man. I am well acquainted with some of the
greatest living physicians, in Edinburgh as well as in London. Will you
allow me to describe your malady (as I understand it) to men who are
accustomed to treat cases of intricate nervous disorder? And will you
let me write and tell you the result?"

I waited for her reply. Neither by word nor sign did she encourage the
idea of any future communication with her. I ventured to suggest another
motive which might induce her to receive a letter from me.

"In any case, I may find it necessary to write to you," I went on. "You
firmly believe that I and my little Mary are destined to meet again. If
your anticipations are realized, you will expect me to tell you of it,
surely?"

Once more I waited. She spoke--but it was not to reply: it was only to
change the subject.

"The time is passing," was all she said. "We have not begun your letter
to your mother yet."

It would have been cruel to contend with her any longer. Her voice
warned me that she was suffering. The faint gleam of light through
the parted curtains was fading fast. It was time, indeed, to write the
letter. I could find other opportunities of speaking to her before I
left the house.

"I am ready," I answered. "Let us begin."

The first sentence was easily dictated to my patient secretary. I
informed my mother that my sprained wrist was nearly restored to use,
and that nothing prevented my leaving Shetland when the lighthouse
commissioner was ready to return. This was all that it was necessary
to say on the subject of my health; the disaster of my re-opened wound
having been, for obvious reasons, concealed from my mother's knowledge.
Miss Dunross silently wrote the opening lines of the letter, and waited
for the words that were to follow.

In my next sentence, I announced the date at which the vessel was to
sail on the return voyage; and I mentioned the period at which my mother
might expect to see me, weather permitting. Those words, also, Miss
Dunross wrote--and waited again. I set myself to consider what I should
say next. To my surprise and alarm, I found it impossible to fix my mind
on the subject. My thoughts wandered away, in the strangest manner, from
my letter to Mrs. Van Brandt. I was ashamed of myself; I was angry
with myself--I resolved, no matter what I said, that I would positively
finish the letter. No! try as I might, the utmost effort of my will
availed me nothing. Mrs. Van Brandt's words at our l