-— \*J: and ho raised his outward Jk^Llnying the features of the king, ' j o n me,' sir,' said the stranger, 1/ .on his knee; 'but making my fsl^ ' n tho garden, I found the poster a rott< oC ked"and fearing treachery to S J'0 nil person I deemed it my duty , jout™ alc jj j n tj-jg pavilion, of which, i°^l majesty is aware, I have a dsp'ic3 a( j gf man! you haven't locked the have you ?' asked tho pretended poster 11 $%' jjre,' replied the other, ' it remains s3L?" n D my good fellow, there is no Ernest, 'And I'll tell W^ secr et, I expect a lady here every yoll8 t #ho has accorded me a private ids' 311.' Tho best service you can ferine is to leave me to myself.' 1a W fr°m yoiu" r°ya* s*s a com" j' gaid tho pretended Ernest. ' That V® Wjesty's suit may prosper is the yoD' t w ish of your most devoted sub- Hhe stranger vanished. Before Ernest ■L opportunity to frame any hypothe • with, regard to this mysterious being, ? door opened cautiously and admitted i Baroness. She threw herself at once Kfeet of Ernest. ißise. lady' said the pretended mon l <t should rather be at your feet— jrcli' ' sai(i the Baroness, ' till your tfajesty Podges your royal word to Wme *n advance for whatever I may •/freely pledge you that,' said Ernest, ■j; n cf the lady to rise. (Vnoffi then,' said tho Baroness, ' that m an ungrateful woman. Your if faty distinguished me last night, and f]d out hopes so brilliant that a subject 'hiwell be dazzled by their promise. fL dazzled, and I heard you with hsure. j} a t it was only a momentary akness. In the delirium of the dance told me that you loved me —my Cisenti to meet you here seemed a con taion of- reciprocal affection. But in ]'Ijj my heart i 3 given to another. I u e -andlove with all the fervor of my being—not a monarca bufc a subiect-' 'A rival!' said the pretended King ■ternly. 'Hi 3 name?' .promise that you will not harm him, k ' sa id the Baroness. ■Imake no promise m such a case as ijHj'he replied. _ •Ihenl shall keep my secret, said the fewness firmly. 'Andyou would love this man —even it [commanded you to tear his image from jour heart?' he inquired. ■ I love him, and him only, said the toness. 'In good report and evil report—in sorrow and sickness —in shame Jin honor. Truly I pledged him my land-ray heart went with it. I am his forever.' 'And he is thine, dear Anna, said Er jtst, tearing off his disguise. ' Will you forgive the trial I have subjected you to ?' i you forgive the weakness of a Boment that made me listen to tempta tion?' asked the Baroness. 1 jreely and fully,' said Ernest, folding He Baroness in his arms. ' And now, rleiishall wo be married ?' 'To-night!' said a voice beside them : ud there stood the King of Bavaria, but itillin the uniform of an aide-de-camp, in ilich he had entered the pavilion that ! erening and first eneouutered Ernest. He il was who had overheard the appointment it (he masquerade. ' To-night!' he re ptifed, smiling on his astonished auditors. 'lie chapel is lighted up, the priest is in raiting, the wedding guests are bidden, ud the wedding feast is prepeared. The ling of Uavaria awaits to conduct you to le altar and to give away the bride : and Bythe pleasures of this carnival be but to precursors of a life of joy.' lie delight of the lovers, the joy of Li istte, the surprise of all their family, must It lift to the imagination. There are Episodes in life whose brightness baffles 'lothpen and pencel.

An Irish Ghost Story.

BY KATE BELL.

