“_Sallah!_” she muttered, under her breath; and although Stella did not understand her, she easily guessed that the expression conveyed a malediction. “He’s hard on us, is he? Let him wait a bit.” Then, changing suddenly to a wheedling tone, she begged again to be allowed to tell Stella’s fortune. In vain the girl pressed money upon her, and tried by warnings and entreaties to get rid of her, while she hurried on toward the house. Old Sarah was not to be shaken off, and professed herself fearless as to the consequences which might befall her if seen by one of Sir Philip’s keepers. Stella began to be seriously frightened at length lest the woman might come to some harm, knowing her father’s orders. “Now, pray, take this half-sovereign,” she urged, “and go back out of the park at once. In a few seconds we shall be in sight of the house, and the dogs are trained to fly at any one who is not smartly dressed. And only yesterday Stephen Lee, one of the keepers, shot a gentleman, who was accidentally trespassing, in the shoulder, and wounded him very seriously.” “Don’t I know, my pretty? And isn’t Stephen Lee son to my own daughter’s child, and am I not his old _mami_? He won’t hurt me, never fear. Cross my hand with the bit of gold, and I’ll go.” In order to rid herself of her, as it was now close on the dinner-hour at the Chase, Stella let her soft white hand be clutched within Sarah’s lean fingers, and stood watching, impatient, and yet a little interested in spite of herself, as the gypsy took a box of matches and a dirty end of candle from her pocket, and peered into her victim’s palm under the lightly falling rain. “I see a prison, my deary, and a marriage forced upon you--marriage with a dark gentleman, who loves you, dear, and who is a great lord; but your heart is given to the fair man. I see starvation and a death, and only one way of help for you.” She droned the words monotonously, as though some inner force were dictating them to her, doubtless a trick of her trade, but none the less impressive to an imaginative young girl. “Go on!” whispered Stella. “And pray make haste. I _must_ get home.” “You must ask your own people to save you,” said the old woman, raising the forefinger of her right hand impressively. “Only the Romanys can help you. Trust no one else, and when despair comes, send this token to me--to old Sarah Carewe, that held you in her arms when you first opened your eyes on this wicked world.” Suddenly blowing out the candle, she fumbled in her pocket, and then thrust into Stella’s hand what appeared to be a small silver coin strung on a piece of dirty red silk cord. “When you want my help,” she said, “give this to Stephen Lee, and I will save you. You shall marry the man you love, and live a life of freedom and happiness, as a Romany _doxy_ should; and the black lord and the gray wolf may go hang together. Good-night, my pretty. _Beenship rat._ And remember old Sarah!”