Sir Thomas could not for his life prevent himself from starting so visibly that she observed it at once.

“No such thing,” he replied, affecting a composure which he certainly did not feel; “you are an impostor, and I now see that you know nothing.”

“What I say is true,” she replied, solemnly, “and you have stated, Thomas Gourlay, what you know to be a falsehood; I would be glad to discover you uttering truth unless with some evil intention.  But now for your daughter; you wish to hear her fate?”

“Certainly I do; but then you know nothing.  You charge me with falsehood, but it is yourself that are the liar.”

She waved her hand indignantly.

“Will my daughter’s husband be a man of title?” he asked, his mind passing to the great and engrossing object of his ambition.

“He will be a man of title,” she replied, “and he will make her a countess.”

“You must take money,” said he, thrusting his hand into his pocket, and once more pulling out his purse—­“that is worth something, surely.”

She waved her hand again, with a gesture of repulse still more indignant and frightful than before, and the bitter smile she gave while doing it again displayed her corpse-like teeth in a manner that was calculated to excite horror itself.

“Very well,” replied the baronet; “I will not press you, only don’t make such cursed frightful grimaces.  But with respect to my daughter, will the marriage be with her own consent?”

“With her own consent—­it will be the dearest wish of her heart.”

“Could you name her husband?”

“I could and will.  Lord Dunroe will be the man, and he will make her Countess of Cullamore.”

“Well, now,” replied the other, “I believe you can speak truth, and are somewhat acquainted with the future.  The girl certainly is attached to him, and I have no doubt the union will be, as you say, a happy one.”

“You know in your soul,” she replied, “that she detests him; and you know she would sacrifice her life this moment sooner than marry him.”

“What, then, do you mean.” he asked, “and why do you thus contradict yourself?”

“Good-by, Thomas Gourlay,” she replied.  “So far as regards either the past or the future, you will hear nothing further from me to-day; but, mark me, we shall meet again—–­and we have met before.”

“That, certainly, is not true,” he said, “unless it might be accidentally on the highway; but, until this moment, my good woman, I don’t remember to have seen your face in my life.”

[Illustration:  Page 350—­ How will you be prepared to render an account]

She looked toward the sky, and pointing her long, skinny finger upwards, said, “How will you be prepared to render an account of all your deeds and iniquities before Him who will judge you there!”

There was a terrible calmness, a dreadful solemnity on her white, ghastly features as she spoke, and pointed to the sky, after which she passed on in silence and took no further notice of the Black Baronet.