[Written for the 'Star' Supplement.]

to tale I am about to relate is strictly W It was told to me by a young lady ike grandmother, or grandaunt, _ or flat-grandmother, had been the heroine. limnot quite certain which of the three, bat it was some ancestress or relative. I wish to be particular on this point, base I know how much more interest kit mast make the story. Before pro teiing furtner I would confess that 1 had thought it must be the easiest thiug in the t'ldjust to sit down an write it 'straightd A' whereas, I now find a great difficulty 'ling in my way at the very commence- M, as to dates especially. 'tis absolutely necessary to the right of my story that you should b acquainted with the stato of Ireland ibout that time, or if not, that I should jreyou some information on the subject. W, as I am not quite certain when 'that y was, and know still less about the "toy of it, why, I feel like Paddy at ty scientific lecture, ' bothered intirely lidde want of preliminary information. fere experienced writers have no doubt fa found a way out of similar difficulties [inventing a history for the occasion,' P my untutored wings cannot yet 'tempt so high a flight. About 60 years ago then—more or less

— (I know it must have been along time ago because there were rebels in Ireland then) armed bands of men, most absurdly called ' WMteboys,' though they were full grown villains of the blackest die, roamed over certain districts of Ireland, doing all th mischief they could, burning houses, shooting men, ill-treating womenand child ren, rousing Catholics against Protestants, tenants against landlords, and, in fact, everybody, who had nothing, against everybody who had anything. The special objects of the Whiteboys' hatred were the landed proprietors. These persons wero not at that time greatly to bo envied. Inheriting, for the most part, heavily mortgaged estates, they inherited also a talent for spending money, far beyond any capacity for gathering it. When, at last, their tenants refused to pay any rent at all, and the excited state of the country made itdangerous to attempt to force them, why, the result was that the majority of the * landed gintry ' of Ire land found themselves finally ' landed' in the 'Encumbered Estates Court.'

Mr Fitzgerald was a landed proprietor, who lived at Kilbally-something House, near the small country-town of Ballykill something else; (the final syllable does not matter much in these Irish names). Although a Protestant, Mr Fitzgerald had hitherto lived on amicable terms with his tenantry. He was known to be a just and kind-hearted man, and besides, (which was of much more importance in the eyes of the Irish poor) ho came of a ' rale ould family,' a family of sufficient dignity to possess a ' Banshee' of its own. There fore although the majority of the tenants had ceasedto pay any rent, they were for bearing an generous enough not to shoot their landlord, and, as long as he ' kept quiet,' did not mean to do him any harm. So thewives of the poorer tenants still went up to the kitchen of the * big house ' for a chat, and still resorted to ' the misthress ' when they needed help, or medicine, or a word good advice, the latter two, however, being much oftener asked for than taken.

A few years before the (unknown) date of my story, Mr. Fitzgerald had married Annie O'Byrne, the daughter of a neigh bouring country gentleman. Many men envied him the prize, for Annie has one of the belles of the couuty (though I never road of an Irish heroine, who was'nt!) and as good as she was pretty. Picture her to yourselves, my readers if you can! for she is the heroine of this talo, generous, bravo, and witty, impulsive, loving, and loveable; in fact, a perfect specimen of that most charming of all feminine crea tures, tb.9 true Irish lady. Annie had been brought up almost entirely in her own native county, Lhe only exception being two seasons spent at a fashionable board ing school in Dublin. There was one branch of her education not attended to at that boarding school. This neglect, after wards turned out to be of the greatest use to her, as we shall see. In her early childhood, Annie had learnt from the nurses aud servants who surrounded her, many of the wild legends and superstitions of her native country ; and many also of its touching ballads. Possessing a vivid imagination and retentive memory, she could, in lator years relate some wild story of the district in such a manner as to thrill her anditors with pleasing horrcr, or sing some touching Irish ditty till tears came to their eyes ; but her special talent lay in imitating the mournful' keen'—that heart breaking wail of the Irish mourner.

Mrs. Fitzgerald vras of course a great favourite amongst the tenants, both on her father's and husband's estates. Her intimate acquaintance with their habits and modes of thought, and her knowledge of their native language gave her great influence. Her ready sympathy in their troubles quite won their hearts, those warm and loving Irish hearts, which yet often so cruelly belie themselves under the evil influences of ignorance- and super stition !

