"Nay, boy," said she, following my glance, "it's not the rabble Kettie need fear, as you count rabble; it's their betters"--swaying her arms towards the carriages, and the dandies, their owners or guests; some of whom were balancing themselves on the steps to talk to the pretty girls within, and some were strolling about the enclosed paddock, forbidden ground but to the "upper few." "Ketira is too fair to be shown to _them_." "They would not eat her, Ketira." "No, they would not eat her," she replied in a dreamy tone, as if her thoughts were elsewhere. "And I don't see any other harm they could do her, guarded by you." "Boy," she said, dropping her voice to an impressive whisper, and lightly touching my arm with her yellow hand, "I have read Kettie's fate in the stars, and I see that there is some great and grievous peril approaching her. It _may_ be averted; there's just a chance that it may: meanwhile I am encompassing her about with care, guarding her as the apple of my eye." "And if it should not be averted?" I asked in the moment's impulse, carried away by the woman's impressive earnestness. "Then woe be to those who bring the evil upon her!" "And of what nature is the evil?" "I know not," she replied, her eyes taking again their dreamy, far-off look. "Woe is me!--for I know it not." "How do you do, Ludlow? Not here alone, are you?" A good-looking young fellow, Hyde Stockhausen, had reined in his horse to ask the question: giving at the same time a keen glance to the gipsy woman and then a half-smile at me, as if he suspected I was having my fortune told. "The rest are on the course somewhere. The Squire is driving old Jacobson about." As Hyde nodded and rode on, I chanced to see Ketira's face. It was stretched out after him with the most eager gaze on it, a defiant look in her black eyes. I thought Stockhausen must have offended her. "Do you know him?" I asked involuntarily. "I never saw him before; but I don't like him," she answered, showing her white and gleaming teeth. "Who is he?" "His name is Stockhausen." "I don't like him," she repeated in a muttering tone. "He is an enemy. I don't like his look." Considering that he was a well-looking man, with a pleasant face and gay blue eyes, a face that no reasonable spirit could take umbrage at, I wondered to hear her say this. "You must have a peculiar taste in looks, Ketira, to dislike his." "You don't understand," she said abruptly: and, turning away, disappeared in the throng. Only once more did I catch sight of Ketira that day. It was at the lower end of Pitchcroft, near the show. She was standing in front of a booth, staring at a group of horsemen who seemed to have met and halted there, one of whom was young Stockhausen. Again the notion crossed me that he must in some way have affronted her. It was on him her eyes were fixed: and in them lay the same curious, defiant expression of antagonism, mingled with fear.