s are told of bizarre
happenings,--of duels, raggings, suicides and such-like--in olden times;
but of K., venerable, illustrious K. of Ireland, few and far between are
the accounts of similar occurrences. This is one, however, and it deals
with the phantom of a dog:--

"One evening, towards the end of the eighteenth century, John Kelly, a
Dean of the College (extremely unpopular on account of his supposed
harsh treatment of some of the undergraduates), was about to commence
his supper, when he heard a low whine, and looking down, saw a large
yellow dog cross the floor in front of him, and disappear immediately
under the full-length portrait that hung over the antique chimney-piece.
Something prompting him, he glanced at the picture. The eyes that looked
into his blinked.

"'It must be the result of an overtaxed brain,' he said to himself.
'Those rascally undergraduates have got on my nerves.'

"He shut his eyes; and re-opening them, stared hard at the portrait. It
was not a delusion. The eyes that gazed back at him were alive--alive
with the spirit of mockery; they smiled, laughed, jeered; and, as they
did so, the knowledge of his surroundings was brought forcibly home to
him. The room in which he was seated was situated at the end of a long,
cheerless, stone passage in the western wing of the College. Away from
all the other rooms of the building, it was absolutely isolated; and had
long borne the reputation of being haunted by a dog, which was said to
appear only before some catastrophe. The Dean had hitherto committed the
story to the category of fables. But now,--now, as he sat all alone in
that big silent room, lit only with the reddish rays of a fast-setting
August sun, and stared into the gleaming eyes before him--he was obliged
to admit the extreme probability of spookdom. Never before had the
College seemed so quiet. Not a sound--not even the creaking of a board
or the far-away laugh of a student, common enough noises on most
nights--fell on his ears. The hush was omnipotent, depressing,
unnerving; he could only associate it with the supernatural. Though he
was too fascinated to remove his gaze from the thing before him, he
could feel the room fill with shadows, and feel them steal through the
half-open windows, and, uniting with those already in the corners, glide
noiselessly and surreptitiously towards him. He felt, too, that he was
under the surveillance of countless invisible visages, all scanning him
cu