estion had come to
him--might not the music hold some relation with the legend of the lost
room?

Inquiry after legendary lore had drawn nearer and nearer, and the talk
about such as belonged to the castle had naturally increased. In this
talk was not seldom mentioned a ghost, as yet seen at times about the
place. This Donal attributed to glimpses of the earl in his restless
night-walks; but by the domestics, both such as had seen something and
such as had not, the apparition was naturally associated with the lost
chamber, as the place whence the spectre issued, and whither he
returned.

Donal's spare hours were now much given to his friend Andrew Comin. The
good man had so far recovered as to think himself able to work again;
but he soon found it was little he could do. His strength was gone, and
the exertion necessary to the lightest labour caused him pain. It was
sad to watch him on his stool, now putting in a stitch, now stopping
because of the cough which so sorely haunted his thin, wind-blown tent.
His face had grown white and thin, and he had nearly lost his
merriment, though not his cheerfulness; he never looked other than
content. He had made up his mind he was not going to get better, but to
go home through a lingering illness. He was ready to go and ready to
linger, as God pleased.

There was nothing wonderful in this; but to some good people even it
did appear wonderful that he showed no uneasiness as to how Doory would
fare when he was gone. The house was indeed their own, but there was no
money in it--not even enough to pay the taxes; and if she sold it, the
price would not be enough to live upon. The neighbours were severe on
Andrew's imagined indifference to his wife's future, and it was in
their eyes a shame to be so cheerful on the brink of the grave. Not one
of them had done more than peep into the world of faith in which Andrew
lived. Not one of them could have understood that for Andrew to allow
the least danger of evil to his Doory, would have been to behold the
universe rocking on the slippery shoulders of Chance.

A little moan escaping her as she looked one evening into her
money-teapot, made Donal ask her a question or two. She confessed that
she had but sixpence left. Now Donal had spent next to nothing since he
came, and had therefore a few pounds in hand. His father and mother had
sent back what he sent them, as being in need of nothing: sir Gibbie
was such a good son to them that they