Courtland neither flushed, trembled, grew confused, nor prevaricated.
“We are good friends, I think,” he replied quietly, without evasion or hesitation.
Miss Reed looked at him thoughtfully, “I reckon that is so—and no more. And that's why yo' 've been so lucky in everything,” she said slowly.
“I don't think I quite understand,” returned Courtland, smiling. “Is this a paradox—or a consolation?”
“It's the TRUTH,” said Miss Reed gravely. “Those who try to be anything more to Sally Dows lose their luck.”
“That is—are rejected by her. Is she really so relentless?” continued Courtland gayly.
“I mean that they lose their luck in everything. Something is sure to happen. And SHE can't help it either.”
“Is this a Sibylline warning, Miss Reed?”
“No. It's nigger superstition. It came from Mammy Judy, Sally's old nurse. It's part of their regular Hoo-doo. She bewitched Miss Sally when she was a baby, so that everybody is bound to HER as long as they care for her, and she isn't bound to THEM in any way. All their luck goes to her as soon as the spell is on them,” she added darkly.
“I think I know the rest,” returned Courtland with still greater solemnity. “You gather the buds of the witch-hazel in April when the moon is full. You then pluck three hairs from the young lady's right eyebrow when she isn't looking”—