beheld more pale faces assembled. By my
father's direction, we looked about to find
anything which might indicate or account
for the noise which we had heard; but no
such thing was to be seen--even the mire
which lay upon the avenue was undisturbed.
We returned to the house, more panic-struck
than I can describe.

On the next day, we learned by a
messenger, who had ridden hard the greater
part of the night, that my sister was dead.
On Sunday evening, she had retired to bed
rather unwell, and, on Monday, her indisposition
declared itself unequivocally to be
malignant fever. She became hourly worse
and, on Tuesday night, a little after
midnight, she expired.[2]


[2] The residuary legatee of the late Frances Purcell,
who has the honour of selecting such of his lamented
old friend's manuscripts as may appear fit for publication,
in order that the lore which they contain may
reach the world before scepticism and utility have
robbed our species of the precious gift of credulity, and
scornfully kicked before them, or trampled into
annihilation those harmless fragments of picturesque
superstition which it is our object to preserve, has been
subjected to the charge of dealing too largely in the