered to you by another person whom I have not
mentioned yet. We shall see what happens in a few hours' time. In the
meanwhile, sir, I ask permission to leave you to your rest."

With those words, he walks out of the room as quietly as he walked
into it, and leaves his two guests to meditate gratefully on Shetland
hospitality. We both wonder what those last mysterious words of our host
mean; and we exchange more or less ingenious guesses on the subject of
that nameless "other person" who may possibly attend on me--until the
arrival of dinner turns our thoughts into a new course.

The dishes are few in number, but cooked to perfection and admirably
served. I am too weary to eat much: a glass of the fine old Madeira
revives me. We arrange our future plans while we are engaged over the
meal. Our return to the yacht in Lerwick harbor is expected on the next
day at the latest. As things are, I can only leave my companion to go
back to the vessel, and relieve the minds of our friends of any needless
alarm about me. On the day after, I engage to send on board a written
report of the state of my health, by a messenger who can bring my
portmanteau back with him.

These arrangements decided on, my friend goes away (at my own request)
to try his skill as an angler in the lake. Assisted by the silent Peter
and the well-stocked medicine-chest, I apply the necessary dressings to
my wound, wrap myself in the comfortable morning-gown which is always
kept ready in the Guests' Chamber, and lie down again on the bed to try
the restorative virtues of sleep.

Before he leaves the room, silent Peter goes to the window, and asks
in fewest possible words if he shall draw the curtains. In fewer words
still--for I am feeling drowsy already--I answer No. I dislike shutting
out the cheering light of day. To my morbid fancy, at that moment,
it looks like resigning myself deliberately to the horrors of a long
illness. The hand-bell is on my bedside table; and I can always ring for
Peter if the light keeps me from sleeping. On this understanding, Peter
mutely nods his head, and goes out.

For some minutes I lie in lazy contemplation of the companionable fire.
Meanwhile the dressings on my wound