all the country-side’ and she had been known to bitterly depreciate what she called ‘the pink and white dolly-face’ of Susie Prescott, the acknowledged young belle of the village.  But there was an indefinable air of charm about her new lady which was quite foreign to all her experience,—­a bewildering grace and ease of manner arising from high education and social cultivation, that confused her and robbed her of all her usual self-sufficiency; and for once in her life she checked her customary volubility and decided that it was perhaps best to say as little as possible till she saw exactly how things were going to turn out.  Miss Maryllia was very kind,—­but who could tell whether she was not also capricious?  There was something slightly quizzical as well as sweet in her smile,—­ something subtle—­something almost mysterious.  She had greeted her father’s old servant as affectionately as a child,—­but her enthusiasm might be only temporary.  So Mrs. Spruce vaguely reflected as she stood with her hands folded on her apron, waiting for the next word.  That next word came with a startling suddenness.

“Oh, you wicked Spruce!  How could you!”

And Maryllia, springing up from her chair, made a bound to the opposite corner of the room, where there was a tall vase filled with peacocks’ feathers.  Gathering all these in her hand, she flourished them dramatically in the old housekeeper’s face.

“The most unlucky things in the world!” she exclaimed; “Peacocks’ feathers!  How could you allow them to be in this room on the very day of my return!  It’s dreadful!—­quite dreadful!—­you know it is!  Nothing is quite so awful as a peacock’s feather!”

Mrs. Spruce stared, gasped and blinked,—­her hand involuntarily wandered to her side in search for convenient ‘spasms.’

“They’ve always been ’ere, Miss,” she stammered; “I ’adn’t no idee as ’ow you wouldn’t like them, though to tell the truth, I ’ave ‘eard somethin’ about their bein’ onlucky—–­”

“Unlucky!  I should think so!” replied Maryllia, holding the objectionable plumes as far away from herself as possible,—­“No wonder we’ve been unfortunate, if these feathers were always in the old house!  No wonder everything went wrong!  I must break the spell at once and for ever.  Are there more of these horrible ‘witch-eyes’ in any of the rooms?”

Poor Mrs. Spruce made a great effort to cudgel her memory.  She was affected by ‘a palpitation,’ as she expressed it.  There was her newly-arrived mistress confronting her with the authoritative air of a young empress, holding the bunch of glittering peacocks’ plumes aloft, like a rod uplifted for summary chastisement, and asking her to instantly remember whether there were any more ’horrible witch-eyes’ about.  Mrs. Spruce had never before heard such a term applied to the tail-sheddings of the imperial fowl,—­but she never forgot it, and never afterwards saw a peacock’s feather without a qualm.