You 'd better not. Whatever it is. There 's a man—a man that has horses—that drives horses. I see horses. He 'll have an accident. I think a runaway—a collision. He 'll be—hurt. Yes. He 's old—an old man. Mebbe he 'll die. P'r'aps. He 's a relative—related to you. Beware of animals. One 'll hurt you. You 'll never be rich—but comfortable. The best of your life 's comin'. You 'll have your wish."
She had finished, but Mrs. Cregan did not move. She had drawn back in her chair. Her mouth had loosened. Her hand lay limp on the table. All her intelligence seemed to have concentrated in her eyes in an expression of horrified surprise. She said faintly: "Is 't Cregan?"
Madame Wampa shrugged one shoulder in her red kimono. "The lines do not say." She blew out the lamp and rose from the table. "That 's all. You can't tell much for a quarter. I give a full trance readin', with names, dates, and all questions answered—"
"God forgi' me!" Mrs. cregan quavered, crossing herself. She staggered out blindly into the room.
Mrs. Byrne cried: "What's wrong with yuh?"
And at that, Mrs. Cregan stampeded to the door in the ponderous panic of a conscience-stricken elephant—running to find a place where she might get down on her knees. Cregan! It was himself! It was Dinny! Killed, maybe! Maybe, at this blessed minute, he was lying in a hospital, and the surgeons cutting him up with their little knives. God forgive us! She had blasphemed against the Church and Father Dumphy;
