but the white magic practiced in Egypt, and the boy is Christian!'

'Did you try this secret, father?' inquired Madame de Selinville.

'I, my daughter? An old man's fortune is in his children. What have I to
ask?'

'I--I scarcely like to be the first!' said the lady, eager but
hesitating. 'Veronique, you would have your fortune told?'

'I will be the first,' said Philip, stepping forward manfully. 'I will
prove him for you, lady, and tell you whether he be a cozener or not, or
if his magic be fit for you to deal with.'

And confident in the inherent intuition of a plain Englishman, as
well as satisfied to exercise his resolution for once in opposition to
Berenger's opinion, Master Thistlewood stepped towards the closet where
the Italian awaited his clients, and Berenger knew that it would be
worse than useless to endeavour to withhold him. He only chafed at
the smile which passed between father and daughter at this doughty
self-assertion.

There was a long silence. Berenger sat with his eyes fixed on the window
where the twilight horizon was still soft and bright with the pearly
gold of the late sunset, thinking with an intensity of yearning what
it would be could he truly become certain of Eustacie's present doings;
questioning whether he would try to satisfy that longing by the doubtful
auguries of the diviner, and then recollecting how he had heard from
wrecked sailors that to seek to delude their thirst with sea-water did
but aggravate their misery. He knew that whatever he might hear would
be unworthy of confidence. Either it merely framed to soothe and please
him--or, were it a genuine oracle, he had no faith in the instinct that
was to perceive it, but what he HAD faith in was the Divine protection
over his lost ones. 'No,' he thought to himself, 'I will not by a
presumptuous sin, in my own impatience, risk incurring woes on them that
deal with familiar spirits and wizards that peep and mutter. If ever
I am to hear of Eustacie again, it shall be by God's will, not the
devil's.'

Diane de Selinville had been watching his face all the time, and now
said, with that almost timid air of gaiety that she wore when addressing
him: 'You too, cousin, are awaiting Monsieur Philippe's report to decide
whether to look into the pool of mystery.'

'Not at all, Madame,' said Berenger, gravely. 'I do not understand white
magic.'

'Our good cousin has been too well bred among the Reformers to
condescend to our little w