"What day and year was you born, miss?"
"September 3d, 1851."
"Then you are under the influence of the planet Marcury," said the gypsy, after an intense study of the sky, during which she looked as wise as an astronomer calculating an eclipse. "Marcury, sorry to say. You have friends who have been—ahem!—who will go to the war." Here the gypsy paused and gazed at the heavens again, lost in thought.
"She means your pa," whispered Lucy, "when you supposed he was dead, and he wasn't."
"As I was saying, you have a very dear relation who was killed, or almost killed, in the wars," continued the gypsy, starting up from her reverie, and beginning where she had left off, without appearing to pay the slightest attention to Lucy's whisper. "I had to study a while to find out if he died; but the truth is, he's alive now—your father, I mean."
If possible the girls were more amazed than ever. What didn't the gypsy know? Wasn't it awful?
"Yes, at the time you was born, poor thing! the planets Marcury and
Haskell were disjunctive. Whatever is to be will you'll see trouble.
You have a dear friend: you set store by her."
Here the gypsy perceived that she had made another happy hit, for
Grace looked surprised again.
"This friend pretends to have a heart for you; you think she's true; but mark my words,"—and the prophetess dropped her monotonous voice to a hoarse whisper; "mark my words: you never were more mistaken in your life."
Here Isa's face took on an expression of pleasure, and she touched
Grace's elbow, whispering, "Didn't I tell you so? There now!"