Gallaher's independent. (Quitman, Ga.) 1874-1875, January 31, 1874, Image 1
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-NEBCIPVL con, MAKE ROOM PUR A
LITTLE FELLOW."
AT GEX. WM. H. HAITIWUBIV
[A paragraph is going tlie rounds of the
press relating alleged oircuinotnuces at
tending the death of a little boy ended
Americas, a child violinist. He is said to
have died of heart disease at Boston, where
he had been captivating the people by his
precocious talent The circumstances, if
true, ore full of tenderness and pathos. It
is said that the father of the child was
awakened at night by hearing his voice,
apparently talking, and that he heard him
sitter these words, “MerciM God, make
*oMes tar a little fellow," sad that soon
alter W fownd hhn dead. If some will
doubt whether there is Rot more poetry
than truth in this description, others will
say that there is something even more sad
and heart-rending in the struggles of
“little fellows” to “make room" for them
selves in this inhospitable world, and in
the utilizing of their talents by their
parents loan cupidity st • Hme of iile
whew the bmir and the wind# nervous
<tVK. mfeKigirrfl. be frefo fortro ah demands
upon them. *****
Parents who from vanity or love of gain
expose their children to such trials have
upon themselves the responsibility of that
fate which makes the poor little creatures
turn to a “merciful God” to “make room”
for them elsewhere. It is to be hoped
tj)at the touching invocation, “make room
for a lfttle follow" will be heeded by those
who naturally sduiire it, iu bebalf of those
“little fellows" who “still live" and are
earnestly straggling to “make room" for
themselves in this world.— BaltimoreSun.\
Make room for s little fellow,
Merciful God, he cried;
Then clasped his little hands.
In peace akme he died.
"I want to go to Heaven 1"
Was his childish prayer,
"If I thonght that I was welcome,
t And room for me up there."
11.
Tea, there’s room for a little fellow,
A home in the Spirit Land,
The angels now are waiting
For him to join tho'r land.
OurJiUtaaed Saviour tell* as
In Heaven there's always mom,
For all the "little fellows”
Who meet an early doom.
_m.
Of sneli in Christs own kingdom,
He suffers them to come.
Your Heavenly Father's waiting
To welcome children home.
His spirit had a warning
That he was wanted where
The angels could embrace him
And have hint in their care.
ki ' ; >*.
Without a wasting sickness
His soul was called awav,
T<> leave this w orld of sorrow
Before he went astray.
The angels now are waiting,
. I |
The “little fellow's" ready—
"Oood-hye, I'm going home."
Raltikobe, Md„ Jarmary, 1H74.
LADY FARQUHAR’S OLD LADY.
A TRUE GHOST STOTY.
One that was a woman air; but-, rest her
mml, she’s dead.
I myself have never seen a ghost (I am
by no means sure that I wish ever to do
so), but I have a friend whose experience
in this respect has been less limited than
mine. Till lately, however, I had never
heard the details of Lady Farquhar’s ad
venture, though the fact of there being a
ghost story which she could, if she chose,
relate with the authority of in eye-witness,
had been more than once alluded to before
me. Living at extreme ends of the coun
try it is but seldom my friend and I art
able to meet; but a few months ago I had
the good fortune to spend some days in
her house, and one evening our conversa
tion happening to fall on the subject of the
possibility of so called "supernatural" vis
itation or communications, suddenly what
I had heard returned to-my momory.
“By the by,” I exclaimed, "we need
toot go far for an authority on tlio question.
Ton luive seen a ghost yourself, Margaret.
I remember once hearing it alluded to be
fore you, and you did not contradict it.
I have so often meant to ask you for the
whole story. Do tell it to us now.”
Lady Farqnhar hesitated for a moment,
and her usually bright expression grew
somewhat graver. When she spoke it
seemed to be with a slight effort.
"Yon mean what they all call the story
of ‘my old lady,’ I suppose," she said at
hist. “Oh, yes, if yon care to hear it, I
will tell it to you. But there is not much
tti tell, remember.”
1 “There seldom is in true stories of the
kind,” I replied. "Genuine ghost stories
are generally abrupt and inconsequent in
the extreme; but on this very account all
the more impressive. Don't you think
so ”
"I don’t know that I am a fair judge,”
she answered. "Indeed,” she went on
rather gravely, “my own opinion is that
what is called true ghost stories are very
seldom told at all.
