'The very night he met his death in England, old Oliver, the butler, was
listening to Dalton--for Dalton was a scholar--reading the letter that
came to him through the post that day, telling him to get things ready,
for his troubles wor nearly over and he expected to be with them again
in a few days, and maybe almost as soon as the letter; and sure enough,
while he was reading, there comes a frightful rattle at the window, like
some one all in a tremble, trying to shake it open, and the earl's
voice, as they both conceited, cries from outside, "Let me in, let me
in, let me in!" "It's him," says the butler. "'Tis so, bedad," says
Dalton, and they both looked at the windy, and at one another--and then
back again--overjoyed, in a soart of a way, and frightened all at onst.
Old Oliver was bad with the rheumatiz. So away goes Dalton to the
hall-door, and he calls "who's there?" and no answer. "Maybe," says
Dalton, to himself, "'tis what he's rid round to the back-door;" so to
the back-door with him, and there he shouts again--and no answer, and
not a sound outside--and he began to feel quare, and to the hall door
with him back again.
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