Ballykil——-House was situated on a terrace commanding a lovely view of the surrounding country. The lawn studded with clusters of Arbutus and Hydrangea, and bordered by two fine avenues of Elm and Ilex, sloped gradually down till it reached the high road, beyond which, stretched an undulating plain, where the fields and hedges glistened with that vivid green, so pecular to the Emerald Isle. (There! I have kept the ' Emerald Isle 1 out as long as I possibly could, but it has forced its way in ; and would not be kept out of an Irish story any longer.) Wind ing through the plain, might be seen the gleaming bends of the River L ,on the banks of which rose the towers, and spires, of the conuty town. In the background rose blue ranges of distant hills. On the right of the house ran a deep and shady glen, through which a brawling mountain stream flowed till it reached the river. Behind the house the ground rose rapidly and formed a semicircle of wild and heathy hills, on which lay, thinly scattered, the cottages and cabins of the poorer tenants. Some of these had ascended to the very summits to build their mud hovels where, if half suffocated by the smoke of- damp peat within, they could at least outof doors, enjoy the pure fresh breeze, which blew from far across the Salt Atlantic, over these long stretches of moor and bog. Gloomy hills, they appeared to strangers, for grass grew but scantily upon them, but in the spring, they were golden with the blossoming whins, and in summer and autumn were purpled over with patches of heather and blue blackberries. Ballykil House was a large and com fortable mansion though, (like many of the Irish country houses of that time) standing

much in need of repair. The sitting-rooms were all on the ground floor, and so also ware the kitchens and servants offices, The latter lay at the back of the house, and were reached by a long passage, hav ing been built out from tho main edifice. The old fashioned vaulted stonefloored kitchen had three large windows on each side, looking out on the one hand, into the glen before mentioned, and on the other into the shrubbery. The windows had no shntters, but were crossed by two or three iron bars, an unusual precaution in those days, for burglary was not a vice of the Irish peasantry, nor even petty theft. Upstairs there wers the sleeping rooms of the family and servants. Mr. Fitzgerald's domestic establishment had been greatly reduced since the ' real troubles' had be gan, and consisted at present of only three feirale servants and one man, the latter acted as groom, gardener and general messenger.

One summer evening, Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald were sitting on the terrace in front of their house, admiring the glories of the sunset rays gilding the fair scenes before them, and discussing the state of affairs in general and tho state of their own district in particular, ' How happy we are !' said Mrs. Fitzgerald 'to be so quiet and peaceful here.' ' Long may it last!' replied her husband, ' but there are floating rumours, that the Whiteboys have been seen in the neighbourhood, and if so; farewell, to peace !' 'I do not think they would do us any harm at any rate,' ob served Annie ' for none of our people would join them, we are not rich enough to tempt an attack for the sake of plunder, and I do not think there is one man in the district, who harbours ill-feeling or revenge against us.' ' You forget Con Bourke,' answered Mr. Fitzgerald; ' I was obliged to turn him out as he had not paid rent for three years ; he was throughly bad, or I might have left him alone, but I found ho was spreading mischief and persuading the tenants not to pay any rent, vowing vengeance. I have never ventured to eject another tenant since.' ' But you know dear, Con came from another part of the country'remarked Mrs .Fitzgerald eagerly he was not one of our own people and besides that, he i* gone to America.' I hope so, but I doubt the fact,' replied her husband' and if the Whileboys should ever attack us I fancy we shall have to thank Conßourke. But who is thisjeoming up theavenue ?'

