“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?”

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 she had ever known; “when you go back to New York, will you try to find me some little girls to teach?  I’ll do the best I can for them, and perhaps I can help along a little in making both ends meet.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO