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“This meet,” continued Polly, “was on New-Year’s Day. There was a great gathering, and after breakfast the gentlemen came out and mounted at the door; the hounds were grouped on the lawn; it must have been a beautiful sight.”

“It must, indeed,” assented Harold.

“Well, this old Mr. Connolly–but you must understand that he was not old at all, only all this happened so long ago–he mounted his horse, and his wife came out on the step to bid him good-bye, and to remind him of his promise that this should be his last hunt. And so it was, poor fellow; for while she was standing talking to him, a gust of wind came and blew part of her dress right into the horse’s face. Mr. Connolly was riding a very spirited animal. It reared up and fell back on him, killing him on the spot.”

“How horrible!” exclaimed Harold.

“Wait! The shock to the young wife was so great that she died the next day.”

“The poor girl!”

“Don’t waste your sympathy. It was all very long ago, and perhaps it never happened at all. However, the curious part of the story is to come. Every one that had been present at that meet–men, dogs, horses–everything died within the year.”

“To the ruin of the local insurance companies?” remarked Harold, with a smile.

“You needn’t laugh. They did. And next New-Year’s night, between twelve and one o’clock, the whole hunt passed through the place, and they have kept on doing it every New-Year’s night since.”

“A most interesting and elaborate ghost-story,” said Harold. “Pray, Miss Connolly, may I ask if you yourself have seen the phantom hunt?”

“No one has ever done that,” replied Polly, “but when there is moonlight they say the shadows can be seen passing over the grass, and any New-Year’s night you may hear the huntsman’s horn.”

“I should like amazingly to hear it,” replied the young man. “Have you ever heard this horn?”

“I have heard A horn,” the girl answered, with some reluctance.

“On New-Year’s night between twelve and one?” he pursued.

“Of course–but I can’t swear it was blown by a ghost. My brothers or some one may have been playing tricks. You can sit up to-night and listen for yourself if you want.”

“Nothing I should like better,” exclaimed Harold. “Will you sit up too?”

“Oh yes. We always wait to see the Old Year out and the New Year in. Come, Mr. Hayes, it’s almost luncheon-time,” she added, glancing at her watch; and they turned back toward the house, which was just visible through the leafless trees.

Harold walked at her side in silence. He had heard a ghost-story, but the words he had hoped to speak that day were still unuttered.

Loud were the pleadings, when the little ones’ bedtime came, that they might be allowed to sit up to see the Old Year die; but Mrs. Connolly was inexorable. The very young ones were sent off to bed at their usual hour.

Cards and music passed the time pleasantly till the clock was almost on the stroke of twelve. Then wine was brought in, and healths were drunk, and warm, cheerful wishes were uttered, invoking all the blessings that the New Year might have in store. Hands were clasped and kisses were exchanged. Harold would willingly have been included in this last ceremony, but that might not be. However, he could and did press Polly’s hand very warmly, and the earnestness of the wishes he breathed in her ear called a bright colour to her cheek. Then came good-night, and the young American’s heart grew strangely soft when he found himself included in Mrs. Connolly’s motherly blessing. He thought he had never seen a happier, a more united family.

The party was breaking up; some had retired; others were standing, bedroom candlesticks in their hands, exchanging a last word, when suddenly, out of the silence of the night, the melodious notes of a huntsman’s horn echoed through the room. Harold recalled the legend, and paused at the door, mute and wondering.