LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume IX, Issue 1250, 9 March 1878, Page 3

LITERATURE.

SEEING A GHOST. Concluded. It was just at this time that Tim Connor spoke to my mother about Susey. I was taken by surprise, for I believed Tim had no thought of any one but Norah. Somehow I was glad he had'nt taken her liking for Dan to hewt; and I knew Susey would make a good wife for him. I feared he had been a bit wild about taking a drop, or the like of that; but he was steady on the whole. And Susan was a good girl and just bound up in him ; and she had no fear for the future

On Michaelmas Day they were married, Susan looking as pretty and blooming as a smnmer rose. Tim took her home io her father's house, as happy and hopeful both of them as could be. And from that day we found v, e could trust Tim, and he made her a good husband. Norah did not get strong. She had a worn, weary, drooping look about her : and when Mike the post came round she'd look after him with feverish eyes. But he never left a letter at our door now.

'Norah, darling,' said I to her one day, ' why don't you jjet a letter from Dan ?' As soon as I said it, I saw what was ailing her Bhe tried to make ont that he was not to blame, giving one excuse or another ; but in the midst of speaking she broke into sobs, that betrayed how his silence had told on her heart.

In the first months of his absence, and till after poor Kitty was gone, his letters came as regular as the sun. But they had stooped all at once, as I tell ye, young ladies, and we knew not why I All we heard of him after that wsb through a boy called James Branagan, when had learned the saddler's trade in Dublin, and who took a notion to go to America. Jim s mother was a neighbour of ours. He had been in our place to bid his mother goodbye, and had heard about Tim Connor's wedding. And in the letter that his mother got from him from America, he said he had met with Dan O'Brien, and that Dan was doing right well and keeping a store in New York with his Uncle Peter, and wished to be remembered to old friends

Well, as 1 say, no news came from either of 'em after that, neither Dan nor Jim. He found later that Jim had taken fresh ship, and gme to California to look for gold ; but that had nothing to do ■with Dan, and why he never wrote puzzled us all. Poor Norah never let a word about Dan or his neglect slip through her lips from that day ; and the creature had such a quiet way with her of bearing up and asking nobody's help that I couldn't find words to speak to her about him.

When the winter was passing through, we found it hard work to strive on and keep together. Tim Connor, seeing that, offered to take my mother home, and give her a place at his fireside, and we thought it for the best to give up the bit of a house, and try for service. And so, the time weut on, and the next Halloween saw us scattered. Susan married and in her own house; my mother no longer with a hearth of her own, beholden to Tim Connor for the bit and sup ; but J must give Tim his due and say he never grudged it, or anything else he did for us ; my father and Kitty, God rest them, lying cold under the early snow tbat whitened their graves. Norah was with the Widow Branagan, to give her a hand with her winter's spinning. I was elsewhere, doing my best, young and Btrong yet. One evening Norah and I had been out together, over at Mary Doolan's. Coming home, I couldn't help feeling desponding like at the changes and the scattering there had been amongst us.

' My poor father and your mother, Norah, darling,'says I—'who would have thought they would be lying in their long home the night?' • Oh,|Aunt Biddy, dear,' says she, ' they're blest, for they are at peace and rest: and many's the one here would be glad to change places with them.' With that she turned and left me ; and I stood still, watching her hurry away through the moonlight, her head bowed dawn. My heart was sore for her, for I knew she had trouble in hers, • but I could give her no comfort, for as I told you, she was a shy creature, and would never speak of her own feelings. The spring came round again, and Norah was still with the Widow Branagan. It's wonderful the comfort she took ont of the wheel. It was Hying from morning till night, and the widow told me the girl never gave herself a minute's rest, save when she was sleeping. All this while we never heard from Dan. I could only think tbat Norah had wrote something to him that had given him oilenee, or maybe, wounded his feelings : for he wan a terrible high-spirited boy. Anyway, he seemed to have forgotten Norah. At times J used to witm I could write : I'd have wrote to old Peter to ask what was up. My poor white-faced darling, she made no show of what was wearing out her heart but went round and about the widow's house as kind and beautiful as the breath of summer. It was a happy day for Martha Branagan when took Norah home, for an own daughter couldn't do more for brr. Norah was up in. the morning and had her wheel Hying at the break of day ; and when the widow rose to her breakfast, there was the little stand on the hearth, with its white cloth and tea-cup standing ready for her. It's toasted white bread and new laid eggs she would serve her up, fit for any lady in the land-

