It stood close to the latticed
panes, a slim, girlish figure, clad in the old-fashioned lilac-
coloured frock in which I had imagined it on the first night of my
arrival, the beautiful hands clasped across the breast, as then
they had been folded on the lap. Her eyes were gazing down the
road that passes through the village and goes south, but they
seemed to be dreaming, not seeing, and the sadness in them struck
upon one almost as a cry. I was close to the window, but the hedge
screened me, and I remained watching, until, after a minute I
suppose, though it appeared longer, the figure drew back into the
darkness of the room and disappeared.
I entered, but the room was empty. I called, but no one answered.
The uncomfortable suggestion took hold of me that I must be growing
a little crazy. All that had gone before I could explain to myself
as a mere train of thought, but this time it had come to me
suddenly, uninvited, while my thoughts had been busy elsewhere.
This thing had appeared not to my brain but to my senses. I am not
a believer in ghosts, but I am in the hallucinations of a weak
mind, and my own explanation was in consequence not very
satisfactory to myself.
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