But Anthea still hesitated, while Bellew stood with his hand upon the gate, waiting for her to enter.  Now he had left his hat behind him, and, as the moon shone down on his bare head, she could not but notice how bright, and yellow was his hair, despite the thick, black brows below.

“I think I—­would rather you waited outside,—­if you don’t mind, Mr. Bellew.”

“You mean that I am to be denied the joy of conversing with a real, live, old witch, and having my fortune told?” he sighed.  “Well, if such is your will—­so be it,” said he obediently, and handed her the basket.

“I won’t keep you waiting very long,—­and—­thank you!” she smiled, and, hurrying up the narrow path, she tapped at the cottage door.

“Come in! come in!” cried an old, quavering voice, albeit, very sharp, and piercing.  “That be my own soft dove of a maid,—­my proud, beautiful, white lady!  Come in! come in!—­and bring him wi’ you,—­him as is so big, and strong,—­him as I’ve expected so long,—­the tall, golden man from over seas.  Bid him come in, Miss Anthea, that Goody Dibbin’s old eyes may look at him at last.”

Hereupon, at a sign from Anthea, Bellew turned in at the gate, and striding up the path, entered the cottage.

Despite the season, a fire burned upon the hearth, and crouched over this, in a great elbow-chair, sat a very bent, and aged woman.  Her face was furrowed, and seamed with numberless lines and wrinkles, but her eyes were still bright, and she wore no spectacles; likewise her white hair was wonderfully thick, and abundant, as could plainly be seen beneath the frill of her cap, for, like the very small room of this very small cottage, she was extremely neat, and tidy.  She had a great, curving nose, and a great, curving chin, and what with this and her bright, black eyes, and stooping figure, she was very much like what a witch should be,—­albeit a very superior kind of old witch.

She sat, for a while, staring up at Bellew who stood tall, and bare-headed, smiling down at her; and then, all at once, she nodded her head three several, and distinct times.

“Right!” she quavered, “right! right,—­it be all right!—­the golden man as I’ve watched this many an’ many a day, wi’ the curly hair, and the sleepy eye, and the Tiger-mark upon his arm,—­right! right!”

“What do you mean by ‘Tiger-mark?’” enquired Bellew.

“I mean, young master wi’ your golden curls,—­I mean as, sitting here day in, and day out, staring down into my fire, I has my dreams,—­leastways, I calls ’em my dreams, though there’s them as calls it the ‘second sight.’  But pray sit down, tall sir, on the stool there; and you, my tender maid, my dark lady, come you here—­upon my right, and, if you wish, I’ll look into the ink, or read your pretty hand, or tell you what I see down there in the fire.  But no,—­first, show what you have brought for Old Nannie in the blessed basket,—­the fine, strong basket as holds