“Come in, woman!” said a strange, cracked old voice, and there followed a laugh like a cackle. “Come in, each and all.”
Daisy pushed in and Farnsworth stepped in, too, for he didn’t altogether like the sound of that laugh. Then they all crowded in and saw the old hermit, sitting in a hunched-up position on a pile of rugs in the corner of the hut.
“Which one first?” he muttered; “which pretty lady first? All have fortunes, wonderful fortunes coming to them.”
The old man’s garb was somewhat like that of a monk. A dingy robe was girdled with a hempen rope, and a cowl-shaped hood fell well over his brow. His face was brown and seamed and wrinkled with age, and he wore queer-looking dark glasses. On his hands were old gloves that had once been white, but were now a dingy grey, and he seemed feeble, and unable to move without difficulty.
But he was alert, doubtless spurred by the hope of getting well paid.
“You go first, Daisy,” said Patty; “then we’ll see how it works.”
“All right, I’m not afraid,” and Daisy extended her palm to the old man.
“Here, wait!” she cried; “don’t touch me with those dirty old gloves! Can’t I wrap my handkerchief round my hand?”
The hermit made no objection, and Daisy wound a fresh handkerchief about her fingers, leaving the palm exposed for the seer to read.
He began, in a droning voice: