T HE library looked tranquil enough as I entered it, and the Sybil -- if Sybil she were -- was seated snugly enough in an easy-chair at the chimney corner. She had on a red cloak and a black bonnet: or rather, a broad-brimmed gipsyhat, tied down with a striped handkerchief under her chin. An extinguished candle stood on the table; she was bending over the fire, and seemed reading in a little black book, like a prayer-book, by the light of the blaze: she muttered the words to herself, as most old women do, while she read; she did not desist immediately on my entrance: it appeared she wished to finish a paragraph.
I stood on the rug and warmed my hands, which were rather cold with sitting at a distance from the drawing-room fire. I felt now as composed as ever I did in my life: there was nothing indeed in the gipsy's appearance to trouble one's calm. She shut her book and slowly looked up; her hat-brim partially shaded her face, yet I could see, as she raised it, that it was a strange one. It looked all brown and black: elf-locks bristled out from beneath a white band which passed under her chin, and came half over her cheeks or rather jaws; her eye confronted me at once with a bold and direct gaze.
"Well, and you want your fortune told?" she said in a voice as decided as her glance, as harsh as her features.
"I don't care about it, mother; you may please yourself: but I ought to warn you -- I have no faith."
"It's like your impudence to say so: I expected it of you: I heard it in your step as you crossed the threshold."
"Did you? You've a quick ear." "I have; and a quick eye, and a quick brain."
"You need them all in your trade."
"I do; especially when I've customers like you to deal with. Why don't you tremble?"
"I'm not cold."
"Why don't you turn pale?"
"I'm not sick."
"Why don't you consult my art?"
"I'm not silly."