I set out from Bognor in a close-headed gig on a beautiful moonlight winter’s night, when the crisp frozen snow lay deep over the earth, and its fine glistening dust was whirled about in little eddies on the bleak night-wind—­driven now and then in stinging powder against my tingling cheek, warm and glowing in the sharp air.  I had taken my great “Bose” (short for “Boatswain”) for company.  He lay, blinking wakefully, sprawled out on the spare seat of the gig beneath a mass of warm rugs.

Between Littlehampton and Worthing is a lonely piece of road, long and dreary, through bleak and bare open country, where the snow lay knee-deep, sparkling in the moonlight.  It was so cheerless that I turned round to speak to my dog, more for the sake of hearing the sound of a voice than anything else.  “Good Bose,” I said, patting him, “there’s a good dog!” Then suddenly I noticed he shivered, and shrank underneath the wraps.  Then the horse required my attention, for he gave a start, and was going wrong, and had nearly taken me into the ditch.

Then I looked up.  Walking at my horse’s head, dressed in a sweeping robe, so white that it shone dazzling against the white snow, I saw a lady, her back turned to me, her head bare; her hair dishevelled and strayed, showing sharp and black against her white dress.

I was at first so much surprised at seeing a lady, so dressed, exposed to the open night, and such a night as this, that I scarcely knew what to do.  Recovering myself, I called out to know if I could render assistance—­if she wished to ride?  No answer.  I drove faster, the horse blinking, and shying, and trembling the while, his ears laid back in abject terror.  Still the figure maintained its position close to my horse’s head.  Then I thought that what I saw was no woman, but perchance a man disguised for the purpose of robbing me, seeking an opportunity to seize the bridle and stop the horse.  Filled with this idea, I said, “Good Bose! hi! look at it, boy!” but the dog only shivered as if in fright.  Then we came to a place where four cross-roads meet.

Determined to know the worst, I pulled up the horse.  I fetched Bose, unwilling, out by the ears.  He was a good dog at anything from a rat to a man, but he slunk away that night into the hedge, and lay there, his head between his paws, whining and howling.  I walked straight up to the figure, still standing by the horse’s head.  As I walked, the figure turned, and I saw Harriet’s face as plainly as I see you now—­white and calm—­placid, as idealised and beautified by death.  I must own that, though not a nervous man, in that instant I felt sick and faint.  Harriet looked me full in the face with a long, eager, silent look.  I knew then it was her spirit, and felt a strange calm come over me, for I knew it was nothing to harm me.  When I could speak, I asked what troubled her.  She looked at me still, never changing that cold fixed stare.  Then I felt in my mind it was her children, and I said: