"Does anybody ever look at us after you come into a room?" asked
Ailsa, laughing; and, turning impulsively, she pressed Celia's
pretty hands flat together and kissed them. "You darling," she
said. An unaccountable sense of expectancy--almost of exhilaration
was taking possession of her. She looked into the mirror and stood
content with what she saw reflected there.

"How much of a relation is he, Celia?" balancing the rosy bow with
a little cluster of pink hyacinth on the other side.

Celia Craig, forefinger crooked across her lips, considered aloud.

"_His_ mother was bo'n Constance Berkley; _her_ mother was bo'n
Betty Ormond; _her_ mother was bo'n Felicity Paige; _her_
mother----"

"Oh please! I don't care to know any more!" protested Ailsa,
drawing her sister-in-law before the mirror; and, standing behind
her, rested her soft, round chin on her shoulder, regarding the two
reflected faces.

"That," observed the pretty Southern matron, "is conside'd ve'y bad
luck. When I was a young girl I once peeped into the glass over my
ole mammy's shoulder, and she said I'd sho'ly be punished befo' the
year was done."

"And were you?"

"I don't exactly remember," said Mrs. Craig demurely, "but I think
I first met my husband the ve'y next day."