Then General Lyon bent over the side of his barouche, and showing her a broad, silver crown, said: “Come here, good woman, and tell these young ladies’ fortunes.” “Ah, Heaven bless your handsome face, kind gentleman but I would like to tell _yours_, too, for a fine fortune it has been, and is, and is to be!” said the gipsy coming up to the carriage. She was a small, slight woman, lithe and graceful like all her race, with a swarthy and somewhat wrinkled face; with deep-set, brilliant black eyes; crisply curling, tendril-like black hair; and well-marked black eyebrows. She did not wear the traditional red cloak and plaid head kerchief—those have long passed away even from among her tribe but she wore rather tawdry and shabby finery—a striped skirt, a black shawl, a straw bonnet trimmed with ribbons and flowers of many colors, red predominating. And, upon the whole, her appearance was picturesque and pleasing. Neither did she address her dupes in the poetic language of the ideal gipsy—her words and manner were as real as herself. “God save you, fair gentlemen! God save you, sweet ladies! Shall the poor gipsy tell your fortunes? I see good luck in _your_ face, pretty lady! I see great good luck! Give the poor gipsy a little, little bit of silver to cross your hand with, and she will look and see what the great good fortune is that is in store for you. Do, pretty lady,” she pleaded in a very sweet, soft, wheedling tone as she held out her hand to Anna. Mrs. Hammond dropped a shilling in her palm and, smiling, said: “My fortune is already told, good woman, but I want you to foretell the future of my dear little son here.” And she lifted Lenny from Dick’s arms to her own lap. Drusilla with a half-suppressed exclamation, now looked around. But Anna gave her a comically beseeching took, and she yielded the point and turned away. The gipsy seemed not to notice this little by-play. She stood with her hands folded upon her breast and her eyes fixed upon the ground. “Come, gipsy! look upon my little son here and read his future,” said Anna. The gipsy woman raised her glittering black eyes, and, smiling, shook her tendril-like black curls and said: “Ah, pretty, fair lady! You think the poor gipsy can tell what is _to come_, yet is so blind she cannot see what is _now_!—no!” “What do you mean, good woman?” “The boy is not your son, sweet lady.” “Not my son! Why, look at him! He is the very image of me!” “He is very like you, pretty lady; and that shows him to be of your race; but he is not your son.” “How do you know that?” questioned Anna, beginning to wonder at the woman’s knowledge. “By my art. You have no son, sweet lady. You will never have a son; but——” “Oh, don’t tell me that, gipsy! I didn’t give you a shilling to purchase bad news.”