“Ay, of cowardliness; but it wasn't the ghost killed them. Sure the poor ghost only comes to get relief for itself—to have masses said; or, maybe, to do justice to some one that is wronged in this world. There's Jimmy Beatty, an' he lay three weeks of fright from seein' a ghost, an' it turned out when all was known, that the ghost was nothing more or less than Tom Martin's white-faced cow—ha! ha! ha!”
“At any rate, let us change the subject,” said Hanlon; “you heard yourself the last night we wor here, what I'll never forget.”
“We heard some noise like a groan, an' that was all; but who could tell what it was, or who cares either?”
“I, for one, do; but, dear Sarah, have you the box?”
“Why does your voice tremble that way for? Is it fear? bekaise if I thought it was, I wouldn't scruple much to walk home with' out another word, an' bring the box with me.”
“You have it, then?”
“To be sure I have, an' my father an' Nelly is both huntin' the house for it.”
“Why, what could your father want with it?”
“How can I tell?—an' only that I promised it to you, I wouldn't fetch it at all?”
“I thought you had given it up for lost; how did you get it again?”