“Good luck to them!” cried the gipsy, “good luck to them all!”
Then, as soon as they had acquired sufficient confidence in her good will, they pressed up to the window. “There,” cried Townsend, as he chanced to stumble over the carpenter’s mitre box, which stood in the way, “there’s a good omen for me. I’ve stumbled on the mitre box; I shall certainly be a bishop.”
Happy he who had sixpence, for he bid fair to be a judge upon the bench. And happier he who had a shilling, for he was in the high road to be one day upon the woolsack, Lord High Chancellor of England. No one had half a crown, or no one would surely have kept it in his pocket upon such an occasion, for he might have been an archbishop, a king, or what he pleased.
Fisher, who like all weak people was extremely credulous, kept his post immovable in the front row all the time, his mouth open, and his stupid eyes fixed upon the gipsy, in whom he felt implicit faith.
Those who have least confidence in their own powers, and who have least expectation from the success of their own exertions, are always most disposed to trust in fortune-tellers and fortune. They hope to win, when they cannot earn; and as they can never be convinced by those who speak sense, it is no wonder they are always persuaded by those who talk nonsense.
“I have a question to put,” said Fisher, in a solemn tone.
“Put it, then,” said Archer, “what hinders you?”
“But they will hear me,” said he, looking suspiciously at De Grey.
“I shall not hear you,” said De Grey, “I am going.” Everybody else drew back, and left him to whisper his question in the gipsy’s ear.
“What is become of my Livy?”