Some people say it's to stand there till the day of judgment." Having now refreshed themselves, they left Bet Harramont's cabin, with all its awful associations, behind them, and resumed their sport, which they continued until evening, when, having killed as many hares as they could readily carry, they took a short cut home through the lower fields.

By this way they came upon a long, green hill, covered in some places with short furze, and commanding a full view of the haunted house, which lay some four or five hundred yards below them, with its back door lying, as usual, open.
"Let us beat these furze," said Woodward, "and have one run more, if we can, before getting home; it is just the place for a hare." "With all my heart," replied Barney; "another will complete the half dozen." They accordingly commenced searching the cover, which they did to no purpose, and were upon the point of giving up all hope of I success, when, from the centre of a low, broad clump of furze, out starts a hare, as white almost as snow.

Barney for a moment was struck dumb; but at length exerting his voice, for he was some distance from Woodward, he shouted out-- "O, for goodness' sake, hould in the dogs, Masther Harry!" It was too late, however; the gallant, animals, though fatigued by their previous exertions, immediately gave noble chase, and by far the most beautiful and interesting course they had had that day took place upon the broad, clear plain that stretched before them.

It was, indeed, to the eye of a sportsman, one of intense and surpassing interest--an interest which, even to Woodward, who only laughed at Barney's story of the witch, was, nevertheless, deepened tenfold by the coincidence between the two circumstances.

The swift and mettlesome dogs pushed her hard, and succeeded in turning her several times, when it was observed that she made a point to manage her running so as to approximate to the haunted house--a fact which was not unobserved by Barney, who now, having joined Woodward, exclaimed-- "Mark it, Masther Harry, mark my words, she's alive still, and will be wid the _Shan-dhinne-dhuv_ in spite o' them! Bravo, Sambo! Well done, Snail; ay, Snail, indeed--hillo! by the sweets o' rosin they have her--no, no--but it was a beautiful turn, though; and poor Snail, so tired afther his day's work.