hing worth
telling."

My friend Francis did not laugh at the old woman's opinion and
description of my character, but being attached to me, his anger arose,
and he reproved her in strong terms. She listened very calmly to what
he said, and then replied: "Why are you so angry? If you will not give
me something more for my trouble and wisdom, let me go quietly. No
doubt men do not like to have their inner-most heart exposed to the
daylight. Is it my fault that there is nothing better in your friend's
character? He is neither my son nor disciple." Thus the prophetess
meant to justify and atone for her insolence by repeating it anew. My
friend was pacified, and gave her a ducat, saying: "Make merry with
that,--where do you live?"

"Where do I live?" she replied; "my roof changes so often that I cannot
tell or describe it to you; not unfrequently it is open, and my
companion is the howling storm; where men have not built houses they
usually call it nature. But I thank you, and must requite your
kindness." Quickly and forcibly taking the unwilling hand of my
friend, she held it firmly between her bony fingers and considered it
for some time; then letting the arm drop, with a sigh, she said in a
tone of voice expressive of deep sorrow, "Son, son; you descend from
wicked blood, are an evil scion of evil ancestors; but fortunately you
are the last of your race, for your children would be more evil still.
What begins in evil must end in evil. Ah! ah! your physiognomy; your
expression; your whole countenance; I feel almost as if I saw a
murderer before me. Yes! yes!--you have killed a young, beautiful, and
noble maiden. On her dying bed she long struggled with grief and
anguish. O ye wicked men, can you not be faithful and keep your oaths.
It is not only daggers, swords, and guns, that cut and kill; looks and
sweet words will also do it. Oh, those seductive words, and all that
pretended affection! Now this splendid frame that first dazzled your
foolish eye, breaks, and is consigned to corruption. Beauty! oh thou
fatal gift of Heaven! and besides, murderer, you are handsome enough to
kill others. The curses of your father follow you now whether you
dwell in the forest or in your finely tapestried rooms. See you not,
feel you not, how, coming from the very heart, they waft misfortune and
misery towards you as the stormy wind scatters the dry leaves in the
valleys between the mountains? Where is your peace, your