ho came nobody knew whence, and got his bread nobody knew
how, and never had a penny in his pocket. Robert, who was now in the
neighborhood, happened to hear of Sally Evans and her twenty pounds.
He immediately conceived a longing desire for the latter. So he went
to his old friend Rachel the fortune teller, told her all he had
heard of Sally, and promised if she could bring about a marriage
between them, she should go shares in the money.

Rachel undertook the business. She set off to the farmhouse, and
fell to singing one of her most enticing songs just under the dairy
window. Sally was so struck with the pretty tune, which was
unhappily used, as is too often the case, to set off some very
loose words, that she jumped up, dropped the skimming dish into the
cream and ran out to buy the song. While she stooped down to rummage
the basket for those songs which had the most tragical pictures (for
Sally had a tender heart, and delighted in whatever was mournful)
Rachel looked stedfastly in her face, and told her she knew by art
that she was born to good fortune, but advised her not to throw
herself away. "These two moles on your cheek," added she, "show you
are in some danger." "Do they denote husbands or children?" cried
Sally, starting up, and letting fall the song of the Children in the
Wood. "Husbands," muttered Rachel. "Alas! poor Jacob!" said Sally,
mournfully, "then he will die first, won't he?" "Mum for that,"
quoth the fortune teller, "I will say no more." Sally was impatient,
but the more curiosity she discovered, the more mystery Rachel
affected. At last, she said, "If you will cross my hand with a piece
of silver, I will tell your fortune. By the power of my art I can do
this three ways; first by cards, next by the lines on your hand, or
by turning a cup of tea grounds; which will you have?" "O, all!
all!" cried Sally, looking up with reverence to this sun-burnt
oracle of wisdom, who was possessed of no less than three different
ways of diving into the secrets of futurity. Alas! persons of better
sense than Sally have been so taken in; the more is the pity. The
poor girl said she would run up stairs to her little box where she
kept her money tied up in a bit of an old glove, and would bring
down a bright queen Anne's sixpence very crooked. "I am sure," added
she, "it is a lucky one, for it cured me of a very bad ague last
spring, by only laying it nine nights under my pillow without
speaking a word. But then yo