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Molly Fagan had wanted a husband for herself, she would not have been so averse to a consultation with "the wise woman." But, to satisfy her friend, she put a salvo on her own conscience, and vowed that she “wouldn't let th' ould pack o' cards be cut or shuffled the night;" for that all she wanted was a little bit of advice, which no one, barrin' Peg Morrin, could give her."

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The moon was smothered in clouds, when Biddy stepped into a little flat-bottomed boat, called a cot, and placed herself at one of the pointed ends that might have been called the prow had not the other been quite similar, there being in fact no stern. At this other end, Tom Fagan stood; and, with a long pole, shoved his fragile canoe across the broad, and at that passage, somewhat rapid stream. The fortune-teller's cabin looked like a black patch on the face of the little field, in a corner of which it stood. And, as Biddy threw a furtive glance at the massive bridge of Magany, with its vaguely defined arches, and thought of the many stories which proclaimed it to be haunted, she involuntarily shuddered.

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"Is it shiverin' you are, Biddy, dear?" said the compassionate miller; wrap your cloak over you, for the night wind creeps up against the strame, an' stales into one's buzzum, without givin' a word's warnin'."

"It's not the wind, Tom, agra. It's something that's inside of the heart within me that's trimblin'! It's a dreary place you live in, Tom. Plase the Lord I'm doin' the right thing, in goin' to ould Peg!"

"Arrah, niver fear, Biddy! The divil a harm she 'll do you. What if she does look on your palm, or cut the cards wid you? Sure, an' it's thrue enough, she

tould me my fortin

afore I married Molly, and every

word comed to pass. Don't be turned agin her, by what Molly says. She's a very superstitious woman, Biddy; that's God's thruth, an' believes nawthin' but what Father Rice at the Friary tells her. So keep up your heart, like a good girl as you are. Here's the fieldan' there's Peg Morrin's cabin-an' God speed you wid her. I'll wait here till you're ready, an' bring you back all the way home to the Grange. Now, jump over the flaggers-that's it! cliver an' clane-away wid you!"

And away tripped Biddy, with a beating heart, though greatly reassured by Tom Fagan's cheering words. She kept her eye on the cabin before her, and neither looked to the right nor the left; for she was in the very field where young William Barrington had been recently killed by Gillespie, in a duel rarely paralleled for ferocity; and there was not man nor woman, on either side of the river, that could walk fearlessly through that field of a dark night, much less live in it, except Peg Morrin. But it was well known that she carried a protection about her from all supernatural ills; and well might she walk or sleep, without fear of hurt or harm.

"The Lord save us!" exclaimed Biddy, with a suppressed scream, crossing herself, and clasping her hands together, as a rustling in the large alder bush close to the

cabin was followed by a loud whine; while a pair of fiery eyes seemed to fix themselves on the terrified girl. It was only old Peg's black cat, as Biddy was in a moment convinced. In another, she was close to, and tapping gently at, the door.

Come in, Biddy Keenahan; rise the latch, an' niver mind blessin' or crossin' when you step over the thrashhold!" muttered the voice of the old hag inside. Biddy started back at hearing her own name thus pronounced; but she raised the latch and stepped in, being glad of any refuge from the darkness; and she took care not to say "God save you!" Just as she entered, she received a sharp blow, from some hard but feathery substance above the door. She was afraid to say "Lord bless us!" but she stooped low, and looked up sideways, and saw a large owl flapping his wing at her, from a nook over the

entrance.

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'Ah, then, how did you know it was me that tapped at the dure, Misthress Morrin?" asked Biddy, timidly, by way of beginning the conversation.

"Didn't you hear the black cat spaking, as you come up the field, Biddy Keenahan?" replied the hag.

"The blessed Cross be about us!" was on Biddy's lips, but she dared not let the words escape.

"Sit down on that stool, Biddy, an' I'll soon give you what you want," continued old Peg, who was herself seated on just such a three-legged implement as she pointed to, with a little table before her, traced with

many mystical lines, a lump of chalk being in one of her hands for that purpose; while the other held a pack of cards, which a cryptical incrustation of dirt and grease had brought to a perfect equality of appearance.

"There, Biddy, I'll put the cards away-for it is n't thim you want to dale with the night. Whin the fortin's cast, and the fate doomed, whether it's hangin' or drownin', or a weddin' or a berrin', there's no use in the cards, Biddy-an' it's yours an' Lanty's, that's settled long ago!"

With these words the crone screwed up her mouth and frowned, and thrust her dirty cards into a huge pocket; and then crossing her arms, she looked on Biddy with the half scowl and half smile of lawless power and vulgar patronage.

"Och, Misthress Morrin, avic, don't be afther frightnin' me this blessed night! It's for your advice I'm comed, an' sure it's yourself can sarve me, an' do me a good turn. It's ould Brine Oge, the huntsman, that put me upon comin' to you, or I wouldn't be bould enough to throuble you this-a-way."

"Brine Oge is a dacent man, an' one that nobody need be afeard to do wrong in follyin' his advice. Thin what do you want wid me, Biddy Keenahan? May be it's a love pouther for Lanty?"

"Och, then, Misthress Morrin, jew'l! what's the use of your axing me any questions at all at all, when you can answer thim before you ax thim? Then sure enough it's jist that I want from you."

"There it is, Biddy Keenahan, ready for you; for I knew you were comin', an' what you'd be afther axin' for. Put out your lift hand, an' take hould of that paper on the shelf beside you, an' put it in your buzzum, for it's the heart that works on the heart! An' take it home wid you, an' mix the pouther wid whatever Lanty likes best-an' what'd he like betther nor a bowl o' sillybub, the crathur!-An' stir it lift-handed, an' don't look at it, an' throw the paper over your lift shoulder, an' give it to your lovyer-for he's the b'y that loves you, Biddy, dear -wid your own hands, an' watch him while he drinks it, an' say somethin' to yourself all the while, ar a wish, ar what you most wish for in the world. An' from that minute out the charm'll work, an' the philthur-for that's the name av it in the mysthery-'ll do the rest. An' good look be on you, Biddy Keenahan, wid Lanty your lovyer, who'll soon spake the right speech to you, an 'll only want the word av Father Rice at the Friary, afther that, to be your own flish an' blood, Biddy, an' the father if your childer, which may good fortin presarve! Give me half-a-crown, Biddy, an' good night to you! for the miller's cot 'll be waitin', an' the wind's risin', an' it's a hard push Tom Fagan 'll have up the strame to the Grange."

Biddy, in a conflict of wonderment at this knowledge of her movements, and of delight at the wise woman's discourse, put the paper well under the folds of her handkerchief, and felt her heart working against it, sure

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