“Now,” said the conjurer, “is it not notorious that you are the most jealous—­by the way, give me five shillings; I can make no further communications till I am paid; there—­thank you—­now, is it not notorious that you are one of the most jealous old scoundrels in the whole country?”

“No, sir, barrin’ a little wholesome suspicion.”

“Well, sir, go home about your business.  Your daughter and the dancing master’s son have made a runaway match of it, and your wife, to protect the character of her daughter, has gone with them.  You are a miser, too.  Go home now; I have nothing more to say to you, except that you have been yourself a profligate.  Look at that book, sir; there it is; the stars have told me so.”

“You have got my five shillings, sir; but say what you like, all the wather in the ocean wouldn’t wash her clear of the ould dancin’-masther.”

In the course of a few minutes a beautiful peasant girl entered the room, her face mantled with blushes, and took her seat on the chair as the others had done, and remained for some time silent, and apparently panting with agitation.

“What is your name, my pretty girl?” asked the conjurer.

“Grace Davoren,” replied the girl.

“And what do you wish to know from me, Miss Davoren?”

“O, don’t call me miss, sir; I’m but a poor girl.”

The conjurer looked into his book for a few minutes, and then, raising his head, and fixing his eyes upon her, replied—­

“Yes, I will call you miss, because I have looked into your fate, and I see that there is great good fortune before you.”

The young creature blushed again and smiled with something like confidence, but seemed rather at a loss what to say, or how to proceed.

“From your extraordinary beauty you must have a great many admirers, Miss Davoren.”

“But only two, sir, that gives me any trouble—­one of them is a—­”

The conjurer raised his hand as an intimation to her to stop, and after poring once more over the book for some time, proceeded:—­

“Yes—­one of them is Shawn-na-Middogue; but he’s an outlaw—­and that courtship is at an end now.”

“Wid me, it is, sir; but not wid him.  The sogers and autorities is out for him and others; but still he keeps watchin’ me as close as he can.”

“Well, wait till I look into the book of fate again—­yes—­yes—­here is—­a gentleman over head and ears in love with you.”

Poor Grace blushed, then became quite pale.  “But, sir,” said she, “will the gentleman marry me?”

“To be sure he will marry you; but he cannot for some time.”

“But will he save me from disgrace and shame, sir?” she asked, with a death-like face.

“Don’t make your mind uneasy on that point;—­but wait a moment till I find out his name in the great book of fatality;—­yes, I see—­his name is Woodward.  Don’t, however, make your mind uneasy; he will take care of you.”