gracious with a present friend of her sister’s, which she thought me to be.  The old woman was now flattered, and good payment was promised her if she would tell the truth to the elder sister and to me.  With the usual preparations and ceremonies she began her business, in order to tell the fair one’s fortune first.  She carefully considered the situation of the cards, but seemed to hesitate, and would not speak out what she had to say.  “I see now,” said the younger, who was already better acquainted with the interpretation of such a magic tablet, “you hesitate, and do not wish to disclose any thing disagreeable to my sister; but that is a cursed card!” The elder one turned pale, but composed herself, and said, “Only speak out:  it will not cost one’s head!” The old woman, after a deep sigh, showed her that she was in love; that she was not beloved; that another person stood in the way; and other things of like import.  We saw the good girl’s embarrassment.  The old woman thought somewhat to improve the affair by giving hopes of letters and money.  “Letters,” said the lovely child, “I do not expect; and money I do not desire.  If it is true, as you say, that I love, I deserve a heart that loves me in return.”—­“Let us see if it will not be better,” replied the old woman, as she shuffled the cards and laid them out a second time; but before the eyes of all of us it had only become still worse.  The fair one stood, not only more lonely, but surrounded with many sorrows.  Her lover had moved somewhat farther, and the intervening figures nearer.  The old woman wished to try it a third time, in hopes of a better prospect; but the beautiful girl could restrain herself no longer,—­she broke out into uncontrollable weeping, her lovely bosom heaved violently, she turned round, and rushed out of the room.  I knew not what to do.  Inclination kept me with the one present:  compassion drove me to the other.  My situation was painful enough.  “Comfort Lucinda,” said the younger:  “go after her.”  I hesitated.  How could I comfort her without at least assuring her of some sort of affection? and could I do that at such a moment in a cool, moderate manner?  “Let us go together,” said I to Emilia.  “I know not whether my presence will do her good,” replied she.  Yet we went, but found the door bolted.  Lucinda made no answer, we might knock, shout, entreat, as we would.  “We must let her have her own way,” said Emilia:  “she will not have it otherwise now.”  And, indeed, when I called to my mind her manner from our very first acquaintance, she always had something violent and unequal about her, and chiefly showed her affection for me by not behaving to me with rudeness.  What was I to do?  I paid the old woman richly for the mischief she had caused, and was about to go, when Emilia said, “I stipulate that the cards shall now be cut for you too.”  The old woman was ready.  “Do not let me be present,” cried I, and hastened down stairs.