“Oh, yes; it looked always pretty much the same.  We got beautiful holly every Christmas,” replied Norma, who did not like Virginia exalted at the expense of her native place.

“But not with such masses of berries.  Just look at this branch; was there ever any thing more perfect?  Princess, please give me something to put it in.  It’s far too pretty to throw away.  Can I have that vase on the piano?”

Pocahontas smiled assent.  She could have holly by the cart-load, but she liked Blanche’s enthusiasm.  While the others chatted, Blanche decked the vase with her treasure; then two others which she found for herself on a table in the corner.  There were still some lovely rich bits, quite small twigs, left when she had finished, and she once more clamored for something to put them in.

Pocahontas, in the midst of an eager discussion with Thorne and Norma, in which both were arrayed against her, glanced around carelessly.  There was a cup and saucer on a small stand near her, and she picked up the cup thoughtlessly and held it out to Thorne.  Just as their hands met in the transfer, both of them talking, neither noticing what they were doing, Berkeley entered suddenly and spoke, causing them to start and turn.  There was a quick exclamation from Pocahontas, a wild clutch into space from Thorne, and on the floor between them lay the fragile china in half a dozen pieces.

Pocahontas bent over them regretfully.  It was the cup with the dreaming Indian maiden on it—­the cup from which Jim Byrd had taken his coffee on that last evening.  There were tears in her eyes, but she kept her head bent so that no one should see them.  She would rather any cup of the set should have come to grief than that one.

She had brought it into the parlor several days before to show to a visitor, who wished a design for a hand-screen for a fancy fair, and had neglected to replace it in the cabinet.  She reproached herself for her carelessness as she laid the fragments on the piano, and then the superstition flashed across her mind.  Could it be an omen?  The idea seemed foolish, and she put it aside.

“Don’t feel badly about it,” she said to Thorne, who was humbly apologetic for his awkwardness, “it was as much my fault as yours; we neither of us were noticing.  Indeed, it’s more my fault, for if I hadn’t neglected to put it away, the accident could not have happened.  You must not blame yourself so much.”

“In the actual living present, I’m the culprit,” observed Berkeley, “since my entrance precipitated the catastrophe.  I startled you both, and behold the result!  Nobody dreamed of convicting me, and this is voluntary confession, so I expect you all to respect it; the smallest unkindness will cause me to leave the room in a torrent of tears.”

Every one laughed, and Pocahontas put the fragments out of sight behind a pile of music books.  She could not put the subject out of her mind so easily, although she exerted herself to an unusual degree to prevent her guests from feeling uncomfortable; the superstition rankled.