her, 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?"

He wondered at her steady bravery, at the gallant courage with which she
was starting into the battle, her colors flying. A moment later, he
wondered again, for Cicely played well. He had braced himself for the
girlish, amateurish performance, had braced himself for the inevitable
fibs he must tell, the specious promises he must make. Instead of that,
as she ended a Dvorak dance, he contented himself with one short
exclamation which was more eloquent than many words.

"Good!" he said, and Cicely was satisfied; but she only said,--

"Wait, and let me try once more."

She turned back to the piano and, after a random chord or two, she played
the _Alan Breck Overture_, played it so well that even its creator was
pleased, as he listened. Then she rose, shut the piano and crossed the
room to the fireside.

"Mr. Barrett," she said, and her voice never betrayed the fact that this
moment was the hardest