“I don’t want it told,” interrupted Miss Greeby abruptly.  “I don’t believe in such rubbish.”

“There is rubbish and there is truth,” said the ancient gypsy darkly.  “And them as knows can see what’s hidden from others.”

“Well, you will have an opportunity this afternoon of making money.  Some fools from The Manor are coming to consult you.”

Mother Cockleshell nodded and grinned to show a set of beautifully preserved teeth.  “I know The Manor,” said she, rubbing her slim hands.  “And Lord Garvington, with his pretty sister.”

“Lady Agnes Pine?” asked Miss Greeby.  “How do you know, her?”

“I’ve been in these parts before, my gentle lady, and she was good to me in a sick way.  I would have died in the hard winter if she hadn’t fed me and nursed me, so to speak.  I shall love to see her again.  To dick a puro pal is as commoben as a aushti habben, the which, my precious angel, is true Romany for the Gentile saying, ’To see an old friend is as good as a fine dinner.’  Avali!  Avali!” she nodded smilingly.  “I shall be glad to see her, though here I use Romany words to you as doesn’t understand the lingo.”

Miss Greeby was not at all pleased to hear Lady Agnes praised; as, knowing that Lambert had loved her, and probably loved her still, she was jealous enough to wish her all possible harm.  However, it was not diplomatic to reveal her true feelings to Mother Cockleshell, lest the old gypsy should repeat her words to Lady Agnes, so she turned the conversation by pointing to a snow-white cat of great size, who stepped daintily out of the tent.  “I should think, as a witch, your cat ought to be black,” said Miss Greeby.  Mother Cockleshell screeched like a night-owl and hastily pattered some gypsy spell to avert evil.  “Why, the old devil is black,” she cried.  “And why should I have him in my house to work evil?  This is my white ghost.”  Her words were accompanied by a gentle stroking of the cat.  “And good is what she brings to my roof-tree.  But I don’t eat from white dishes, or drink from white mugs.  No!  No!  That would be too witchly.”

Miss Greeby mused.  “I have heard something about these gypsy superstitions before,” she remarked meditatively.

“Avo!  Avo!  They are in a book written by a great Romany Rye.  Leland is the name of that rye, a gypsy Lee with Gentile land.  He added land to the lea as he was told by one of our people.  Such a nice gentleman, kind, and free of his money and clever beyond tellings, as I always says.  Many a time has he sat pal-like with me, and ‘Gentilla,’ says he, ‘your’re a bori chovihani’; and that, my generous lady, is the gentle language for a great witch.”

“Chaldea said that you were that,” observed Miss Greeby carelessly.

“The child speaks truly.  Come, cross my hand, sweet lady.”

Miss Greeby passed along half a crown.  “I only desire to know one thing,” she said, offering her palm.  “Shall I get my wish?”