ons about yourself when we become better acquainted with each
other. Let me begin with a question, in my capacity as nurse. Are your
pillows comfortable? I can see they want shaking up. Shall I send for
Peter to raise you? I am unhappily not strong enough to be able to help
you in that way. No? You are able to raise yourself? Wait a little.
There! Now lie back--and tell me if I know how to establish the right
sort of sympathy between a tumbled pillow and a weary head."

She had so indescribably touched and interested me, stranger as I was,
that the sudden cessation of her faint, sweet tones affected me almost
with a sense of pain. In trying (clumsily enough) to help her with the
pillows, I accidentally touched her hand. It felt so cold and so thin,
that even the momentary contact with it startled me. I tried vainly to
see her face, now that it was more within reach of my range of view.
The merciless darkness kept it as complete a mystery as ever. Had my
curiosity escaped her notice? Nothing escaped her notice. Her next words
told me plainly that I had been discovered.

"You have been trying to see me," she said. "Has my hand warned you not
to try again? I felt that it startled you when you touched it just now."

Such quickness of perception as this was not to be deceived; such
fearless candor demanded as a right a similar frankness on my side. I
owned the truth, and left it to her indulgence to forgive me.

She returned slowly to her chair at the foot of the bed.

"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
en