"Insolent!" muttered Lovel, wrathfully. "Hold your tongue, you old hag, and tell Miss Lester's fortune at once!"
"I's feared for sure, dearies both; I's mortal feared."
"You silly old witch!" said Milly, with scornful bravery. "I'm not. I shall know what is in my hand; though I shan't believe a single word you say."
"Tis as ye plase, miss; belave or not, 'tis all one. But the skein will run till 'tis clipped for all that!"
"What do you mean by this jargon?" cried Lovel, still furious at the late illusion to the squire. "Speak plainly, or I'll hand you over to the police as an impostor!"
The last word touched the old dame nearly, and she reared up her bent frame to point a crooked finger at Lovel; but she spoke generally to the one and the other.
"Imposter, am I? Hee! hee! An you don't belave, Miss Milly? Hee! hee! I'll spare ye no more! Gimme th' han', dear soul alive, give th' han'; and if ye weep blood fur the tellings o' mum--well, I warned ye, I warned ye!"
Milly stamped a dainty foot, and held out a dainty hand to be seized by gran's brown claws.
"Do your worst!" said she petulantly. "I'm sure I shan't believe a single nasty thing you tell me!"
"Aye! eh!" mumbled Mrs. Jimboy, tracing the pink palm lines with a dirty forefinger; "but Fate, you zee, be stronger nor young things, dearie; aw, yis, fur sure. Here mum be, ef ye mus' now"--man and girl bent their comely heads, while gran continued--"you'm bound to one; you'm loved by another; but none o' mum shall call ye wife."