“I say,” whispered Helen, treason sparkling from her bright eyes, “let us have up that old fortune-teller! I’ll go and ask Lettice.”
She whirled out of the room, shutting the tail of her black silk dress in the door, and called Lettice. A few minutes, and Mrs. Ness came in, curtsying. A stout old lady in a cotton shawl and broad-bordered cap with a big red bow tied in front.
“I say, Mrs. Ness, can you tell our fortunes?” cried Bill.
“Bless you, young gentlefolks, I’ve told a many in my time. I’ll tell yours, if you like to bid me, sir.”
“Do the cards tell true?”
“I believe they does, sir. I’ve knowed ’em to tell over true now and again—more’s the pity!”
“Why do you say more’s the pity?” asked Anna.
“When they’ve fortelled bad things, my sweet, pretty young lady. Death, and what not.”
“But how it must frighten the people who are having them told!” cried Anna.
“Well, to speak the truth, young gentlefolks, when it’s very bad, I generally softens it over to ’em—say the cards is cloudy, or some’at o’ that,” was the old woman’s candid answer. “It don’t do to make folks uneasy.”