'But what do you want to see me for?' she repeated. 'Has it anything to do with the boy? Is he your son, or your grandson?' and she glanced at the little fellow beside the gypsy. A very little fellow he was—dark too, very dark-skinned and grave and rather frightened-looking. He stood there with his eyes cast down, a shock of black hair tumbling over his forehead, so that it was difficult to distinguish the upper part of his face.
Mamma looked at him curiously—afterwards she told me she felt sorry for him, and wondered if the woman was good to him. She—the woman—glanced at him and said something rather sharply in a queer-sounding language, on which the little fellow gave a sort of tug to his cap, though without actually taking it off—meant, of course, for politeness. But he never spoke the whole time they were there.
'No, my lady,' the woman replied, turning again to mamma,—'no, I have no favour to ask for the child. He is not my son—nor my grandson,' and here she smiled, showing her white teeth; 'I am not quite old enough for that, though I may look it. I wanted to see you for a reason of my own—to do you no harm, you may be sure. And one day you will know the reason. But now,' and she held out her hand, 'you will let me tell your lines? Not much, nor far—I would not ask it. Just a little, and mostly of the past.'
Mamma shook her head.
'Then the young lady's?' said the gypsy, looking at me. Mamma shook her head still more decidedly.
'No, no,' she said; 'I would rather you told mine than hers. Such things make young people fanciful.'
'Then your own, my lady,' said the woman, and again she held out her hand persuasively,—'just a little.'
I drew nearer.
'Do, mamma,' I whispered; 'she may be offended if you don't.'
Mamma laughed, and held out her right hand.