‘Mean! That the house is haunted, Dolly—’
I confess it; I could not help it: I burst into the loudest and rudest laugh imaginable.
Poplar Farm haunted! What an absurdly unreasonable idea! Why, the last tenants had only just moved out in time to let the Macleans come in, and the house had been freshly papered and painted from basement to attic. There was not a nook nor a corner for a ghost to hide in.
I could not help laughing; and what is worse, I could not stop laughing, until my friend was offended.
‘You may laugh as much as you like,’ she said at last; ‘but I have told you nothing but the truth. Do you mean to say that you consider such a thing impossible?’
‘No! I won’t go as far as that; but I think it is very uncommon, and very unlikely to occur to—to—to—’
Here I was obliged to halt, for the only words I could think of were, ‘to anyone so material as yourself;’ and I couldn’t quite say that. For though I do not deny the possibility of apparitions, I believe that the person who is capable of perceiving them must be composed of more mind than matter, and there is nothing spiritual nor æsthetic about poor Bessie.
‘What is the ghost like, and who has seen it?’ I demanded, as soon as I could command my countenance.