The old woman looked at it with dissatisfaction. "That is not enough," she said. "I can tell you nothing for that."
"But I haven't any more," said Judy, in dismay. "I didn't expect to come, and it is all I have."
"Oh, well," grudgingly, "I will tell you a little."
She took Judy's hand in hers and studied the palm.
"You will live to be old," she said, monotonously. "There are double rings around your wrist. You will marry a man with wealth and with gray eyes."
"I don't want to know that—" said Judy, impatiently, to whom such matters were as yet unimportant. "Tell me about—about—other things."
"Hush," said the gipsy, "I must say, what I must say. You will go on a long journey. It will be on the sea. You will look for one who is lost. You are a child of the sea—" She flung Judy's hand away from her. "That is all," she said, heavily, "I can tell you no more without more money."
"Oh, oh," cried Judy, breathlessly, "how did you know it. How did you know that I was a child of the sea—"
"What I tell, I know," crooned the old woman, theatrically. "I can tell nothing without silver."
"But I haven't any more money," cried poor Judy.