Cicely unlocked one of her cupboards, and produced the clothes, very handsome ones, as she had said, yellow with time, and edged with rich point. The gold pin was still there, with the paper, on which a manly, yet delicate, Italian hand had written the one word which alone remained to Celia of her unknown origin. She wondered whether it were her father's writing.
"Cicely," she said, suddenly, "was I ever baptized?"
"Whether afore we had you or not, Mrs. Celia, I can't say," replied old Cicely, quietly. "Madam thought this here"—pointing to the paper—"meant as you wasn't, and they'd like you to be christened 'Celia;' and Master thought it meant as you was christened already. So old Parson Herring—him as was here afore Parson Braithwaite—he christened you in church, as it stands in the prayer-book, 'if thou hast not been baptized,' or what it is. Squire thought that'd do either way."
"And you saw nothing when you went to fetch me, Cicely?"
"Nothing at all, my dear. There might have been somebody a-watching, you know—the place is so thick with trees—but I see nought of any sort."
The long pause which followed was broken by Cicely, who perceived that Celia's handkerchief was coming surreptitiously into requisition.
"If I was you, Mrs. Celia, I wouldn't trouble, my dear. Very like nobody'll ever come after you; and if they did, why, a grown lady like you might sure say where you'd be—without your own father and mother asked you; I'd never counsel you to go again them; though it would be a sore job parting from you, to be sure. You see, my dear, you've lived here nineteen years, and never a word said."
"But that man, Cicely!" said Celia, under her breath.
"Well, that man, my dear," repeated Cicely doubtfully, "he's very like of no kin to you, only somebody as knowed who you be."
"He was a Papist," said Celia, in the same tone. "But even so, Cicely, should I make no search for my father and mother? I am theirs, whoever they were; even if they were Papists." And the handkerchief came out openly.