"You don't know that," answered Stivers; "but you do know that she wore opals and lost it. My very own cousin had a little, weeny, footy bit of an opal scarf-pin given him, and wore it, like the fool he always was, and had his house burned over his head for his pains. Don't talk to me! I know! Wasn't a friend of my husband's given an opal, and while he was carrying it round in his clothes, making up his silly mind how to set it, didn't his mother-in-law, a great, bouncing, big, hearty woman, up and die?"
Sybil nearly strangled over a combination of coffee and laugh. "Oh, Mrs. Stivers," she exclaimed, "if you make that story public there will certainly be a boom in the sale of small opals—if one can believe the statements of the comic papers, at least."
"All right, Miss. You may laugh, but I'll watch my home closer than ever for fire or burglars. I'd as soon move into a new house on Friday, and I'd a sight rather break a looking-glass than wear that thing for an hour!" and she retired pretty thoroughly vexed.
Sybil touched the great, shimmering quiver of color with her lips, whispering: "Poor heart, that suffers for me!" And then, with the fresh odor of the lilacs about her, she opened the envelope which contained a note from Dorothy, enclosing a portion of a letter written by Mrs. Lawton within the hour of her arrival at the White house.
Dorrie wrote briefly, sending proudest congratulations to "the successful, admired, newly triumphant actress, who was yet her own dear Sybbie—sweet sister, all unchanged, in truth and love," and a tender assurance of her own well-being, of her hopeful, trustful waiting, knowing that whether she received death or life the gift would come from God, who never made mistakes. So she waited calmly. "It seems rather mean," she added, "to enclose a portion of mamma's 'note'—of six pages—but, Syb, I can't help it, I simply can't! I wouldn't let papa or Leslie know it for the world, but you will understand and not think it disrespectful. Do write, Sybbie, to your Dorothy!"
"Yes," the fragment of Mrs. Lawton's letter read, "I'm afraid I overdid it a bit. Shopping, you know, is very fatiguing, even to one who like myself never loiters or hesitates. Anyway, if my looking-glass did not so flatly contradict me, I should call myself quite an old woman to-day. But let me get on to what I wish to say. I hate anyone who meanders—never meander, Dorothy. Though you are a married woman you should not be averse to a little advice now and then from one who watched over your infancy—and a very quiet, well-sleeping babe you were, too, quite different from Sybil, who was— Well, as I was saying, meeting Mr. Thrall—a man très comme il faut—as I have always said, I mentioned your hopes—he being a married man these years past, and most friendly in his inquiries. He, in offering congratulations, expressed the opinion that a gift of twins would be desirable, as it was easier to select names for two than for one, and family friction would be lessened in consequence. I confess I was startled, and 'er, well, not far from being vexed, and I plainly told him I hoped you would be guilty of no such vulgarity. You should have seen his eyes—very remarkable eyes, you must have noticed their amazing blueness—quite like the paler sapphires. Yes, he looked perfectly amazed. 'Vulgar?' he repeated. 'Could a Merivale-Merivale be guilty of vulgarity? You must surely know the Merivale-Merivales, Mrs. Lawton?' Imagine my haste to tell him that Mrs. Merivale-Merivale was the only child and heiress of my friend old Tom Bligh, who used to say she was so democratic that she would never be content till she had every Tom, Dick, and Harry in society about her. And people said she married Dick Merivale-Merivale so that she could help out her father's saying. And Mr. Thrall said: 'Dear me! and did you not know that she has twin boys, and that she calls them Tom and Harry? Quite clever, for society, is it not? Tom, Dick, and Harry, right in her own family, too!' My dear, I was never more taken aback! And then he went on to tell me of Lady Somebody-Somebody, of some sort of 'hurst,' in some shire in England, who has twin daughters, and drives about with them, and has them always mentioned as 'Lady So-and-So's lovely twins' in the society journals. I declare, I was quite startled; but fashions do change so, and I'm sure its no fault of mine that I have fallen so far behind the times—and been so out of everything. But I have hastened to write this all out for your comfort, in case you have any anxiety on that score. I don't suppose you have, but I frankly admit that I should myself have looked upon the simultaneous arrival of yourself and Sybil as verging upon an impropriety. But different times—different manners, and there is no questioning the fact that twins, if not de rigueur, are at least genuinely fashionable now."
Peal after peal of laughter from Sybil brought Stivers to the door, pale and with distinctly frightened eyes. "In the name of heaven, what's the matter with you? Stop it! stop it! You're fey—that's what you are! Ill will come of it—now mind!"
"Fey?" repeated Sybil, gurgling still with laughter. "What is fey, Mrs. Stivers? Why, you look quite frightened!"
"You laugh in a room all by yourself! You're fey, and that means you're sort of possessed. It's an evil spirit of mischievous fun that takes hold of you just before a stroke of bad luck comes upon you. Lord knows you've naught more to do now than to get up and smash a looking-glass!"
"Don't be worried!" said Sybil, seeing the woman's distress! "I was not fey, because I had cause for laughter. It was this letter that amused me."