When we arrived at the castle I was shown into a large parlour, in which was an old lady sitting in an armchair by the fireside, knitting. On the rug lay a very pretty tortoiseshell cat. As soon as mentioned, the old lady rose; and when Mr. O’Callaghan (for that, I learned, was his name) told her who I was, she said in the most cordial tone that I was welcome, and asked me to sit down.
In the course of conversation I learned that she was Mr. O’Callaghan’s mother, and that his father had been dead about a year.
We had sat about an hour, when supper was announced, and after supper Mr. O’Callaghan asked me if I should like to retire for the night. I answered in the affirmative, and a little boy was commissioned to show me to my apartment. It was a snug, clean, and comfortable little old-fashioned room at the top of the castle. As soon as we had entered, the boy, who appeared to be a shrewd, good-tempered little fellow, said with a shrug of the shoulder: ‘If it was going to bed I was, it shouldn’t be here that you’d catch me.’
‘Why?’ said I.
‘Because,’ replied the boy, ‘they say that the ould masther’s ghost has been seen sitting on that there chair.’
‘And have you seen him?’
‘No; but I’ve heard him washing his hands in that basin often and often.’
‘What is your name, my little fellow?’
‘Dennis Mulready, please, your honour.’
‘Well, good night to you.’