Lady Devereux had read this little poem over the third time, and repeatedly wiped the tears from her beautiful blue eyes, when the maid entered her chamber, and in a tone of complaint informed her mistress that there was a very importunate and troublesome gypsy in the kitchen, who, after having told the fortunes of all the servants in the house, and partook of the usual hospitalities, insisted on seeing her, to tell also, she said, the fortune of the lady of the house. “I am not in a mood to relish such foolery now, so send her about her business,” answered the lady, in a tone more sorrowful than angry. “It is quite useless,” replied the girl, “to attempt to send her away; big Evan the gardener tried to take her by the shoulders, and turn her out by force, but she whirled round, grasped him by the arms, tripped up his heels, and laid him in a moment on the floor. There she sits in the kitchen, and vows she will not budge from thence for either man or woman, till she sees the lady of Ystrad Fîn, whom she loves, she says, dearer than her life, and would not for millions harm a hair of her head.” Although too deeply absorbed in sorrow to have her curiosity much excited, she went down stairs, and approaching the sibyl, who had now taken her station in the hall, asked, “What do you want, my good woman?”—“To tell you,” answered she, “not your fortune, but what may be your fortune if you choose.” “Let me hear then,” said the lady of Ystrad Fîn, with a faint incredulous smile, walking before her, at the same time, into a little back parlour. Before she could seat herself, the apparent gypsy caught her right hand wrist, and looking round, whispered in her ear, “To heal your torn bosom, and ease every smart, Oh take—he’s before you—the youth of your heart.” The colour fled the fair widow’s cheeks, and in a moment she sank in a swoon in her lover’s arms. Soon recovering, she desired her maid to deny her to every body that called, “as,” added she with a smile, “I have particular business with the gypsy.” A scene of tears and tenderness ensued; when Twm, with the utmost fervour, urged his suit with the young widow. She replied that her father had insisted on, and received her promise, that she would wed no being but who either bore a title, or stood within a relative to one. “You did well,” replied our hero, with the most impudent and easy confidence, “and your promise, so far from militating against me, is really in my favor; for am not I the son of a baronet? his natural child, ’tis true, but still his son; and you would break no promise to your father in marrying me; but if you did, so much the better, for a bad promise is better broke than kept. I have friends at this moment, who are doing their utmost to move my father, Sir John Wynne of Gwydir, to own me publicly for his right worthy son; and if he does not, the loss is his, for I shall certainly disown him else for a father, and claim the parentage of some greater man.”