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"Tell me now if I shall see him again," cries Moll, eagerly—offering her hand again, and as quickly as she had before withdrawn it.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