Although Gifford Barrett had never been known to speak more than a dozen words to Cicely, and those were chiefly concerning the weather, the girl appeared to have gained great inspiration from her meeting with the young composer, and she plodded away more diligently than ever at her long hours of practice.  Day after day, she ended with her beloved overture, playing it over, not so much to perfect herself in it, as to remind herself that music was a living, vital means of expression quite within the reach of one not so much older than herself.  It was not that Cicely ever hoped to compose.  That was as far beyond her ambition as it was beyond her powers.  She only gained courage from the thought that success in one’s chosen line was not always deferred until the end of life.  Moreover, she felt a certain human and girlish satisfaction in being able to state that, once at least, she had swept the gifted composer of the Alan Breck Overture completely off his feet.  The fact was enough; no need to enter into details.

Theodora and Billy never stopped to analyze how large a hold upon their hearts this healthy, happy girl had taken.  If she dined at The Savins, they devoured their own meal in silence.  If she spent an evening away from home Billy read his paper with one eye on the clock, and Theodora reduced Melchisedek to whimpering frenzy by asking once in ten minutes where his missy was.  They wanted her chatter, wanted her more gentle moments, wanted above all else her pranks which served as a sort of vicarious outlet for their own animal spirits.  For nine days out of ten, Cicely and Melchisedek frisked through life together.  On the tenth, Cicely passed into a thoughtful mood; Melchisedek never.

“What’s the matter, Cousin Ted?” Cicely asked, one day, as she met Theodora stalking up the stairs after dismissing a caller.

“Another reporter.  I wish they would let law-abiding citizens alone, and use up their energy on tramps,” Theodora said viciously.  “Such a morning as I have had!  My marketing took twice as long as usual; my typewriter has broken a spring, and now this man has wasted a good half-hour of my time.  Cis, the next man that comes to interview me, I shall hand over to you.”

“All right.  What shall I tell him?”

“Anything you choose, as long as you keep him away from me.  It’s no use to refuse to see them.  I tried that, and they straight-way went off and published three columns of my utterances on South African politics, when I don’t know a Boer from a Pathan.  Farewell, I am going to work.”  And, the next moment, Cicely heard the click of her typewriter.

It was more than three weeks later that Cicely sat alone, one afternoon, reading lazily before the fire, when the maid brought her a card.

“It’s for Mrs. Farrington,” she said.

“Let me see.”  Cicely took it and glanced at the name, Mr. William Smith.  Down in the corner was the legend “Boston Intermountain.”  “It is all right, Mary,” she added.  “I will see the man.”