lies
under the house, and is seen no more. A new maid once saw her in broad
daylight--or at least in the grey of the morning--and followed her down
the stairs, thinking that it was one of the family ill perhaps, who
needed some attention. She could tell afterwards the very pattern of the
lace on the fine nightgown, and describe how the fair curls clustered on
the lady's neck. It was only when the lady disappeared before her, a
white shimmer down the darkness of the underground corridor, that the
poor thing realized she had seen a ghost, and fell fainting, with a
clatter of her dustpan and brush which brought her help.

I could make a long list of the ghosts, for they are many, but I will
not, lest I should be tedious. Only Aghadoe Abbey was eerie at night,
especially in winter storms, since my cousin Theobald went away. I have
often thought that the curious formation of the house, which has as many
rooms beneath the ground as above it, helped to give it an eerie
feeling, for one could not but imagine those downstair rooms filled with
ghosts. I had seen the rooms lit dimly once or twice, but for a long
time we had not used them, the expense of lighting them with a thousand
wax candles glimmering in glittering chandeliers being too great.

But in the days before Cousin Theobald left us I was not afraid. He
slept across the corridor from my room, and I had only to cry out and I
knew he would fly to my assistance.

His sword was new at that time, and he was very proud of it. He turned
it about, making it flash in the sunlight, and, said he, "Cousin Bawn,
fear nothing; for if anything were to frighten you, either ghost or
mortal, I would run it through with my sword. At your least cry I
should wake, and I have always the sword close to my hand. Very often I
lie awake when you do not think it to watch over you."

It gave me great comfort at the time, though looking back on it now I
think my cousin, being so healthy and in the air all day, must have
slept very soundly. Yet I am sure he thought he woke.

And, indeed, after he left the ghosts were worse than ever. I used to
take my little dog into my arms for company, and, hiding my head under
the bedclothes, I used to lie quaking because of the crying of the
ghosts. It was a wild winter when Theobald left us, and they cried every
night. It is a sound I have never grown used to, though I have heard it
every winter I can remember. And also the swish of the satin as it went
b