Be that as it may, the present chief is a most miserable man. He has
wealth, and everything wealth can command. He has broad lands, power,
unbounded influence, for fortune has marked him for one of her favorites.
But in the long winter evenings, when the great hall of Dunmorton, with
its splendid trophies of the chase and grand oak panelling, is lighted up
by the fitful glow of the huge pinewood fire, Noël McAllister sees a
vision, which freezes the blood within his veins.

From a dim eerie in the great hall there glides with a slow, noiseless
movement a tall, slight lady, clad in a gown of pale green silk. Her
snow-white hair is crowned by a cap of finest lace. Her hands are clasped
together convulsively, and she stretches them out and sobs in agonized
entreaty:

"Oh, Ivan, me bairn! me bonnie bairn, it is sair and lonely wi'out ye
here. Will ye no stay wi' us a while longer? Oh! Ivan, me bairn!"

And night after night, so surely as the waves beat against the rocky crag
of Dunmorton does the tall pale lady come, always as the clock strikes
twelve, no matter who the guests may be. Doors may be barred, every
precaution taken, nothing can prevent her entrance.

It comes to pass that after a time gay visitors from London decline The
McAllister's invitations, even the splendid shooting of the Glen does not
compensate them for the shock to their nerves caused by The McAllister
spectre, as they call it. Noël is left much alone, but he has Dunmorton,
its broad lands and vast revenues. For these he bartered his honor, his
integrity. By his own rule he should be happy, for all his early
ambitions are fulfilled. But in truth he has very little happiness or
real satisfaction in his prosperity, and there are few even of his