"The queen of the gipsies, I am told. I never saw such a wonderful woman in my life--her eye goes right through you. I met her on the common, and, as she passed, she dropped a handkerchief. I ran back to give it her, and then she thanked me and said, `Open your hand and let me see the palm. Here are great lines, and you will be fortunate;' and then she told me a great deal more, and bid God bless me." "Then if she said that, she cannot have dealings with the _devil_," observed Melchior. "Very odd--very strange--take no money--queen of the gipsies," was echoed from all sides. The landlady and the bar-maid listened with wonder, when who should come in, as previously agreed, but Timothy. I pretended not to see him; but he came up to me, seizing me by the hand, and shaking it with apparent delight, and crying, "Wilson, have you forgot Smith?" "Smith!" cried I, looking earnestly in his face. "Why so it is. How came you here?" "I left Dublin three days ago," replied he; "but how I came here into this house, is one of the strangest things that ever occurred. I was walking over the common, when a tall handsome woman looked at me, and said, `Young man, if you will go into the third public-house you pass, you will meet an old friend, who expects you.' I thought she was laughing at me; but as it mattered very little in which house I passed the night, I thought, for the fun of the thing, I might as well take her advice." "How strange!" cried Melchior, "and she told him the same--that is, he would meet a friend." "Strange--very strange--wonderful--astonishing!" was echoed from all quarters, and the fame of the gipsy was already established. Timothy and I sat down together, conversing as old friends, and Melchior went about from one to the other, narrating the wonderful occurrence till past midnight, when we all three took beds at the inn, as if we were travellers.