“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.”