The pleading, earnest voice, the mournful, dark eyes, stirred Lionel Dale's heart strangely. An impulse moved him towards trust in this woman, this outcast,--curiosity even impelled him to ask her, in such terms as would ensure her compliance, for a full explanation of her mysterious conduct. But he checked the impulse, he silenced the promptings of curiosity, sacrificing them to his ever-present sense of his professional and personal dignity. While the momentary struggle lasted, the gipsy woman closely scanned his face. At length he said coldly: "I will do as you ask. I place no reliance on your statements, but you are right in asking for the means of substantiating them. I will see you, or any one you may send to-morrow." "You will be at home?" she asked, anxiously. "The hunt?" "The hunt will hardly take place; the weather is too much against us," replied Lionel Dale. "Except there should be a very decided change, there will be no hunt, and I shall be at home." Having said this, Lionel Dale rose, with a decided air of dismissal. The gipsy rose too, and stood unshrinkingly before him, as she said: "And now I will leave you. Good night. You think me a mad woman, or an impostor. This is the second occasion on which you have misjudged me, Mr. Dale." As the rector met the earnest gaze of her brilliant eyes, a strange feeling took possession of his mind. It seemed to him, as if he had before encountered that earnest and profound gaze. "I must have seen such a face in a dream," he thought to himself; "where else but in a dream?" The fancy had a powerful influence over him, and occupied his mind as he preceded the gipsy woman to the hall, and opened the door for her to pass out. The snow had ceased to fall; the bright wintry moon rode high in the heaven, amidst black, hurrying clouds. That cold light shone on the white range of hills sleeping beneath a shroud of untrodden snow. On the threshold of the door the gipsy woman turned and addressed Lionel Dale-- "There will be no hunting while this weather lasts." "None." "Then your grand meeting of to-morrow will be put off?" "Yes, unless the weather changes in the night." "Once more, good night, Mr. Dale." "Good night." The rector stood at the door, watching the gipsy woman as she walked along the snow-laden pathway. The dark figure moving slowly and silently across the broad white expanse of hidden lawn and flower-beds looked almost ghost-like to the eyes of the watcher. "What does it all mean?" he asked himself, as he watched that receding figure. "Is this woman a common impostor, who hopes to enrich herself, or her tribe, by playing upon my fears? She asked nothing of me to-night; and yet that may be but a trick of her trade, and she may intend to extort all the more from me in the future. What should she be but a cheat and a trickster, like the rest of her race?" The question was not easy to settle.