“Come, gipsy! look upon my little son here and read his future,” said Anna.
The gipsy woman raised her glittering black eyes, and, smiling, shook her tendril-like black curls and said:
“Ah, pretty, fair lady! You think the poor gipsy can tell what is to come, yet is so blind she cannot see what is now!—no!”
“What do you mean, good woman?”
“The boy is not your son, sweet lady.”
“Not my son! Why, look at him! He is the very image of me!”
“He is very like you, pretty lady; and that shows him to be of your race; but he is not your son.”
“How do you know that?” questioned Anna, beginning to wonder at the woman’s knowledge.
“By my art. You have no son, sweet lady. You will never have a son; but——”
“Oh, don’t tell me that, gipsy! I didn’t give you a shilling to purchase bad news.”