“How do you mean ? I don’t quite un
derstand you,” I said, a little perplexed by
her words and tone.
*T mean,” she replied, “that people who
really believe they have come in contact
With”anything of that kind seldom care to
Speak about it”
* ‘Do yon really think so ? do yon mean
that you feel so yonrself ?” I exclaimed
with consideaable surprise. "I had no
idea you did, or I would not have men
tioned the subject. Of course you know
I would not ask you to tell it if it is the
least painful or disagreeable to talk about
it”
“But it isn’t Oh, no, it is not nearly
so bad as that,” she repled, with a smile.
I cannot really say it is either painful or
disagreeable to me to recall it, for I cannot
exactly apply either of those words to the
thing itself. All that I feel is a sort of
shrinking from the subject strong enough
to prevent my ever alluding to it lightly or
carelessly. Of all things, I should dislike
to have a joke made of it. But with you
I have no fear of that. And yon trust me,
don’t you ? I don’t mean as to the truth
fulness only; but yon don't think me defi
cient in common sense and self-oontral—
not morbid, or very apt to be run away
with by my imagination ?”
“Not the sort of person one would pick
out as likely to sec ghosts ?“ I replied.
(£allal)cr's fnitepen&cnt
VOL. i.
“Oertninly not You arc far too sensible,
and healthy aud vigorous. I can’t fancy
you the victim of delusion of
any kind very readily. But as to ghosts •-
are they or are they uot delusions ?
There lies the question ? Tell ns of your
experience of them, any way.”
tjo ulie told the story I hail asked for—
told it in the simplest manner, aud with
no exaggeration of tone or manner, ns we
sat there in her pretty drawing room, our
chairs drawn close to the fire, for it wins
Christmas time and the weather was “sea
sonable. ” Two or three of Margaret’s
children were in the room, though not
within hearing of us; all looked bright and
cheerful, nothing mysterious. Yet
notwithstanding the total deficiency of
glHMtlyaocessories.the story impressed me
vividly.
•‘lt was curly in the spring of ’55 that it
happened," began Lady Farquhar: “I nev
er forget the vear, for a reason I will toll
you afterwards. It ia folly fifteen years
; ago now—a long ttOK —blit f am still
quiUabte to recall the fcßliugatlun Strabge
adventure of mime loft u a<-, -Ih-rngha
few details aud pfirtienlkuthtivc grow n con
fused and misty. I think it often hap
pens so when one tries, as it were, too
hard to be aocnmte aud unexaggerated iu
tolling over anything. One's very honesty
is against one. I have not told it over
many times, but each time it seems more j
difficult to tell it quite exactly; the im
ptßssion left at the time Was so powerful
that I have always dreaded incorrectness
or exaggeration creeping in. It reminds
me, too, of the curious way in which a
familiar word or name grows distorted,
and thou cloudy aud strange, if one looks
at it too long or thinks about it too much.
But I must get on with my story. Well,
to begin again. In the winter of ’54—’55
w were living—my mother, my sister aiul
I, that is aud from time to time my
brother—in, or rather near, a quiet little
village on the south coast of Ireland. We j
had gone there, before the worst of the j
winter began at home, for the sake of inv j
health. I had not been as well as usual:
for some time (this was owing, I believe, to !
my having lately endured unusual anxiety
of mind), and my ilear mother dreaded
the cold weather for me, and determined j
to avoid iL I say that 1 had hail unusual
anxiety to liear, still it was not of a kind
to render me morbid or fanciful. And
what is even more to the point, my mind !
was perfectly free from prepossession or
association in connection with the [dace
we were living in or the people who hud i
lived there before us. I simply knew
nothing whatever of tliesp people, aud I
hail no sort of fmey abofit the house—
that it was haunted or anything of that
kind, aud itadeed, I never heard that it
was thought to be haunted. It did not
look like it; it was just a moderate sized,
somewhat old fashioned country, or,
rather,seaside house,furnished, with the.ex
ception of one room in an ordinary enough
1 modern style. The exception was a small
room on the liedroo u floor, which, though (
not locked off that is to say, the key we*,
left in the lock outside—was uot given up
for our use, as it was, <-re*w4<d with musty
old furniture, [laeke 1 closely together, aud
all of a fashion many.
than that of the co itents of the, rest of the
house. I remember some of the pieces of
furniture still, though I think I was only
once or twice in the room all the time we
were there. There w ere two or three old
fashioned cabinets or bureaus; there was a
regular four-post liedstcnd. with the gloomy
curtains still hanging round it, and ever
so many spider-legged chairs and rickety
tables, and I rather think in one corner
there was a spinet. But there was noth
ing particularly curious or attractive, and
we never thought of meddling with the
things or “piking about,” as girls mine
times do; for we always thought it was by
He stake that this room had not lieen looked
off altogether, so that no one should med
dle with anything in it.
