The woman seemed very reluctant to accept the offer, pleading various excuses. Her muddy boots, her dirty clothes, and the necessity of her being off by daybreak in the morning, to all of which Dorothy turned a deaf ear, positively insisting on her going to bed.
"Well, if you will have it so, miss, I will no longer refuse a good offer. I have not been inside a bed for many months past, and am used to sleep, wet or dry, in the barn, or by the hearth, as it may happen. People are not generally so anxious about the comfort of visitors like me."
Dorothy lighted a candle, and led the way up the wide oak staircase at the bottom of the hall to the chambers above.
"You can sleep in this room," she said, unclosing a door that opened on to the gallery, with which all the sleeping apartments communicated. "You will find water, towel and soap on the stand. You need not be in a hurry to go in the morning. We all rise before daylight, at this time of the year, and you can have your breakfast before you go."
As she turned to leave the room, the woman suddenly grasped her wrist, and forcibly detained her, staring in her face, with the same bold glance which had inspired such deep loathing.
"Stay, my pretty lass, I can tell your fortune. Tell you the name of the lad you are to marry, the fate of him you are always thinking about, who is away in foreign parts, and all the good luck in store for you."
"I don't believe in such folly," cried Dorothy angrily, wrenching her hand from the woman's grasp. "It is worse than folly; it is wickedness. Good night. I hope you may sleep well."
She shut the door. A loud laugh followed her down stairs.
Dorothy, on reaching the great room, sat down in a chair, and panted for breath.
"What is the matter? What ails you, Dolly?" asked the old people, with looks of alarm.