"Oh, no; I've only this cape, and there's no need of disturbing Billy," Cicely replied, too absorbed in rubbing away a stray tear or two to heed the glance of astonishment exchanged between her new relatives at the unexpected freedom of her use of Mr. Farrington's name.
Seated in the carriage, all three were conscious of an awkward pause.
Cicely broke it.
"Cousin Will, don't you feel as if you had a white elephant on your hands?" she asked so unexpectedly that Theodora blushed and wondered if the girl had been reading her thoughts.
"No; only a grey one. I confess you are larger than I expected to see you. When I met you before, you could have been packed into a peck basket."
"They say I was a good baby," Cicely said reflectively; "they always emphasize the word baby, though, and that hurts my feelings."
"You cried a great deal, and you spent half your energy in trying to eat your own toes. You wore worsted slippers then," Billy answered, amused at a certain off-hand ease that marked her manner. "Perhaps you have improved since then."
"I hope so; but there may be room for it, even now," she returned, laughing.
"Are you going to miss your old friends too much, Cicely?" Theodora asked. "I have a young brother about your age."
"Really? I didn't know that. Is he near you?"
"Next door."