I put my hand in my pocket and drew out a shilling and placed it in the broad palm of the gipsy’s outstretched hand. The passengers gazed with excitement. Mr. Harris drew closer by a stride. The two ladders at the forward end of the deck and the bulwark rail that rose to midway the height of the ladders on either hand were still crowded with emigrants, none of whom, however, trespassed an inch beyond the topmost step. All this keen interest was easy enough to understand. Was it possible that the gipsy, though she should be unable to restore my memory, would be able to peer into the darkened mirror of my past and witness there what was hidden from myself? ‘You must lift up your veil, dear lady,’ said the gipsy, ‘there are signs in your face that I shan’t be able to find in your hand.’ ‘What is this?’ suddenly exclaimed the grave voice of Captain Ladmore. ‘Whom have we here? And what is she doing?’ ‘She’s telling fortunes, sir,’ answered Mr. Harris, in a voice of disgust. ‘Who brought her on to the poop,’ exclaimed Captain Ladmore. ‘I did,’ said Mrs. Webber. ‘Pray do not meddle, my dear captain. The interest is just now red hot.’ The gipsy woman ducked with a wild sort of curtsey at the captain, grinning with all her teeth at him as she did so. He gazed at her with a sober frown, and I hoped that he would order her off the deck, but he said nothing, merely stood looking gravely on, towering half a head above the people who stood in front of him, whilst Mr. Harris, at his side, scarcely removed his eyes from my face. ‘Lift up your veil, if you please, my dear lady, that I may see your eyes,’ said the gipsy. ‘I had supposed that the sight of my hand would be enough for you,’ said I. ‘I can tell your ladyship’s fortune by your hand,’ said she, ‘but the past lies in your eyes. They are the windows of your memory, and I must look through them to see what’s indoors.’ ‘What do you think of that for a poetical touch, Kate?’ I heard Mr. Webber say. ‘Raise your veil, Agnes,’ whispered Alice softly, ‘if it is only for a moment, dear. I am curious to hear what the woman means to tell you. There may be a meaning in this--something may come of it.’ So I put my hand to my veil and raised it above my eyes, contriving that it should keep my scarred forehead screened. CHAPTER XVI MY FORTUNE The gipsy woman stooped and stared at me. Her face was close to mine, I seemed to feel her hot breath and shrunk in my chair. Never can I forget those eyes of hers. To this day do they revisit me in my sleep and glare upon me in dreams. Oh, such eyes as that woman had! The pupils were like liquid indigo; they contracted and enlarged as though they were fluid, indeed, upon the orange ground of the balls. They seemed on fire as their gaze flashed deep and full into my own vision. The scrutiny swiftly grew intolerable and I dropped my veil.