“Well,” said Beatrice, “the banshee of Castle Abbey isn’t anybody at all. It’s a noise——”
“A what?”
“It’s a bell and it rings to announce an approaching death in the family.”
“Where is the bell?”
“It is in the belfry of the old tower. But there is simply no way to climb to the top if anybody wanted to. No one can remember when steps have been there.”
“Did you ever hear it?” asked Mary.
“No, indeed, and I hope I never shall, but the night Grandpapa died in London, old Michael, the gardener, claims to have heard it ring out three times.”
It all sounded very remote and interesting to the four young Americans, who had been brought up in a place that did not antedate a hundred years, and still had once seemed old enough to them.
“Why don’t they take down the bell?” asked Mary.
“Oh, there’s a superstition about that, too, and an old verse: