dwellers by Tyneside loved to listen of a winter's evening round the
fire, and it even began to be whispered that she "walked." More than one
dweller in the castle claimed to have seen her white-robed figure
wandering forlorn through the rooms in which she had spent her short,
unhappy wedded life. Perhaps it may have been due to her influence that
by 1542 the roof and interior had been neglected and allowed to fall
into decay.

Yet though shorn of all its former grandeur, for some centuries the
castle continued to be partly occupied, and as late as the first quarter
of last century, in spite of the dread in which the White Lady had come
to be held, there were families occasionally living in the less ruined
parts of the building.

About the year 1820 two of the more habitable rooms were occupied by a
labouring man with his wife and their two children, the youngest a boy
of eight. They had gone there, the parents at least well knowing the
reputation of the place; but weeks had passed, their rest had never in
any way been disturbed, and they had ceased to think of what they now
considered to be merely a silly old story. All too soon, however, there
came a night when shriek upon shriek of ghastly terror rang in the ears
of the sleeping husband and wife, and brought them, with sick dread in
their hearts, hurrying to the room where their children lay.

"Mither! mither! oh mither! A lady! a lady!" gasped the sobbing
youngest boy, clinging convulsively to his mother.

"What is't, my bairn? There's never a lady here, my bonny boy. There's
nobody will harm ye."