THE library looked tranquil enough as I entered it，and the Sibyl- if Sibyl she were- was seated snugly enough in an easy-chair at the chimney-corner. She had on a red cloak and a black bonnet: or rather，a broad-brimmed gipsy hat，tied down with a striped handkerchief under her chin. An extinguished candle stood on the table; she was bending over the fire，and seemed reading in a little black book，like a prayer-book，by the light of the blaze: she muttered the words to herself，as most old women do，while she read; she did not desist immediately on my entrance: it appeared she wished to finish a paragraph.

I stood on the rug and warmed my hands，which were rather cold with sitting at a distance from the drawing-room fire. I felt now as posed as ever I did in my life: there was nothing indeed in the gipsy"s appearance to trouble one"s calm. She shut her book and slowly looked up; her hat-brim partially shaded her face，yet I could see，as she raised it，that it was a strange one. It looked all brown and black: elf-locks bristled out from beneath a white band which passed under her chin，and came half over her cheeks，or rather jaws: her eye confronted me at once，with a bold and direct gaze.

"Well，and you want your fortune told?" she said，in a voice as decided as her glance，as harsh as her features.

"I don"t care about it，mother; you may please yourself: but I ought to warn you，I have no faith."

"It"s like your impudence to say so: I expected it of you; I heard it in your step as you crossed the threshold."

"Did you? You"ve a quick ear."