The horrible old Indian seeress enthroned among draperies of Eastern tapestries, worth their weight in gold, and hideous in theatrical red light, clutched the girl’s white hand, and peering at the rosy palm, began to mutter a sibilant jargon of fateful words.
And presently the actress, Vera Vane, who had risen from the ashes of Berenice Vining, flung aside the draperies and rushed from her presence, pale as a phantom at dawn.
CHAPTER XIII.
AN ILL-FATED GIRL.
The merry actors and actresses all began to chaff Berry on her pale face and frightened eyes.
“She is actually scared!” “What did the old hag tell you, dear?” “She gave all of us fine fortunes!” they chimed in together. But Berry put them aside with a trembling hand, and sank, half fainting, into the nearest seat.
Mrs. Hopson, the housekeeper, came to her rescue.
“Don’t pester the poor child till she gets over her scare. Land sakes, miss, don’t take that nonsense to heart, please. Them old Indian squaws don’t know the future any better than you do!” she said kindly, but Berry did not hear the well-meant words. She had fainted.
When she came to herself she was lying on a cot in Mrs. Hopson’s room, and all the others were gone.
“You were so long coming around I told them I’d keep you all night, or send you back in a carriage when you felt better,” she explained.
“Oh, you are very kind. I—I think that I will go presently, when I am a little stronger. But do not let me, dear Mrs. Hopson, keep you from your duties. I can lie here alone, please,” faltered Berry eagerly.