“We had rented the house for six
months from a Captain Marchmont, a
half-pay officer, naval or military, I don’t
know which, for we never saw him and all
the negotiations were managed by an
agent. Captain Marchmont and bis family,
as a rule, lived at BalJyreiua all the year
round—they found it cheap and healthy,
I suppose—but this year they had pre
ferred to pass the winter in some livelier
neighborhood, and they were very glad to
let the. house. It never occurred to ns to
doubtour landlord's being the owner of it;
it was not till some time after we left that
we learned that he himself was only a
tenant, though a tenant of long standing.
There were no people about to make
frienda with or to hear local gossip from.
There were no gentry within visiting dis
tance, and if there had been, we should
hardly have cared to make friends for so
short a time as we were to be there. The
people of the village were mostly fisher
men and their families; there were so
many of them we never got to know any
specially. The doctor and the priest and
the Protestant clergymen were all new
comers, and all three very uninteresting.
The clergyman used to dine with ns some
times, as my brother had had some sort
of introduction to him when we came to
Ballyreina; but we never heard anything
about the place from him. He was a
great talker, too; I am sure he would nave
told us anything he knew. In short,there
was nothing romantic or suggestive either
about onr house or the village. But we
didn’t care. You see we had gone there
simply for rest and quiet and pure air,
and we got what we wanted.
“Well, one evening, about the middle
of March, I was up in my room dressing
for dinner, and just as I had about, finished
dressing my sister Helen came in. I re
member her Baying as she came in, ‘Aren’t
yon n-ady yet, Maggie ? Are you making
yonrself extra smart for Mr. Conroy?’
Mr. Conroy was the clergvman; he was
dining with us that night. And then
Helen looked at me and found fault with
me, half in fun, of course, for not having
put on a prettier dress. I remember I
said it was good enough for Mr. Conroy,
who was no favorite of mine; but Helen
wasn’t satisfied till I agreed to wear a
bright scarlet neck ribbon of hers, and she
ran off to her room to fetch it. I followed
her almost immediately. Her room and
mine, I must, by the bye, explain, were
at extreme ends of a passage several yar-Is
in length. There was a wall on one side
of this passage and a balustrade overlook
ing the Rtaircase on the other. My room
was at the end nearest the top of the stair
; ease. There were no doors along the pas
sage leading to Helen’s room, but just be
side her door, at the end, was that of the
unused room I told you of, filled with the
old furniture. The passage was lighted
a skylight—l mean, it was
by no means dark or shadowy—and on the
evening I ant speaking of it was still clear
QUITMAN, GA„ SATURDAY, JANUARY 31, 1874.
daylight- We dined early at Ballyreina;
I don’t think it could have lieen more than
a quarter to five when Helen came into
my room. Well, us I was saying, I fol
lowed her almost immediately, so quickly
that as I came out of my room I was in
time to catch sight of her us she ran along
the passage, and to see her go into her
own room. Just as I lost sight of her—l
was coming along more deliberately, you
understand—suddenly, how or when ex
actly I cannot tell, 1 perceived another
figure walking along the jiassage in front
of mo. It was a woman, a little thin wo
: man, hut though she had her hack to me,
something in her gait told toe that she was
not young. She seemed a little bent and
walked feebly. I can remember her dress
even now with the most perfect distinct
ness. She had a gown of gray clinging
•tnff, rather scanty in the skirt, and one
[of those funny little old fashioned black
! shawls with a sowed on border, that yon
; seldom see nowadays. l)o yon know the
kind 1 mean ? It was a narrow, shawl poi
j terahorder, and file re was a short Fifty
i black fringe below the bgrdi+r And *h?
