“Don’t go up, sir,” said he; “the poor fellow, thank God, is asleep, and the less noise about him the better.”

Both then returned to the parlor.

About eleven o’clock the next night Sarah Sullivan was sitting by the bedside of her mistress, who was then, fortunately for herself, enjoying, what was very rare with her, an undisturbed sleep after the terror and agitation of the day, when a low, but earnest and sorrowful wailing was heard, immediately, she thought, under the window.  It rose and fell alternately, and at the close of every division of the cry it pronounced the name of Alice Goodwin in tones of the most pathetic lamentation and woe.  The natural heat and warmth seemed to depart out of the poor girl’s body; she felt like an icicle, and the cold perspiration ran in torrents from her face.

“My darling misthress,” thought she, “it’s all over with you at last.  There is the sign—­the Banshee—­and it is well for yourself that you don’t hear it, because it would be the death of you at once.  However, if I committed one mistake about Misther Charles’s misfortune, I will not commit another.  You shall never hear of this from me.”

The cry was then heard more distant and indistinct, but still loaded with the same mournful expression of death and sorrow; but in a little time it died away in the distance, and was then heard no more.

Sarah, though she had judiciously resolved to keep this awful intimation a secret from Miss Goodwin, considered it her duty to disclose it to her parents.  We shall not dwell, however, upon the scene which occurred on the occasion.  A belief in the existence and office of the Banshee was, at the period of which we write, almost universally held by the peasantry, and even about half a century ago it was one of the strongest dogmas of popular superstition.  After the grief of the parents had somewhat subsided at this dreadful intelligence, Mr. Goodwin asked Sarah Sullivan if his daughter had heard the wail of this prophetic spirit of death; and on her answering in the negative, he enjoined, her never to breathe a syllable of the circumstance to her; but she told him she had come to that conclusion herself, as she felt certain, she said, that the knowledge of it would occasion her mistress’s almost immediate death.

“At all events,” said her master; “by the doctor’s advice we shall leave this place tomorrow morning; he says if she has any chance it will be in a change of air, of society, and of scenery.  Everything here has associations and recollections that are painful, and even horrible to her.  If she is capable of bearing an easy journey we shall set out for the Spa of Ballyspellan, in the county of Kilkenny.  He thinks the waters of that famous spring may prove beneficial to her.  If the Banshee, then, is anxious to fulfil its mission it must follow us.  They say it always pays three visits, but as yet it has paid us only one.”