"Well," said one of the ladies, the Girton girl, when the squire had finished the prelate's narrative, "_I_ don't call that much of a story. What was Lady Birkenhead's confession about? That's what one really wants to know." "The bishop could not possibly have read the paper," said the Bachelor of Arts, one of the guests; "not as a gentleman, nor a bishop." "I wish _I_ had had the chance," said the Girton girl. "Perhaps the confession was in Latin," said the Bachelor of Arts. The Girton girl disdained to reply to this unworthy sneer. "I have often observed," she said in a reflective voice, "that the most authentic and best attested bogies don't come to very much. They appear in a desultory manner, without any context, so to speak, and, like other difficulties, require a context to clear up their meaning." These efforts of the Girton girl to apply the methods of philology to spectres, were received in silence. The women did not understand them, though they had a strong personal opinion about their learned author. "The only ghost _I_ ever came across, or, rather, came within measurable distance of, never appeared at all so far as one knew." "Miss Lebas has a story," said the squire, "Won't she tell us her story?" The ladies murmured, "Do, please." "It really cannot be called a ghost-story," remarked Miss Lebas, "it was only an uncomfortable kind of coincidence, and I never think of it without a shudder. But I know there is not any reason at all why it should make any of _you_ shudder; so don't be disappointed. "It was the Long Vacation before last," said the Girton girl, "and I went on a reading-party to Bantry Bay, with Wyndham and Toole of Somerville, and Clare of Lady Margaret's. Leighton coached us." "Dear me! With all these young men, my dear?" asked the maiden aunt. "They were all women of my year, except Miss Leighton of Newnham, who was our coach," answered the Girton girl composedly. "Dear me! I beg your pardon for interrupting you," said the maiden aunt.