had a gray [>oked bonnet a bonnet made
of silk, ‘gathered’on a large, stiff frame;
"drawn’ bonnets they used to be called. I
took in all these 1 details in a moment, and
even in that moment I noticed, too, that
the materials of her clothes looked good,
though so plain and old fashioned. But
somehow my first impulse when I saw her
was to call out, ‘Fraser, is that you ?’ Fra
ser was my mother’s maid; slie was a young
woman and not the least like the person
iu front of me, but I think a vague idea
rushed across my mind that it might be
Fraser dressed up to trick the other ser
vants. But the figure took no notice of
my exclamation, it, or she, walked on
quietly, not even turning her head round
in the least; she walked slowly down the
passage, seemingly quite Unconscious of I
my presence, aud. to my extreme amaze
ment, disappeared into the unused room.
The key, ns 1 think I told yon, was always
turned in the lock—that is to say, the door
was locked, but the key was left in it; lint
the old woman did not seem to unlock the
door or even to turn the handle. There
seemed no obstacle iu her way; she just
quietly, as it were, walked through the
door. Even by this time I hardly think I
felt frightened. What I had seen had
passed too quickly for me a* yet to realize
the strangeness. Still, I felt, perplexed
ami vaguely uneasy, and I hurried on to
my sister’s room. She wit* standing by
the toilet table, searching for the ribbon.
I think I must have looked startled, for,
before 1 could speak she called out, “Mag
gie, what ever is the matter with you ?
You look as if yon were going to faint.”
I asked her if she had heard anything,
though it was an inconsistent question,
for to my ears there had lieen no sound at
all. Heleu answered, “Yes.” A moment,
before I came into the room she had heard
thu lock of the lumber room (so wo called
it) door click, aud had wondered what 1
could be going iu there for. Then 1 told
her wlmt I had seen. She looked a little
startled, but declared it must have been
one of the servants.
“‘lf it is a trick of the servants,' I an
swered, 'll should be exposedi’ and when
Helen offered to search through the lumber
room with mo at once, I was very ready to
agree to it. I was so satisfied of the real
ity of what I lmd seen, that I declared to
Helen that the old woman, whoever she
was, must be in the room;it stood to rea-1
sou that, having gone in, she must still be
there, as she could not possibly have come
out again without our knowledge.
“So, plnoking up onr courage, we went
to the lumber room door. I felt so certain
that but a moment before someone had
opened it, that I took hold of the knob
quite confidently and turned it, just as one
always does to open a door. The handle
turned, but the door did rot yield. I
stooped down to see why. The reason
was plain enough—the door was still lock
ed, locked as usual, and the key in the
lock. Then Helen and I stared at each
other. Her mind was evidently recurring
to the sound she had heard; what I began
to think I can hardly put iu words.
"But when we got over this new start a
little we set to work to search the room as
we had intended. And we searched it
thoroughly, I assure you. We dragged
the old tables and chairs* out of their
corners and peeped behind the cabinets
and cliesta of drawers where no one could
have been hidden. Then we climbed
upon the old bedstead and shook the cur
tains till we were covered with dust, and
then we crawled under the valances, and
came out looking like sweeps; but there
was nothing to be found. There was cer-,
tainly no one in the room, and by all ap
pearances no one could have been there
for weeks. We had hardly time to make
ourselves fit to lie seen when the dinner
bell rung and we bad to hurry downstairs.
As we run down we agreed to say nothing
of what had happened Viefore the servants, \
but, after dinner in the drawing room we j
told our story. My mother and brother
listened to it attentively, said it was very ]
strange, und owned themselves as puzzled
as we. Mr. Conroy of course laughed
uproariously, and made us dislike him
more than ever. After he had gone we
talked it over again among ourselves, and
my mother, who hated mysteries, did her
utmost to explain what I had seen in a
matter-of-fact, natural way. Was I sure it
was not only Helen herself I lmd seen,
after fancying she had reached her own
room ? Was I quite certain it was not
Fraser, after all, carrying a shawl, per
haps, which made her look different V
Might it not have been this, that or the
other ? It was no nsa. Nothing could
convince me that I had not seen what I
had seen; and though, to satisfy my
mother, we cross-questioned Fraser, it was
with no result, in the way of explanation.
