There was a pause:--there _was_ a footstep--it sounded distinctly--it reached the door--it hesitated, stopped, and--passed on. Tom darted across the room, threw open the door, and became aware of Mrs. Botherby toddling to her chamber, at the other end of the gallery, after dosing one of the housemaids with an approved julep from the Countess of Kent's "Choice Manual." "Good night, sir!" said Mrs. Botherby. "Go to the d--l!" said the disappointed ghost-hunter. An hour--two--rolled on, and still no spectral visitation; nor did aught intervene to make night hideous; and when the turret-clock sounded at length the hour of three, Ingoldsby, whose patience and grog were alike exhausted, sprang from his chair, saying,-- "This is all infernal nonsense, my good fellow. Deuce of any ghost shall we see to-night; it's long past the canonical hour. I'm off to bed; and as to your breeches, I'll insure them for the next twenty-four hours at least, at the price of the buckram." "Certainly.--Oh! thank'ee;--to be sure!" stammered Charles, rousing himself from a reverie, which had degenerated into an absolute snooze. "Good night, my boy! Bolt the door behind me; and defy the Pope, the Devil, and the Pretender!--" Seaforth followed his friend's advice, and the next morning came down to breakfast dressed in the habiliments of the preceding day. The charm was broken, the demon defeated; the light greys with the red stripe down the seams were yet _in rerum naturâ_, and adorned the person of their lawful proprietor. Tom felicitated himself and his partner of the watch on the result of their vigilance; but there is a rustic adage, which warns us against self-gratulation before we are quite "out of the wood."--Seaforth was yet within its verge. * * * * * A rap at Tom Ingoldsby's door the following morning startled him as he was shaving;--he cut his chin. "Come in, and be d--d to you!" said the martyr, pressing his thumb on the scarified epidermis.--The door opened, and exhibited Mr. Barney Maguire. "Well, Barney, what is it?" quoth the sufferer, adopting the vernacular of his visitant. "The master, sir--" "Well, what does he want?" "The loanst of a breeches, plase your honour." "Why, you don't mean to tell me--By Heaven, this is too good!" shouted Tom, bursting into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. "Why, Barney, you don't mean to say the ghost has got them again?" Mr. Maguire did not respond to the young squire's risibility; the cast of his countenance was decidedly serious. "Faith, then, it's gone they are, sure enough! Hasn't meself been looking over the bed, and under the bed, and _in_ the bed, for the matter of that, and divil a ha'p'orth of breeches is there to the fore at all:--I'm bothered entirely!"