"How you do go on, Mother Jimboy!" giggled the girl, with an affectation of carelessness. "I don't believe a bit in hand-reading; I'm sure I don't, so there! I know my own fortune well. Don't I, Mr. Lovel?" and again she shot a glance at the young man--this time a coquettish one. "Of course," he assented, with a smile; "and I know mine." "An' I know both o' mum!" cried Mrs. Jimboy, striking her stick on the ground. "Hee! hee! 'tis gran as cud fright the smile from they pretty faces, I du say. Haw be young squire, Miss Milly?" "Insolent!" muttered Lovel, wrathfully. "Hold your tongue, you old hag, and tell Miss Lester's fortune at once!" "I's feared for sure, dearies both; I's mortal feared." "You silly old witch!" said Milly, with scornful bravery. "I'm not. I shall know what is in my hand; though I shan't believe a single word you say." "Tis as ye plase, miss; belave or not, 'tis all one. But the skein will run till 'tis clipped for all that!" "What do you mean by this jargon?" cried Lovel, still furious at the late illusion to the squire. "Speak plainly, or I'll hand you over to the police as an impostor!" The last word touched the old dame nearly, and she reared up her bent frame to point a crooked finger at Lovel; but she spoke generally to the one and the other. "Imposter, am I? Hee! hee! An you don't belave, Miss Milly? Hee! hee! I'll spare ye no more! Gimme th' han', dear soul alive, give th' han'; and if ye weep blood fur the tellings o' mum--well, I warned ye, I warned ye!" Milly stamped a dainty foot, and held out a dainty hand to be seized by gran's brown claws. "Do your worst!" said she petulantly. "I'm sure I shan't believe a single nasty thing you tell me!" "Aye! eh!" mumbled Mrs. Jimboy, tracing the pink palm lines with a dirty forefinger; "but Fate, you zee, be stronger nor young things, dearie; aw, yis, fur sure. Here mum be, ef ye mus' now"--man and girl bent their comely heads, while gran continued--"you'm bound to one; you'm loved by another; but none o' mum shall call ye wife." "Why not?" demanded Lovel roughly, while Milly drew back her hand with an ejaculation of alarm. "Why?" cried the gipsy fiercely--"'cause the grave 'ull be her bridal bed, for sure; an' worms 'ull feast on the beauty ye love. Death, dearie; death an' murder, I du tell 'ee; an' murder, dear souls, an' yis," she concluded, with a relish for her evil speaking. Enraged by this speech, which made Milly cling to him in a tremor of nervous excitement, Lovel raised his cane threateningly. With an activity wonderful in one so old, gran shuffled nimbly back, spitting and snarling like a cat. Her eyes fairly sparkled with fury.