So she was. A whole sea of smiles on her thin face. She wore a grey gown as genteel as herself, bands of black velvet round her pinched-in waist and long throat. Cattledon looked like vinegar in general, it's true; but I don't say she was bad at heart. Even she could be genial to-day, and the rest of us were off our head with jollity, the Squire's face and Sir John's beaming back at one another. If we had only foreseen how pitifully the day was to end! It makes me think of some verses I once learnt out of a journal--Chambers's, I believe. They were written by Mrs. Plarr. "There are twin Genii, who, strong and mighty, Under their guidance mankind retain; And the name of the lovely one is Pleasure, And the name of the loathly one is Pain. Never divided, where one can enter Ever the other comes close behind; And he who in Pleasure his thoughts would centre Surely Pain in the search shall find! "Alike they are, though in much they differ-- Strong resemblance is 'twixt the twain; So that sometimes you may question whether It can be Pleasure you feel, or Pain. Thus 'tis, that whatever of deep emotion Stirreth the heart--be it grave or gay Tears are the Symbol--from feeling's ocean These are the fountains that rise to-day. "Should not this teach us calmly to welcome Pleasure when smiling our hearths beside? If she be the substance, how dark the shadow; Close doth it follow, the near allied. Or if Pain long o'er our threshold hover, Let us not question but Pleasure nigh Bideth her time her face to discover, Rainbow of Hope in a clouded sky." Yes, it was a good time. To look at us round that dinner-table, you'd have said there was nothing but pleasure in the world. Not but that ever and anon the poor young gipsy woman's troubled face and her sad wild eyes, and the warning some subtle instinct seemed to be whispering to her about her husband, would rise between me and the light. The afternoon was wearing on when I got back to the glade with William Whitney (for we had all gone strolling about after dinner) and found some of the ladies there. Mrs. Todhetley had gone into Rednal's cottage to talk to his wife, Jessy; Anna was below in the dell; all the rest were in the glade. A clean-looking, stout old lady, in a light cotton gown and white apron, a mob cap with a big border and bow of ribbon in front of it, turned round from talking to them, smiled, and made me a curtsy. The face seemed familiar to me: but where had I seen it before? Helen Whitney, seeing my puzzled look, spoke up in her free manner. "Have you no memory, Johnny Ludlow? Don't you remember Mrs. Ness!--and the fortune she told us on the cards?"