Fraser evidently knew nothing that could
: throw light on it, and she was quite cer
tain that at the time I had seen the figure
both the other servants were down stairs
in the kitchen. Fraser was perfectly
trustworthy; we warned her not to
frighten the others by speaking about the
affair at all, but we could not leave off
speaking about it among ourselves. We
spoke about it so much for the next few
i days that at last my mother lost patience
| anS forbade ns to mention it again. At
least she pretended to lose patience; in
j reality I believe she put a stop to the dis
cussion because she thought it might have
a bad effect on our nerves—on mine es
pecially; for I found out afterwards that
in her anxiety she even went the length of
writing about it to our old doctoral home,
and that it was by his advice she acted in
forbidding xis to talk about it any more.
Poor, dear mother ! I don't know that it
was very sound advice. One's mind often
| runs all the more on the things one is
forbidden. 1,0 mention. It certainly was so
with me, for I thought over my strange
adventure almost v .cesssntly for some days
; after we left off forking about it.”
Here Mti'giirei'pausod.- ■ ,
i “And is that iMt’’ I iwdwd, feeling a
J little disupiKiintej? I think, at the un
satisfactory ending to the “Mpe ghost
“All !’’ repeated Ij3fy Farquhar. rous
ing herself as if fr<m a reiS. “all! oh,
dear, no. I have a >mctimes wished it hud
been, for I don’t think what I fold yon
would have left n> v long-lasting impres
sion on van. All oh, dear, no. I tun
only at the liegiu>>,tg of my story."
fid we resettled ehbwlvcs again to listen,
■ and Lady FaranhM Continued:
“For some *s I said, I could not
; help thinking a g td dual of the mystori-
I oils old woman f >*a seen. Still, I as- 1
! sure you, I was no* exactly frightened. I
was more puzzled qiumled and annoyed
at not Vicing able fin any way to explain
the mystery. B jt' v o days or so from the
time of my fftetf'e. future the imp -anon
wria hegiiMiing * 1 * the'jll.iv
before the evening I am now going to tell
; von of 1 don't think my old l#dv bail been
'in my head at. all. It, was filled with
! other things; gtl. don’t voja see, the „x
--! plaining away what t saw as entirely a
i delusion, a fancy of my own brain, has a
weak point here; for lmd it lieen all my
j fancy it would surely have happened
sooner—at the time my mind really was
full of the subject. Though even if it had
lieen so it would not have explained the
enrious coincidence of my ‘fancy’ with
facts—actual facts, of which at the time I
was in complete ignorance. It must have
been just about, ten days after my first ad
venture that I happened one evening, be
tween eight and nine o'clock, to lie alone
upstairs in my own room. We had dined
at half-past, five, as usual, and had been
sitting together in the drawing-room since
dinner, but I had made some little excuse
for coming up stairs; the truth being that
I wanted to be alone to read over a letter
which the evening post (there actually was
an evening post at Ballyreina) had brought
me, and which I had only time to glance
at. It was a very welcome and dearly
prized letter, and the reading of it made
me very happy. I don’t think I hail felt
s happy all tile months we had been in
Ireland ns I was feeling that oven' ng. Do
you, remember my saying I never forgot
the year all this happened ? It was the J
year ’55 aud the month of March, the
spring following that first dreadful "Cri- j
mean winter,” and news had just come to
England of the Czar’s death, and everyone !
was wondering and hoping aud fearing!
what would be the results of it. I had no
very near friends in the Crimea, but, of
course, like every one else, I was intensely
interested in all that was going on, and in
t lis letter of mine there was told the news
of the Czar’s death, and there was a good
deal of comment upon it. I hud read my
letter—more than once I dare say—and
was beginning to think I must go down to
the others in the drawing room. But the
tire in iny bedroom was very tempting; it
was burning so brightly that, though I had
got up from my chair by the fireside to
h ave the room, and had blown out the
candle Thud read the letter by, I yielded
to the inclination to sit down again for a
minute or two to dream pie tsant dreams
and think pleasant, thoughts. At last, I
rose and turned towards the door—it was
standing wide open, by the by. But I
had hardly made a step from the fireplace
when 1 was stepped short by what I saw.
