"Oh, that is all right! Of course I should have been vexed if you had not brought it back, because I should have missed it as soon as I opened the box. I was mean about it, anyway. I might have let you take it to try on Clementina. Here, I'll give it to you now, to make up for being stingy."

Annie shook her head, and refused to take the once coveted gift from her companion's outstretched hand.

"Then I'll lend it to you for ever and ever," continued Lucy, impulsively.

"No, I don't want it now," answered Annie. "Good-bye!"

"Will you go to walk with me to-morrow after Sunday-school?" urged Lucy, as she followed her to the door.

"P'rhaps!" replied her little friend, hastening away.

The inquiry brought her a feeling of relief, however. Lucy evidently had no thought of "cutting" her acquaintance. The sense of having done right made her heart light and happy as she ran home. The experience had taught her that one must learn to see many pretty things without wishing to possess them; and also that small acts of disobedience and a habit of meddling may lead further than one at first intends.

Annie became a lovely woman, a devoted daughter, a most self-sacrificing character, and one scrupulously exact in her dealings with others; but she never forgot "that red silk frock."

"A LESSON WITH A SEQUEL."

"How strange that any one should be so superst.i.tious!" said Emily Mahon. Rosemary Beckett had been telling a group of girls of the ridiculous practices of an old negro woman employed by her mother as a laundress.

"People must be very ignorant to believe such things," declared Anna Shaw, disdainfully.

"Yet," observed Miss Graham, closing the new magazine which she had been looking over, "it is surprising how many persons, who ought to know better, are addicted to certain superst.i.tions, and cannot be made to see that it is not only foolish but wrong to yield to them."

"Well," began Rosemary, "I am happy to say that is not a failing of mine."

"I think everything of the kind is nonsensical," added Kate Parsons.

"I'm not a bit superst.i.tious either," volunteered Emily.

"Nor I," interposed Anna.

"I despise such absurdities," continued May Johnston.

"My dear girls," laughed Miss Graham, "I'll venture to say that each one of you has a pet superst.i.tion, which influences you more or less, and which you ought to overcome."

This a.s.sertion was met by a chorus of indignant protests.

"Why, Cousin Irene!" cried Emily.

"O, Miss Graham, how _can_ you think so!"

"The very idea!" etc., etc., chimed in the others.

Everybody liked Miss Irene Graham. She lived with her cousins, the Mahons, and supported herself by giving lessons to young girls who for various reasons did not attend a regular school. Her cla.s.ses were popular, not only because she was bright and clever, and had the faculty of imparting what she knew; but because, as parents soon discovered, she taught her pupils good, sound common-sense, as well as "the shallower knowledge of books." Cousin Irene had not forgotten how she used to think and feel when she herself was a young girl, and therefore she was able to look at the world from a girl's point of view, to sympathize with her dreams and undertakings. She did not look for very wise heads upon young shoulders; but when she found that her pupils had foolish notions, or did not behave sensibly, she tried to make them see this for themselves; and we all know from experience that what we learn in that way produces the most lasting impression.

The girls now gathered around her were members of the literature cla.s.s, which met on Wednesday and Sat.u.r.day mornings at the Mahons'. As they considered themselves accomplished and highly cultivated for their years, it was mortifying to be accused of being so unenlightened as to believe in omens.

"No, I haven't a particle of superst.i.tion," repeated Rosemary, decidedly. "There's one thing I won't do, though. I won't give or accept a present of anything sharp--a knife or scissors, or even a pin,--because, the saying is, it cuts friendship. I've found it so, too. I gave Clara Hayes a silver hair-pin at Christmas, and a few weeks after we quarrelled."

"There is the fault, popping up like a Jack-in-the box!" said Miss Irene. "But, if I remember, Clara was a new acquaintance of yours in the holidays, and you and she were inseparable. The ardor of such extravagant friendship soon cools. Before long you concluded you did not like her so well as at first; then came the disagreement. But is it not silly to say the pin had anything to do with the matter? Would it not have been the same if you had given her a book or a picture?"

