Grace Varey had turned swiftly to the scoffing Bobby, and she pointed at her with an accusing finger.
“You do not believe,” she said, quickly. “You are light and thoughtless. You have been spoiled by a doting father. You have no mother—poor child! You are very frivolous and light-hearted; but a great sorrow is coming into your life soon. Into your school life, I believe. It is connected with one of your teachers—a woman. Beware!”
Now, this was very melodramatic; but Bobby, for some reason, could not laugh at it. The woman was too much in earnest. Suddenly Grace Varey’s manner changed, and she whined:
“Cross the poor Gypsy’s palm with silver, and she will tell you more. Only two shillings, little lady,” and she urged Laura toward the tent.
“All right,” said Mother Wit. “If the rest of you are game, I am. But don’t back out afterward.”
“Not if she is genuine,” said Jess, laughing.
Bobby hadn’t a word to say; for the moment she was quelled.
But all that the woman had said could be easily explained by the science of deduction—which is merely observation raised to the nth power.
Mother Wit went into the tent and found it a rather gloomy place. There was a folding table and two divans, besides some dingy hangings. It was evidently arranged for the purpose of fortune telling and nothing else.
“Sit down, lady,” said the Gypsy queen. “Let me see your hand. Do you believe in the reading of character by the lines of the hand?”