“Aye,” answers she, fixing her piercing eye on my face; “but every one knows not that some call you Kit.”

This fairly staggered me for a moment.

“How do you answer that?” she asks, observing my confusion.  “Why,” says I, recovering my presence of mind, “’tis most extraordinary, to be sure, that you should read this, for save one or two familiars, none know that my second name is Christopher.”

“A fairly honest hand,” says she, looking at my hand again.  “Weak in some things, but a faithful friend.  You may be trusted.”

And so she drops my hand and takes up Moll’s.

“’Tis strange,” says she.  “You call yourself Judith, yet here I see your name writ Moll.”

[Illustration:  “YOU CALL YOURSELF JUDITH, YET HERE I SEE YOUR NAME WRIT MOLL.”]

Poor Moll, sick with a night of sorrow and terrified by the wise woman’s divining powers, could make no answer; but soon Fitch, taking less heed of her tremble than of mine, regards her hand again.

“How were you called in Barbary?” asks she.

This question betraying a flaw in the wise woman’s perception, gave Moll courage, and she answered readily enough that she was called “Lala Mollah”—­which was true, “Lala” being the Moorish for lady, and “Mollah” the name her friends in Elche had called her as being more agreeable to their ear than the shorter English name.

“Mollah—­Moll!” says Anne Fitch, as if communing with herself.  “That may well be.”  Then, following a line in Moll’s hand, she adds, “You will love but once, child.”

“What is my sweetheart’s name?” whispers Moll, the colour springing in her face.

“You have not heard it yet,” replies the other, upon which Moll pulls her hand away impatiently.  “But you have seen him,” continues the wise woman, “and his is the third hand in which I have read another name.”

“Tell me now if I shall see him again,” cries Moll, eagerly—­offering her hand again, and as quickly as she had before withdrawn it.

“That depends upon yourself,” returns the other.  “The line is a deep one.  Would you give him all you have?”

Moll bends her head low in silence, to conceal her hot face.

“’Tis nothing to be ashamed of,” says the old woman, in a strangely gentle tone. “’Tis better to love once than often; better to give your whole heart than part.  Were I young and handsome and rich, I would give body and soul for such a man.  For he is good and generous and exceeding kind.  Look you, he hath lived here but a few weeks, and I feel for him, grieve for him, like a mother.  Oh, I am no witch,” adds she, wiping a tear from her cheek, “only a crooked old woman with the gift of seeing what is open to all who will read, and a heart that quickens still at a kind word or a gentle thought.” (Moll’s hand had closed upon hers at that first sight of her grief.) “For your names,” continues she, recovering her composure, “I learnt from one of your maids who came hither for news of her sweetheart, that the sea captain who was with you did sometimes let them slip.  I was paid to learn this.”