And, as it happens, mine was the most harmless
ghost in the world. In fact"--and here she looked at the fire again--
"I was quite sorry to lose her."
"It was a woman, then? Now _I_ think," said Miss Blanche, "that female
ghosts are the horridest of all. They wear little shoes with high red
heels, and go about _tap, tap_, wringing their hands."
"This one wrung her hands, certainly. But I don't know about the high
red heels, for I never saw her feet. Perhaps she was like the Queen of
Spain, and hadn't any. And as for the hands, it all depends _how_ you
wring them. There's an elderly shop-walker at Knightsbridge, for
instance--"
"Don't be prosy, dear, when you know that we're just dying to hear the
story."
Miss Le Petyt turned to me with a small deprecating laugh. "It's such a
little one."
"The story, or the ghost?"
"Both."
And this was Miss Le Petyt's story:--
"It happened when I lived down in Cornwall, at Tresillack on the south
coast. Tresillack was the name of the house, which stood quite alone at
the head of a coombe, within sound of the sea but without sight of it;
for though the coombe led down to a wide open beach, it wound and
twisted half a dozen times on its way, and its overlapping sides closed
the view from the house, which was advertised as 'secluded.' I was very
poor in those days. Your father and all of us were poor then, as I
trust, my dears, you will never be; but I was young enough to be
romantic and wise enough to like independence, and this word 'secluded'
took my fancy.
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