THE FORMER MRS. WILKES.—­“Now this happened in New York city, Miss, in West 28th Street, and is every word true, for, my dear, I saw it with my own eyes.  I went to bed, about half-past nine it was this night, and I was lying quietly in bed, looking up to the ceiling; no light on account of the mosquitoes, and Maud, the little girl I was caring for, a romping dear of seven or eight, a motherless child, had been tossing about restless like, and her arm was flung over me.  All at once I saw a lady standing by the side of the bed in her night dress and looking earnestly at the child beyond me.  She then came nearer, took Maud’s arm off me, and gently straightened her in bed, then stroked her face, both cheeks—­fondly, you know—­and then stood and looked at the child.  I said not a word, but I wasn’t one bit afraid for I thought it was a living lady.  I could tell the color of her eyes and hair and just how she looked every way.  In the morning I described her to Mrs. Wilkes, and asked, ‘Is there any strange lady in the house?’ ‘No, Ellen.  Why?’ she said.  Then I said:  ’Why, there certainly was a pleasant-looking lady in my room last night, in her night dress, and she patted Maud as if she thought a sight of her.’

“‘Why,’ said my mistress, ‘that is surely the former Mrs. Wilkes!’

“She said that the older daughter had seen her several times standing before her glass, fixing her hair and looking at herself, but if she spoke to her or tried to speak, her mother would take up something and shake it at her.  And once when we were going up-stairs together Alice screamed, and said that her mother was at the top of the stairs and blew her cold breath right down on her.  The stepmother started to give her her slipper, but the father pitied her and would not allow her to be whipped, and said ‘I’ll go up to bed with you, Alice.’”

“Did you ever see the lady in white again, Ellen?”

“Never, Ma’am, nor did I ever see any other ghost in this country that I was sure was a ghost, but—­Ireland, dear old Ireland, oh, that’s an ancient land, and they have both ghosts and fairies and banshees too, and many’s the story I’ve heard over there, and from my own dear mother’s lips, and she would not tell a lie (Heaven rest her soul!), and I’ve seen them myself over there, and so has Tom and his brother too, Miss.  Oh, many’s the story I could tell!”

“Well, Ellen, let me have one of your own—­your very best.”  And I went for pencil and pad.

“And are ye going to pin down my story.  Well, Miss, if ye take it just as I say, and then fix it proper to be read, they’ll like it, for people are crazy now to get the true ghost stories of dear old Ireland.  O Miss, when you go over, don’t forget my native place.  It has a real castle and a part of it is haunted, and the master doesn’t like to live there—­only comes once a year or so, for hunting—­and the rabbits there are as thick as they can be and the river chuck full of fish, but no one can touch any game, or even take out one fish, or they would be punished.”