“Who is my real father, then?”
The lady did not immediately reply. She seemed to be peering into distant space, as she said slowly:
“I see a man of middle size, dark-complexioned, leading a small child by the hand. He pauses before a house—it looks like an inn. A lady comes out from the inn. She is kindly of aspect. She takes the child by the hand and leads him into the inn. Now I see the man go away—alone. The little child remains behind. I see him growing up. He has become a large boy, but the scene has changed. The inn has disappeared. I see a pleasant village and a comfortable house. The boy stands at the door. He is well-grown now. A lady stands on the threshold as his steps turn away. She is thin and sharp-faced. She is not like the lady who welcomed the little child. Can you tell me who this boy is?” asked the fortune-teller, fixing her eyes upon Phil.
“It is myself!” he answers, his flushed face showing the excitement he felt.
“You have said!”
“I don't know how you have learned all this,” said Phil, “but it is wonderfully exact. Will you answer a question?”
“Ask!”
“You say my father—my real father—is living?”
The veiled lady bowed her head.
“Where is he?”