exquisitely shaped neck and shoulders. She had thrown over her ragged
print gown the patched coverlet of the bed, and, crouched upon
the tattered hearthrug before the hearth, upon which a few sticks
smouldered, giving out hardly a particle of heat, she was telling her
fortune with a dirty pack of cards, endeavoring to console herself for
the privations of the day by the promise of future prosperity. She had
spread those arbiters of her destiny in a half circle before her, and
divided them into threes, each of which had a peculiar meaning, and her
breast rose and fell as she turned them up and read upon their faces
good fortune or ill-luck. Absorbed in this task, she paid but little
attention to the icy chilliness of the atmosphere, which made her
fingers stiff, and dyed her white hands purple.

"One, two, three," she murmured in a low voice. "A fair man, that's
sure to be Paul. One, two, three, money to the house. One, two, three,
troubles and vexations. One, two, three, the nine of spades; ah, dear!
more hardships and misery,--always that wretched card turning up with
its sad story!"

Rose seemed utterly downcast at the sight of the little piece of painted
cardboard, as though she had received certain intelligence of a
coming misfortune. She soon, however, recovered herself, and was again
shuffling the pack,--cut it, taking care to do so with her left hand,
spread them out before her, and again commenced counting: one, two,
three. This time the cards appeared to be more propitious, and held out
promises of success for the future.

"I am loved," read she, as she gazed anxiously upon them,--"very much
loved! Here is rejoicing, and a letter from a dark man! See, here he
is,--the knave of clubs. Always the same," she continued; "I cannot