“Yes, Miss Courtlandt”—she winced at the voice of the justice—“it is my duty under the—hem—unusual circumstances of this case, to ask you if you are entering into this—hem—solemn contract of matrimony, which is a state honorable in the sight of God and man, by the authority vested in me by the State of Illinois—hem—to ask you if you are entering it of your own free-will and consent—are you, miss?”
Abbie’s sad gray eyes met the magistrate’s look of perplexed inquiry; her lips trembled.
“Are you, Abbie?” said the clairvoyant, in a gentle tone.
“Yes,” answered Abbie; “of my own free-will and consent.”
“I guess, professor, I must see the lady alone,” said the justice, dryly.
“You caynt believe it is a case of true love laffs at the aristocrats, can you, squire?” sneered Slater; “but jest as she pleases. Are you willing to see him, Abbie?”
“Whether Miss Courtlandt is willing or not,” interrupted the tall man, in a mellow, leisurely voice, “I guess I will have to trouble you for a small ‘sceance’ in the other room, Marker.”
“And who are you, sir?” said Slater, civilly, but with a truculent look in his blue eyes.
“This is Mr. Amos Wickliff, of Iowa, special officer,” the justice said, waving one hand at the man and the other at Abbie.
Wickliff bowed in Abbie’s direction, and saluted the fortune-teller with a long look in his eyes, saying: