“I was late in starting,” said Annie. “Can you tell me the best way to get from here to the long acre field?”
“Oh! you take that turn-stile, child, and keep in the narrow path by the cornfields; it’s two miles and a half from here as the crow flies. No, no, my dear, I don’t want your pennies; but you might humour my little girl here by telling her fortune—she’s wonderful taken by the gipsy folk.”
Annie coloured painfully. The child came forward, and she crossed her hand with a piece of silver. She looked at the little palm and muttered something about being rich and fortunate, and marrying a prince in disguise, and having no trouble whatever.
“Eh! but that’s a fine lot, is yours, Peggy,” said the gratified mother.
Peggy however, aged nine, had a wiser head on her young shoulders.
“She didn’t tell no proper fortune,” she said disparagingly, when Annie left the cottage. “She didn’t speak about no crosses, and no biting disappointments, and no bleeding wounds. I don’t believe in her, I don’t. I like fortunes mixed, not all one way; them fortunes ain’t natural, and I don’t believe she’s no proper gipsy girl.”