fears that one would expect a child to laugh at. But there is no
reasoning with superstition."


Extract from the same letter, but from a part seemingly written a day
or two later:

"At home I should have forgotten such a tale an hour after I had
heard it, but these mountain fastnesses seem strangely fit to be the
last stronghold of the supernatural. The woman haunts me already.
At night instead of working, I find myself listening for her tapping
at the door; and yesterday an incident occurred that makes me fear
for my own common sense. I had gone out for a long walk alone, and
the twilight was thickening into darkness as I neared home. Suddenly
looking up from my reverie, I saw, standing on a knoll the other side
of the ravine, the figure of a woman. She held a cloak about her
head, and I could not see her face. I took off my cap, and called
out a good-night to her, but she never moved or spoke. Then--God
knows why, for my brain was full of other thoughts at the time--a
clammy chill crept over me, and my tongue grew dry and parched. I
stood rooted to the spot, staring at her across the yawning gorge
that divided us; and slowly she moved away, and passed into the
gloom, and I continued my way. I have said nothing to Muriel, and
shall not. The effect the story has had upon myself warns me not to
do so."


From a letter dated eleven days later:

"She has come. I have known she would, since that evening I saw her