Miss Folliard, on being called down by her father to have her fortune told, on seeing Molly, drew back and said, “Do not ask me to come in direct contact with this woman, papa.  How can you, for one moment, imagine that a person of her life and habits could be gifted with that which has never yet been communicated to mortal (the holy prophets excepted)—­a knowledge of futurity?”

“No matter, my darling, no matter; give her your hand; you will oblige and gratify me.”

“Here, then, dear papa, to please you—­certainly.”

Molly took her lovely hand, and having looked into it, said, turning to the squire, “It’s very odd, sir, but here’s nearly the same thing that I tould to you awhile ago.”

“Well, Molly,” said he, “let us hear it.”

Miss Folliard stood with her snowy hand in that of the fortune-teller, perfectly indifferent to her art, but not without strong feelings of disgust at the ordeal to which she submitted.

“Now, Molly,” said the squire, “what have you to say?”

“Here’s love,” she replied, “love in the wrong direction—­a false step is made that will end in misery—­and—­and—­and—­”

“And what, woman?” asked Miss Folliard, with an indignant glance at the fortune-teller.  “What have you to add?”

“No!” said she, “I needn’t speak it, for it won’t come to pass.  I see a man of wealth and title who will just come in in time to save you from shame and destruction, and with him you will be happy.”

“I could prove to you,” replied the Cooleen Dawn, her face mantling with blushes of indignation, “that I am a better prophetess than you are.  Ask her, papa, where she last came from.”

“Where did you come from last, Molly?” he asked.

“Why, then,” she replied, “from Jemmy Hamilton’s at the foot of Cullaniore.”

“False prophetess,” replied the Cooleen Bawn, “you have told an untruth.  I know where you came from last.”

“Then where did I come from, Miss Folliard?” said the woman, with unexpected effrontery.

“From Sir Robert Whitecraft,” replied Miss Folliard, “and the wages of your dishonesty and his corruption are the sources of your inspiration.  Take the woman away, papa.”

“That will do, Molly—­that will do,” exclaimed the squire, “there is something’ additional for you.  What you have told us is very odd—­very odd, indeed.  Go and get your dinner in the kitchen.”

Miss Folliard then withdrew to her own room.

Between eleven and twelve o’clock that night a carriage drew up at the grand entrance of Corbo Castle, out of which stepped Sir Robert Whitecraft and no less a personage than the Red Rapparee.  They approached the hall door, and after giving a single knock, it was opened to them by the squire himself, who it would seem had been waiting to receive them privately.  They followed him in silence to his study.