"A Papist!" cried old Cicely, in a voice of horror.
"Yes," said Celia, smiling at her tone. "Why, Cicely, are you afraid of being murdered because there is a Papist in the county?"
"Eh no, my dear," answered old Cicely, slowly; "that's not it. Poor soul! God comfort you when you come to know!"
"Come to know what, Cicely?"
"What you've never been told yet, my dear—and yet he told you, if you did but know."
"I don't understand you, Cicely."
"I am glad you don't, my dear."
"But tell me what you mean."
"No, Mrs. Celia. Ask Madam, if you must. Tell her what you have told me. But if you'll take my counsel, you'll never ask her as long as you live."
"Cicely, what riddles are you talking?" replied Celia. "I will ask Mother."