I have seen also Phoebe Wilkins, the housekeeper's pretty and
love-sick niece, holding a long conference with one of these old
sibyls behind a large tree in the avenue, and often looking round to
see that she was not observed. I make no doubt that she was
endeavouring to get some favourable augury about the result of her
love-quarrel with young Ready-Money, as oracles have always been more
consulted on love affairs than upon any thing else. I fear, however,
that in this instance the response was not so favourable as usual; for
I perceived poor Phoebe returning pensively towards the house, her
head hanging down, her hat in her hand, and the riband trailing along
the ground.
At another time, as I turned a corner of a terrace, at the bottom of
the garden, just by a clump of trees, and a large stone urn, I came
upon a bevy of the young girls of the family, attended by this same
Phoebe Wilkins. I was at a loss to comprehend the meaning of their
blushing and giggling, and their apparent agitation, until I saw the
red cloak of a gipsy vanishing among the shrubbery. A few moments
after, I caught sight of Master Simon and the Oxonion stealing along
one of the walks of the garden, chuckling and laughing at their
successful waggery; having evidently put the gipsy up to the thing,
and instructed her what to say.
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