“Yes, sir,” returned the cook; “they lost six children, and not one of them ever died that she did not give the warnin'.” “If poor Miss Alice heard it,” observed Barney, “and she in the state she's in, she wouldn't live twenty-four hours afther it.” “According to what you say,” observed Woodward, “that is, if it follows the family, of course it will give the warning in her case also.” “May God forbid,” ejaculated the cook, “for it's herself, the darlin' girl, that 'ud be the bitther loss to the poor and destitute.” This kind ejaculation was fervently echoed by all her fellow-servants; and Harry, having finished his pipe, went to see how his brother's wound was progressing. He found him asleep, and Caterine Collins seated knitting a stocking at his bedside. He beckoned her to the lobby, where, in a low, guarded voice, the following conversation took place between them: “Caterine, have you not a niece that sings well? Barney Casey mentioned her to me as possessing a fine voice.” “As sweet a voice, sir, as ever came from a woman's lips; but the poor thing is delicate and sickly, and I'm afeard not long for this world.” “Could she imitate a Banshee, do you think?” “If ever woman could, she could. There's not her aquil at the keene, or Irish cry, livin'; she's the only one can bate myself at it.” “Well, Caterine, if you get her to go to Mr. Goodwin's to-morrow night and imitate the cry of the Banshee, I will reward her and you liberally for it. You are already well aware of my generosity.” “Indeed I am, Mr. Woodward; but if either you or I could insure her the wealth of Europe, we couldn't prevail on her to go by herself at night. Except by moonlight she wouldn't venture to cross the street of Rathfillan. As to her, you may put that out of the question. She's very handy, however, about a sick bed, and I might contrive, undher some excuse or other, to get her to take my place for a day or so. But here's your father. We will talk about it again.” She then returned to the sick room, and Harry met Mr. Lindsay on the stairs going up to inquire after Charles. “Don't go up, sir,” said he; “the poor fellow, thank God, is asleep, and the less noise about him the better.” Both then returned to the parlor. About eleven o'clock the next night Sarah Sullivan was sitting by the bedside of her mistress, who was then, fortunately for herself, enjoying, what was very rare with her, an undisturbed sleep after the terror and agitation of the day, when a low, but earnest and sorrowful wailing was heard, immediately, she thought, under the window. It rose and fell alternately, and at the close of every division of the cry it pronounced the name of Alice Goodwin in tones of the most pathetic lamentation and woe. The natural heat and warmth seemed to depart out of the poor girl's body; she felt like an icicle, and the cold perspiration ran in torrents from her face.