ly and unreservedly the sad secret
of the darkened room.

"If you wish to see much of me, Mr. Germaine," she began, "you must
accustom yourself to the world of shadows in which it is my lot to live.
Some time since, a dreadful illness raged among the people in our part
of this island; and I was so unfortunate as to catch the infection. When
I recovered--no! 'Recovery' is not the right word to use--let me say,
when I escaped death, I found myself afflicted by a nervous malady which
has defied medical help from that time to this. I am suffering (as the
doctors explain it to me) from a morbidly sensitive condition of the
nerves near the surface to the action of light. If I were to draw the
curtains, and look out of that window, I should feel the acutest pain
all over my face. If I covered my face, and drew the curtains with my
bare hands, I should feel the same pain in my hands. You can just see,
perhaps, that I have a very large and very thick veil on my head. I let
it fall over my face and neck and hands, when I have occasion to
pass along the corridors or to enter my father's study--and I find it
protection enough. Don't be too ready to deplore my sad condition,
sir! I have got so used to living in the dark that I can see quite well
enough for all the purposes of _my_ poor existence. I can read and write
in these shadows--I can see you, and be of use to you in many little
ways, if you will let me. There is really nothing to be distressed
about. My life will not be a long one--I know and feel that. But I hope
to be spared long enough to be my father's companion through the closing
years of his life. Beyond that, I have no prospect. In the meanwhile,
I have my pleasures; and I mean to add to my scanty little stack the
pleasure of attending on you. You are quite an event in my life. I
look forward to reading to you and writing for you, as some girls look
forward to a new dress, or a first ball. Do you think it very strange of
me to tell you so openly just what I have in my mind? I can't help it! I
say what I think to my father and to our poor neighbors hereabouts--and
I can't alter my ways at a moment's notice. I own it when I like people;
and I own it when I don't. I have been looking at you while you were
asleep; and I have read your face as I might read a book. There are
signs of sorrow on your forehead and your lips which it is strange to
see in so young a face as yours. I am afraid I shall trouble you with
many questi