1 831 . J The Ghost of Kilsheelan. (>43 



was murdered. The fact was, it was said, that Carey and Dorney were 

 doing something that night they didn't want the priest to know anything 

 about. At all events they might have let such evidence alone, for they'd 

 have been hung on Kit Cooney's affidavy at any rate. They, to be sure, 

 said they were innocent, and the people believed them the judge said 

 they were guilty, and the jury believed him, and the two young men 

 were hung accordingly. This, Sir, I was tellin' you, happened five an' 

 forty year ago, and just like the present times, Cooney knew the country 

 too well to stop in it at best he was but an informer, an' Tipperary is a 

 spot that was always 'counted too hot for them kind of rapscallions. It 

 wasn't for many years afther that he was heard of, an' the way that 

 mention was made of him was just thus. 



" It was, you see, about six and twenty years next Holy-Eve night, 

 that my aunt Biddy an' it's from her own son I have the story, which 

 is next to knowin' it myself it was on that very night (an' it's a night 

 that's mighty remarkable entirely for quare stories of the good people) 

 that she was standin' at the door of poor ould Major Blennerhassett's 

 house that was, and lookin' out to see what in the world was keepin' 

 Paddy (that was her husband's name) so long at the market of Golden 

 (for it was market-day in Golden) when she seen a well-dressed, farmer- 

 like man with clothes on him that looked as if they were made in Dublin 

 you see, they hadn't the Tipperary cut upon them, at all. And there 

 was this decentish ould man standin' right opposite her on the road, an' 

 lookin' terrible narrow at the house. Well, she thought nothin' at all o' 

 that ; for it's few people could pass the road without stoppin' to look at 

 the Major's house, it was such an out o' the way big one to be so near the 

 high road. ' God save you, ma'am/ says he. ' God save you kindly, sir/ 

 says she. ' It's a could night,' says he. ' 'Tis/ says she, * will you 

 come in, an' take an air of the fire ?' ' I will/ says he. So she brought 

 him down to the kitchen, an' the first thing she remarked was, that she 

 forgot to tell him of an ugly step, that lay in his way, an' that every body 

 tripped over, if they weren't tould of it, or didn't know it well before. 

 And yet, without a trip or a jostle, but smooth, and smack clean like 

 herself, the stranger walked down stairs before her. ' By my sowkins/ 

 said she to herself, ' you were here before, my good mon, whoever you 

 are, and I must keep rny eye upon you' an' then she talks out to him 

 ' are you dry or hungry ?' says she. ' No, but I'd like a drink o' but- 

 termilk/ says he. ' Why then, I'll get that same for you/ says she ; 

 ( what countryman are you ? ' ' Then to tell you the truth/ says he, 

 ' I'm a Connoughtman.' ' Why then you haven't a bit o' the brogue/ 

 says she, ' but talk English almost entirely, as well as myself.' ' Oh !' 

 says he, ( I was in Dublin polishing off the brogue.' ' That accounts/ 

 says she, ' for the fine accent you have were you ever in these parts 

 before ?' ' Never/ says he. f That's a lie/ says she to herself; ' but I'll 

 go an' fetch you a noggin o' the buttermilk.' ' Thank 'ee/ says he. You 

 see, she left him sitting in the kitchen, and while she went for the but- 

 termilk, which was to a pantry like, off the kitchen, an' while she was 

 there, she saw the stranger put his hand to the second brick, in the hob, 

 take out some little parcel, and run it into his breeches pocket. While 

 he was doin' this, she saw his little black ferret-eyes, that were not 

 longer in appearance nor a hawk's, but were bright and glisenin' and 

 dazzlin' like them, wheelin' all round the kitchen, to see if any one was 



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