"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."
Allyn was a boy, and, boylike he was not prone to sentiment. He
only said,--
"Don't worry your head about that, Cis. You've given me a good deal more
than you know, this last year."
Surprised, she sat up and stared at him.
"Me? I? I've not given you a thing, Allyn, only those cuff buttons, your
birthday."
He looked at her steadily for a moment, Then he said,--
"Maybe not.
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