She pointed. My eyes followed her hand, and I saw it too.

A living figure was moving over the waste of heath in the distance. It crossed our range of view from the boathouse, and passed darkly along the outer edge of the mist. It stopped far off, in front of us⁠—waited⁠—and passed on; moving slowly, with the white cloud of mist behind it and above it⁠—slowly, slowly, till it glided by the edge of the boathouse, and we saw it no more.

We were both unnerved by what had passed between us that evening. Some minutes elapsed before Laura would venture into the plantation, and before I could make up my mind to lead her back to the house.

“Was it a man or a woman?” she asked in a whisper, as we moved at last into the dark dampness of the outer air.

“I am not certain.”

“Which do you think?”