No sooner were Caddy and I in the haunted chamber, than a knock came at the door. Who could it be? We thought every body else had retired for the night. The door opened—lo! it was Adela, the daughter of the house, who came to confess that for long she had been devoured by the wish to sleep in that room, and the bed was of such enormous dimensions, that she should not inconvenience us, if we would admit her. I, for my part did not like the idea. I felt I was too much acquainted with the exclusive and retiring nature of the brotherhood of ghosts to entertain the faintest hope of a successful apparition to a trio of friends. We conversed, I think, most of the night, which was out of character with the whole proceedings; but as the clock struck the witching hour of midnight, there was a dead silence for a few moments, only broken by Adela’s prayer, which her Church enjoins at the striking of each hour: “Lord, make me to love Thee in time and eternity!” an ejaculation that so took my fancy, that ever since that long, long ago I have always repeated those words in the watches of the night, and thereby often scared away many a sad and gloomy thought. Alas, for the failure, which I had anticipated! Little Lord Thomas Howard disdained to make his appearance, and no one else, on practical joke intent, disturbed the sleepers, or rather watchers. (To be sure we had announced beforehand that the sword of Fergus M’Ivor, which was a relic in the family, was to lie unsheathed by the bedside). This was a great disappointment, and I had to wait for many years afterwards, in another country, and under other circumstances, to behold a ghost. On leaving Cumberland, we paid a visit of quite another character, namely, to the Master of the Quorn Hounds, whose wife had been a school-fellow and contemporary of my sister. Here, too, we enjoyed ourselves much, being splendidly mounted, a beautiful little snow-white pony falling to my share. “Billy” was very fast and well trained, and would answer like a dog to his name. It was a great delight to Lord Southampton to gallop on in front for some distance as hard as he could, and then to turn round and call, “Billy, Billy,” and off would set the little snowball at furious speed until he rejoined his beloved master. I must here recall an incident which impressed itself deeply on my memory. There was a large party in the house, chiefly composed of hunting men, and one evening we were playing a round game, and making merry over it, when the conversation turned on Fanny Kemble, who had lately made her _début_ in London, and was at the moment the centre of attraction and the theme of conversation. “What a pity we are not nearer London” (we were in Leicester at the time, and no railroads then, be it remembered), said the lady of the house; “I would give anything in the world to see her. I hear she is perfectly wonderful!” Her sentiments were echoed by many, especially my brother and sister; I listened in breathless awe.