It is needless to say that this was merely David's exuberant humor; for Emma was the most communicative, sympathetic soul in the world. She practised, in a quiet way, a passionate devotion to her husband, and it was a part of her religion to make him her confidant. She had, of course, in strictness, very little to confide to him. But she confided to him her little, in the hope that he would one day confide to her what she was pleased to believe his abundance.
"It's not exactly a secret," Emma pursued; "only I've kept it so long that it almost seems like one. You'll think me very silly, David. I couldn't bear to mention it so long as there was any chance of truth in the talk of that horrible old squaw. But now, that it's disproved, it seems absurd to keep it on my mind; not that I really ever felt it there, but if I said nothing about it, it was for your sake. I'm sure you'll not mind it; and if you don't, David, I'm sure I needn't."
"My dear girl, what on earth is coming?" said David. "'If you don't, I'm sure I needn't!'—you make a man's flesh crawl."
"Why, it's another prophecy," said Emma.
"Another prophecy? Let's have it, then, by all means."
"But you don't mean, David, that you're going to believe it?"
"That depends. If it's to my advantage, of course I shall."
"To your advantage! Oh, David!"
"My dear Emma, prophecies are not to sneered at. Look at this one about the baby."
"Look at the baby, I should say."
"Exactly. Isn't she a girl? hasn't she been at death's door?"
"Yes; but the old woman made her go through."
"Nay; you've no imagination. Of course, they pull off short of the catastrophe; but they give you a good deal, by the way."
"Well, my dear, since you're so determined to believe in them, I should be sorry to prevent you. I make you a present of this one."
"Was it a squaw, this time?"
"No, it was old Italian—a woman who used to come on Saturday mornings at school and sell us sugar-plums and trinkets. You see it was ten years ago. Our teachers used to dislike her; but we let her into the garden by a back-gate. She used to carry a little tray, like a pedler. She had candy and cakes, and kid-gloves. One day, she offered to tell our fortunes with cards. She spread out her cards on the top of her tray, and half a dozen of us went through the ceremony. The rest were afraid. I believe I was second. She told me a long rigmarole that I have forgotten, but said nothing about lovers or husbands. That, of course, was all we wanted to hear; and, though I was disappointed, I was ashamed to ask any questions. To the girls who came after me, she promised successively the most splendid marriages. I wondered whether I was to be an old maid. The thought was horrible, and I determined to try and conjure such a fate. 'But I?' I said, as she was going to put up her cards; 'am I never to be married?' She looked at me, and then looked over her cards again. I suppose she wished to make up for her neglect. 'Ah, you. Miss,' she said—you are better off than any of them. You are to marry twice!' Now, my dear," Emma added, "make the most of that." And she leaned her head on her husband's shoulder and looked in his face, smiling.
But David smiled not at all. On the contrary, he looked grave. Hereupon, Emma put by her smile, and looked grave, too. In fact, she looked pained. She
