“That was a naughty old lady, Terence,” said Mrs. Bellmore, “to tell such stories.  Perhaps you gave her too much supper.  Your mother doesn’t really take it seriously, does she?”

“I think she does,” answered Terence.  “One would think every brick in the hod had dropped on her.  It’s a good mammy, and I don’t like to see her worried.  It’s to be hoped that the ghost belongs to the hod-carriers’ union, and will go out on a strike.  If he doesn’t, there will be no peace in this family.”

“I’m sleeping in the ghost-chamber,” said Mrs. Bellmore, pensively.  “But it’s so nice I wouldn’t change it, even if I were afraid, which I’m not.  It wouldn’t do for me to submit a counter story of a desirable, aristocratic shade, would it?  I would do so, with pleasure, but it seems to me it would be too obviously an antidote for the other narrative to be effective.”

“True,” said Terence, running two fingers thoughtfully into his crisp, brown hair; “that would never do.  How would it work to see the same ghost again, minus the overalls, and have gold bricks in the hod?  That would elevate the spectre from degrading toil to a financial plane.  Don’t you think that would be respectable enough?”

“There was an ancestor who fought against the Britishers, wasn’t there?  Your mother said something to that effect.”

“I believe so; one of those old chaps in raglan vests and golf trousers.  I don’t care a continental for a Continental, myself.  But the mother has set her heart on pomp and heraldry and pyrotechnics, and I want her to be happy.”

“You are a good boy, Terence,” said Mrs. Bellmore, sweeping her silks close to one side of her, “not to beat your mother.  Sit here by me, and let’s look at the album, just as people used to do twenty years ago.  Now, tell me about every one of them.  Who is this tall, dignified gentleman leaning against the horizon, with one arm on the Corinthian column?”

“That old chap with the big feet?” inquired Terence, craning his neck.  “That’s great-uncle O’Brannigan.  He used to keep a rathskeller on the Bowery.”

“I asked you to sit down, Terence.  If you are not going to amuse, or obey, me, I shall report in the morning that I saw a ghost wearing an apron and carrying schooners of beer.  Now, that is better.  To be shy, at your age, Terence, is a thing that you should blush to acknowledge.”

At breakfast on the last morning of her visit, Mrs. Bellmore startled and entranced every one present by announcing positively that she had seen the ghost.

“Did it have a—­a—­a—?” Mrs. Kinsolving, in her suspense and agitation, could not bring out the word.

“No, indeed—­far from it.”

There was a chorus of questions from others at the table.  “Weren’t you frightened?” “What did it do?” “How did it look?” “How was it dressed?” “Did it say anything?” “Didn’t you scream?”