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 The snow drifts were piled high about The Savins. The fences were buried, great heaps of snow lay on the broad east terrace and the path to the front door had become a species of tunnel. Christmas was close at hand and the earth, as if to make ready for the sweetest festival of the year, had wrapped itself in a thick, soft blanket, dazzling and pure as the stars shining in the eastern sky above. Christmas was always a high day at The Savins. Ever since Theodora was a little child, the family tradition had been unbroken, the family rite unchanged. Around the Christmas basket and before the Christmas fire, the young McAlisters had gathered for their childish revels. Now, grown to manhood and womanhood, they still gathered there and, for one night in the year at least, they were children still, and their revel had lost none of its old charm. "I am embarrassed in my mind," Cicely said, one day just before Christmas. "Half my presents were bought before I was a pauper, half of them not till later. It makes it look as if I were partial; but I'm not. It's poverty not partiality that ails me, and you mustn't any of you care." "Isn't Cicely wonderful?" Hubert said, when she had gone. "Her pluck is beyond anything I have ever seen. I didn't suppose she had it in her." "I did," Allyn responded loyally. "There's more stuff to Cis than shows on the surface, and you never catch her crying over spilt milk." Two hours later, however, he did find her in tears. She was alone in the house, and he discovered her in the library, her face buried in the sofa pillows. "Oh, please don't tell," she sobbed. "I didn't suppose you would find me. I don't mean to be a baby; but it is going to be so horrid to be poor and not have things, and I did want to give you something lovely for Christmas."