“Next morning, feeling far from refreshed, I arrived among the latest at a breakfast which was a desultory and movable feast.  Almost all the men had gone forth to hill, forest, or river, in pursuit of the furred, finned, or feathered denizens of the wilds—­”

“You speak,” interrupted the schoolboy, “like a printed book!  I like to hear you speak like that.  Drive on, old man!  Drive on your hearse!”

The Bachelor of Arts “drove on,” without noticing this interruption.  “I tried to ‘lead up’ to the hearse,” he said, “in conversation with the young ladies of the castle.  I endeavoured to assume the languid and preoccupied air of the guest who, in ghost-stories, has had a bad night with the family spectre.  I drew the conversation to the topic of apparitions, and even to warnings of death.  I knew that every family worthy of the name has its omen:  the Oxenhams a white bird, another house a brass band, whose airy music is poured forth by invisible performers, and so on.  Of course I expected some one to cry, ’Oh, we’ve got a hearse with white horses,’ for that is the kind of heirloom an ancient house regards with complacent pride.  But nobody offered any remarks on the local omen, and even when I drew near the topic of hearses, one of the girls, my cousin, merely quoted, ’Speak not like a death’s-head, good Doll’ (my name is Adolphus), and asked me to play at lawn-tennis.

In the evening, in the smoking-room, it was no better, nobody had ever heard of an omen in this particular castle.  Nay, when I told my story, for it came to that at last, they only laughed at me, and said I must have dreamed it.  Of course I expected to be wakened in the night by some awful apparition, but nothing disturbed me.  I never slept better, and hearses were the last things I thought of during the remainder of my visit.  Months passed, and I had almost forgotten the vision, or dream, for I began to feel apprehensive that, after all, it was a dream.  So costly and elaborate an apparition as a hearse with white horses and plumes complete, could never have been got up, regardless of expense, for one occasion only, and to frighten one undergraduate, yet it was certain that the hearse was not ‘the old family coach.’  My entertainers had undeniably never heard of it in their lives before.  Even tradition at the castle said nothing of a spectral hearse, though the house was credited with a white lady deprived of her hands, and a luminous boy.

Here the Bachelor of Arts paused, and a shower of chaff began.

“Is that really all?” asked the Girton girl.

“Why, this is the third ghost-story to-night without any ghost in it!”

“I don’t remember saying that it was a ghost-story,” replied the Bachelor of Arts; “but I thought a little anecdote of a mere ‘warning’ might not be unwelcome.”

“But where does the warning come in?” asked the schoolboy.