"She seems pretty well up in the arts," Ned whispers; Dolores nods; she is listening intently. Mrs. St. James has shuffled and cut the cards, she has also wished in obedience to the rule.
"Your path has once been more rugged than that which you now tread, my lady. There is a dark spot in your past, on which you pray, the light of knowledge may never shine. There is one here present, who can betray you if she chooses."
Mrs. St. James glances toward the door; the gipsy's eyes also take the same direction. Dolores stands there, placidly, calmly; she meets the eyes turned on her with cool indifference; her pocket-handkerchief drops to the ground; she stoops to pick it up, and the gipsy goes on:
"There is a dark gentleman here whom you will have some trouble with. There is a disappointment for you; but you will get your wish even if it does turn out differently from what you think. You will get some money, and there is a pleasant conversation with a light man. He has a good heart for you; will tell you some pleasant news. You will receive a letter within a day or two. Your life will be full of ups and downs, the same as most of us."
"Now, pretty lady, will you cross the gipsy's palm?" She has turned to Rea Severn. "You are anxious about the doings of a fair man; but my pretty one, put no faith in him; the men are fickle, the best of them. You will be a little sick, not much, but brought on by your own foolishness. Let me advise you to drop the habit you have contracted. If you do not kill it, it will kill you; so be guided."
Rea shivers; she begins to feel a little frightened; she is glad the others are behind her; it would not answer for them to see the expression of fear on her face. Then each of the others had their turn. Dolores refused to have anything to do with cards; she despised the very sight of them. She told Ned they sent a cold chill over her, and Ned believed it.
"How silly! What ails you, Dolores? You are generally one of the last to back down when any fun is going on," Florrie Silverstone says petulantly. There have been some facts told Florrie, by the gipsy, which have made her a little cross. But Dolores is busy, and does not answer. She has taken some tall golden-eyed daisies from the hedge row.
"It is a much pleasanter way to tell one's own fortune, you know," she tells Ned, the ever attentive; and of course Ned agrees—he always does to what pretty Dolores says.
"He loves me, he loves me not; he loves me, how nice," Dolores laughs softly, as she flings the petalless flower in the water.
"Will it be a soldier smart, who will storm and take me?
Or will a sailor break my heart, his figure-head to make me?
Will it be a man to preach, Even-song and Matin?
Or shall I go to school again, with Jack to teach me Latin?
Will it be a coach and four? Will it be a carriage?
Or will a cart be at the door, to take me to my marriage?"