"Indeed, yes!" replied the puzzled girl. "How could I help but be? She was so lovely and sweet and good to me, and seemed to live only for my comfort and happiness. I never dreamed of such a thing as her not being my own mother." There were real tears in Cecily's eyes as she made this declaration. Marcia and Janet experienced as unpleasant a sensation as if they had been compelled to torture a helpless kitten. And yet the task must be gone through with and there were further queries to make.
"Do forgive us for all this, Cecily," begged Marcia. "It hurts us horribly to make you feel badly. We wouldn't do it for the world if there weren't a good reason. But can you tell us this? Was there anything your mother ever said or did that would in any way suggest that she might not be—your own mother? Think hard, Cecily dear."
The girl sat a long while, chin in hand, staring out of the window at the tightly shuttered expanse of "Benedict's Folly" opposite. No one spoke, and the others made a vain pretense of working hard at their embroidery. But the hands of both shook so that the stitches were very, very crooked indeed. At last Cecily turned to them and spoke in a very subdued voice:
"These things are making me very unhappy, but I know you only mean them for my good. My mother did say one or two things that I thought nothing of at the time, but now, since your questions, seem as if they may have another meaning. One was this. We were looking in the mirror together one time, and I said how queer it was that I didn't look a bit like her. I was so fair and light-haired, and had rosy cheeks, and she was dark and her eyes were brown and her hair almost black. She smiled and said:
"'No, it isn't very strange when you think—' and then stopped very suddenly and flushed quite red. And I asked her what she meant, but she only replied: 'Oh, nothing, nothing, dear! Children often look very different from their parents, not at all like them.' And she wouldn't say any more. I thought it strange for a while, but soon forgot all about it. I can't imagine now what she meant, unless it was—that. The only other thing I remember is this. I asked her one time whether, when I was a tiny little baby, I wore pink or blue bows on my dresses. She was very busy about something at the time and she just said, sort of absent-mindedly, 'I don't know I'm sure.' And then she added, in a great hurry, 'Oh, I don't remember! Pink, I guess.' I thought it strange that she should forget how she dressed me, for she always had a very good memory. But I forgot that, too, very soon. That is all."
Marcia and Janet glanced uneasily at each other. The information seemed to confirm their worst apprehensions. But Janet went on:
"Just one more question, dear, and we'll stop this horrid inquisition. Can you tell us what was your mother's maiden name, the name of her people?"
"Yes," said Cecily. "It was Treadwell. But she hadn't any people left—they were all dead, and she was the last one of her family. But, oh! can't you tell me, girls, why you have had to ask all these questions? I have waited so patiently, and I have worried so about it all. And what you have said to-day has made me feel worse than ever."
"Dear heart, we don't want to tell you quite yet," soothed Marcia. "It wouldn't do you any good to know about it till we're positive beyond a doubt. It isn't anything so very terrible, anyhow. Nothing to worry about at all. But just something we wish might be a little different. And nothing could possibly make the least difference in the way we care for you, anyway, so just don't worry another bit. Now I'm going to play for you." And she drew her violin from its case.