"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."
"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."