Grace grew an inch taller; would not look at Isa, but tossed a reply to her over her shoulder:—
"Please don't say any more, Isa. The woman may have told the other things right, but she's made a mistake about Cassy Hallock."
"Cassy Hallock! ah, that's the name," spoke up the gypsy. "What do you say about mistakes? I don't make mistakes! I tell you that smooth friend of yours is a snake in the grass. Flies buzz, girls talk. Don't trust that girl. Trouble's coming thick as sand."
The girls cast pitying glances upon Grace, as if they already saw her the victim of sorrow.
"Needn't curl your lip; you are soon to have a fever and lose all your pretty hair. When you're twelve and some odd, your father'll die, and the next year your mother'll die too. You're one of them that considers every rain-storm nothing but a clearing-off shower; but you'll find one storm that won't clear off. You'll near about come nigh starving, miss. It's an awful way to die; but you won't die so. You'll be bit by a rattlesnake, and won't live a day after you're sixteen year old."
Grace tried to laugh. "Come, girls," said she, "let's go."
"You're an awful unlucky child," cried the gypsy, pointing her finger at Grace, who did not look quite humble enough yet. "You're very peart now; but trouble's coming: now you mark my words."
So saying, the crazy woman arose to enter the house; but as she saw the smoke still clouding the air, a new freak seized her bewildered brain. She quite forgot her character of fortune-teller, and shouted aloud, "I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness. Tell me one thing before I have you, little army of grasshoppers: what did John Baptist do with the locusts? Did he eat 'em raw, or did he smoke and roast 'em?"
Then with "tinsel-slippered" feet, the gypsy entered the house, and closed the door. The girls heard a shout of wild laughter. Could it be from the gypsy? They started with one accord, and ran till they were out of breath.
"Where are the baskets with our picnic?" cried Diademia, suddenly pausing.