"But there are thirteen of us. Do you think I’d sit down thirteen at the table, and on the thirteenth of the month, too." Amy was very much in earnest. Her plump, good-natured face was actually pale. "I tell you I wouldn’t think of such a thing." "I believe there are thirteen. Rae Fletcher couldn’t come." Priscilla had recovered herself in a moment. "But that silly old superstition, Amy. You don’t mean--" "Yes, I do mean it. And there’s lots of other people who feel just the same about it." Amy suddenly opened the door of the front room. "Come here, Ruth, we want you a minute." Ruth made her appearance, expecting to be consulted on a very different matter. Amy’s tragic explanation took her by surprise, and she smiled a little. "O, well," she was beginning, and then checked herself, as the possibility of turning Amy’s superstitious terrors to good account flashed upon her. "I simply won’t do it," Amy was insisting. "And on the thirteenth of the month, especially. I wouldn’t have another peaceful minute all the year. Ruth, why don’t you say something?" "Why don’t you ask somebody else and make fourteen." Ruth offered the suggestion nonchalantly, though her pulse had quickened. "There isn’t anybody I can ask at the very last minute. Mother’s gone to Mrs.--" "Why not ask Peggy?" [Illustration: "’WHY NOT ASK PEGGY?’"] Amy’s excitement over the fatal number of Priscilla’s guests had made her temporarily forgetful of her earlier reason for disquiet. At Ruth’s master-stroke, she gasped with admiration, and promptly seconded the suggestion. "O, yes, ask Peggy. She’s just the one." Priscilla stood with downcast eyes, and breathlessly her two friends awaited her answer. For a moment the outcome was uncertain. Priscilla was quite capable of resenting such advice, and earlier in the week would undoubtedly have done so. But if Peggy’s conscience had been an uncomfortable companion, Priscilla’s had not been less active, and her anticipated triumph in having a party without Peggy had proved bitter as Dead Sea fruit. When she spoke, her voice was tremulous, in spite of her efforts to make it sound indifferent. "O, I don’t believe Peggy will come. We had a little misunderstanding, you see." "It wouldn’t do any harm to try," suggested Ruth, still painstakingly matter-of-fact, while Amy added with less tact, "If anybody would do it, it’s Peggy. She’s the forgivingest thing." Peggy was at the dinner table when an agitated knocking sounded at the side-door. A breathless voice in the hall made inquiries of Sally. "Somebody to see you, Miss Peggy," was Sally’s grudging announcement. She disapproved of people who came at meal time. To Peggy’s amazement it was Priscilla waiting in the hall, Priscilla in her best white frock, and with a pallor that was rather appealing. "I know you won’t do it," was her opening remark. "Won’t do what, Priscilla?" Peggy was to be pardoned if her manner was a little formal.