Having accomplished this with such a powerful struggle, she turned round with pale despair in her countenance and manner, and with streaming eyes slowly departed, leaving Mrs Sullivan in a situation not at all to be envied.

In a short time the other members of the family, who had been out at their evening employments, returned.  Bartley, her husband, having entered somewhat sooner than his three daughters from milking, was the first to come in; presently the girls followed, and in a few minutes they sat down to supper, together with the servants, who dropped in one by one, after the toil of the day.  On placing themselves about the table, Bartley as usual took his seat at the head; but Mrs Sullivan, instead of occupying hers, sat at the fire in a state of uncommon agitation.  Every two or three minutes she would cross herself devoutly, and mutter such prayers against spiritual influences of an evil nature as she could compose herself to remember.

“Thin, why don’t you come to your supper, Mary,” said the husband, “while the sowans are warm?  Brave and thick they are this night, any way.”

His wife was silent, for so strong a hold had the strange woman and her appalling secret upon her mind, that it was not till he repeated his question three or four times—­raising his head with surprise, and asking, “Eh, thin, Mary, what’s come over you—­is it unwell you are?”—­that she noticed what he said.

“Supper!” she exclaimed; “unwell! ’tis a good right I have to be unwell,—­I hope nothing bad will happen, any way.  Feel my face, Nannie,” she added, addressing one of her daughters; “it’s as cowld an’ wet as a limestone—­ay, an’ if you found me a corpse before you, it wouldn’t be at all strange.”

There was a general pause at the seriousness of this intimation.  The husband rose from his supper, and went up to the hearth where she sat.

“Turn round to the light,” said he; “why, Mary dear, in the name of wondher, what ails you? for you’re like a corpse sure enough.  Can’t you tell us what has happened, or what put you in such a state?  Why, childhre, the cowld sweat’s teemin’ off her!”

The poor woman, unable to sustain the shock produced by her interview with the stranger, found herself getting more weak, and requested a drink of water; but before it could be put to her lips, she laid her head upon the back of the chair and fainted.  Grief, and uproar, and confusion followed this alarming incident.  The presence of mind, so necessary on such occasions, was wholly lost; one ran here, and another there, all jostling against each other, without being cool enough to render her proper assistance.  The daughters were in tears, and Bartley himself was dreadfully shocked by seeing his wife apparently lifeless before him.

She soon recovered, however, and relieved them from the apprehension of her death, which they thought had actually taken place.  “Mary,” said the husband, “something quare entirely has happened, or you wouldn’t be in this state!”