“The twenty-first of October, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“Ah, nothing particular. You see, my dear good husband, I was not born under a fortunate star. I had my nativity cast a long time ago, and the horoscope proved that I was born under an unfortunate star. It showed also—” she paused suddenly, and closed her eyes.
“What, dear—what did it show?” inquired the farmer.
“That between the twenty-first and twenty-fourth of October, 1874, a change would take place. Now I know what it means.”
The farmer felt like one who had received a heavy blow.
He comprehended her meaning, and big beads of perspiration fell from his temples.
“She believes that she is about to die,” he murmured; “but this is very terrible.”
“Ye mustn’t gi’ way, Jane—mustn’t gi’ way to superstition,” he cried; “there beant a mossel o’ truth in these horeoscops—not a mossel o’ truth in anything o’ the sort. Don’t ’ee believe a word o’ such nonsense. May be after all it’s that what’s making ’ee so ill.”
His wife smiled.