she had lost all taste for eating herself, you see. It was now again the fall of the year. The wind had begun to whistle through the bare hedges, and there was a dry deserted look in the empty riolds and lanes that made the blazing turf fire the soul of comfort. How long it was since Dan O'Briou left for America, we hardly cared to reckon. I've not taken the note of the time for ye like a calendar, young ladies, but the fifth year was going on. Myself v/as in a farm-house, close against Martha Braua*

gan's, and I could see Norah every day. I suppose the poor creature had changed. She was as pretty as ever in my eyes ; but there was something about her that kept the boys from offering a word of love to her; thery daredn't do it more thau if she had been one of the painted saints in the chapel. She had been a quiet girl always, so there was no difference in regard to that; but I'm thinking it was a look in her eyes that has said to me many and many's the time, ' it's all over,' as plain as if her tongue spoke it. But this isn't coming to the ghost ye say, young ladies ? Well, now, we are close upon him.

It was in the fall of the year, I tell ye. One evening late, I threw my apron over my head and ran over to the widow's. I was afeard I would not see Norah; for Susey had been ailing for a month or two, and Norah spent every minute she could spare attending to her and looking after the childer.

When I went in at the door, there sat Norah on a little stool by the fire, just as I had seen her on the night I took Dan over with me. ' Whv, Norah, girl,' said I, 'what's come to ye that the wheel's not going ?—you're surely not resting yourself ?' She smiled, and looked at me, But it was a queer smile and a queer look, and her face was white as my apron. ' Draw up a seat and sit down by me, Aunt Biddy,' says she. 'I am not fit to be working to-night, and I'm glad you are here to be with me.' As I sat down, she leaned: her head over on my knees, and turned up her face to look at me. My heart gave a great thump, for I saw something was amiss out of the common Her face startled me. ' What's come over ye, darling ?' says I. ' Have ye heard any ill news ?' ' Dan is dead, Aunt Biddy,' says she. ' Dead 1' says I. ' Grace be about us ! Mercy forbid!' ' Mercy be praised,' says she. ' Better for him to be dead than false. I can bear it now, Aunt Biddy.' • But who told you Dan was dead ?' ' I've seen him, Aunt,' says she. 'He appeared to me.' ' Keen him ! What—seen his ghost ?' ' Seen his spirit. Yes.' ' The saints be good to us ! And when did ye sse it ?' ' You shall hear it all. To-night at dusk I went over to Susey's, and found ber weak and tired working with the baby. I took it from her, and, making her a bowl of good gruel she supped it while I put the children to bed ; and then she lay down comfortably herself. I promised her I would sit up for Tim, and so I went into the kitchen and sat down by the fire to hush the baby off to sleep. In a little while it was quiet, and I kept it on my knee and threw my apron round it for fear I should waken Susey if I laid it down. I think I must have fallen into a doze as I sat there thinking, but a cool stream of air, blowing in, half roused me. I opened my eyes and saw the stars shinining through the ha ! f-opened door, and felt the wind raising my hair and lifting the apron off the baby's face. Then I saw Daniel O'Brienstanding beside me, or, rather, between me acd the door, and there was a hard look on his cold, white face. I can't tell you how I felt, Aunt Biddy ; just at the first moment I thought it might be himself, and I tried to speak Then I saw that it was not him, but only what was left of him, for the figure was shadowy, and I knew that Dan had died. I suppose I grew dizzy; for I remember a blind swimming coming over me and trying to move without the power; anyway, when I looked again I was alone, and the wind was blowing the door backward and forward. I was so dazed that I had no power to rise till Tim came home and took the baby from me, wondering at the cold kitchen. "I was sleeping, I think, Tim," says I, "and let the tire go down." "Yes, and dreaming too," says he, "for you look wild." And then I ran home here, Aunt Biddy, and I have been in a dream ever sine.'

