* * * * * “Have your fortune told, lady?” asked a withered old woman, of Mary, as she tripped down the steps to join Percy. “Of course,” said the laughing girl: “suppose you tell me whom I am to marry,” with a gay glance at Percy; and she ungloved her small white hand, while the dame’s withered fingers traced its delicate lines. “Retribution is written here,” said the old woman, solemnly; “your sun will set early, fair girl.” “Come away, Mary,” said Percy, with a frown, shaking his whip at the woman, “the old thing is becrazed.” “Time will show,” muttered the beldame, pocketing the coin with which Mary had crossed her hand; “time will show; brighter eyes than yours, fair lady, have wept themselves dim.” “What can she mean?” said Mary, drawing involuntarily close to the side of her lover. “I almost wish we had not seen her.” The spirits of youth are elastic. The April cloud soon passed from Mary’s brow, and before the fleet horses had skimmed a mile, her laugh rang out as merrily as ever. The lovers had both a trained eye for natural beauty, and the lovely road through which they passed, with its brown houses half hidden in foliage--the lazy grazing cattle--the scent of new-mown hay and breath of flowers--the rude song of the plowman and the delicate twitter of the bird--the far-off hills, with their tall trees distinctly defined against the clear blue sky--the silver stream and velvet meadows--the wind’s wild anthem, now swelling as if in full chorus, then soft and sweet as the murmur of a sleeping babe, all filled their hearts with a quiet joy. “Life is very sweet,” said Mary, turning her lustrous eyes upon her lover. “People say that happiness and prosperity harden the heart; when I am most blest I feel most devotional. In vain might the infidel tell me ‘there is no God,’ with such a scene as this before me, or fetter my grateful heart-pulses as they adored the Giver.” “You dear little saint,” said Percy, with a light laugh, “how well you preach. Well--my mother was neck-deep in religion; the prayers and hymns she taught me, stay by me now, whether I will or no. I often catch myself saying ‘Now I lay me,’ when I go to bed, from the mere force of habit; but your rosy lips were never made to mumble pater nosters, Mary: leave that to crafty priests, and disappointed nuns. Religion, my pet, is another name for humbug, all the world over; your would-be-saint always cheats in proportion to the length of his face and his prayers. Bah! don’t let us talk of it.” “Don’t--dear Percy,” said Mary. “I like you less well when you talk so; religion is the only sure basis of character. Every superstructure not built on this foundation--”