“What, what?” cried Julia.
“A bug, Julia.”
“Bug?” cried my wife. “A bug come out of this table? And what did you do with it?”
“Clapped it under a tumbler.”
“Biddy! Biddy!” cried my wife, going to the door. “Did you see a tumbler here on this table when you swept the room?”
“Sure I did, marm, and ’bomnable bug under it.”
“And what did you do with it?” demanded I.
“Put the bug in the fire, sir, and rinsed out the tumbler ever so many times, marm.”
“Where is that tumbler?” cried Anna. “I hope you scratched it—marked it some way. I’ll never drink out of that tumbler; never put it before me, Biddy. A bug—a bug! Oh, Julia! Oh, mamma! I feel it crawling all over me, even now. Haunted table!”
“Spirits! spirits!” cried Julia.