"Only said that for an excuse--not to tell you the real name of my patron saint." "But do. Tell me what's your pet superstition, and I'll tell you mine." "Honest Injun?" "Yes." "Well, my pet superstition--only it's _not_ a superstition--is, that I was born lucky." "Oh! what's the sign?" "Sign? Nothing outward and visible, just an inward and spiritual grace. You needn't jeer; it's quite true. I'm _sure_ I'm lucky. Now I've told you my great article of faith, what's yours?" But Emmie appeared at that juncture, and Val was secretly pleased that Ethan postponed his answer. Breakfast was already late, and still they waited some time before any one else came down. Presently Aunt Jerusha appeared with a coffee-pot and a smoking plate piled high with something brown and golden. The girls received her with a round of wild applause. "Hi! flannel-cakes--flannel-cakes!" and they executed a war-dance round the popular favorite, who "took her call," so to speak, as pleased as any star-actor at having brought off some noble appeal to the great warm heart of the populace, which ever beats true, etc. "Law sakes! de way dey goes on!" The black woman stood laden and smiling like some ebon effigy typifying plenty and good cheer. Evidently loath to stop the popular demonstrations in her honor, she still urged feebly: "Shucks! go 'long, Miss Emmie, wid yo' teeterin' up and down! Law sakes! look de way Miss Val kin jump Jim Crow. Yo' gran'ma 'ud be hoppin' mad if she cotch yo' doin' dat ar 'fore folks. He! he! Sakes alive, chillen! stop dem monkey-shines, and eat up dis yer firs' batch fo' dey spile." "Yes, yes." Val cut "Jim Crow" suddenly short. With a lightning change, taking the place at the head of the table, and adopting a dignified and official air, she poured out the piping hot coffee. "Nobody waits for anybody on flannel-cake days," said Emmie, drawing in her chair with a chastened satisfaction. "Did they give you flannel-cakes in 'Gay Paree'?" asked Val, as she passed Ethan his coffee. "No, they didn't." "I suppose," she said, incredulously--"I suppose it's much gayer in Paris than it is here?" "It's not gayer than this so early in the morning." He looked at the confident, shadowless face, and instead of comparing it with Mademoiselle Lucie's _ingénue_ countenance or any beauty of the _salon_ or the stage, memory unfairly conjured up Mary Burne and her despair-whitened features as she harangued her dingy followers. "Not so early in the morning!" Even when the lamps were lit there were places in Paris not so gay as this.