“Now,” said the conjurer, “is it not notorious that you are the most jealous—by the way, give me five shillings; I can make no further communications till I am paid; there—thank you—now, is it not notorious that you are one of the most jealous old scoundrels in the whole country?”
“No, sir, barrin' a little wholesome suspicion.”
“Well, sir, go home about your business. Your daughter and the dancing master's son have made a runaway match of it, and your wife, to protect the character of her daughter, has gone with them. You are a miser, too. Go home now; I have nothing more to say to you, except that you have been yourself a profligate. Look at that book, sir; there it is; the stars have told me so.”
“You have got my five shillings, sir; but say what you like, all the wather in the ocean wouldn't wash her clear of the ould dancin'-masther.”
In the course of a few minutes a beautiful peasant girl entered the room, her face mantled with blushes, and took her seat on the chair as the others had done, and remained for some time silent, and apparently panting with agitation.
“What is your name, my pretty girl?” asked the conjurer.
“Grace Davoren,” replied the girl.
“And what do you wish to know from me, Miss Davoren?”
“O, don't call me miss, sir; I'm but a poor girl.”
The conjurer looked into his book for a few minutes, and then, raising his head, and fixing his eyes upon her, replied—