"But Babe doesn't care two pins for him."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. Wait and see."

"Of course she doesn't. Fancy Babe in love!" He giggled derisively at the idea.

"Fancy Melchisedek neat and dressed up in a pink bow!" she retorted. "It seems impossible now; but it will occur in time. Allyn, what do you suppose sent Babe into medicine?"

"Sheer Babe-ishness."

"She won't stay there."

"Maybe. But I think Babe really wants to do something," he added, with sudden gravity. "You know papa isn't very rich, to say the least, and Babe is an independent mortal that wouldn't want to be supported all her days."

"I wonder if that did have anything to do with it," Cicely said musingly.

"It must be horrid to have to think about money things."

"Don't you ever do it?"

"No. Papa attends to all that, and he has all he wants. Oh, but won't it be good to see him!"

"Are you glad you're going, Cis?" Allyn's tone showed that he was hurt at the thought.

"No," she said flatly. "I have missed papa terribly, more than you can even imagine; but I have had a very happy year here, and I shall be sorry to go away. You've all made it pleasant for me, Allyn; you and Cousin Ted more than any of the rest."

"I--I'm glad if we have. It doesn't seem so. But what am I going to do without you, Cis?"

"Take to Jamie Lyman," she said merrily. "He won't fight with you as I do. Tell me about Mr. Barrett, Allyn. How long is he going to stay?"

"Till the day before Christmas."

"I hope he will call here. I'd like to see him," she said, as she gave Melchisedek a final polish and set him down on the floor. "Oh, Allyn, I am so glad I am to have one jolly Christmas here. Papa and I have been by ourselves lately, and it will be great fun to have a whole large family to play with."

That very day, she had started her Christmas gift on its way to her father and, that same evening, she sat alone over the library fire, so absorbed in planning her gifts for the McAlisters that she paid no heed when Theodora and Billy came into the next room. She felt very comfortable as she sat there, very content with what fate offered her.

Early in the new year, her father was to sail for home, and she was to join him in New York again. Meanwhile, she was to spend the holidays here, and, as she glanced about the cozy, luxurious room, lighted only with the flickering fire, she realized how dear to her this adopted home had become. Next to their own beautiful house in New York, this was the dearest spot in the world to her, and there would be some regret mingled with her happiness in her return to the city once more. In the meantime, she did wish she knew what Allyn wanted for Christmas, good old Allyn whose squabbles with her were largely in the past.

Suddenly she roused herself.

"Do you think it is necessary to tell her?" Theodora was asking.

"She will see it," Billy answered.

"No; she never half reads the papers. Burn this one, and she will never miss it."

"But she will have to know."

"Yes; but wait and let her father tell her."

"Poor Harry! It will be a blow to him. I wonder if he knew it was coming."

Cicely stepped out from the dusky library and stood before them. Her eyes, dazzled by the sudden glare of light, had a strained, frightened expression; but there was no suggestion of faltering in her bearing and in the poise of her head.

"What is it, Cousin Theodora?" she asked. "You were talking about papa and me; weren't you?"

Surprised at her sudden appearing, both Billy and Theodora were silent.

Then Theodora put her arm around Cicely's waist and drew the girl down on the arm of her chair. The motion was womanly and gentle and protecting; but it was not enough to satisfy Cicely. She must have the truth.

"Please tell me," she said again with a ring of authority in her voice.

"I'm not a baby; and, whatever it is, I ought to know it."

"To-night's paper reports the failure of Everard and Clark," Billy said quietly. "It may be an error, Cis, and it may not be a bad failure. I wouldn't worry till I knew the truth of it."

She looked straight into his face, and her own face grew white; but she neither exclaimed nor bewailed. There was a short hush. Then she said steadily,--

"Let me see the paper, please."

Silently Billy handed her the paper. Silently she read to the end the sensational account of the failure of the well-known banking firm.

"Is anybody to blame?" she demanded then.

Billy read her secret fear, and was glad that he could answer it with perfect truth.

"No, Cis. The trouble all came from outside the firm. You needn't worry about that."

"I'm glad," she said slowly, as she rose. "No; don't come, Cousin Ted. I want to think it over."

But Theodora did come. Up in the dark in Cicely's room, they talked it all over, crying a little now and then, then rousing themselves to make brave plans for the future and for the meeting between Cicely and her father. His home-coming now must mean a return to anxiety and business care, and to the sharp mortification of finding the firm whose reputation had been made by his sagacity and skill, fallen into bankruptcy during his one short year of absence.

"Oh, it was cruel for him to be ill," Cicely said forlornly. "They say it would never have come, if he had only been here to manage things. He couldn't help having pneumonia and going away; but I do wish they had left that out. It's like throwing the blame on him for something he couldn't help. He isn't the man to shirk things, Cousin Theodora."

"They didn't mean that, dear," Theodora said gently. "They were only trying to show how much he had done in past years. You've no reason to be ashamed of your father, Cicely."

"Ashamed of him!" Cicely's tone was hard and resonant, free from all suspicion of tears. "You don't know my father, Cousin Ted. He couldn't do anything, anything in the world, that would make me ashamed of him. He's not that kind of a man."

Two days later, Gifford Barrett came to call. Cicely received him alone.

She was pale; but a bright red spot burned in either cheek, as she offered him her hand.

"Cousin Theodora is out, Mr. Barrett. I knew she wouldn't be here, and I asked you to come now on purpose, because I wanted to see you alone." She paused and restlessly pushed back her hair from her forehead. Then she went on rapidly, "Have you heard of papa's failure?"

The young man's face showed his distress.

"Yes, I have." His reply was almost inaudible. "I am very sorry."

"Thank you," she said. "I knew you would be; but please don't say so, for it--I can't stand being pitied. You know what I mean." Brave as was her smile, it was appealing. "Now I want to talk business. Have you time for it?"

"Of course. I wish I could be of some use," he said eagerly. He liked Cicely, and he was surprised at the sudden womanliness that had come into her manner. For the hour, they met, not as man and child, but on precisely equal terms.

"It is going to take everything we have," she said hurriedly. "Papa will want to pay all he can, and it will leave us poor. I don't mean to have him do all the work; I must help what I can, and I've been wondering whether my music would be good for anything. I have taken lessons for years and from good teachers. Are you willing to hear me play, and to tell me honestly whether I could teach beginners?"