Again the same strange, indefinable feel
ing of not knowing how or when it
had come there, again the same
painful sensation of perplexity (not
yet amounting to fear) as to whom or what
it was I saw before me. The room, you
must understand, was perfectly flooded
with the firelight; except in the corners,
perhaps, every object was as distinct as
possible. Ami the object I was staring
at was not in a corner, but standing there
right before me—between inc and the
open door, alas !—in the middle of the
room. It was the old woman again, but
this time her face toward me, with a look
upon it, it seemed to mo, as if she were
eoncious of my presence. It is very diffi
cult to tell over thoughts and feelings that
can hardly have taken any time to pass, or
that passed almost simultaneously. My
very first impulse this time was, ns it had
been the first time I saw her, to explain
in some natural way the presence before
me. I think this says something for my
oommon sense, does it not ? My mind
did not readily desert matters of fact, yon
sec. I did not think of Fraser this time,
but the thought went through my mind,
‘Hhe must be some friend of the servants
who comes in to see them of an evening.
Perhaps they have sent her up to look at
my fire.’ So at first 1 looked up at her
willi simple inquiry. But as I looked my
feelings changed. I realized that this was
the same being who had appeared so mys
\ toriously once before; I recognized every
j detail of her dress; I even noticed it more
! acutely than the first time—for instance, I
j recollect observing that hero and there
J the soft tiny fringe of her shawl was stnek
together, instead of hanging smoothly and
! evenly all round. I looked up at her face.
\ I cannot describe the features beyond say
j ing that the whole faee was refined and
pleasing, and that tel the expression there
Was certainly nothing to alarm or re
pel. It was rather wistful and beseeching,
the look in the eyes anxious, the lips
slightly parted, as if she were on the point
of speaking. I have since thought that if
I hail spoken, if I could have spoken—for
I did make one effort to do so, but no
audible words would oome at my bidding
—the spell that bound the poor soul, this
mysterious wanderer from some shadowy
j bord r'a id betw en life and death, might
have been broken, and the message that I
i now believe burdened her delivery. Some
times I wish 1 could have done it: but
then, again—oh, no ! a voice from those
| unreal lips would have been awful—flesh
: and blood could not have stood it. For
| another instant I kept my eyes fixed upon
her without moving; then there came over
! me at last with an awful thrill a sort of suf
focating gasp of horror, the consciousness,
the actual realization of the fact that this
before mo, this presence, was no living
human being, no dweller in our familiar
j world, not a woman, but a ghost ! Oh, it
j was an awful moment! I pray that I may
i never again endure another like it. There
i is something so indescribably frightful in
i the feeling that we are on a verge of being
; tried beyond what we oan boar, that ordi
nary conditions are slipping away from un
der ns, that in another moment reason or
life itself must snap with the strain; and
all these feelings I then underwent. At
last I moved, moved backwards from the
figure. I dared not attempt to pass her.
Yet I could not at first turn away from
her,. 1 stepped back" ards, facing her as
I did so, till I was close to the fireplace.
Then I turned sharply from her, sat down
again on the low chair still stemling by
the hearth, resolutely forcing myself to
gate into the fire,which was blazing cheot -
fully, though conscious all the time of a
terrible fascination urging me to look
round again to the middle of the room.
Gradually, however, now that I no longer
saw her, I liegan a little to recover myself.
I tried to bring my sense and reason to
bear on the matter. ‘This being,’ I said
to myself, ‘whoever and whs-, ever she is
eunuot harm me. I am under God’s pro
tection as much at this moment as at any
moment of my life. All creatures, oven
disambodeid spirits, if them be such, and
this among them, if it be one, ore under
his control. Why shontd I be afraid ? j
am being tried; my courage and trust are
being tried to their utmost; let me prove
them, let me keep my own sclf-respsot by
mastering this oowardlv, unreasonable ter
ror.’ Ami after a time I began to feel
stronger and surer of myself. Then I
'rose fcen sisit and'turnol toward she
j door Sgiiiq; and oh, the relief of seeing
that the way was fljcttr; my tumble visitor
hail disappeared 1 1 hastened across the
room, I passed the few stops of passage
that lay between my door and the stair-
case, aud hurried down the first flight in a
sort of suppressed agony of eagerness to
find myself again safe in the living*humn
companionship of my mother mid sjpters
in the cheerful drawing room below. But
my trial was not vet over, in deed it seemed
to me afterwards that it had only now
reached its height, perhaps the strain on
my nervous system was now beginuiug to
toil, and my powers of endurance were all
but exhausted. I cannot say if it was so
or not. I can only say that my agony of
terror, of horror, of absolute fear, was fast
describing in words, when, just as I reached
the little landing at the foot, of the first
short staircase, and was on the point of
running down the longer flight still before
me, I saw again, coming slowly up the
steps, as if to meet me, the ghostly figure
of the old woman. It was too much. I
was reckless by this time; I could not stop.
