y should I have him in my house
to work evil? This is my white ghost." Her words were accompanied by a
gentle stroking of the cat. "And good is what she brings to my
roof-tree. But I don't eat from white dishes, or drink from white mugs.
No! No! That would be too witchly."

Miss Greeby mused. "I have heard something about these gypsy
superstitions before," she remarked meditatively.

"Avo! Avo! They are in a book written by a great Romany Rye. Leland is
the name of that rye, a gypsy Lee with Gentile land. He added land to
the lea as he was told by one of our people. Such a nice gentleman,
kind, and free of his money and clever beyond tellings, as I always
says. Many a time has he sat pal-like with me, and 'Gentilla,' says he,
'your're a bori chovihani'; and that, my generous lady, is the gentle
language for a great witch."

"Chaldea said that you were that," observed Miss Greeby carelessly.

"The child speaks truly. Come, cross my hand, sweet lady."

Miss Greeby passed along half a crown. "I only desire to know one
thing," she said, offering her palm. "Shall I get my wish?"

Mother Cockleshell peered into the hands, although she had already made
up her mind what to say. Her faculties, sharpened by years of chicanery,
told her from the look which Miss Greeby had given when Lambert followed
Chaldea, that a desire to marry the man was the wish in question. And
seeing how indifferent Lambert was in the presence of the tall lady,
Mother Cockleshell had no difficulty in adjusting the situation in her
own artful mind. "No, my lady," she said, casting away the hand with
quite a dramatic gesture. "You will never gain your wish."

Miss Greeby looked angry. "Bah! Your fortune-telling is all rubbish, as
I have always thought," and she moved away.

"Tell me that in six months," screamed the old woman after her.

"Why six months?" demanded the other, pausing.

"Ah, that's a dark saying," scoffed the gypsy. "Call it seven, my
hopeful-for-what-you-won't-get, like the cat after the cream, for
seven's a sacred number, and the spell is set."

"Gypsy jargon, gypsy lies," muttered Miss Greeby, tossing her ruddy
mane. "I don't believe a word. Tell me--"

"There's no time to say more," interrupted Mother Cockleshell rudely,
for, having secured her money, she did not think it worth while to be
polite, especially in the face of her visitor's scepticism. "One of our
tribe--aye, and he's a great Romany for sure--is coming to camp wit