“Yes, to be sure,” said Marston.

“Well?” continued his visitor.

“Well, I really don’t recollect the prophecy,” replied Marston.

“What! do you forget the gypsy who predicted that you were to murder me, Dick—­eh?”

“Ah-ha, ha!” laughed Marston, with a start.

“Don’t you remember it now?” urged his companion.

“Ah, why yes, I believe I do,” said Marston; “but another prophecy was running in my mind; a gypsy prediction, too.  At Ascot, do you recollect the girl told me I was to be Lord Chancellor of England, and a duke besides?”

“Well, Dick,” rejoined Sir Wynston, merrily, “if both are to be fulfilled, or neither, I trust you may never sit upon the woolsack of England.”

The party soon after broke up:  Sir Wynston and his host, as usual, to pass some hours at piquet; and Mrs. Marston, as was her wont, to, spend some time in her own boudoir, over notes and accounts, and the worrying details of housekeeping.

While thus engaged, she was disturbed by a respectful tap at her door, and an elderly servant, who had been for many years in the employment of Mr. Marston, presented himself.

“Well, Merton, do you want anything?” asked the lady.

“Yes, ma’am, please, I want to give warning; I wish to leave the service, ma’am;” replied he, respectfully, but doggedly.

“To leave us, Merton!” echoed his mistress, both surprised and sorry for the man had been long her servant, and had been much liked and trusted.

“Yes, ma’am,” he repeated.

“And why do you wish to do so, Merton?  Has anything occurred to make the place unpleasant to you?” urged the lady.

“No, ma’am—­no, indeed,” said he, earnestly, “I have nothing to complain of—­nothing, indeed, ma’am.”

“Perhaps, you think you can do better, if you leave us?” suggested his mistress.

“No, indeed, ma’am, I have no such thought,” he said, and seemed on the point of bursting into tears; “but—­but, somehow—­ma’am, there is something come over me, lately, and I can’t help, but think, if I stay here, ma’am—­some—­some—­misfortune will happen to us all—­and that is the truth, ma’am.”

“This is very foolish, Merton—­a mere childish fancy,” replied Mrs. Marston; “you like your place, and have no better prospect before you; and now, for a mere superstitious fancy, you propose giving it up, and leaving us.  No, no, Merton, you had better think the matter over—­and if you still, upon reflection, prefer going away, you can then speak to your master.”

“Thank you ma’am—­God bless you,” said the man, withdrawing.

Mrs. Marston rang the bell for her maid, and retired to her room.  “Has anything occurred lately,” she asked, “to annoy Merton?”

“No, ma’am, I don’t know of anything; but he is very changed, indeed, of late,” replied the maid.

“He has not been quarreling?” inquired she.