“‘But' what? You haven’t seen the manse ghost, I suppose? You have! I can see it in your face. Well, did it frighten you?” Seeing that evasion was impossible, I replied: “Yes, it did—but father—” “Oh, never mind your father. He pooh-poohed it, no doubt. Not psychic enough to see it himself, of course. Tell me about it.” Half ashamed, I told my little story. When I had finished, he pulled up his office chair confidentially and said in a low voice: “The stewards of my church bought the manse some ten years ago very cheaply on account of its reputation for being haunted. Most of its tenants since, being religious men, like your father, have never been troubled by the story and never see anything spectral; being temperamentally unable to, probably. But you, young lady, are doubtless psychic and therefore have been privileged. I'll now tell you the story its reputation is founded on. “Fifteen Christmases ago a young lady visitor came to stay at what you now know as the manse. A wealthy, rather profligate young bachelor in the town fell in love with her and persecuted her with his attentions. She rejected his suit. On Christmas Eve he accompanied her home from a local party. As she did not return, her friends set out in the early morning to look for her and found her lying dead in her evening cloak and hood just outside the little lodge at the gates. “Suspicion fell on her rejected suitor. He was tried for murder and hanged in the local gaol here, the last execution, by the way, that has taken place. It is said that every Christmas Eve this poor girl's spirit comes back and haunts the place of the tragedy.” “So you think the hooded lady I saw was the spirit of that poor young girl?” I questioned, horrified. “Undoubtedly, and it interests me exceedingly that you have had this experience before either hearing the story or the traditional reputation of the house. Probably I ought not to have told you, but, as every Christmas comes round, I, as a believer in psychic phenomena, look expectantly for someone to corroborate this tradition. Do not be troubled; the ghost will not appear again this year. Good morning!” I spent several more Christmases at the manse, but never again saw the ghost. I leave it to my readers to decide how much my youth and temperament and my old friend the solicitor’s Celtic bias towards the romantic and the occult had to do with my sincere belief in the objective reality of that hooded lady whom I saw twenty years ago. Uncle’s Story On special occasions, a great-uncle of mine regales the family with the story of the ghost he saw.