“How strange!” cried Melchior, “and she told him the same—­that is, he would meet a friend.”

“Strange—­very strange—­wonderful—­astonishing!” was echoed from all quarters, and the fame of the gipsy was already established.

Timothy and I sat down together, conversing as old friends, and Melchior went about from one to the other, narrating the wonderful occurrence till past midnight, when we all three took beds at the inn, as if we were travellers.

The report which we had circulated that evening induced many people to go out to see Nattee, who appeared to take no notice of them; and when asked to tell fortunes, waved them away with her hand.  But, although this plan of Melchior’s was, for the first two or three days very expedient, yet, as it was not intended to last, Timothy, who remained with me at the inn, became very intimate with the barmaid, and obtained from her most of the particulars of her life.  I, also, from repeated conversations with the landlady, received information very important, relative to herself, and many of the families in the town, but as the employment of Nattee was for an ulterior object, we contented ourselves with gaining all the information we could before we proceeded further.  After we had been there a week, and the fame of the gipsy woman had been marvellously increased—­many things having been asserted of her which were indeed truly improbable—­Melchior agreed that Timothy should persuade the barmaid to try if the gipsy woman would tell her fortune:  the girl, with some trepidation, agreed, but at the same time, expecting to be refused, consented to walk with him over the common.  Timothy advised her to pretend to pick up a sixpence when near to Nattee, and ask her if it did not belong to her, and the barmaid acted upon his suggestions, having just before that quitted the arm of Timothy, who had conducted her.

“Did you drop a sixpence?  I have picked up one,” said the girl, trembling with fear as she addressed Nattee.

“Child,” replied Nattee, who was prepared, “I have neither dropped a sixpence nor have you found one—­but never mind that, I know that which you wish, and I know who you are.  Now what would you with me?  Is it to inquire whether the landlord and landlady of the Golden Lion intend to keep you in their service?”

“No,” replied the girl, frightened at what she heard; “not to inquire that, but to ask what my fortune will be?”

“Open your palm, pretty maid, and I will tell you.  Hah!  I see that you were born in the West—­your father is dead—­your mother is in service—­and let me see,—­you have a brother at sea—­now in the West Indies.”