“You will know that one day before you die, too,” said she, “and I don't think it will smooth your death-bed pillow.”
“Why, you are a very mysterious old lady.”
“I'll now give you a proof of that. You locked in your daughter before you left home.”
Sir Thomas could not for his life prevent himself from starting so visibly that she observed it at once.
“No such thing,” he replied, affecting a composure which he certainly did not feel; “you are an impostor, and I now see that you know nothing.”
“What I say is true,” she replied, solemnly, “and you have stated, Thomas Gourlay, what you know to be a falsehood; I would be glad to discover you uttering truth unless with some evil intention. But now for your daughter; you wish to hear her fate?”
“Certainly I do; but then you know nothing. You charge me with falsehood, but it is yourself that are the liar.”
She waved her hand indignantly.
“Will my daughter's husband be a man of title?” he asked, his mind passing to the great and engrossing object of his ambition.
“He will be a man of title,” she replied, “and he will make her a countess.”