In the course of the evening there came to the house a traveller,—a poor Irishman,—an old man, evidently honest, but rather simple, who asked Dorothy for a lodging.
He said he had travelled far, was hungry, weary, and footsore, and if turned away, knew not where he could go.
It was a stormy night, and the good heart of Dorothy was touched at the story of the stranger, so she told him that he might stay.
After he had warmed himself and eaten the food she prepared for him, she asked him to retire, saying that she expected company. Instead of going with him to show where he was to sleep, as she ought to have done, she directed him to his room, furnished him with a light, and bade him good-night.
The Irishman, as I have said, was an old man and not very clear-headed. Forgetting his directions, and mistaking the room, he entered the chamber where lay the body of poor Jemmy Robbin. In closing the door the light was blown out. He found there was what seemed to be some other person in the bed, and, supposing him a live bedfellow, quietly lay down, covered himself with a counterpane, and soon fell asleep.
About ten o’clock grandfather and I entered the room. We just glanced at the bed. What seemed to be the corpse lay there, as it should. Then grandfather sat down in an easy-chair, and I, like a silly hussy, sat down in his lap.
We were having a nice time, talking about what we would do and how happy we should be when we went to housekeeping, when, all at once, I heard a snore. It came from the bed.
“What’s that?” said I.
“That?” said grandfather. “Mercy! that was Jemmy Robbin.”
We listened nervously, but heard nothing more, and at last concluded that it was the wind that had startled us. I gave grandfather a generous kiss, and it calmed his agitation wonderfully.