old man,
looking more studiously at her hand, "she will come too late. You will
have admirers, and even suitors; but they will only betray you, and in
the end you will die of trouble. Ah! there is a line that had escaped
me. You may avert this dark destiny--yes, you may escape the end that
fate has ordained for you. In neglect you came up, the companion of a
man you think true to you. But he is not true to you. Watch him, follow
him--you will yet find him out. Ha! ha! ha! these men are not to be
trusted, my dear. There is but one man who really loves you. He is an
old man, a man of station. He is your only true friend. I here see it
marked." He crosses her hand, and says there can be no mistaking it.
"With that man, fair girl, you may escape the dark destiny. But, above
all things, do not treat him coldly. And here I see by the sign that
Anna Bonard is not your name. The name was given you by a wizard."

"You are right, old man," speaks Anna, raising thoughtfully her great
black eyes, as the antiquary pauses and watches each change of her
countenance; "that name was given me by Hag Zogbaum, when I was a child
in her den, in New York, and when no one cared for me. What my right
name was has now slipped my memory. I was indeed a wretched child, and
know little of myself."

"Was it Munday?" inquires the old man. Scarce has he lisped the name
before she catches it up and repeats it, incoherently, "Munday! Munday!
Munday!" her eyes flash with anxiety. "Ah, I remember now. I was called
Anna Munday by Mother Bridges. I lived with her before I got to the den
of Hag Zogbaum. And Mother Bridges sold apples at a stand at the corner
of a street, on West street. It seems like a dream to me now. I do not
want to recall those dark days or my childhood. Have you not some
revelation to make respecting my parents?" The old man says the signs
will not aid him further. "On my arm," she pursues, baring her white,
polished arm, "there is a mark. I know not who imprinted it there. See,
old man." The old man sees high up on her right arm two hearts and a
broken anchor, impressed with India ink blue and red. "Yes," repeats the
antiquary, viewing it studiously, "but it gives out no history. If you
could remember who put it there." Of that she has no recollection. The
old man cannot relieve her anxiety, and arranging her hood she bids him
good night, forces a piece of gold into his hand, and seeks her home,
disappointed.

The antiquary's predi