The form stopped, appeared to crouch down for a moment, then suddenly rose and strode forth upon the grass. It was a woman, wearing a man's flannel jacket, and carrying a long, pointed staff in her hand. As she approached with rapid strides, he recognized Deb. Smith. “Deborah!” he cried, “what are you doing here?” She set her pole to the ground and vaulted over the high picket-fence, like an athlete. “Well,” she said, “if I'd ha' been shy o' you, Mr. Gilbert, you wouldn't ha' seen me. I'm not one of them as goes prowlin' around among dead bodies' bones at midnight; what I want, I looks for in the daytime.” “Bones?” he asked. “You're surely not digging up the Hessians?” “Not exackly; but, you see, the rain's turned out a few, and some on 'em, folks says, was buried with lots o' goold platted up in their pig-tails. I know o' one man that dug up two or three to git their teeth, (to sell to the tooth-doctors, you know,) and when he took hold o' the pig-tail to lift the head by, the hair come off in his hand, and out rattled ten good goolden guineas. Now, if any money's washed out, there's no harm in a body's pickin' of it up, as I see.” “What luck have you had?” asked Gilbert. “Nothin' to speak of; a few buttons, and a thing or two. But I say, Mr. Gilbert, what luck ha' _you_ had?” She had been keenly and curiously inspecting his face. “Deborah!” he exclaimed, “you're a false prophet! You told me that, whatever happened, I was safe from Sandy Flash.” “Eh?” There was a shrill tone of surprise and curiosity in this exclamation. “You ought to know Sandy Flash better, before you prophesy in his name,” Gilbert repeated, in a stern voice. “Oh, Mr. Gilbert, tell me what you mean?” She grasped his leg with one hand, while she twisted the other in Roger's mane, as if to hold both horse and rider until the words were explained. Thereupon he related to her in a brief, fierce way, all that had befallen him. Her face grew red and her eyes flashed; she shook her fist and swore under her breath, from time to time, while he spoke. “You'll be righted, Mr. Gilbert!” she then cried, “you'll be righted, never fear! Leave it to me! Haven't I always kep' my word to you? You're believin' I lied the last time, and no wonder; but I'll prove the truth o' my words yet--may the Devil git my soul, if I don't!” “Don't think that I blame you, Deborah,” he said. “You were too sure of my good luck, because you wished me to have it--that's all.” “Thank ye for that! But it isn't enough for me. When I promise a thing, I have power to keep my promise. Ax me no more questions; bide quiet awhile, and if the money isn't back in your pocket by New-Year, I give ye leave to curse me, and kick me, and spit upon me!”