"First give me your hand, miss; not that--the left one, like the others did. Alas!" sighed the artful woman, poring over the soft little palm, "life-line short and crossed, matrimony-line and line of riches cut clean off! I daresn't to lift the tempestuous veil of fortune. Black, mighty black!" Grace might have answered, "Very well, madam; then pray don't take the trouble to do it, but give me back my 'six bits,' and I'll buy that jelly for the soldiers." But Grace was by far too much interested; she could not go away now without hearing her fortune, however dark it might prove. "Please go on, ma'am," said she, with a brave smile, though her heart quaked for fear. "What day and year was you born, miss?" "September 3d, 1851." "Then you are under the influence of the planet _Marcury_," said the gypsy, after an intense study of the sky, during which she looked as wise as an astronomer calculating an eclipse. "Marcury, sorry to say. You have friends who have been--ahem!--who will go to the war." Here the gypsy paused and gazed at the heavens again, lost in thought. "She means your pa," whispered Lucy, "when you supposed he was dead, and he wasn't." "As I was saying, you have a very dear relation who was killed, or almost killed, in the wars," continued the gypsy, starting up from her reverie, and beginning where she had left off, without appearing to pay the slightest attention to Lucy's whisper. "I had to study a while to find out if he died; but the truth is, he's alive now--your father, I mean." If possible the girls were more amazed than ever. What didn't the gypsy know? Wasn't it awful? "Yes, at the time you was born, poor thing! the planets Marcury and Haskell were disjunctive. Whatever is to be will you'll see trouble. You have a dear friend: you set store by her." Here the gypsy perceived that she had made another happy hit, for Grace looked surprised again. "This friend pretends to have a heart for you; you think she's true; but mark my words,"--and the prophetess dropped her monotonous voice to a hoarse whisper; "mark my words: you never were more mistaken in your life." Here Isa's face took on an expression of pleasure, and she touched Grace's elbow, whispering, "Didn't I tell you so? There now!" Grace grew an inch taller; would not look at Isa, but tossed a reply to her over her shoulder:-- "Please don't say any more, Isa. The woman may have told the other things right, but she's made a mistake about Cassy Hallock." "Cassy Hallock! ah, that's the name," spoke up the gypsy. "What do you say about mistakes? I don't make mistakes! I tell you that smooth friend of yours is a snake in the grass. Flies buzz, girls talk. Don't trust that girl. Trouble's coming thick as sand." The girls cast pitying glances upon Grace, as if they already saw her the victim of sorrow.