“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 superstitious 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 superstition, which influences you more or less, and which you ought to overcome.”

This assertion 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 classes 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 class, which met on Wednesday and Saturday 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 superstition,” 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—­”