no earthly habitation should
serve him but that unlucky house of mine. It is very odd that he never
began to appear until after my second marriage."

"Sir," replied Barney, "I heard something about it; but I'm not clear
on it. To tell you the truth, there's two or three accounts of him; but
anyhow, sir, you're in luck for the right one; for if livin' man can
give it to you, Bandy Brack, the peddler, is the man. He's now at his
breakfast in the kitchen; but I'll have him up."

"Not in the parlor," said his mistress; "a strolling knave like him.
Who ordered him his breakfast in the kitchen without my knowledge?" she
asked. "The moment I can find out the person that dared to do so, that
moment they shall leave my family. Must I keep an open house for every
strolling vagabond in the country?"

"If you choose to turn me out," replied her husband, "you may try your
hand at it. It was I ordered the poor man his breakfast; and, what is
more, I desire you instantly to hold your peace."

As he spoke, she saw that one of his determined looks settled upon his
countenance--a pretty certain symptom that she had better be guided by
his advice.

"Come, Barney," said he, "throw up that window and send the poor man
here, until he tells us what he knows about this affair."

The window was accordingly thrown open, and in a few minutes Bandy Brack
made his appearance outside, and, on being interrogated on the subject
in question, took off his hat, and was about to commence his narrative,
when Lindsay said,

"Put on your hat, Bandy; the sun's too hot to be uncovered."

"That's more of it," said his wife; "a fine way to make yourself
respected, Lindsay."

"I love to be respected," he replied sternly, "and to deserve respect:
but I have no desire to incur the hatred of the poor by oppression and
want of charity, like some of my female acquaintances."

"Plase your honor," said Bandy, "all that I know about the
_Shan-dhinne-dhuv_, or the Black Spectre, as the larned call him, won't
require many words to tell you. It's not generally known what I'm goin'
to say now. The haunted house, as your honor, maybe, remimbers, was
an inn--a carman's inn chiefly--and one night, it seems, there came a
stranger to stop in it. He was dressed in black, and when he thought it
time to go to bed he called the landlord, Antony McMurt, and placed in
his hands a big purse o' goold to keep for him till he should start at
daybreak, as he intended, the next