“Well,” said he, in a milder tone, putting at the same time the key of Lucy's door again into his pocket, without being in the slightest degree conscious of it, “if you are, I suppose I must cross your hand with silver as usual; take this.” “No,” she replied, drawing back with another ghastly smile, the meaning of which was to him utterly undefinable, “from your hand nothing in the shape of money will ever pass into mine; but listen”--she looked at him for some moments, during which she paused, and then added--“I will not do it, I am not able to render good for evil, yet; I will suffer you to run your course. I am well aware that neither warning nor truth would have any effect upon you, unless to enable you to prepare and sharpen your plans with more ingenious villany. But you have a daughter; I will speak to you about her.” “Do,” said the baronet; “but why not take the silver?” “You will know that one day before you die, too,” said she, “and I don't think it will smooth your death-bed pillow.” “Why, you are a very mysterious old lady.” “I'll now give you a proof of that. You locked in your daughter before you left home.” Sir Thomas could not for his life prevent himself from starting so visibly that she observed it at once. “No such thing,” he replied, affecting a composure which he certainly did not feel; “you are an impostor, and I now see that you know nothing.” “What I say is true,” she replied, solemnly, “and you have stated, Thomas Gourlay, what you know to be a falsehood; I would be glad to discover you uttering truth unless with some evil intention. But now for your daughter; you wish to hear her fate?” “Certainly I do; but then you know nothing. You charge me with falsehood, but it is yourself that are the liar.” She waved her hand indignantly. “Will my daughter's husband be a man of title?” he asked, his mind passing to the great and engrossing object of his ambition. “He will be a man of title,” she replied, “and he will make her a countess.” “You must take money,” said he, thrusting his hand into his pocket, and once more pulling out his purse--“that is worth something, surely.” She waved her hand again, with a gesture of repulse still more indignant and frightful than before, and the bitter smile she gave while doing it again displayed her corpse-like teeth in a manner that was calculated to excite horror itself. “Very well,” replied the baronet; “I will not press you, only don't make such cursed frightful grimaces. But with respect to my daughter, will the marriage be with her own consent?” “With her own consent--it will be the dearest wish of her heart.” “Could you name her husband?” “I could and will. Lord Dunroe will be the man, and he will make her Countess of Cullamore.” “Well, now,” replied the other, “I believe you can speak truth, and are somewhat acquainted with the future. The girl certainly is attached to him, and I have no doubt the union will be, as you say, a happy one.”