e alone upstairs in my
own room. We had dined at half-past five as usual, and had been sitting
together in the drawing-room since dinner, but I had made some little
excuse for coming upstairs; the truth being that I wanted to be alone
to read over a letter which the evening post (there actually was an
evening post at Ballyreina) had brought me, and which I had only had
time to glance at. It was a very welcome and dearly-prized letter, and
the reading of it made me very happy. I don't think I had felt so happy
all the months we had been in Ireland as I was feeling that evening. Do
you remember my saying I never forget the year all this happened? It was
the year '55 and the month of March, the spring following that first
dreadful 'Crimean winter,' and news had just come to England of the
Czar's death, and every one was wondering and hoping and fearing what
would be the results of it. I had no very near friends in the Crimea,
but of course, like every one else, I was intensely interested in all
that was going on, and in this letter of mine there was told the news
of the Czar's death, and there was a good deal of comment upon it. I had
read my letter--more than once, I daresay--and was beginning to think I
must go down to the others in the drawing-room. But the fire in my
bedroom was very tempting; it was burning so brightly, that though I had
got up from my chair by the fireside to leave the room, and had blown
out the candle I had read my letter by, I yielded to the inclination to
sit down again for a minute or two to dream pleasant dreams and think
pleasant thoughts. At last I rose and turned towards the door--it was
standing wide open, by the bye. But I had hardly made a step from the
fireplace when I was stopped short by what I saw. Again the same strange
indefinable feeling of not knowing how or when it had come there, again
the same painful sensation of perplexity (not yet amounting to fear) as
to whom or what it was I saw before me. The room, you must understand,
was perfectly flooded with the firelight; except in the corners, perhaps,
every object was as distinct as possible. And the object I was staring
at was not in a corner, but standing there right before me--between me
and the open door, alas!--in the middle of the room. It was the old
woman again, but this time with her face towards me, with a look upon
it, it seemed to me, as if she were conscious of my presence. It is very
difficult to tell over thoughts and