I rushed down the staircase, brushing
past the figure as I went; I use the word
intentionally—l did brush past her, I felt
her. This part of of my experience was,
T believe, quite at variance with the sensa
tions of orthodox ghost-seers; but I am
really tolling you all 1 was conscious of.
Then I hardly remember anything more
my agony broke out at last in aloud, shrill
cry, and I suppose I fainted. I only know
that when I recovered my senses I was in
the drawing room, on the sofa,surrounded
by my terrified mother and sisters. But
it was not for some time that I could find
voice or courage to tell them what had
happened to roe; for some days I was on
the brink of a serious iiluess, and Jfor
long afterwards I could not endure to be
left alone, even iu the broadest day
light."
Lady Farquhar stopped. I fancied,
however, from her manner that there was
more to tell, so I said nothing; and iu a
minute or two she went on speaking.
“We did not stay long at Ballyreina
after this. I was not sorry to leave it;
but skill; before the time came for us to do
so, I had begun to recover from the most
painful part of the impression left upon
me by mv strange adventure. And when
I was at home again, far from the place
where it liad happened, I gradually lost
the feeling of horror altogether, and re
membered it only ns a very curious and
inexplicable experience. Now and then,
even I did not shrink from talking about,
it generally, I thiuk, with a vague hope
that somehow, some time or other, light
might bp thrown upon it. Not that I ever
expected, or could have believed it possi
ble, that the supernatural character of the
ad venture could be explained away? but
I always lmd a misty fancy that sooner or
later I should find out something about
my old lady, ns we came to call her; who
she had been and what her history was.”
“And did you ?” I asked eagerly.
"Yes, I did,” Margaret answered. “To
some extent, at least, I learned the expla
nation of what I had seen. This was bow
it was: Nearly a year after we had left
Ireland I was staying with one of my
mints, and one evening some young people
who were also visiting her began to talk
about ghosts, and my aunt, who had heard
something of the story from my mother,
begged me to tell it all. I did tell it just
ns I have now told it to yon. When I had
finished an elderly lady who was preseut,
and who hail listened very attentively
surprised me a little by asking tlio name
of the house where it happened. ‘Was
it in Ballyreina ?’ she said. I answered,
‘Yes,’ wondering how she knew it, for I
liad not mentioned it.
‘ “Then I can tell you whom yon saw,”
slie exclaimed; ‘it must bave been one of
the old Miss Fitzgeralds—the eldest one.
The description suits her exactly. ‘
“I was quite pzzled. We had never
heard of any Fitzgeralds at Ballyreina. I
said so to the lady, and asked her to ex
plain wbat she meant. She told me all
she knew. It appeared there had been
a family of that name for many generations
at Ballyreina. Once upon a time—a long
ago onoe upon a time —the Fitzgeralds
hud been great and rich; blit gradually
one misfortune after another had brought
them down in the world, and at the time
my informant heard about them the only
representatives of the old family were
three maiden ladies already elderly. Mrs
Gordon, the lady who told me all this, liad
met them once, and had been much im
pressed by what she heard of them. 1 hoy
had got poorer and poorer, till at last they
had to give up the struggle, and sell, or
let on a long lease, their dear old home,
Ballyreina. They were too proud to re
main in their own country after this, and
spent the rest of their lives oil the Conti
nent, wandering about from plaoe to place.
The most curious part of it was that nearly
all their wandering was actually on foot.
They were too poor to afford to travel
much in the usual way, and yet, once torn
from theix old associations, the traveling
mania seized them; they seemed absolutely
unable to rest. So on foot, and speaking
not a word of any language but their own,
these three desolate sisters journeyed over
a great part of the Continent. They
visited most of the principal towns and
wore well known in several. I dare-say
they are still remembered at some of the
! placeß they used to stay at, though never
i for more than a short time together. Mrs.
j Gordon hail met them somewhere, I forget
where, but it was many years ago. Since
! thou she she had never heard of them; she
did not know if they were alive or dead;
she was only certain that the description
of my old lady was exactly like that of the
eldest of the sisters, and that the name of
their old homo was Ballyreina. And I
! remembered, her saying, ‘lf ever a heart
wcu buried in n house, it was that of poor
old Miss Fitzgerald.’
