“Oh, no; I’ve only this cape, and there’s no need of disturbing Billy,” Cicely replied, too absorbed in rubbing away a stray tear or two to heed the glance of astonishment exchanged between her new relatives at the unexpected freedom of her use of Mr. Farrington’s name.

Seated in the carriage, all three were conscious of an awkward pause.  Cicely broke it.

“Cousin Will, don’t you feel as if you had a white elephant on your hands?” she asked so unexpectedly that Theodora blushed and wondered if the girl had been reading her thoughts.

“No; only a grey one.  I confess you are larger than I expected to see you.  When I met you before, you could have been packed into a peck basket.”

“They say I was a good baby,” Cicely said reflectively; “they always emphasize the word baby, though, and that hurts my feelings.”

“You cried a great deal, and you spent half your energy in trying to eat your own toes.  You wore worsted slippers then,” Billy answered, amused at a certain off-hand ease that marked her manner.  “Perhaps you have improved since then.”

“I hope so; but there may be room for it, even now,” she returned, laughing.

“Are you going to miss your old friends too much, Cicely?” Theodora asked.  “I have a young brother about your age.”

“Really?  I didn’t know that.  Is he near you?”

“Next door.”

“I’m so glad, for I like boys.  I have always been used to them, not flirty; papa wouldn’t allow that, but just good friends.”  Cicely’s manner showed her constant association with older people.  She and her father had been always together, and their companionship had left its mark upon her.  There was no trace of shyness in her manner, no hesitation in taking her share in the conversation.  She was perfectly frank, perfectly at ease, yet perfectly remote from any suggestion of pertness.  She only assumed it quite as a matter of course that it was worth while to listen to her.  “Is your brother like you?”

“No; not really.  But you can see for yourself, for he promised to call on you, this evening.”  Theodora prudently forbore to mention that she had obtained Allyn’s promise only at the expense of much coaxing and some bribery.

“That will be good,” Cicely remarked with satisfaction.  “Papa always says that boys are good for girls; they keep you from getting priggish and conceited.  They take all that out of you.  What is your brother’s name?”

“Allyn.”

“I’m glad it is something out of the usual run.  Have you some sisters?”

“One, at home.”

Cicely clasped her hands contentedly.

“I didn’t know I was coming into a whole family.  I supposed I should just have to get along with you and Billy—­not but what you’d have been enough,” she added hastily, as this time she caught the glance exchanged between Theodora and her husband; “only it is rather good to have some young people within reach.  Still, it isn’t going to be all play for me.  Papa wants me to keep up my practice, and that takes five hours a day.”