"What be this I see?" she cried in a hoarse voice; "a dark, tall, sun-browned man with pointed beard, half soldier, half sailor, who looks upon thee with eyes full of scorn." "Has he dark grey eyes, mother?" whispered Janet, in an awe-stricken voice. "Ay, child, and a dashing, roving look." "It be Culverin Carr," muttered the girl, pressing her hand to her throbbing heart. "And now I see an old rough, grey man, big, and harsh, and stark, who would wed thee, but I know him not, for he keeps his head away." "Mas' Wat Kilby!" muttered Janet, with a sigh. "And now I see another, who is at thy feet, child; a handsome man in silk and velvet, who looks prayerfully in thy face, and asks thee to let him love thee." "Tell me more of him!" cried Janet, eagerly. "I can see but little more, child, only that he has white hands with rings upon them, and a sword is hanging to his belt. He looks a handsome and a courtly youth, such as we have not in these parts here." "'Tis Sir Mark," said Janet to herself. "He looks love to thee, but a woman of thy size and shape steps in between thee, and tears him away." "What be she like?" cried Janet. "I cannot see, child, for her head be turned away, but surely it be thee, from the turn of the head. How be this? Thou tightest against thyself." "Nay, 'tis Mistress Mace Cobbe. Let me look." "Thou art right; it be thy young mistress; and see, the gallant tries to reach thee, and her hand be raised to strike, and--How strange!" "What be it, mother?" "The glass has grown dim, as if a black shadow had passed over it, and I can see no more. Try thou, my child." "Nay, nay, I dare not; it be too terrifying!" cried Janet, thrusting back the crystal. "'Tis better not," said the old woman. "It be dangerous at times. There, child, I can tell thee no more to-day." "But tell me, mother, what can I do? Pray give me your help." "Help, child! How can I help thee?" "It be all so true," whispered Janet. "He loves me, and she has come between us, and I hate her. What shall I do?" "Does she love him?" "I think so. I don't know." "What could I do to help her?" muttered Mother Goodhugh, as if communing with herself, but loud enough for the silly girl to hear. "I could give her a philtre that would turn her own love for this gallant to hate, and so comfort her poor suffering heart. See, child," she said aloud, "I will give thee a potion that thou shalt take a little at a time in every meal; and, at the end of a week, thou shalt feel so strong a hatred of this lover of thine that thou shalt feel perfect rest. Will that do?"