“Perhaps you're richt, ma'am,” he admitted. “I hae a sorry lot o' them marked doon in auld diaries, but, Gude be thanked, I canna mind them unless I look them up. They werena near sae mony as the rattlin' ploys I've had.”
“Is there no' a wife for Mr. Cleland?” said the Provost—pawky, pawky man!
“There was ance, I see, a girl, and she was the richt girl, too,” said The Macintosh.
“Yes, but I was the wrang man,” said Colin Cleland, drawing his hand away, and nobody laughed, for all but The Macintosh knew that story and made it some excuse for foolish habits.
“I'm a bit of a warlock myself,” said Dr. Brash, beholding the spae-wife's vexation at a faux-pas she only guessed herself guilty of. “I'll read your loof, Miss Macintosh, if ye let me.”
They all insisted she should submit herself to the doctor's unusual art, and taking her hand in his he drew the mitten off and pretended to scan the lines.
“Travel—h'm—a serious illness—h'm—your life, in youth, was quite adventurous, Miss Macintosh.”
“Oh, I'm no' that auld yet,” she corrected him. “There's mony a chance at fifty. Never mind my past, Dr. Brash, what about my future?”
He glanced up a moment and saw her aunt and uncle listening in amusement, unaware as yet that he knew the secret, then scanned her palm again.
“The future—h'm! let me see. A long line of life; heart line healthy—h'm—the best of your life's before you, though I cannot say it may be the happiest part of it. Perhaps my—h'm—my skill a little fails here. You have a strong will, Miss—Miss Macintosh, and I doubt in this world you'll aye have your own way. And—h'm—an odd destiny surely's before you—I see the line of fame, won—h'm—in a multitude of characters; by the Lord Hairry, ma'am, you're to be—you're to be an actress!”