was thin, and supernaturally pale, and her features had a death-like composure, an almost awful rigidity, that induced the spectator to imagine that she had just risen from the grave.  Her thin lips were repulsively white, and her teeth so much whiter that they almost filled you with fear; but it was in her eye that the symbol of her prophetic power might be said to lie.  It was wild, gray, and almost transparent, and whenever she was, or appeared to be, in a thoughtful mood, or engaged in the contemplation of futurity, it kept perpetually scintillating, or shifting, as it were, between two proximate objects, to which she seemed to look as if they had been in the far distance of space—­that is, it turned from one to another with a quivering rapidity which the eye of the spectator was unable to follow.  And yet it was evident on reflection, that in her youth she must have been not only good-looking, but handsome.  This quick and unnatural motion of the eye was extremely wild and startling, and when contrasted with the white and death-like character of her teeth, and the moveless expression of her countenance, was in admirable keeping with the supernatural qualities attributed to her.  She wore no bonnet, but her white death-bed like cap was tied round her head by a band of clean linen, and came under her chin, as in the case of a corpse, thus making her appear as if she purposely assumed the startling habiliments of the grave.  As for the outlines of her general person, they afforded evident proof—­thin and emaciated as she then was—­that her figure in early life must have been remarkable for great neatness and symmetry.  She inhabited a solitary cottage in the glen, a fact which, in the opinion of the people, completed the wild prestige of her character.

“You accursed hag,” said the baronet, whose vexation at meeting her was for the moment beyond any superstitious impression which he felt, “what brought you here?  What devil sent you across my path now?  Who are you, or what are you, for you look like a libel on humanity?”

“If I don’t,” she replied, bitterly, “I know who does.  There is not much beauty between us, Thomas Gourlay.”

“What do you mean by Thomas Gourlay, you sorceress?”

“You’ll come to know that some day before you die, Thomas; perhaps sooner than you can think or dream of.”

“How can you tell that, you irreverent old viper?”

“I could tell you much more than that, Thomas,” she replied, showing her corpse-like teeth with a ghastly smile of mocking bitterness that was fearful.

The Black Baronet, in spite of himself, began to feel somewhat uneasy, for, in fact, there appeared such a wild but confident significance in her manner and language that he deemed it wiser to change his tactics with the woman, and soothe her a little if he could.  In truth, her words agitated him so much that he unconsciously pulled out of his waistcoat pocket the key of Lucy’s room, and began to dangle with it as he contemplated her with something like alarm.