"Taking them all in a heap, I will give sixpence apiece," replied the gipsy.

Mr. Leeson uttered a scream.

"You have outdone yourself, my good woman," he said. "Do you think I am going to give fowls that will make such delicious and nourishing food away for that trivial sum? My little daughter is a very clever cook, and I shall instruct her with regard to the serving up of the remainder of my poultry. If you will not give me the recipe I must ask you to go."

The gipsy pretended to be extremely angry.

"I won't go," she said, "unless you allow me to tell you your fortune; I won't stir, and that's flat."

"I do not believe in gipsy fortune-tellers. I shall have to call the police if you do not leave my establishment immediately."

"And how will you manage when you don't ever leave your own grounds? I am thinking it may be you are a bit afraid. People who stick so close to home often have a reason."

This remark frightened Mr. Leeson very much. He was always in terror lest some one would guess that he kept his treasure on the premises.

"Look here," he said, raising his voice. "You see before you the poorest man for my position in the whole of England; it is with the utmost difficulty that I can keep soul and body together. Observe the place; observe the house. Do you think I should care for a recipe to make old fowls tender if I were not in very truth a most poverty-stricken person?"

"I will tell you if you show me your palm," said the gipsy.

Now, Mr. Leeson was superst.i.tious. It was the last thing he credited himself with, but nevertheless he was. The gipsy, with her dancing black eyes, looked full at him. He had a shadowy, almost a fearful idea that he had seen that face before-he could not make out when. Then it occurred to him that this was the very face that had bent over him for an instant the night before when he was coming back from his fit of unconsciousness. Oh, it was impossible that the gipsy could have been here then! Had he seen her in a sort of vision? He felt startled and alarmed. The gipsy kept watching him; she seemed to be reading him through and through.

"I saw you in a dream," she said. "And I know you will show your hand; and I know I have things to tell you, both good and bad."

"Well, well!" said Mr. Leeson, "here is sixpence. Tell me your gibberish, and then go."

The gipsy looked twice at the coin.

"It is a poor one," she said. "But them who is rich always give the smallest."

"I am not rich, I tell you."

"They who are rich find it hardest to part with their pelf. But I will take it."

"I will give you a shilling if you'll go. But it is hard for a very poor man to part with it."

"Sixpence will do," said the gipsy, with a laugh. "Give it me. Now show me your palm."

She pretended to look steadily into the wrinkled palm of the miser's hand, and then spoke.

"I see here," she said, "much wealth. Yes, just where this cross lies is gold. I also see poverty. I also see a very great loss and a judgment."

"Go!" screamed the angry man. "Do not tell me another word."

He dashed into the house in absolute terror, and banged the hall door after him.

"I said I would give him a fright," said Jasper to herself. "Well, if he don't touch another morsel till Miss Sylvia comes home late to-night, he won't die after my dinner. Ah, the poor old hen! I must get her out of the basket now or she will be suffocated."

The gipsy walked slowly down the path, let herself out by the front entrance, walked round to the back, got in once more, and handed the old hen to a boy who was standing by the hedge.

"There," she said. "There's a present for you. Take it at once and go."

"What do I want with it?" he asked in astonishment. "Why, it belongs to old Mr. Leeson, the miser!"

"Go-go!" she said. "You can sell it for sixpence, or a shilling, or whatever it will fetch, only take it away."

The boy ran off laughing, the hen tucked under his arm.

CHAPTER XIX.-"WHY DID YOU DO IT?"

Meanwhile Sylvia was thoroughly enjoying herself. She started for the Castle in the highest spirits. Her walk during the morning hours had not fatigued her; and when, soon after twelve o'clock, she walked slowly and thoughtfully up the avenue, a happier, prettier girl could scarcely be seen. The good food she had enjoyed since Jasper had appeared on the scene had already begun to tell. Her cheeks were plump, her eyes bright; her somewhat pale complexion was creamy in tint and thoroughly healthy.

Her dress, too, effected wonders. Sylvia would look well in a cotton frock; she would look well as a milkmaid, as a cottage girl; but she also had that indescribable grace which would enable her to fill a loftier station. And now, in her rich furs and dark-brown costume, she looked fit to move in any society. She held Evelyn's letter in her hand.

Her one fear was that Evelyn would remark on her own costume transmogrified for Sylvia's benefit.

"Well, if she does, I don't much care," thought the happy girl. "After all, truth is best. Why should I deceive? I deceived when I was here last, when I wore Audrey's dress. I had not the courage then that I have now. Somehow to-day I feel happy and not afraid of anything."

She was met, just before she reached the front entrance, by Audrey and Evelyn.

"Here, Evelyn," she cried-"here is a note for you."

Evelyn took it quickly. She did not want Audrey to know that Jasper was living at The Priory. She turned aside and read her note, and Audrey devoted herself to Sylvia. Audrey had liked Sylvia before; she liked her better than ever now. She was far too polite to glance at her improved dress; that somehow seemed to tell her that happier circ.u.mstances had dawned for Sylvia, and a sense of rejoicing visited her.

"I am so very glad you have come!" she said. "Evelyn and I have been planning how we are to spend the day. We want to give you, and ourselves also, a right good time. Do you know that Evelyn and I are schoolgirls now? Is it not strange? Dear Miss Sinclair has left us. We miss her terribly; but I think we shall like school-life-eh, Eve?"

Evelyn had finished Jasper's letter, and had thrust it into her pocket.

"I hate school-life!" she said emphatically.

"Oh Eve! but why?" asked Audrey. "I thought you were making a great many friends at school."

"Wherever I go I shall make friends," replied Evelyn in a careless tone.

"That, of course, is due to my position. But I do not know, after all,"

she continued, "that I like fair-weather friends. Mothery used to tell me that I must be careful when with them. She said they would, one and all, expect me to do something for them. Now, I hate people who want you to do things for them. For my part, I shall soon let my so-called friends know that I am not that sort of girl."

"Let us walk about now," said Audrey. "It will be lunch-time before long; afterwards I thought we might go for a ride. Can you ride, Sylvia?"

"I used to ride once," she answered, coloring high with pleasure.

"I can lend you a habit; and we have a very nice horse-quite quiet, and at the same time spirited."

"I am not afraid of any horses," answered the girl. "I should like a ride immensely."

"We will have lunch, then a ride, then a good cozy chat together by the schoolroom fire, then dinner; and then, what do you say to a dance? We have asked some young friends to come to the Castle to-night for the purpose."

"I must not be too late in going home," said Sylvia. "And," she added, "I have not brought a dress for the evening."