l tell your honor the rights of it," said
the ghost-seer. "Meself and Miss Pauline, sir--or Miss Pauline and
meself, for the ladies comes first anyhow--we got tired of the
hobstroppylous scrimmaging among the ould servants, that didn't know a
joke when they seen one: and we went out to look at the comet--that's
the rorybory-alehouse, they calls him in this country--and we walked
upon the lawn--and divil of any alehouse there was there at all; and
Miss Pauline said it was bekase of the shrubbery maybe, and why wouldn't
we see it better beyonst the tree? and so we went to the trees, but
sorrow a comet did meself see there, barring a big ghost instead of it."

"A ghost? And what sort of a ghost, Barney?"

"Och, then, divil a lie I'll tell your honor. A tall ould gentleman he
was, all in white, with a shovel on the shoulder of him, and a big torch
in his fist--though what he wanted with that it's meself can't tell, for
his eyes were like gig-lamps, let alone the moon and the comet, which
wasn't there at all--and 'Barney,' says he to me--'cause why he knew
me--'Barney,' says he, 'what is it you're doing with the _colleen_
there, Barney?'--Divil a word did I say. Miss Pauline screeched, and
cried murther in French, and ran off with herself; and of course meself
was in a mighty hurry after the lady, and had no time to stop palavering
with him any way: so I dispersed at once, and the ghost vanished in a
flame of fire!"

Mr. Maguire's account was received with avowed incredulity by both
gentlemen; but Barney stuck to his text with unflinching pertinacity. A
reference to Mademoiselle was suggested, but abandoned, as neither party
had a taste for delicate investigations.

"I'll tell you what, Seaforth," said Ingoldsby, after Barney had
received his dismissal, "that there is a trick here, is evident; and
Barney's vision may possibly be a part of it. Whether he is most knave
or fool, you best know. At all events, I will sit up with you to-night,
and see if I can convert my ancestor into a visiting acquaintance.
Meanwhile your finger on your lip!"

* * * * *

'Twas now the very witching time of night,
When churchyards yawn, and graves give up their dead.

Gladly would I grace my tale with decent horror, and therefore I do
beseech the "gentle reader" to believe, that if all the _succedanea_ to
this mysterious narrative are not in strict keeping, he will ascribe it
only to the disgraceful