She was so muffled from head to foot in her garments of woollen stuff, strange and garish in colour, and fantastical in form, that it was almost impossible to discover what she really was like. Her shoulders were bent and contracted as if with extreme age. Loose tresses of gray hair fell low over her forehead. Her skin was dark and tawny; and contrasted strangely with the gray hair and the dark lustrous eyes.

The gipsy woman rose as Lionel Dale entered the hall. She bent her head in response to his kindly salutation; but she did not curtsey as before a superior in rank and station.

"Come with me, my good woman," said the rector, "and let me hear all about this very important business of yours."

He led the way to the library--a low-roofed but spacious chamber, lined from ceiling to floor with books. A large reading-lamp, with a Parian shade, stood on a small writing-table near the fire, casting a subdued light on objects near at hand, and leaving the rest of the room in shadow. A pile of logs burnt cheerily on the hearth. On one side of the fire was the chair in which the rector usually sat; on the other, a large, old-fashioned, easy-chair.

"Sit down, my good woman," said the rector, pointing to the latter; "I suppose you have some long story to tell me."

He seated himself as he spoke, and leaned upon the writing-table, playing idly with a carved ivory paper-knife.

"I have much to say to you, Lionel Dale," answered the old woman, in a voice which had a solemn music, that impressed the hearer in spite of himself; "I have much to say to you, and it will be well for you to mark what I say, and be warned by what I tell you."

The rector looked at the speaker earnestly, and yet with a half-contemptuous smile upon his face. She was seated in shadow, and he could only see the glitter of her dark eyes as the fitful light of the fire flashed on them.

There was something almost supernatural, it seemed to him, in the brilliancy of those eyes.

He laughed at himself for his folly in the next instant. What was this woman but a vulgar impostor, who was doubtless trying to trade upon his fears in some manner or other?

"You have come here to give some kind of warning, then?" he said, after a few moments of consideration.

"I have--a warning which may save your life--if you hear me patiently, and obey when you have heard."

"That is the cant of your class, my good woman; and you can scarcely expect me to listen to that kind of thing. If you come here to me, hoping to delude me by the language with which you tell the country people their fortunes at fairs and races, the sooner you go away the better. I am ready to listen to you patiently: if you need help, I am ready to give it you; but it is time and labour lost to practise gipsy jargon upon me."

"I need no help from you," cried the gipsy woman, scornfully; "I tell you again, I come here to serve you."

"In what manner can you serve me? Speak out, and speak quickly!" said Lionel; "I must return to my guests almost immediately."

"Your guests!" cried the gipsy, with a mocking laugh; "pleasant guests to gather round your hearth at this holy festival-time. Sir Reginald Eversleigh is amongst them, I suppose?"

"He is. You know his name very well, it seems."

"I do."

"Do you know him?"

"Do _you_ know him, Lionel Dale?" demanded the old woman with sudden intensity.

"I have good reason to know him--he is my first-cousin," answered the rector.

"You _have_ good reason to know him--a reason that you are ignorant of.

Shall I tell you that reason, Mr. Dale?"

"I am ready to hear what you have to say; but I must warn you that I shall be but little affected by it."

"Beware how you regard my solemn warning as the raving of a lunatic. It is your life that is at stake, Lionel Dale--your life! The reason you ought to know Reginald Eversleigh is, that in him you have a deadly enemy."

"An enemy! My cousin Reginald, a man whom I never injured by deed or word in my life! Has _he_ ever tried to injure me?"

"He has."

"How?"

"He schemed and plotted against you and others before your uncle Sir Oswald's death. His dearest hope was to bring to pass the destruction of the will which left you five thousand a year."

"Indeed! You seem familiar with my family history," exclaimed Lionel.

"I know the secrets of your family as well as I know those of my own."

"Then you pretend to be a sorceress?"

"I pretend to be nothing but your friend. Sir Reginald Eversleigh has been your foe ever since the day which disinherited him and made you rich. Your death would make him master of the wealth which you now enjoy; your death would give him fortune, position in the world--all which he most covets. Can you doubt, therefore, that he wishes your death?"

"I cannot believe it!" cried Lionel Dale; "it is too horrible. What!

he, my first cousin! he can profess for me the warmest friendship, and yet can wish to profit by my death!"

"He can do worse than that," said the gipsy woman, in an impressive voice; "he can try to compass your death!"

"No! no! no!" cried the rector. "It is not possible!"

"It is true. Sir Reginald Eversleigh is a coward; but he is helped by one who knows no human weakness--whose cruel heart was never softened by one touch of pity--whose iron hand never falters. Sir Reginald Eversleigh is little more than the tool of that man, and between those two there is ruin for you."

"Your words have the accent of truth," said the rector, after a long pause; "and yet their meaning is so terrible that I can scarcely bring myself to believe in them. How is it that you, a stranger, are so familiar with the private details of my life?"

"Do not ask me that, Mr. Dale," replied the gipsy woman, sternly; "when a stranger comes to you to warn you of a great danger, accept the warning, and let your nameless friend depart unquestioned. I have told you that an unseen danger menaces you. I know not yet the exact form which that danger may take. To-morrow I expect to know more."

"I can pledge myself to nothing."

"As you will," answered the gipsy, proudly. "I have done my duty. The rest is with Providence. If in your blind obstinacy you disregard my warning, I cannot help it. Will you, for your own sake, not for mine, let me see you to-morrow; or will you promise to see anyone who shall ask to see you, in the name of the gipsy woman who was here to-night?

Promise me this, I entreat you. I have nothing to ask of you, nothing to gain by my prayer; but I do entreat you most earnestly to do this thing. I am working in the dark to a certain extent. I know something, but not all, and I may have learned much more by to-morrow. I may bring or send you information then, which will convince you I am speaking the truth. Stay, will you promise me this, for my sake, for the sake of justice? You will, Mr. Dale, I know you will; you are a just, a good man. You suspect me of practising upon you a vulgar imposition.

To-morrow I may have the power of convincing you that I have not done so. You will give me the opportunity, Mr. Dale?"

The pleading, earnest voice, the mournful, dark eyes, stirred Lionel Dale's heart strangely. An impulse moved him towards trust in this woman, this outcast,--curiosity even impelled him to ask her, in such terms as would ensure her compliance, for a full explanation of her mysterious conduct. But he checked the impulse, he silenced the promptings of curiosity, sacrificing them to his ever-present sense of his professional and personal dignity. While the momentary struggle lasted, the gipsy woman closely scanned his face. At length he said coldly:

"I will do as you ask. I place no reliance on your statements, but you are right in asking for the means of substantiating them. I will see you, or any one you may send to-morrow."

"You will be at home?" she asked, anxiously. "The hunt?"

"The hunt will hardly take place; the weather is too much against us,"

replied Lionel Dale. "Except there should be a very decided change, there will be no hunt, and I shall be at home." Having said this, Lionel Dale rose, with a decided air of dismissal. The gipsy rose too, and stood unshrinkingly before him, as she said:

"And now I will leave you. Good night. You think me a mad woman, or an impostor. This is the second occasion on which you have misjudged me, Mr. Dale."

As the rector met the earnest gaze of her brilliant eyes, a strange feeling took possession of his mind. It seemed to him, as if he had before encountered that earnest and profound gaze.

"I must have seen such a face in a dream," he thought to himself; "where else but in a dream?"

The fancy had a powerful influence over him, and occupied his mind as he preceded the gipsy woman to the hall, and opened the door for her to pass out.