“ ‘That was all Mr*. Gordon could tell
me,’ continued Lady Farquhar; ‘but it led
to my learning a little more. I told my
brother what I hod heard. He used often
at that tide to be in Ireland on business;
and to satisfy me the next time he went
he visited thu village of Ballyreina again,
and in one way ana another he found out
a few particular*. The honse, you remem
ber, had been kit to u by a Captain
March moot. He, my brother discovered,
was nut the owner of the place, as we had
naturally imagined, but only rented it on
n very ivmg’h aso from some ladies of the
name if Fitzgerald. It had been in Cap
tain v irehmoat’s possession for a great
many year* st the time he let it to us, and
the tegimlds, never returning there
“Vii* > visit it hod come to lie almost
forgotten. The room with tho old-fash
ioned 'Tii' -to had been reserved by the
dwcr if t place to leave some of their
p ' .old* treasures in—relic* too
• JX> ’vtyjAjPfV.itOAi i- 1 alpmt with them
m their ktningo wslnderitig,' <>ut ion ,™i
cious, evidently, to be ported. We, (if
course, never could know what may not'
have be(m hidden away in some of the
queer old bureaux I told you of. Family
liapem of importance, perhaps possibly
some aneftmt love letters, forgotten in the
confusion of their leave-taking; a lock of
hair or a withered flower, perhaps, that
she, my poor old lady, would fain have
clasped in her hand when dying or have
buried with her. Ah, yes ! there must'lie
many a pitiful old story that is never
told.”
Lady Farquhar stopped and gazed
dreamily and half sadly into the fiire.
“Then Miss Fitzgerald was dead when
you were at Ballyreina?” I asked.
‘ ‘Did I not say so ?” she exclaimed.
“That wag the point of most interest in
what, my brother discovered. He could
not hear the exact date of her death, but
he learned with certainty that she was
dead—had died, at Geneva, I think, some
time in the month of March in the previ
ous year; the same month, march, ’55, in
which 1 had twice seen the apparition at
Bnllyrein. "
This was my friend’s ghost story.
BUSINESS o.l llns.
Liq vi oi* 1) oale r ;
AND-
TOBACCO AGENTS,
140 BROAD STREET,
COLUMBUS, OA.
nov29-tf
JAS. H. HUNTER
ATTOIt IN E Y A T LAIV ,
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brooks eouxry, Georgia.
o
Will practice in tlio Counties of the Southern
Circuit, Echols anil Clinch of the lirunswick, and
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•J. S. N. S'N 0 W,
DENTIST,
Quitman, ----- Georgia,
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ftUg22J-4ni
W. B. BENNETT, . T. KINGHBKIIBY
BENNETT & KINGSBERRY,
Attorneys at Law
QUITS! A X,
Brooks County, - Georgia.
]un2B-tf
EDWARD R. HARDEN,
Attorney at Lsiw ,
qUIT3I A N ,
BROOKS COUNTY, - • GEORGIA
Late an Aasoriate Justice Supreme Court U,
8. for Utah and Nebraska Territories; now Judg
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may24-12mo
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OFFICK—Brick building adjoining the store ol
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limy 'Otf
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angl6tf
.1. M. nOfUHIGKM. I I>: WINO s
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Jan3-ly
i is
th* AJpiinlu* oouatiu*, to my largo and Mkwt i
•took vf
DRY GOODS, ;
•ri " , r• t: '
BOOTS AND SHOES)
-■■w\ if* ' ‘mtivt rlti
II A. XI X> YV -A.il 43
NO. 39.
GIUK'EUIEJI, Er., Kfc^
tllef Whu-h t‘9 b "old Rprijt RKAStfMiBS.It
XEltMWafelat LOWEST VWCIM.
o
I, ould alio call the attention of Plantera touuy
LARGE STOCK OP
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Sueli as
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There good* will he wild at
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With Freight Added.
ma~ am. me a cial.
JOHN TILLMAN.
jnlvlMf
BRIGGS, JELKS 4 GO.,
DEALERS IN '
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r
Varim'N* PhidtKfl, ■m'hmw pnrrhuM-d l/
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