It happened that the places through which we had to pass in our return to the Primroses, were noted for their connection with witches, and other supernatural personages. Ruins of old castles, priories, convents and churches, were to be found in every direction, each of which was connected with many marvellous legends. In passing through a lonely spot, “Anchor Wood,” we found it very dark. We had no light to guide us, save a few faint rays of the moon, which glimmered between the trees. As Bob was best acquainted with the place, I followed on his trail, Indian fashion, each having our guns carelessly resting on our shoulders. On we so walked without saying a word. I, thinking upon the anticipated amusement of the party which the Primroses were to give on that evening; and building—like all young minds do—beautiful castles in the air, and imagining fame and fortune in the future. In the midst of these pleasing though delusive reveries, I was startled, all of a sudden, by a terrified exclamation from my companion. “What is that?” cried he. “What do you mean?” I replied. “I mean that tall white object which is standing in front, directly in our path.” I looked in the direction he pointed, and to my amazement I saw what he described. It seemed like a tall lady dressed in white, and she appeared to be awaiting our approach. “This is surely the White Nun Mrs. Scroggins was telling us about last evening,” whispered Bob, with a face like a white-washed wall. I pretended to poh! poh! the conjecture; but I must confess the attempt was rather a failure. My courage was rapidly giving way. At last I said, doubting whether to remain or run, “I’d rather I had not ridiculed that legend last evening;” and with an effort to become philosophical, I added, “that we ought in our present limited amount of knowledge to treat these things at least with respect.” “Oh, I wish you had then!” stammered poor Bob, whose teeth rattled together like a negro-minstrel’s “_bones_.” “Suppose we call out, and ask what she wants?” I suggested. “_You_ do it.” “No, I’d rather not.” It was then agreed that we should call together, which was done; but no reply was returned. Bob now suggested that we should discharge a barrel of each of our double-barreled guns obliquely toward the object, which was likewise done; but it met no better success. “There is no doubt it is a spirit, perhaps the Nun in question, who is thus going to upbraid us for our disbelief,” whispered my friend again. “Ah! I see her move! She is advancing—run,” I cried, flinging away my gun, and setting the example.