The trees gathered in round the cottage so closely that the slightest wind made the branches scrape the roof and tap the wooden walls.  A few moments after sunset the darkness became impenetrable, and ten yards beyond the glare of the lamps that shone through the sitting-room windows—­of which there were four—­you could not see an inch before your nose, nor move a step without running up against a tree.

The rest of that day I spent moving my belongings from my tent to the sitting-room, taking stock of the contents of the larder, and chopping enough wood for the stove to last me for a week.  After that, just before sunset, I went round the island a couple of times in my canoe for precaution’s sake.  I had never dreamed of doing this before, but when a man is alone he does things that never occur to him when he is one of a large party.

How lonely the island seemed when I landed again!  The sun was down, and twilight is unknown in these northern regions.  The darkness comes up at once.  The canoe safely pulled up and turned over on her face, I groped my way up the little narrow pathway to the verandah.  The six lamps were soon burning merrily in the front room; but in the kitchen, where I “dined,” the shadows were so gloomy, and the lamplight was so inadequate, that the stars could be seen peeping through the cracks between the rafters.

I turned in early that night.  Though it was calm and there was no wind, the creaking of my bedstead and the musical gurgle of the water over the rocks below were not the only sounds that reached my ears.  As I lay awake, the appalling emptiness of the house grew upon me.  The corridors and vacant rooms seemed to echo innumerable footsteps, shufflings, the rustle of skirts, and a constant undertone of whispering.  When sleep at length overtook me, the breathings and noises, however, passed gently to mingle with the voices of my dreams.

A week passed by, and the “reading” progressed favourably.  On the tenth day of my solitude, a strange thing happened.  I awoke after a good night’s sleep to find myself possessed with a marked repugnance for my room.  The air seemed to stifle me.  The more I tried to define the cause of this dislike, the more unreasonable it appeared.  There was something about the room that made me afraid.  Absurd as it seems, this feeling clung to me obstinately while dressing, and more than once I caught myself shivering, and conscious of an inclination to get out of the room as quickly as possible.  The more I tried to laugh it away, the more real it became; and when at last I was dressed, and went out into the passage, and downstairs into the kitchen, it was with feelings of relief, such as I might imagine would accompany one’s escape from the presence of a dangerous contagious disease.