“It is not the hand I thought to see,” she said, as if speaking to herself—“not the hand I thought.” Then dropping it suddenly, with an air of bewilderment, she said, hastily, “It is not by the hand I do it, but by the cards.”
“I ought to have crossed my hand with silver, shouldn’t I?” said Val, trying to laugh; but he was excited too.
“No, no,” she said, tremulously; “no, no—my boy’s mother can take none of your silver. Are you as fond of him as he is fond of you?”
“Mother!” cried Dick, amazed at the presumption of this inquiry.
“Well—fond?” said Val, doubtfully; “yes, really, I think I am, after all, though I’m sure I don’t know why. He should have been a gentleman. Mrs Brown, I’m afraid it is getting near lock-up——”
“My name is not Mrs Brown,” she said, quickly.
“Oh, isn’t it? I beg your pardon,” said Val. “I thought as he was Brown—Mrs——?”
“There’s no Miss nor Missis among my folks. They call me Myra—Forest Myra,” she said, hastily. “Dick, give me the cards, and I will do my best.”
But Dick was sadly distressed to see that his mother was not doing her best. She turned the cards about, and murmured some of the usual jargon about fair men and dark women, and news to receive and journeys to go. But she was not herself: either the fortune was so very bad that she was afraid to reveal it, or else something strange must have happened to her. She threw them down at last impatiently, and fixed her intent eyes upon Valentine’s face.
“If you have all the good I wish you, you’ll be happy indeed,” she said; “but I can’t do nothing to-night. Sometimes the power leaves us.” Then she put her hand lightly on his shoulder, and gazed at him beseechingly. “Will you come again?” she said.