ation, cannot be determined,
one thing was certain, the coat appeared actually to move again, as if
disturbed by some invisible hand. Again, also, the prophet involuntary
started, but only for a single moment.

"Tut," said he, "it's merely the unsteady light of the candle; show it
here."

He seized the rushlight from Sullivan, and approaching the coat, held
it so close to it, that had there been the slightest possible motion, it
could not have escaped their observation.

"Now," he added, "you see whether it moves or not; but, indeed, the
poor girl is so frightened by the great scowldin' she got, that I don't
wondher at the way she's in."

Mrs. Sullivan kept still gazing at the coat, in a state of terror almost
equal to that of her daughter.

"Well," said she, "I've often heard it said that one is sometimes to
disbelieve their own eyes; an' only that I known the thing couldn't
happen, I would swear on the althar that I seen it movin'."

"I thought so myself, too," observed Sullivan, who also seemed to have
been a good deal perplexed and awed by the impression; "but of coorse I
agree wid Donnel, that it was the unsteady light of the rush that made
us think so; howaniver, it doesn't matther now; move or no move, it
won't bring him that owned it back to us, so God rest him!--and now,
Bridget, thry an' get us some-thin' to ait."

"Before the girl leaves the room," said the prophecy man, "let me spake
what I think an' what I know. I've lost many a weary day an' night in
studyin' the further, an' in lookin' into what's to come. I must spake,
then, what I think an' what I know, regardin' her. I must; for when the
feelin' is on me, I can't keep the prophecy back."

"Oh! let me go, mother," exclaimed the alarmed girl; "let me go; I can't
bear to look at him."

"One minute, acushla, till you hear what he has to say to you," and she
held her back, with a kind of authoritative violence, as Mave attempted
to leave the room.

"Don't be alarmed my purty creature," spoke the prophet; "don't be
alarmed at what I'm goin' to say to you, an' about you, for you needn't.
I see great good fortune before you. I see a grand an' handsome husband
at your side, and a fine house to live in. I see stairs, an' carpets,
an' horses, an' hounds, an' yourself, with jewels in your white little
ears, an' silks, an' satins on your purty figure. That's a wakin' dhrame
I had, an' you may all mark my words, if it doesn't come out thrue; it's
on the