The gipsy woman rose as Lionel Dale entered the hall. She bent her head
in response to his kindly salutation; but she did not curtsey as before
a superior in rank and station.
"Come with me, my good woman," said the rector, "and let me hear all
about this very important business of yours."
He led the way to the library--a low-roofed but spacious chamber, lined
from ceiling to floor with books. A large reading-lamp, with a Parian
shade, stood on a small writing-table near the fire, casting a subdued
light on objects near at hand, and leaving the rest of the room in
shadow. A pile of logs burnt cheerily on the hearth. On one side of the
fire was the chair in which the rector usually sat; on the other, a
large, old-fashioned, easy-chair.
"Sit down, my good woman," said the rector, pointing to the latter; "I
suppose you have some long story to tell me."
He seated himself as he spoke, and leaned upon the writing-table,
playing idly with a carved ivory paper-knife.
"I have much to say to you, Lionel Dale," answered the old woman, in a
voice which had a solemn music, that impressed the hearer in spite of
himself; "I have much to say to you, and it will be well for you to
mark what I say, and be warned by what I tell you."
The rector looked at the speaker earnestly, and yet with a half-
contemptuous smile upon his face. She was seated in shadow, and he
could only see the glitter of her dark eyes as the fitful light of the
fire flashed on them.
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