“We are thirteen!” exclaimed Mr. Feathersmith, a young man of this aristocratic gathering, “it is the ominous number, you know.” Some of them laughed. “What is that peculiar superstition?” asked Major Black, “I have never been able to understand it.” “The superstition is that if a party of thirteen sit down to dinner one of them is sure to die before the year is up,” replied the young man, speaking with grave seriousness. “Why is not thirteen as good a number to sit down as any other number?” cried Major Black. “As good as fourteen, for instance?” “It’s the odd number.” “The odd number; it’s no more the odd number than any other number is odd that’s not even. What do you say to eleven? What do you say to fifteen?” “I can’t explain it,” returned the young man, with an air of indifference. “I only know that the superstition does exist, and that I have noticed in more instances than one that it has been carried out. Three or four parties of thirteen who have sat down to dinner have lost one of their number before the close of the year. You laugh at me, of course. I have been laughed at before; but suppose you notice it now; there are thirteen of us, see if we all are alive at the end of the year.” Charles Taylor in his heart thought it not unlikely that one of them, at any rate, would not be living. Several faces were smiling with amusement, the most serious of them was Mark Blakely. “You don’t believe in it, Blakely?” cried one, in surprise, as he gazed at him. “I certainly do not, why should you ask it?” “You look so grave over it.” “I never like to joke, though it be but a smile, on the subject of death,” replied Mark. “I once received a lesson on the point, and it will serve me for life.” “Will you tell us what it was?” interposed Mr. Feathersmith, who was introduced to Mr. Blakely that day. “I cannot tell it now,” replied Mark. “It is not a subject suited to a merry party,” he frankly added, “but it would not tend to bear out your superstition, sir; you are possibly thinking that it might.” “If I have sat down once with thirteen, I have sat down fifty times,” cried Major Black, “and we all lived the year out and many after that. I would not mention such nonsense again, if I were you.” The young man did not answer for a moment, he was enjoying a glass of wine. “Only notice, that’s all,” said he, “I don’t want to act the simpleton, but I don’t like to sit down with thirteen.” “Could we not make Bell the scapegoat and invoke the evil to fall on his head?” cried a mocking voice. “It is his fault.” “Mr. Feathersmith,” interrupted another, “how do you estimate the time? Is the damage to accrue before this year is out or do you give us full twelve months from this evening?” “Ridicule me as much as you like,” said the young man, good humoredly. “All I say is, notice if every one of us now here are alive this time next year, then I’ll not put faith in it again. I hope we shall be.” “I hope we shall be, too,” said Major Black.