Mrs. Lindsay had now recovered from her slight indisposition, and resolved to pay the last formal visit to the Goodwins,—­a visit which was to close all future intercourse between the families; and our readers are not ignorant of her motives for this, nor how completely and willingly she was the agent of her son Harry’s designs.  She went in all her pomp, dressed in satins and brocades, and attended by Barney Casey in full livery.  Her own old family carriage had been swept of its dust and cobwebs, and put into requisition on this important occasion.  At length they reached Beech Grove, and knocked at the door, which was opened by our old Mend, Tom Kennedy.

“My good man,” she asked, “are the family at home?”

“No, ma’am.”

“What! not at home, and Miss Goodwin so ill?—­dying, I am told.  Perhaps, in consequence of her health, they do not wish to see strangers.  Go and say that Mrs. Lindsay, of Rathnllan House, is here.”

“Ma’am, they are not at home; they have left Beech Grove for some time.”

“Left Beech Grove!” she exclaimed; “and pray where are they gone to?  I thought Miss Goodwin was not able to be removed.”

“It was do or die with her,” replied Tom.  “The doctor said there was but one last chance—­change of air, and absence from dangerous neighbors.”

“But you did not tell me where they are gone to.”

“I did not, ma’am, and for the best reason in life—­because I don’t know.”

“You don’t know!  Why, is it possible they made a secret of such a matter?”

“Quite possible, ma’am, and to the back o’ that they swore every one of us upon the seven gospels never to tell any individual, man or woman, where they went to.”

“But did they not tell yourselves?”

“Devil a syllable, ma’am.”

“And why, then, did they swear you to secrecy?”

“Why, of course, ma’am, to make us keep the secret.”

“But why swear you, I ask again, to keep a secret which you did not know?”

“Why, ma’am, because they knew that in that case there was little danger of our committin’ parjury; and because every saicret which one does not know is sure to be kept.”

She looked keenly at him, and added, “I’m inclined to think, sirrah, that you are impertinent.”

“Very likely, ma’am,” replied Tom, with great gravity.  “I’ve a strong notion of that myself.  My father before me was impertinent, and his last dying words to me were, ’Tom, I lay it as a last injunction upon you to keep up the principles of our family, and always to show nothing but impertinence to those who don’t deserve respect.’”

With a face scarlet from indignation she immediately ordered her carriage home, but before it had arrived there the intelligence from another source had reached the family, together with the fact that the Banshee had been heard by Mr. Goodwin’s servants under Miss Alice’s window.  Such, indeed, was the fact; and the report of the circumstance had spread through half the parish before the hour of noon next day.