"You can tell that much by the shape of my nose, I suppose," laughed the girl, mischievously.
The old hag glanced at the elegant, aristocratic little member in question and frowned.
"I can tell by your hand," said she, shortly: "Not but that it is written on your features also—for you are very beautiful."
"Others have told me so before," said the girl, with her musical, light-hearted laugh.
"Peace, will-'o-the-wisp!" said the old woman, sternly. "Do not pride yourself upon that fatal gift! You are lovely as an angel, but your beauty will be your bane."
"But beauty wins love," cried the listener, artlessly, while a rosy blush stained her fair brow and cheeks.
"Aye, aye, it wins love," was the crusty answer. "Your life will have enough of love, be sure. But beauty wins hate, too. The love that is lavished on you will be shadowed and darkened by the hate your fair face will inspire. Do not think you will be happy because you are beautiful. Years of wretchedness lie before you!"
"Oh! no," said the girl, with an involuntary shiver.
"It is true," said the sibyl, peering into the hand that she held. "If you could read this little pink palm as I do, you would go wild with the horror of it. The line of life is crossed with sorrows. Sorrow and shame lie darkly over your future."
"Not shame," said the young girl, cresting her small head with a queenly gesture of pride. "Sorrow, perhaps; but never shame!"