"If I'm walking in the street with a friend, I'm always careful never to let any person or thing come between us," admitted Kate Parsons.

"It's a sure sign that you'll be disappointed--"

"Oh, it will be all right if you remember to say 'Bread and b.u.t.ter!'"

interrupted Anna, eagerly.

They all laughed; but Miss Irene saw by the tell-tale faces of several that they clung to this childish practice.

"We used to do so in play when we were little girls," said Emily, apologetically; "and I suppose it became a habit."

"The other day," Miss Graham went on, "I heard a young lady say: 'If you are setting out upon a journey, or even a walk, and have to go back to the house for anything, be sure you sit down before starting off again.' It is bad luck not to do so.'"

Emily colored.

"Yes, we are very particular about that!" cried Rosemary, impulsively, as her companions did not contradict the avowal; it was evident that she knew what she was talking about.

The conversation turned to other subjects. Presently Anna and Rosemary were planning an excursion to a neighboring town.

"To visit Elizabeth Harris, who was at the convent with us last year,"

explained the latter. "Suppose we go to-morrow?"

"I have an engagement with the dentist," was the doleful reply.

"Well, the day after?"

"Let me see," mused Anna. "Oh, no!" she added, hastily. "I could not start on a journey or begin any work on a Friday; it would not be lucky, you know!" Then she flushed and looked toward Miss Irene, who shook her head significantly and wrote in her note-book, "Superst.i.tious practice No. 4."

As it was Emily's birthday, the girls had been invited to stay for luncheon. Emily now led the way to the dining-room, where a pretty table was spread. Everything was as dainty as good taste and handsome auxiliaries could make it: the snowy damask, fine gla.s.s, and old family silver; the small crystal bowls filled with chrysanthemums, and at each plate a tiny bouquet.

Mr. Mahon was down town at his business, but there stood Mrs. Mahon, so kind and affable; and the boys and girls of the family were waiting to take their seats. The party paused, while, according to the good old-fashioned custom (now too often neglected), grace was said; and Cousin Irene, contemplating the bright faces and pleasant surroundings, thought she had seldom seen a more attractive picture. But now she noticed that May, after a quick look around, appeared startled and anxious. The next moment the foolish girl exclaimed:

"O Mrs. Mahon, there are thirteen of us here! You do not like to have thirteen persons at your table, do you? Pardon me, but I'm so nervous about it!"

A shadow of annoyance flitted across Mrs. Mahon's motherly countenance, but she answered gently: "My dear, I never pay any attention to the superst.i.tion. Still a hostess will not insist upon making a guest uncomfortable. Tom," she continued, addressing her youngest son, "you will oblige me by taking your luncheon afterward."

Tom scowled at May, flung himself out of his chair, mumbled something about "stuff and nonsense;" and, avoiding his mother's reproving glance, went off in no amiable humor.

May was embarra.s.sed, especially as she felt Miss Irene's grave eyes fixed upon her. But Mrs. Mahon was too courteous to allow any one to remain disconcerted at her hospitable board. With ready tact she managed that the little incident should seem speedily forgotten. After a momentary awkwardness the girls began to chatter merrily again, and harmony was restored.

On their return to the drawing-room, May whispered to Miss Graham: "I hope Mrs. Mahon will excuse me for calling her attention to the number at table. I did not mean to be rude, and I suppose it is silly to be so superst.i.tious; but, indeed, I can not help it."

"Do not say that, dear; because you can help it if you wish," was the gentle reply, "Mrs. Mahon understood, I am sure, that you did not intend to be impolite; but I know she must have felt regret that you should give way to such folly." Then, turning to the others, Miss Irene continued: "Well, girls, considering the revelations of this morning, perhaps you will admit that you have, after all, a fair share of superst.i.tion."

"I'm afraid so," acknowledged Rosemary; and no one demurred.