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was, dressed like a well-to-do farmer's daughter and speaking like a lady of quality. For all her dignified airs, she could not be much older than Megan herself.
    Remembering that lady's last speech, Megan forgot her embarrassment in gratitude and relief. She would not have to leave. She had found sanctuary; and for this night, at least, she could enjoy the comfort of a quiet room to herself. The sheets smelled like lavender, and the air was fresh and cool. She might be lying in a summer garden under an open night sky, for the dying fire left the walls shrouded in darkness.
    Her thoughts wandered in the half-world between sleep and waking. Sanctuary ... the room and the house had that sort of feeling. Sheer age, perhaps—centuries of peaceful living had woven a spell of safety around the ancient walls. The old castle in Ireland, which she had last seen shortly after her mother's death, had the same atmosphere, though it had been half in ruins for years. The O'Neills were a noble family, but there was not much money. There was an abundance of Irish ghosts, however, if her father's tales could be believed—the White Lady, the headless coachman driving a spectral team, the family banshee, whose howl warned of imminent death. . . . Megan smiled drowsily. This room had no ghosts. It was as friendly and welcoming as a nursery.
    She was almost asleep when she was jolted upright by the most appalling sound she had ever heard—a long, undulating howl that wavered up and down the scale in an ecstasy of anguish. It sounded like a damned soul bewailing the loss of Heaven and the torment of Hell.
    Megan dragged the bedclothes up to her nose and stared wildly into the darkness. If the howl was that of a banshee —and what else could it be?—her father's description had fallen far short of the mark. Something rustled at the open window, and she squeezed her eyes shut for fear of seeing the fiery red eyes of the Bean Si glaring in at her.
    The cry came again—not from the window, but from beyond her closed door. This was reassuring. The O'Neill banshee never entered the castle, it hung from the eaves like a huge gray bat, its long hair streaming. Also, Megan remembered that there was a child in the house, and that that child was now her responsibility. If the howling had frightened her, what would it do to a baby of three? Barefoot, not stopping to find a wrap, she ran to the door and flung it open.
    The wailing cry broke out again. Unmuted by the thick panels of the door, it was even more appalling, but her courage was strengthened by light streaming out from the open door of an adjoining room. There were voices as well —human voices that seemed not so much frightened as impatient and angry. One of them rose in a triumphant shriek; then, at the dark end of the corridor, there appeared the form of a small child clutching something in her arms. She was an angelic infant, with rumpled yellow curls, wearing a long white nightgown. Seeing Megan silhouetted against the light, she called out, "I have her, Auntie. Here she is!"
    Footsteps from the other direction heralded the approach of Miss Mandeville, carrying a lamp in one hand. Her tousled hair and long brown robe gave her the look of a sleepy gnome.
    The little girl stopped near Megan. "You aren't my Aunt Jane," she said.
    "This is Miss O'Neill," said Miss Mandeville. "She is a new friend, who will help you learn."
    "How do you do, Miss O'Neill." The child made a grave little curtsy, imperiling her grasp on the object she clutched. It wriggled and snarled.
    Megan had begun to suspect that the creature Caroline held had been the source of the unearthly cries, though it seemed impossible that anything so small could emit such monumental woe. Her doubts were put to rest when it opened a mouth fringed with sharp white teeth and repeated the performance.
    At close range the effect was so unnerving that Megan stepped back. Miss Mandeville snatched the animal from the child.
    "Bad cat!" she