“There is nobody in the house who has not a right to be here. And nobody awake except ourselves.” Setting down the lamp, he put his hand on my head—his own, and almost only, form of caress. “Now, daughter, try and tell us what you think you saw?” Grateful for the unlooked-for gentleness, I rallied to tell the story simply and without excitement. When I had finished, he made no immediate reply, and I looked up timidly. “I really saw it, father, just as I have said! At least, I believe I did!” “I know it, my child. But we will talk no more of it to-night. I will go to your room with you.” He preceded me with the lamp. When we were in my chamber, he looked under the bed (how did he guess that I should do it as soon as his back was turned, if he had not?). Then he carried the light into the small dressing-room behind the chamber. I heard him open the doors of a wardrobe that stood there, and try the fastenings of a window. “There is nothing to harm you here,” he said, coming back, and speaking as gently as before. “Now, try not to think of what you believe you saw. Say your prayers and go to bed, like a good, brave girl!” He kissed me again, putting his arm around me and, holding me to him tenderly, said “Good-night,” and went out. I was ashamed of my fright—heartily ashamed! Yet I was afraid to look in the mirror while I undid and combed my hair and put on my night-cap. When, at last, I dared put out the light, I scurried across the floor, plunged into bed, and drew the blankets tightly over my head. My father looked sympathizingly at my heavy eyes next morning when I came down to prayers. After breakfast he took me aside and told me to keep what I had seen to myself. “Neither your mother nor I will speak of it in the hearing of the children and servants. You may, of course, take your sister into your confidence. She may be trusted. But my opinion is that the fewer who know of a thing that seems unaccountable, the better. And your sister is more nervous than you.” Thus it came about that nothing was said to Mea, and that we three who knew of the visitation did not discuss it, and tried honestly not to think of it. Until, perhaps a month after my fright, about nine o’clock, one wet night, my mother entered the chamber where my father and I were talking over political news, as we still had a habit of doing, and said, hurriedly, glancing nervously behind her: “I have seen Virginia’s ghost!” She saw it, just as I had described, issuing from the closed door and gliding away close to the wall, then vanishing at the Venetian door. “It was all in gray,” she reported, “but with something white wrapped about the head. It is very strange!” Still we held our peace. My father’s will was law, and he counselled discretion. “We will await further developments,” he said, oracularly.