ve, and the other far advanced in years, both accosted him
almost at the same moment.

"Your honor won't go," said the less aged of the two, "until you get
your fortune tould."

"To be sure he won't, Caterine," they all replied; "we'll engage the
gentleman will cross your hand wid silver, like his father before him,
his heart's not in the money."

"Never mind her, sir," said the aged crone, "she's a schemer, and will
tell you nothing but what she knows will plaise you. Show me your hand,
sir, and I'll tell you the truth."

"Never mind the _calliagh_, sir, (old woman, by way of reproach;) she's
dotin', and hasn't remembered her own name these ten years."

"It doesn't matter," said Woodward, addressing Caterine, "I shall hear
what you both have to say--but you first."

He accordingly crossed her hand with a piece of silver, after which she
looked closely into it--then upon his countenance, and said,

"You have two things in your mind, and they'll both succeed."

"But, my good woman, any one might tell me as much."

"No," she replied, with confidence; "examine your own heart and you'll
find the two things there that it is fixed upon; and whisper," she
added, putting her lips to his ear, "I know what they are, and can help
you in both. When you want me, inquire for Caterine Collins. My uncle is
Sol Donnell, the herb doctor."

He smiled and nodded, but made no reply.

"Now," said he, "my old crone, come and let me hear what you have to say
for me;" and as he spoke another coin was dropped into her withered and
skinny hand.

"Bring me a candle," said she, in a voice that whistled with age, and if
one could judge by her hag-like and repulsive features, with a malignity
that was a habit of her life. After having inspected his palm with
the candle, she uttered three eldrich laughs, or rather screams, that
sounded through the room as if they were more than natural.

"Ha, ha, ha!" she exclaimed; "look here; there's the line of life
stopped by a red instrument; that's not good; I see it, I feel it; your
life will be short and your death violent; ay, indeed, the purty
bonfire of your life, for all so bright as it burns, will be put out wid
blood--and that soon."

"You're a d--d old croaker," said Woodward, "and take delight in
predicting evil. Here, my good woman," he added, turning to the other,
"there's an additional half-crown for you, and I won't forget your
words."

He and Charles then joined their friends in