Well, I didn't know what to answer her: ghosts is gruesome things to talk of, ye see. 'I must speak out this night, Aunt Biddy,' she goes on. ' Dan wrote to me his last precious letter just before poor mother was taken with the fever, saying how lonely it was for him over there, and how long it was to wait, but that his uncle could not spare him just yet to come for me. Without taking time for thought, Aunt Biddy, I wrote back, asking if I should go out to him I would if he wished it. I knew my mother had Susey and could spare me. But that letter he never answered. I can't tell you the shame that has been mine, Aunt Biddy, for I saw I had gone too far and turned him against me : it has just been like a burning fire of agony in my breast. But now that he's dead he can't think ill of me more, and to-night I have been able to cry. Nobody knows what the sweet comfort of team is to those who can shed them,'

I rose up with that, pitying her with all my heart. ' Norah,' says I, •my head feels staggered and confused, but I'll go over and get to bed. When lamat my prayers maybe the rights of it will come to me.'

She kissed me, and f eemed more like the girl she was before her mother died; and away I went down the road with my heart in my mouth. I had crossed the lane by Kitty's old house, and was close at the stile when a man springs over it; and I, what with the ghosts in my mind and other miseries, was so flabbergasted that I lays hold of him, just to keep me on my feet. ' I ask your pardon,' says he. • Saints in glory I' says I. And but for feeling he was flesh and blood, I should never have kept ray hold. For it was the voice of Dan 0 Brien.

' Why, is it you, Biddy?' he cries. And then, alter a few words between us, a great light burst upon me. There was some misapprehension ; but I didn't yet quite see what

' Will you come with me, Dan, and see Norah ?' I says. ' I'm going to her.' ' Would you take me to see another man's wife ?' he asks, looking at me sternly. * I have seen her already once to-night, with her child in her arms.'

•Norah Cassidy is not any man's wife,' says I, just as stern in my turn. ' She has been faithful to you, Dau O'Brien, and always will be. The child you saw in her arms was her sister Susey's, who married Tim Connor years ago.' The grip that he took of my arm was something t> be felt. We stood against the style, him and me, and had it out in a few short words. He had never had Norah'x Utter at all— the one she told me she hftd written, offering to go out—maybe through some misdirection : and that idi«t, Jim Branagan, had told him it was Norah Tim Connor had married. Leastways ne had said Mrs Cassidy's daughter-and Dan took it to be nobody but Norah. So he never wrote to her again, and had believed all this while that she was Tim's wife.

• Will ye come and see her noir, Dan ?" sayß I. ' Her heart's just broke for ye, and she believes yon dead.' 1 trembled so when we reached Martha Branagan's that I could hardly lift the latch. The widow was not come in yet, and Norah was alone sitting as before. As to Dan, I could hardly keep him back. ' Are you back, Aunt Biddy ''. ' cries Norah. 1 Yes, darling, thanks be to goodness. I'm back, and I've brought good news for you.' ' But what's the matter ?' she asks. 'How strange you look !' Well, with that I took to laughing and crying, like a simpleton; and then I screamed to relieve myself. And the hvt I saw of them as I shut the door, he was kneeling beside her, as she sat on tin stool in the blaze, with his arm around her waist, just as I had seen them that uight years before. \nd I see you be well through with the apples, young ladies; and I hope ye have not eaten them. Not a ghost, after all! yc say. Was there ever the gratitude of that ? Why, don't I tell yc that she took him for a ghost ? And a ghost he looked, and no better, so Bhadowy was he and thin. And did they marry, you want to know ? In course they married. And it's a plentiful and genteel home they've got, for Dan had prospered, and two or three childer to the fore ; and they ate as happy, young ladies, as the day's long. I