those who beheld her was not less powerful than usual on the surprised
and admiring gaze of Lady Erpingham. She bowed her haughty brow with
involuntary respect, and took the seat to which the enthusiast beckoned.

"And what, lady," said the soothsayer, in the foreign music of her low
voice, "what brings thee hither? Wouldst thou gain, or hast thou lost,
that gift our poor sex prizes so dearly beyond its value? Is it of love
that thou wouldst speak to the interpreter of dreams and the priestess
of the things to come?"

While the bright-eyed Liehbur thus spoke, the countess examined through
her veil the fair face before her, comparing it with that description
which Godolphin had given her of the sculptor's daughter, and her
suspicion acquired new strength.

"I seek not that which you allude to," said Constance; "but of the
future, although without any definite object, I would indeed like to
question you. All of us love to pry into dark recesses hid from our
view, and over which you profess the empire."

"Your voice is sweet, but commanding," said the oracle; "and your air is
stately, as of one born in courts. Lift your veil, that I may gaze upon
your face, and tell by its lines the fate your character has shaped for
you."

"Alas!" answered Constance, "life betrays few of its past signs by
outward token. If you have no wiser art than that drawn from the lines
and features of our countenances, I shall still remain what I am now--an
unbeliever in your powers."

"The brow, and the lip, and the eye, and the expression of each and
all," answered Liehbur, "are not the lying index you suppose them."

"Then," rejoined Constance, "by those signs will I read your own
destiny, as you would read mine."

The sibyl started, and waved her hand impatiently; but Constance
proceeded.

"Your birth, despite your fair locks, was under a southern sky; you were
nursed in the delusions you now teach; you were loved, and left alone;
you are in the country of your lover. Is it not so?--am I not an oracle
in my turn?"

The mysterious Liehbur fell back in her chair; her lips apart and
blanched--her hands clasped--her eyes fixed upon her visitant.

"Who are you?" she cried at last, in a shrill tone; "who, of my own sex,
knows my wretched history? Speak, speak!--in mercy speak! tell me more!
convince me that you have but vainly guessed my secret, or that you have
a right to know it!"

"Did not your father forsake, for the blue skies of R