"What is the curse?" she asked boldly. "Why should there be a curse? Why is none brave enough to destroy it? I would. I would live in the castle and defy it, if it were mine. It is but some foolish tale." "You defy it--a girl like you!" laughed the old hag derisively. "Away with you, I say! Why should the curse fall on your golden head? Away--away from the gates of woe!" And she threw up her arms and uttered a wild shriek. "Do you know aught about the curse?" asked Miss Primrose, curiosity overpowering her fear. "Why do you forever talk so much about it? I believe it is all nonsense." "A chit like you knows naught," answered the gipsy scornfully. "I tell you, girl," and her wild eyes glared, "I tell you it slew my daughter." "Ah, I forgot," said Primrose remorsefully; then touched with a deep sympathy, she laid a fearless hand on the old woman's arm, and said gently; "How was that? Tell me, an it will give you comfort." "Not now, not now," muttered the woman; "I may perchance recall it to mind another day; but my head is old, and my memory fails me.--Let me tell thy fortune, pretty child," she added, suddenly changing her tone. "For a little bit of silver I can tell thee a pretty fortune." "I have no faith in fortune-telling," answered Primrose; "but if a little bit of silver is what you want, here it is, and you may tell me what you please in return!" And she held out a rosy palm, half in fear, half in amusement. "I shall believe never a word," she said, with a laugh; "but I have often heard of fortune-telling, and I would like just to hear what you can say." "You are proud of your birth, that is plain," said the gipsy, peering closely in the twilight into the little hand she held. "I see a long ancestry, and you have great, yes, very great pride of birth----" "Indeed I have not!" exclaimed Primrose, laughing, "for I know nothing of it. Why, dear gipsy, I do not even know what parents I have to be proud of, much less what ancestry!" "Hush!" said the gipsy, "you talk too fast. An you care not to listen, I will cease." "Nay, prithee go on, dear gipsy!" said Primrose contritely, "and I will hold my tongue. Ah! but you are surely flattering me more than such a tiny bit of silver were worth!" for with glib tongue the old woman ran on in a stream of poetical language, ascribing to her young listener such virtues and perfections of mind and person as brought blushes to her cheeks. "You will deeply love and be loved," she continued, "yet I see no marriage. Fate will make or mar your union. You are gentle, yet you have a strong will, and you will make of your love what you will. He to whom it is given will be worthy, brave as the lion, yet gentle as the lamb and pure as the lily." "That should, methinks, be seen on his hand, not on mine," murmured Primrose with a laugh, yet blushing deeper in the darkness, as she thought of Sir Galahad, and wondered if there were indeed any like him among living men. "I will tell no