Mr Murphy was not joking in the least; he knew well the effect physical pain has in fixing an impression on the mind. He pulled Patsy’s sleeve up and was in the act of seizing a burning stick from the fire when Con Cogan, who was looking on and grinning, suddenly held up his hand and said: “Whisht!” The little clearing in which they were seated was quite close to the broad drive; one could see between the tree-boles anything passing along the drive, and something was coming now. I have said before that Glen Druid Park was haunted, or reputed so to be. The apparition took the form of a hearse driven by a man without a head. He carried his head under his arm, so the story ran, and, if the head caught sight of any one, straight the driver would make for him, bundle him into the vehicle, drive off with him, and then he would never be seen again. Several people had seen this terrible thing. Mrs Finnegan’s first husband had been coming across the park one night when he had spied the vehicle in the distance; it was travelling in the opposite direction to that in which he was going, but directly the driver sighted him he had turned, whipped up the horses and started in pursuit. Mr Finnegan ran. He arrived at Castle Knock all covered with mud, and without the bottle of whisky he had been carrying when he started. He had thrown it away, so he said, and his escape was put down to that fact, as no doubt the driver of the ghostly vehicle had stopped to pick it up. Some people objected that a bottle of whisky could be of no use to a man without a head, but they were overruled by the fact that the bottle was found in the park empty. That clinched the matter. “Whisht!” said Con, raising his hand. Mr Murphy paused in his operations, and Patsy, who had just been on the point of crying out, held his breath and listened. Something was coming along the drive. Now the sound was more distinct, the foot-falls of a horse and the creakings of a vehicle of some sort could be made out. The thing was coming along slowly. “It’s the ‘carriage,’” said Con, whose white face had become simply ghastly, “it’s the ‘hearse.’ I just caught a glimpse of the plumes of it away beyant there between the trees; it’s comin’ this way.” “Lord save us!” said Mr Murphy, whose crimson visage had become mottled with white. “What’s that you’re saying, Con Cogan? Sure, the ghost carriage wouldn’t be makin’ all that nise.” “Wouldn’t it?” replied Con, whose teeth were chattering. “Tim Finnegan, ’fore he died, told me it rattled like a dunkey-cart when it was chasin’ him, and the fellow that drove it was peltin’ him all the time wid skulls an’ crossbones.” “I’ve heerd tell he has no power over childer; and if one keeps one’s eyes tight shut, he don’t see you as long as you don’t see him,” said Mr Murphy, “so I’m goin’ to shut me eyes.” “So’m I,” said Con. “Patsy, avick,” said Mr Murphy in a softened tone, but without leaving hold of the boy. “What is it, Mr Murphy?” asked Patsy.