I must mention that she had previously had
our little boy sitting on her knee, and had at intervals thrown a hasty
glance upon the palms of his hands. On parting, Agnes, with her usual
frankness, held out her hand. The Hungarian took it with an air of sad
solemnity, pressed it fervently, and said:--'Lady, it is my part in
this life to look behind the curtain of fate; and oftentimes I see such
sights in futurity--some near, some far off--as willingly I would
_not_ see. For you, young and charming lady, looking like that
angel which you are, no destiny can be equal to your deserts. Yet
sometimes, true it is, God sees not as man sees; and he ordains, after
his unfathomable counsels, to the heavenly-minded a portion in heaven,
and to the children whom he loves a rest and a haven not built with
hands. Something that I have seen dimly warns me to look no farther.
Yet, if you desire it, I will do my office, and I will read for you
with truth the lines of fate as they are written upon your hands.'
Agnes was a little startled, or even shocked, by this solemn address;
but, in a minute or so, a mixed feeling--one half of which was
curiosity, and the other half a light-hearted mockery of her own
mysterious awe in the presence of what she had been taught to view as
either fraud or insanity--prompted her playfully to insist upon the
fullest application of the Hungarian's art to her own case; nay, she
would have the hands of our little Francis read and interpreted as well
as her own, and she desired to hear the full professional judgment
delivered without suppression or softening of its harshest awards.
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