“When the Major rode by,” laughed Betty; “but when I heard you coming, I'd lie hidden among the briers, and I'd scatter signs for other gypsies that read, 'Beware the Montjoy.'”
His face darkened and he frowned. “So it's the Montjoy you're afraid of,” he rejoined gloomily. “I'm not all Lightfoot, though I'm apt to forget it; the Montjoy blood is there, all the same, and it isn't good blood.”
“Your blood is good,” said Betty, warmly.
He laughed again and met her eyes with a look of whimsical tenderness. “Make me your beggar, Betty,” he prayed, smiling.
“You a beggar!” She shook a scornful head. “I can shut my eyes and see your fortune, sir, and it doesn't lie upon the roadside. I see a well-fed country gentleman who rises late to breakfast and storms when the birds are overdone, who drinks his two cups of coffee and eats syrup upon his cakes—”
“O pleasant prophetess!” he threw in.
“I look and see him riding over the rich fields in the early morning, watching from horseback the planting and the growing and the ripening of the corn. He has a dozen servants to fetch the whip he drops, and a dozen others to hold his bridle when he pleases to dismount; the dogs leap round him in the drive, and he brushes away the one that licks his face. I see him grow stout and red-faced as he reads a dull Latin volume beside his bottle of old port—there's your fortune, sir, the silver, if you please.” She finished in a whining voice, and rose to drop a courtesy.
“On my word, you're a witch, Betty,” he exclaimed, laughing, “a regular witch on a broomstick.”
“Does the likeness flatter you? Shall I touch it up a bit? Just a dash more of red in the face?”
“Well, I reckon it's true as prophecy ever was,” he said easily. “It isn't likely that I'll ever be a beggar, despite your kindly wishes for my soul's welfare; and, on the whole, I think I'd rather not. When all's said and done, I'd rather own my servants and my cultivated acres, and come down late to hot cakes than sit in the dust by the roadside and eat sour grapes. It may not be so good for the soul, but it's vastly more comfortable; and I'm not sure that a fat soul in a lean body is the best of life, Betty.”