“Will you permit me to inquire, my good woman, what college—what great seat of learning—you attended?” inquired Mr. Sage ironically. “College?” she inquired, a trifle blankly. “You speak the language of a cultivated woman. You use good English. You have colossal figures on the tip of your tongue. You—” “I speak many languages,” she broke in. “The language of the stars is older than any of them. There were stars in the East when the Savior was born. They were there when this world was made and peopled with ignorant men and women. They saw from afar the birth of your Savior a million years before he was—” “My dear Brother Baxter,” cried the parson, “this is perfect nonsense. Have you the impudence, Madam, to imply that we mortals are so far behind the times as all this?” “I know of nothing, Reverend Sir, that proves the fact more clearly than the institution you represent,” said the gypsy, with a rare smile. “Goodness, what beautiful teeth!” murmured Mrs. Sage admiringly. “The best I can say for you, Madam,” said Mr. Sage, returning the smile, “is that right or wrong, honest or dishonest, you are nobody’s fool.” “I can see beyond the end of my nose,” rejoined the woman cryptically. The parson laughed. “And so, according to your gospel, I am now treading the streets of the Celestial City, and have been doing so for a million years without knowing it?” With the utmost seriousness the gypsy replied: “If you will cross my palm with a piece of silver, good Pastor, I may be able to state positively whether you are there—or in the other place.” The parson’s wife clapped her hands. “Give her a quarter, Herbert,” she cried, mischievously. “It certainly is worth that much to find out whether we’re wasting our youth trying to—” “Ahem! My dear Josephine! In the first place, I do not have to be told that I am going to heaven when I die. I live in faith. I have no doubt as to the future.” At this point Mr. Baxter’s interest in the project got the better of his politeness. “We’re wasting time. Let’s get down to business. Do you mean to say, Queen, that you can look at my hand and tell what’s ahead of my boy upstairs?” “First, you must cross my palm with silver. It is a bitter night, Mister. I have come far through the storm to serve you. You are poor, but so am I. I have earned more than one piece of silver, but I will be content with what you may give.” “I believe I’ll take a chance on it,” said Baxter, with a defiant glance at Mrs. Grimes and the supercilious Gooches. Mrs. Grimes was deeply though secretly impressed by the words and manner of the gypsy. She nodded her head and Baxter brightened. Mr. Gooch, however, exclaimed: “Don’t be a fool, Baxter. Money don’t grow on bushes.”