As he spoke, a man appeared, riding in hasto. On reaching tho house, he dis mounted and handed Mr Fitzgerald a letter. Annie, watching her husband while he read (as women do watch their husbands when they got letters) saw his face grow suddenly grave and anxious. He turned quietly, however, to the messenger saying, 'Take your horse round to the stable for a feed, O'Hara, and send Jerry here to me.' Only when tho man had disappeared did Mr Fitzgerald relieve his wife's curiosity. ' This is a letter from tho High Sheriff, my dear Annie, calling on me to repair at once to the town, both as a magistrate and as an officer of militia, to assist in keeping order and to protect the inhabitants against an expected attack by the Whitcboys. The militia has been called out in the immediate neighbourhood already, Sir George says,' Annio turned pale, for danger threatened her husband. ' And how does Sir George know of this attack ?' she asked. 'He lias received an anonymous communica tion, informing him that a large band of rebels intend entering the town to-night, where they expect to be joined by a number of malcontents. Their object is to sieze the gaol, and burn it down after having set free the prisoners, especially that last batcli of rebels. However, I must go at once, but I cannot bear to leave you here alone, Annie ; I don't know what to do.'

11 am not in the least afraid,' replied Annie, bravely. ' You know I am quite safe amongst our own people, and as the Whiteboys will be occupied with the attack on the town there is no fear of them. I am far more anxious about you, my dear husband, who are going into danger. Howeverjit is your dutyjto go at once, and I will not keep you back by my foolish fears. ' You should have been the wife of a soldier, my dear/ said her husband, kissing her, and while Mrs Fitzgerald went into the house to make some pre-

parations for his departure, Mr Fitzgerald gave hits orders to Jerry, who now ap peared breathless with excitement. ' Bring round the car at once, Jerry, put on your uniform and load your gun, there may be fighting in store for us. The Whiteboys are expected in the town : to-night.' Jerry grinned with delight at ■ the prospect of a ' shindy,' for he was a ■ soldier in^his master's regiment of militia. In less than a quarter of an hour tf" car was at the door, and master d® servant, both, armed, but with larp ancl boots concealing their uniforms, w c toP one on each side, and away y «ounted old jaunting car down the aye- .attled the bless and keep you my aue. "'o^ bring you back safe to me darling, and Annie's last words as sb again' had been bravely struggling to ' .c bade good-bye, that would glisten ' , keep back the tears Fitzgerald looked in her eyes. As Mr wave a last fare' x back up the avenue to standing on tb well, he saw his wife still the setting s- .c terrace. The last rays ot face and c ,an were falling on her sweet raven ha' crimsoning the long curls ot she he)" lt tossed back from her brow, as hand ' d one child high in air to kiss its timi-" co papa, and the other child clung no .dly to her dress. Mr Fitzgerad /V er forgot that scone, for his wife a hair.

grey ere she stood on that terrace again.

I When the car had disappeared Mrs i Fitzgerald went into tha house and occu pied herself busily till night came on; determined not to give way to her sorrow and anxiety. The elder of the two child ren, little Aileen, had. been feverish and restless during the duy and her mother determined to keep the child with herself for the night. Bsfore retiring to rest, Annie drew back the curtains of her window, and looked out. The wind had risen, and heavy masses of cloud swept across tho sky, obscuring at intervals the light of thc'newly risen moon. All.seemed quiet in. the direction of the distant town, and breathing one more prayer for her hus band's safety, Annie lay down to sleep. An hour or two later Aileen awoke, and became more and more restless in spite of the medicine and cooling drink adminis tered by her mother, till finding sleep impossible, Mrs Fitzgerald rose and throwing on a long white dressing-gown, sat down in aa armchair by the bed-side, prepared for a night watch. After a time little Aileen cried for more 'nice drink,' but there were no more lemons in the room ; so Annie, giving the little girl the last drop left in the tumbler, told her ' to be quiet and be a good child while mama went to fetch some for her. Then, draw ing back the curtains that the child might see the moonlight, Mrs Fitzgerald took the candle and left the room.

if aving descended to the dining-room, and finding no lemons on the sideboard, Annie suddenly remembered that there were some in a pantry which opened off the kitchen, and at once she hurried thore to get them. As she left the dining-room a draught, by the shutting of the door, blew out her bandle.

