CHAPTER I

“YES, a grand night,” was the thought in Miss Kathleen Sheridan’s mind, as she passed into the west lodge-gates of Orrock Park on the evening of the 21st of November, ‘98: an evening of storm, with the roar of the sea in the ear. The young lady stopped at Embree Pond in the park to watch the sheet of water shivering to its dark heart under the flight of the squalls; then with her long-legged walk (she was a hunchback), went on her way, showing in her face her delight in this bleak mood of nature.

Some way further, however, on hearing the hoofs of a horse, her expression changed to one of very real fright, for she had a thought of one Sir Percy Orrock, beheaded by Cromwell, whose ghost gallops about on a headless horse in rough weather; but this turned out to be only Mr. Millings, the land-steward: for, on coming round to the manor-house, the young lady found Millings there talking to Sir Peter Orrock, who at a window was holding his ear forward to hear the land-steward’s news.

“Good evening, Mr. Millings,” called Miss Kathleen, laughing from ear to ear, with strings of black hair draping her face. “Well, uncle, I have been sketching it all on the heath–witches on broomsticks, ‘strange screams of death in the air.’ That silver lime of Farmer Carr’s is blown flat. Uncle, if you ask me to stop and dine, I may consent.”

“Hm,” muttered S