"A toast," cried Sir William, "you must not drink without a toast."
"Success to our secret wishes," said he, and drained the cup to the bottom. "Will none follow my example," added he: then again filling the cup, he presented it to Emma; she took it and drank a part, then deliberately poured the remainder on the ground. The gipsy's eyes flashed.
"You defy me," she said, "dark-haired girl—but ere the sun stands again where it now does, your heart will be as heavy as your curls—your hopes as dark as your eyes—tremble—for the approaching news—you, who have dared to disregard my cautions."
"Whatever ill news may be in store for me," said Emma firmly, looking up; "it will come quite irrespective of the water I just poured upon the ground. I do not fear you. I have seen you before."
"Yes, we have met before; and I remember kindness with gratitude, and I grieve that young hearts should break—but it must be so—triumph and success to his lordship—but tinged with regret and sorrow—for he has drank from the gipsy's cup. Who will have their fortunes told."
"I don't believe a word of it," said Lord Osborne, "How should she know?"
"It is well to disbelieve, no doubt; but see now, you come to the fairy well for water; but, without my help, you would have come in vain. So it is with the future. You wish to draw knowledge from the dark bottomless well of destiny; you may seek in vain, unless you condescend to borrow of gipsy lore. Have courage and face the future."
"Oh! do not let us have any thing to do with her," cried one young lady.
"I am not afraid, I will have my fortune told," said Miss Carr, advancing; "tell me, if you can, what will be my fate?"
"No," replied the young woman, turning away, "I dare not predict for you—but one thing I foresee—disappointment and sorrow to you all—bright hopes faded—joyous faces clouded—smiles changed to tears for some, and the gayest hours cut short with grief and dismay. Farewell!"