"Yes, and the rest of Ireland, too," said he, with a roguish leer. "But come along, we've a good step before us;" and with these words he led the way down the stairs, holding the balustrade as he went, and exhibiting every sign of age and weakness. Once in the street however he stepped out more freely, and before we got clear of the town, walked at a fair pace, and, to all seeming, with perfect ease. (_To be continued._) THE DEATH OF A GOBLIN. There is a by-street, called the Pallant, in an old cathedral city--a narrow carriage-way, which leads to half a dozen antique mansions. A great number of years ago, when I began to shave, the presence of a very fascinating girl induced me to make frequent calls upon an old friend of our family who lived in one of the oldest of these houses, a plain, large building of red brick. The father, and the grandfather, and a series of great-great-great and other grandfathers of the then occupant, Sir Francis Holyoke, had lived and died beneath its roof. So much I knew; and I had inkling of a legend in connection with the place, a very horrible affair. How and when I heard the story fully told, I have good reason to remember. We were in the great dark wainscoted parlor one December evening; papa was out. I sat with Margaret by the fire-side, and saw in the embers visions of what might come to pass, but never did. Ellen was playing at her harpsichord in a dark corner of the room, singing a quaint and cheerful duet out of Grétry's Coeur de Lion with my old school-fellow, Paul Owen, a sentimental youth, who became afterward a martyr to the gout, and broke his neck at a great steeple-chase. "The God of Love a bandeau wears," those two were singing. Truly, they had their own eyes filleted. The fire-light glow, when it occasionally flickered on the cheek over which Paul was bending, could not raise the semblance of young health upon its shining whiteness. That beautiful white hand was fallen into dust before Paul Owen had half earned the wedding-ring that should encircle it. "Thanks to you, sister--thanks, too, to Grétry for a pleasant ditty. Now, don't let us have candles. Shall we have ghost stories?" "What! in a haunted house?" "The very thing," cried Paul; "let us have all the story of the Ghost of Holyoke. I never heard it properly." Ellen was busy at her harpsichord again, with fragments from a Stabat Mater. Not Rossini's luscious lamentation, but the deep pathos of that Italian, who in days past "moerebat et dolebat," who moved the people with his master-piece, and was stabbed to death by a rival at the cathedral door. "Why, Ellen, you look as if you feared the ghosts." "No, no," she said; "we know it is an idle tale. Go to the fire, Paul, and I will keep you solemn with the harpsichord, in order that you may not laugh while Margaret is telling it." "Well, then," began Margaret, "of course this story is all nonsense." "Of course it is," said I. "Of course it is," said Paul.