And again, there is the lady who goes down the stairs, down, down, through the underground passage, and yet lower to the well that lies under the house, and is seen no more.  A new maid once saw her in broad daylight—­or at least in the grey of the morning—­and followed her down the stairs, thinking that it was one of the family ill perhaps, who needed some attention.  She could tell afterwards the very pattern of the lace on the fine nightgown, and describe how the fair curls clustered on the lady’s neck.  It was only when the lady disappeared before her, a white shimmer down the darkness of the underground corridor, that the poor thing realized she had seen a ghost, and fell fainting, with a clatter of her dustpan and brush which brought her help.

I could make a long list of the ghosts, for they are many, but I will not, lest I should be tedious.  Only Aghadoe Abbey was eerie at night, especially in winter storms, since my cousin Theobald went away.  I have often thought that the curious formation of the house, which has as many rooms beneath the ground as above it, helped to give it an eerie feeling, for one could not but imagine those downstair rooms filled with ghosts.  I had seen the rooms lit dimly once or twice, but for a long time we had not used them, the expense of lighting them with a thousand wax candles glimmering in glittering chandeliers being too great.

But in the days before Cousin Theobald left us I was not afraid.  He slept across the corridor from my room, and I had only to cry out and I knew he would fly to my assistance.

His sword was new at that time, and he was very proud of it.  He turned it about, making it flash in the sunlight, and, said he, “Cousin Bawn, fear nothing; for if anything were to frighten you, either ghost or mortal, I would run it through with my sword.  At your least cry I should wake, and I have always the sword close to my hand.  Very often I lie awake when you do not think it to watch over you.”

It gave me great comfort at the time, though looking back on it now I think my cousin, being so healthy and in the air all day, must have slept very soundly.  Yet I am sure he thought he woke.

And, indeed, after he left the ghosts were worse than ever.  I used to take my little dog into my arms for company, and, hiding my head under the bedclothes, I used to lie quaking because of the crying of the ghosts.  It was a wild winter when Theobald left us, and they cried every night.  It is a sound I have never grown used to, though I have heard it every winter I can remember.  And also the swish of the satin as it went by my door, and the tap of high-heeled shoes.  They cried more that winter than I ever heard them, except in the winter after Uncle Luke went away (but then I was little, and had the company of Maureen Kelly, my nurse); and in a winter which was yet to be.

But at that time I was happy despite the ghosts, and had no idea that the world held any fate for me other than to be always among such gentle, high-minded people as were my grandfather and grandmother, my cousin Theobald, and my dear godmother.  For ghosts, especially of one’s own blood, are gentle and little likely to harm one, and must be permitted by the good God to come back for some good reason.