"We have in our own family," said Miss Paulina Hemmenshaw, supplementing this account, "a rare Mexican opal. Long, long ago, it was given as an engagement ring to my mother's youngest sister, by her lover, who, while travelling in Mexico, had secured this exquisite stone for a betrothal pledge. On the very eve of her wedding-day my beautiful Aunt Margaret died of an unsuspected heart-disease. The old superstition of the unluckiness of the opal being then dominant, my aunt's superb ring was laid by as a thing malignant as beautiful. "As a child I was sometimes allowed to take this sad memento of my dead aunt from its nest of cotton wool and admire its harmful splendor. At my mother's death it descended, along with all her own jewels, to me, her only daughter. Now that we have outlived the foolish superstition in respect to this precious stone, I have made up my mind," said the good aunt, beaming kindly on her niece, "to take this ring from the Safety Vault, on our return to Boston, and make it one of my wedding gifts to this dear child." "Many thanks, dear ladies," said Mrs. Bixbee, as Miss Paulina ended, "for your talks about the opal. It is my favorite among precious stones. I even prefer it to the diamond, as something warmer and more alive. I am glad that its character is looking up in these days." "All the same," said Mrs. Fairlee, complacently turning on her slim white finger a superb Hungarian sapphire, "nothing would tempt me to wear a stone even suspected of uncanniness. Trials and crosses, of course, will befall one, but it seems to me foolhardy to wear jewels supposed to attract misfortune, and, for my part, I am still suspicious of opals; and were I King Edward, I shouldn't thank my loyal Australians for the gift of an ill-omened jewel, however costly and beautiful." "Well," commented the Journalist, "every one for his fancy; mine, I confess, is to 'mouse round' among musty book-shelves. Looking over my portable store of odds and ends for something relevant to this evening's discussion, I came upon this extract from the 'Voyages of one "Thomas Page,"'--a black letter copy of whose long-forgotten book, printed in London, in 1677, is still extant. As a curious picture of the times, it is not without an especial value; and, with your approval, I will now read it: "This account must be prefaced with the explanation that Thomas Page was an English Dominican, who, as a missionary-monk, with his brother Dominicans travelled to his destination in Manila, by the road across Mexico, landing, by the way, at Vera Cruz, and there depositing some illustrious fellow-voyagers. "'When we came to land,' says this quaintly circumstantial writer, 'all the inhabitants of the city had congregated in the Plaza to receive us. The communities of monks were also there, each one preceded by a large crucifix,--the Dominicans, the San Franciscans, the Mercedarios,--in order to conduct the Virey (the Viceroy) of Mexico as far as the Cathedral.