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 superstitions, 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 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
ac