That very day, she had started her Christmas gift on its way to her father and, that same evening, she sat alone over the library fire, so absorbed in planning her gifts for the McAlisters that she paid no heed when Theodora and Billy came into the next room. She felt very comfortable as she sat there, very content with what fate offered her. Early in the new year, her father was to sail for home, and she was to join him in New York again. Meanwhile, she was to spend the holidays here, and, as she glanced about the cozy, luxurious room, lighted only with the flickering fire, she realized how dear to her this adopted home had become. Next to their own beautiful house in New York, this was the dearest spot in the world to her, and there would be some regret mingled with her happiness in her return to the city once more. In the meantime, she did wish she knew what Allyn wanted for Christmas, good old Allyn whose squabbles with her were largely in the past. Suddenly she roused herself. "Do you think it is necessary to tell her?" Theodora was asking. "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."