The farmer put his hand in his pocket, and placing the money before him, left the room, satisfied that there was no earthly subject, past, present, or to come, with which the learned conjurer was not acquainted.

The next individual that came before him was a very pretty buxom widow, who, having made the venerable conjurer a courtesy, sat down and immediately burst into tears.

"What is the matter with you, madam?" asked the astrologer, rather surprised at this unaccountable exhibition of the pathetic.

"O, sir, I lost, about fifteen months ago, one of the best husbands that ever broke the world's bread."

Here came another effusion, accompanied with a very distracted blow of the nose.

"That must have been very distressing to you, madam; he must have been extremely fond of such a very pretty wife."

"O sir, he doted alive upon me, as I did upon him--poor, darling old Paul."

"Ah, he was old, was he?"

"Yes, sir, and left me very rich."

"But what do you wish me to do for you?"

"Why, sir, he was very fond of money; was, in fact, a--a--kind of miser in his way. My father and mother forced me to marry the dear old man, and I did so to please them; but at the same time he was very kind in his manner to me--indeed, so kind that he allowed me a shilling a month for pocket money."

"Well, but what is your object in coming to me?"

"Why, sir, to ask your opinion on a case of great difficulty."

"Very well, madam; you shall have the best opinion in the known world upon the subject--that is, as soon as I hear it. Speak out without hesitation, and conceal nothing."

"Why, sir, the poor dear man before his death--ah, that ever my darling old Paul should have been taken away from me!--the poor dear man, before his death--ahem--before his death--O, ah,"--here came another effusion--"began to--to--to--get jealous of me with a young man in the neighborhood that--that--I was fond of before I married my dear old Paul."

"Was the young man in question handsome?"

"Indeed, sir, he was, and is, very handsome--and the impudent minxes of the parish are throwing their caps at him in dozens."

"But still you are keeping me in the dark."

"Well, sir, I will tell you my difficulty. When poor dear old Paul was dying, he called me to the bed-side one day, and says to me: 'Biddy,'

says he, 'I'm going to die--and you know I am wealthy; but, in the meantime, I won't leave you sixpence.' 'It's not the loss of your money I am thinking of, my darling Paul,' says I, 'but the loss of yourself"--and I kissed him, and cried. 'You didn' often kiss me that way before,' said he--' and I know what you're kissing me for now.'

'No,' I said, 'I did not; because I had no notion then of losing you, my own darling Paul--you don't know how I loved you all along, Paul,' said I; 'kiss me again, jewel.' 'Now,' said he,' I'm not going to leave you sixpence, and I'll tell you why--I saw young Charley Mulvany, that you were courting before I married you--I saw him, I say, through the windy there, kiss you, with my own eyes, when you thought I was asleep--and you put your arms about his neck and hugged him,' said he. I must be particular, sir, in order that you may understand the difficulty I'm in."

"Proceed, madam," said the conjurer. "If I were young I certainly would envy Charley Mulvany--but proceed."

"Well, sir, I replied to him: 'Paul, dear,' said I, 'that was a kiss of friendship--and the reason of it was, that poor Charley was near crying when he heard that you were going to die and to leave me so lonely.'

'Well,' said he, 'that may be--many a thing may be that's not likely--and that may be one of them. Go and get a prayer-book, and come back here.' Well, sir, I got a book and I went back. 'Now,' said he, 'if you swear by the contents of that book that you will never put a ring on man after my death, I'll leave you my property.' 'Ah, G.o.d pardon you, Paul, darling,' said I, 'for supposing that I'd ever dream of marrying again'--and I couldn't help kissing him once more and crying over him when I heard what he said. 'Now,' said he, 'kiss the book, and swear that you'll never put a ring on man after my death, and I'll leave you every shilling I'm worth.' G.o.d knows it was a trying scene to a loving heart like mine--so I swore that I'd never put a ring on man after his death--and then he altered his will and left me the property on those conditions."

"Proceed, madam," said the conjurer; "I am still in the dark as to the object of your visit."

"Why, sir, it is to know--ahem--O, poor old Paul. G.o.d forgive me! it was to know, sir, O--"

"Don't cry, madam, don't cry."

"It was to know, sir, if I could ever think of--of--you must know, sir, we had no family, and I would not wish that the property should die with me; to know if--if you think I could venture to marry again?"

"This," replied the conjurer, "is a matter of unusual importance and difficulty. In the first place you must hand me a guinea--that is my fee for cases of this kind."

The money was immediately paid, and the conjurer proceeded: "I said it was a case of great difficulty, and so it is, but--"

"I forgot to mention, sir, that when I went out to get the prayer-book, I found Charley Mulvany in the next room, and he said he had one in his pocket; so that the truth, sir, is, I--I took the oath upon a book of ballads. Now," she proceeded, "I have strong reasons for marrying Charley Mulvany; and I wish to know if I can do so without losing the property."

"Make your mind easy on that point," replied the conjurer; "you swore never to put a ring on man, but you did not swear that a man would never put a ring on you. Go home," he continued, "and if you be advised by me, you will marry Charley Mulvany without loss of time."

A man rather advanced in years next came in, and taking his seat, wiped his face and gave a deep groan.

"Well, my friend," said the conjurer, "in what way can I serve you?"

"G.o.d knows it's hard to tell that," he replied--"but I'm troubled."

"What troubles you?"

"It's a quare world, sir, altogether."

"There are many strange things in it certainly."

"That's truth, sir; but the saison's favorable, thank G.o.d, and there's every prospect of a fine spring for puttin' down the crops."

"You are a farmer, then; but why should you feel troubled about what you call a fine season for putting down the crops?"

The man moved uneasily upon his chair, and seemed at a loss how to proceed; the conjurer looked at him, and waited for a little that he might allow him sufficient time to disclose his difficulties.

"There are a great many troubles in this life, sir, especially in married families."

"There is no doubt of that, my friend," replied the conjurer.

"No, sir, there is not. I am not aisy in my mind, somehow."

"Hundreds of thousands are so, as well as you," replied the other. "I would be glad to see the man who has not something to trouble him; but will you allow me to ask you what it is that troubles you?"

"I took her, sir, widout a shift to her back, and a betther husband never breathed the breath of life than I have been to her;" and then he paused, and pulling out his handkerchief, shed bitter tears. "I would love her still, if I could, sir; but, then, the thing's impossible."

"O, yes," said the conjurer; "I see you are jealous of her; but will you state upon what grounds?"

"Well, sir, I think I have good grounds for it."

"What description of a woman is your wife, and what age is she?"

"Why, sir, she's about my own age. She was once handsome enough--indeed, very handsome when I married her."

"Was the marriage a cordial one between you and her?"