ThelibrarylookedtranquilenoughasIe,andtheSibyl—ifSibylshewere—wasseatedsnuglyenoughinaneasy-chairattheey-er.Shehadonaredcloakandabla:orrather,abroad-brimmedgipsyhat,tieddownwithastripedhandkerchiefunderher.Ainguisheddlestoodoable;shewasbendihefire,andseemedreadinginalittleblackbook,likeaprayer-book,bythelightoftheblaze:shemutteredthewordstoherself,asmostoldwomendo,whilesheread;shedidimmediatelyoraappearedshewishedtofinishaparagraph.

    Istoodontherugandwarmedmyhands,whichwererathercoldwithsittingatadistanthedrawing-roomfire.IfeltnowasposedaseverIdidinmylife:therewasnothingihegipsy’sappeararoubleone’scalm.Sheshutherbookandslowlylookedup;herhat-brimpartiallyshadedherface,yetIcouldsee,assheraisedit,thatitwasastrangeolookedallbrownandblack:elf-locksbristledoutfrombehawhitebandwhichpassedunderher,andcamehalfoverhercheeks,orratherjaws:hereyefrontedmeatohaboldanddirectgaze.

    “Well,andyouwantyourfortuold?”shesaid,inavoiceasdecidedasherglance,asharshasherfeatures.

    “Idon’tcareaboutit,mother;youmaypleaseyourself:butIoughttowarnyou,Ihavenofaith.”

    “It’slikeyourimpudeosayso:Iexpecteditofyou;Ihearditinyourstepasyoucrossedthethreshold.”

    “Didyou?You’veaquickear.”

    “Ihave;andaquickeyeandaquickbrain.”

    “Youhemallinyourtrade.”

    “Ido;especiallywheomerslikeyoutodealwith.Whydon’tyoutremble?”

    “I’mnotcold.”

    “Whydon’tyouturnpale?”

    “Iamnotsick.”

    “Whydon’tyousultmyart?”

    “I’mnotsilly.”

    Theolde“nichered”alaughun