Gallaher's independent. (Quitman, Ga.) 1874-1875, January 31, 1874, Image 1

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*"* *.' ■■ y ify 'ftejlf fyffr “ yy y . ffr.f ■; vy* jfofww I O G ALLA lIER, Proprietor, - *'■■ ■** '*' PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY. ==U'3~7T-. ~—.■■■ .a:. IST' , ■ -<u TER MS-TWO DOLLARS per Annum in Advance. . afflggL-ILJi. -L-A-l?- - gg... 1 ■_■■!. [Written for Gaixaheb’s Ikbbfekiiknt. ] -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 , QUITMAN, brooks eouxry, Georgia. o Will practice in tlio Counties of the Southern Circuit, Echols anil Clinch of the lirunswick, and Mitchell of the Albany. irrOfficu at the Court House. -s* June2B-tf •J. S. N. S'N 0 W, DENTIST, Quitman, ----- Georgia, Office Up Stairs, Finch's Corner. 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 County Court, Brooks County, Ga. may24-12mo DR. E. A. JELKS, PRACTISING PHYSICIAN, Quitman, (*a. OFFICK—Brick building adjoining the store ol Messrs. Briggs, Jelks & Cos., Screven street, limy 'Otf MARS HA LL HOUS E, SAVANNAH, GEORGIA A. IS. LUCE, Proprietor, HOARD, $3 OO Per Day. angl6tf .1. M. nOfUHIGKM. I I>: WINO s BOROUGHS & WING, WHOLESALE DEALERS IN TOBACCO, CIGARS, SNUFFS, PIPES and SMOKER'S ARTICLES, 14 Decatur Street, ATLANTA, GA.. J. T. JORDAN, Traveling Agent. 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 FARM IMPLEMENTS,, Sueli as PLOWS, aavicES, HKEL BOLTS, GRAIN FANS, etc., etc;. There good* will he wild at MANUFACTURER'S PRICES,, With Freight Added. ma~ am. me a cial. JOHN TILLMAN. jnlvlMf BRIGGS, JELKS 4 GO., DEALERS IN ' Drugs and Medicines, Family Groceries Hardware, Crockery,. Dry (Mi, and Foreign, Millinery Goods, Boots and Shoes* Hats, Clothing, Notions, etc- WHICH WE WILE SKEE STRICTLY FOR CASK —’•AND AT— CABII VALUE. r Varim'N* PhidtKfl, ■m'hmw pnrrhuM-d l/ vw,. eon*ldrfd u ( AJfH HKXRV F. MfABBETT' Mansiger ' JUBCttrtC