and shutters, of the lodge, mouldered away;
the grounds about the house were filled
with rank weeds, overrunning the paths;
strange stories circulated, of curious noises
heard at night; and the country people,
who knew the history of the family, would
not pass there after dark. Some said that
the greater part of the rooms had been kept
locked, since the day of the brother's death;
and that the ghost of the father had appeared
to Ellen Howley, and begged her not to quit
the place. One day, a woman servant who
had been occasionally employed there since
the old nurse's death, declared she had
seen the ghost of Robert Howley. She said
that she was going up the stairs at the back
of the house, at night, and that as she came to
an upper landing, she distinctly saw, by the
light of the candle in her hand, the young
man, whom she remembered well. His face,
she said, was ghastly pale; he did not speak;
but stood rolling his eyes, and making strange
grimaces at her, until she dropped the
candle, and swooned. Whether this was a
delusion or not, the woman was evidently
sincere; and the illness which she suffered,
and which she declared to have been caused
by the shock, convinced the neighbours that
Killowen was haunted by the ghosts of the
Howleys, and that the young lady, compelled
to remain there by some dread reason, was
wasting away through the terror and solitude
of her life.

Thus Ellen Howley lived, for seventeen
years. Meanwhile, Roche had become a
thriving man in his profession. Years
after the impression his first passion had
left had begun to wear away, he had won
the hand of the daughter of a wealthy
merchant in Dublin, and had settled down in
life, a quiet, unromantic lawyer. The name
of Ellen Howley had long been absent from
his thoughts, when he received a letter from
her, begging him tocome to her. She told
him that she was very ill, and that she
desired to make a settlement of her property
before she died. He left Dublin immediately,
and travelled in all haste to Wexford. There,
he heard the superstitious stories which were
in circulation about the house at Killowen,
and remembered the strange noises he had
heard there years before. No one appeared
to know of Ellen's illness; nor did it appear
that any doctor had visited her.

It was getting dark when Roche arrived at
the well-known house of Killowen. Leaving
his horse tied to the gate, he made his way
through the shrubbery. He saw no light at
any of the windows, and the place seemed to
be quite deserted by its inmates. He rapped
at the door; the noise gave a hollow echo,
as if the house were empty. Having repeated
his summons several times, without receiving
any answer, he went round, as he had done
long ago, to the back of the house. He had
brought with him a dark lanthorn; by
this, he guided himself, until he discovered
steps ascending from a lawn; mounting
them, he found that he could open the
door by means of the latch. To his astonishment,
at that moment, he caught again
the very same noise that had startled
him before. It was a long plaintive tone,
interrupted now and then by a noise, like the
sobbing of a child; at length the whole died
away, and the place was silent.

The barrister was a man of nerve; but he
hesitated a moment. He knew that he was
far from any other habitation, and that, whatever might befal him, he could hope for no succour. Drawing out his travelling pistol,
however, he entered. With the light from
the lanthorn in his left hand cast before him,
he walked up the hall and down a passage,
calling aloud, "Miss Howley!" until, finding
the doors on each side of the hall, locked, he
began to mount the wide staircase. More and
more surprised by the silence of the place, he
was relieved by seeing a faint light through
a door which stood ajar upon the landing
above. This door opened wide; and a man
stood on the threshold. Roche felt a chill
pass through his body, for he recognised, in
his wild look, and distorted features, the face
of Robert Howley.

"Howley!" cried Roche, grasping his pistol
firmly. "Speak, in the name of God, if this
be you?"

The figure repeated its strange gestures,
opening and shutting its eyes, and moving its
lips quickly; but it made no sound.

"Speak!" repeated Roche, excited by the
terror of the situation. "Or I will fire!"

The figure moved towards him, and said,
in a whisper, "You may come in. Come in,
if you will. Keep the crowd away. They
must not see her."

Too much astonished for reflection, Roche
followed him into a large chamber. His guide
stopped at the table, and, taking up a lamp
held it above his head, and pointed to
the floor. There, beside an ancient bedstead,
stretched upon the ground, was the figure of
a woman, dressed. Roche knelt beside her,
and raising her, felt that she was cold. Her
hair was grey, and her features sharp and
wasted, like her body. Ellen Howley.

"She is dead!" exclaimed Roche; "she
is dead!"

His companion regarded him with an
idiotic stare; and then burst into the same
loud whine and sobbing noise, which he had
heard twice before.

A suspicion passed into his mind, that she
had suffered violence at the hands of the
idiot; but he found no marks of injury on her,
and he had known that she was ill. It was
evident to him that she had perished without
medical aid, or any one near her, save her
crazed companion.

He had no alternative but to leave her
there, while he rode back for assistance. That
night he learned the truth. In a letter,
addressed to him, and only intended to reach