ame is Christopher."

"A fairly honest hand," says she, looking at my hand again. "Weak in
some things, but a faithful friend. You may be trusted."

And so she drops my hand and takes up Moll's.

"'Tis strange," says she. "You call yourself Judith, yet here I see your
name writ Moll."

[Illustration: "YOU CALL YOURSELF JUDITH, YET HERE I SEE YOUR NAME WRIT
MOLL."]

Poor Moll, sick with a night of sorrow and terrified by the wise woman's
divining powers, could make no answer; but soon Fitch, taking less heed
of her tremble than of mine, regards her hand again.

"How were you called in Barbary?" asks she.

This question betraying a flaw in the wise woman's perception, gave Moll
courage, and she answered readily enough that she was called "Lala
Mollah"--which was true, "Lala" being the Moorish for lady, and "Mollah"
the name her friends in Elche had called her as being more agreeable to
their ear than the shorter English name.

"Mollah--Moll!" says Anne Fitch, as if communing with herself. "That may
well be." Then, following a line in Moll's hand, she adds, "You will
love but once, child."

"What is my sweetheart's name?" whispers Moll, the colour springing in
her face.

"You have not heard it yet," replies the other, upon which Moll pulls
her hand away impatiently. "But you have seen him," continues the wise
woman, "and his is the third hand in which I have read another name."

"Tell me now if I shall see him again," cries Moll, eagerly--offering
her hand again, and as quickly as she had before withdrawn it.

"That depends upon yourself," returns the other. "The line is a deep
one. Would you give him all you have?"

Moll bends her head low in silence, to conceal her hot face.

"'Tis nothing to be ashamed of," says the old woman, in a strangely
gentle tone. "'Tis better to love once than often; better to give your
whole heart than part. Were I young and handsome and rich, I would give
body and soul for such a man. For he is good and generous and exceeding
kind. Look you, he hath lived here but a few weeks, and I feel for him,
grieve for him, like a mother. Oh, I am no witch," adds she, wiping a
tear from her cheek, "only a crooked old woman with the gift of seeing
what is open to all who will read, and a heart that quickens still at a
kind word or a gentle thought." (Moll's hand had closed upon hers at
that first sight of her grief.) "For your names," continues she,
recovering her composure, "I learnt from