"Oh, for that," insisted John, courteous but firm, "I beg your pardon. I
myself have seen it on two occasions; and, lest you should fancy it a
subjective illusion, I may tell you that it was yesterday seen
simultaneously by another."

"It? It? What is _it_?" asked the parroco, his beaked and ensanguined
visage fiercer-looking than ever, as he fell upon the inevitable veal
with a somewhat dull carving-knife.

"Ah," said John, "now you make me regret that I haven't a talent for
word-painting. It's the form of a woman, a young woman, tall, slender,
in some pale diaphanous garment, that appears here, appears there,
remaining distinctly visible for some minutes, and then disappears. No,
it isn't a subjective illusion. And it isn't, either," the unscrupulous
creature added, after a pause, raising his voice, and speaking with
emphasis, as if to repel the insinuation, while the darkness of
disenchantment swept the face of Annunziata, "it isn't, either, as some
imaginative people might too hastily conclude, a wraith, a phantom, an
insubstantial vapour. It's a real material form, that lives and
breathes, and even, if driven to it, speaks. There's nothing
supernatural about it,--unless, indeed, we take the transcendental view
that Nature herself is supernatural. I was wondering, Don Ambrogio,
whether, without violating a confidence, you could tell me whose form it
is?"

"Nossignore," said Don Ambrogio, economizing his breath.

"Ah," sighed John, nodding resignedly, "I feared as much. Divining that
I would institute inquiries, she has stolen a march upon me, and pledged
you to secrecy."