' This is unfortunate!' said Annie to her self ' especially as I have no matches. However, it is moonlight so I can grope my way to the kitchen where I shall find both matches and candles on the chimney piece.' So leaving her own candle on the Hall table, she hurried down the long dark passage leading to the kitchen. Mrs.

Fitzgerald had told her husband truly that she was ' not afraid,' for personal fear had really never crossed her mind, and her only personal anxieiy was lest the child should become frightened at her long absence.

Oti opening the door, Annie found the kitchen almost in total darkness. Only a few streaks of light only, lay across the floor, the moon being half obscured at the moment. The rest of the floor was dark ened by heavy shadows from the shrubbery. A3 she groped her way to the chimney piece Mrs. Fitzgerald for the first timo, experienced a sensation of awe and lone liness, aptly turned ' eerie' and this feeling increased when, after searching on the chimneypiece (where, she knew the cook always kept her matches, she could fiud none. She was still standing in the doep black shade thrown by some shrubs across the upper end of the kitchen, when the moon suddenly emerged, bright and clear, from behind the clouds ; and all the floor beforo her lay in one broad expause of soft and silvery light, crossed by bars of shadow.

Delighted at the sudden change Annie looked up, and out of the barred windows, looked up—and saw! at every windows human faces ! faces, that looked white and ghastly in the moonlight, pressed against the bars, fierce eyes thai; seemed to be piercing that corner of black shadow where one white speck appeared—faces that were cruel, coarse and brutal! eyes that haunted Annie to her dying day.

The shock was so great, that for one instant her heart and brain seemed turned to stone, she could not breathe or stir.

Then, like a lightening flash, the whole truth burst upon. her. ' The Whiteboys ! the cruel Whiteboys they wiUkill us all! they will burn down the house,' but then the first thought of the woman's heart was 'my children !Oh god! save my children,' and in that brief moment an agonized though silent prayer went up to Him. who, • heareth in the time of trouble.' u t she must act as well as pray, ancl_ wua t can she do ? Poor Annie ! surety terror must have driven her mad.! Loosening the knot of her black hair till -'j. f e \\ } n waving masses to her waisf^ throwing her arms above her head, ar j d faeve clasping and wringing her har idg and u ttering one long low wail of ago " she su ddenly emerged into the ligh fc q^ose hardy men were terror stride dQ ' at the gight . some with a cry of hor- , or turned an a fled others hid their eyr _ g l a^d w hi S pered to their com panion^ j b ; hind tuem ; for fast as those ? Cf "., disappared from the windows others tor jk their place, at first incredulous, but ' <oon on all there came the same blank look of awe and dread. Traly tney saw a weird sight! What was that ghostly, awful figure t wandering up and down, and round and round that gloomy vaulted room, keeping her lonely watch at dead of night. White feet gleaming on the cold stone floor, white garments floating to the ground! pale hands, now folded patiently upon her breast, now wrung as if in bitter agony ! A. white and ghastly face! whose fixed blue eyes gazed at them, with such a wild and mournful, but yet stony gaze, that the bravest amongst that murderous band, shudderd as they looked: and ever and anon, there rang out upon the breathless silence, that shrill and mournful ; keen, that wailing deathsong which thrills the I Irish heart. ,l What could this be but the Banshee P the • Banshee of the Fitzgeralds ! that sad spirit who appears only to announce the

approaching death of one of that family which she loves and guards; and who mourns bitterly over the fate which she alone foresees, but has not power to avert. Woe to the man, who disturbs that spirit in her night watch or who interupts her ' keen' of sorrow !

There were atnongsttbose men however, some more determined and less superstitious than the rest, and although even they, dared not enter the house which that spirit walked, yet they said ' Let us wait a while perhaps she will disappear soon, and then we must make haste, seize what wo can, and burn the house down.' And Annie heard them!

