By my soul," said an Irish captain of dragoons, one of the most merry
and boisterous of the party--"by my soul, but I should not be
surprised if some of those good-looking gentlefolks that hang along
the walls, should walk about the rooms of this stormy night; or if I
should find the ghost of one of these long-waisted ladies turning into
my bed in mistake for her grave in the church-yard.

"Do you believe in ghosts, then?" said a thin, hatchet-faced gentleman,
with projecting eyes like a lobster.

I had remarked this last personage throughout dinner-time for one of
Those incessant questioners, who seem to have a craving, unhealthy
appetite in conversation. He never seemed satisfied with the whole of
a story; never laughed when others laughed; but always put the joke to
the question. He could never enjoy the kernel of the nut, but pestered
himself to get more out of the shell.

"Do you believe in ghosts, then?" said the inquisitive gentleman.

"Faith, but I do," replied the jovial Irishman; "I was brought up in
the fear and belief of them; we had a Benshee in our own family,
honey."

"A Benshee--and what's that?" cried the questioner.

"Why an old lady ghost that tends upon your real Milesian families,
and wails at their window to let them know when some of them are to
die."

"A mighty pleasant piece of information," cried an elderly gentleman,
with a knowing look and a flexible nose, to which he could give a
whimsical twist when he wished to be waggish.

"By my soul, but I'd have you know it's a piece of distinction to be
waited upon by a Benshee. It's a proof that one has pure blood in
one's veins. But, egad, now we're talking of ghosts, there never was a
house or a night better fitted than the present for a ghost adventure.
Faith, Sir John, haven't you such a thing as a haunted chamber to put
a guest in?"

"Perhaps," said the Baronet, smiling, "I might accommodate you even on
that point."

"Oh, I should like it of all things, my jewel. Some dark oaken room,
with ugly wo-begone portraits that stare dismally at one, and about
which the housekeeper has a power of delightful stories of love and
murder. And then a dim lamp, a table with a rusty sword across it, and
a spectre all in white to draw aside one's curtains at midnight--"

"In truth," said an old gentleman at one end of the table, "you put me
in mind of an anecdote--"

"Oh, a ghost story! a ghost story!" was vociferated round the board,
every one e