There was a nurse staying in the same house who believed implicitly in such things, and she furnished them with the name and address of a woman who, according to her accounts, had much fame as a truthful fortune-teller.
It was a hot Friday afternoon when they went, and the next day Deborah was returning to the country.
The woman had a fine face and a pleasing manner.
She first of all told Susan’s hand—and she really did contrive to tell it marvellously well. She told her a great deal too, and all that she said was true. By this time it was getting very dark, and there was every appearance of a thunder-storm—the heat all day had been intense.
When she came to read Deborah’s hand she had exhausted her supply of words. But after a while she said,—
“You are unfair in your prejudices. You take strong likes and dislikes without any good foundation for them.”
“There now,” said Susan. “That is you to a ‘T,’ Deborah.”
After that the lady was some time casting about in her mind as to what she should say next, till suddenly Susan queried,—
“Has she any particular gift for writing?”
That rather startled Deborah; she had not expected it, although it was the one thing and the only thing she wanted to know.