The band retreated to .the glen, from whence two or three of the boldest re turned at intervals to look in; but the spirit walked still! still wept and wailed, and wrung her hands ; only each time they came, the wail was lower and feebler, the step slower and more solemn ! At last the boldest gave way, and came no more. For the Irish peasant will face danger in any earthly form.., but let the terror take a ghostly shape and he is the veriest cow ard! With gloomy fears and lowered voices, the baffled Whiteboys slowly slunk away and disappeared down the glen.

Annie Fitzgerald unfortunately, did not know that the men she feared had gone at last, and she still dreaded their return. It was past midnight when she had left her room that night, and now the clock was striking three. The moon sank down below the verge of the horizon, but a faint light still lingered on the sky, and so the Banshee walked still! near to the windows, where the glimmer of her white garments might be seen; only the wail had ceased at last. The voice was gone ! indeed she walked mechanically now. The faint red gleam of early dawn appeared. The chirping of the awakening birds sounded from the shrubberies. Slowly, oh, how slowly, the blessed light of day crept up the eastern horizon, bringing release to a brave weary creature whose strength was well nigh exhausted. Then, only, did Annie feel that she was saved. She knew that the Whifceboys dare not wait for daylight, and so, casting one last shuddering look at those barred windows, she left the kitchen, and walked steadily down the long passage. When she reached the foot of the staircase, strength failed her, brave Annie gave way at last and fell senseless on the floor. There the servants found her a short time afterwards. Roused by the crying of little Aileen, the nurse had run down to her mistress' room, where she found the child alone, crying out for her mama who she said had left her ' such a long long time ago.'

Fortunately little Ailoen must hav6 fallen asleep immediately after her mother had left the room, and had not awakened till daylight appeared. Nurse calling down the other servants, immediately went in search of her mistress, and was horrified to see the white heap lying at the foot of the staircase. They carried Annie to her bed, and tended her lovingly till her husband's return a little later, when he found his wife, whom he had left so bright and well, senseless and speech less ! Immediately Jerry was despatched for the,doctor and also to bring the parents of Mrs Fitzgerald, who lived a few milea away. The servants could give no reason for the condition in which they had found their mistress, and all seemed most mysterious. Presently, however, the cook ran up to say that there were numerous footsteps outside the kitchen, as if a number ol men had corao up from the glen and returned thither. Mr Fitzgerald at once suspected that the Whiteboys, instead of attacking the town made their way to his house, and that the letter to the sheriff had been only pait of a plot to mislead him and others; for no alarm or attack had occurred in the town during the past night. Before the doctor arrived Mrs Fitzgerald recovered consciousness sufflcienty to relate with tolerable clearness what had happened. This enabled her husband to send messsages to the town giving information as to the direction the band had taken ; their steps having been traced after leaving the glen. Very brief was poor Annie's gleam of intelligence; she soon relapsed into un consciousness again, and a sevoro illness followed. For weeks she lay in brain fever, struggling with dreadful phantasies, haunted incessantly by those faces and eyes, and wailing on monotonously that dolorous ' keen' she had often practised in her merry childhood, but which now wrung the hearts of the loving watchers by her bedside learning, as they did, from her ravings, all the consentrated agony which she had endured on that dreadful night. But if the wife had prayed earnestly for her husband in his hour of danger, so now his prayers for her were answered; and Annie recovered to be more than ever the beloved wife, mother, and daughter, and in addition to become hence forward the heroine of the county. The long hair which had played its part was shaved off during her illness, and when Annie's locks grew again, they were grey. But some thought this only added to the beauty of the sweet face, which, had grown more thoughtful and grave then of yore. Many years passed ere Mrs Fitz gerald could be persuaded to relate her story to any but her husband. As the terror and suffering of that night passed away in tho past, she would occasionally, however, tell the tale to some of her children and dear friends at their very earnest request. It seemed to her, she sue said, as it iq,

Evening Supplement, May 3*7, ISTO