“Whose name is Cicely?”
The entire tea-party turned around in confusion and there in the doorway stood Miss Cissy herself and just behind her a tall and very elegant gentleman.
“Dear me!” laughed she. “I hope we are not intruding. But please tell me, before we run away and leave you to yourselves again, whose name is Cicely?”
Polly seemed to be the only one who could find her tongue. “Why—why, the baby’s,” she cried eagerly. “Don’t you see her here in my lap? Mrs. Bell let me name her. And isn’t she the prettiest, cunningest baby in the world. See her tiny hands and her darling ears! And isn’t she good? She let me put her to sleep. Oh, if she hadn’t been the best baby she couldn’t have been named Cicely.”
Miss Cissy flushed with pleasure and amusement at the genuine compliment and coming forward knelt down before Polly’s knee.
“She is indeed a dear baby,” she said, taking one of the wee pink fists in hers and kissing it lightly. “And so you have really called her Cicely?”
Mrs. Bell nodded and murmured shyly, “Yes’m. Polly named her.”
“Well, that’s my name, you know, and if Polly gave it to her because it’s mine, of course she is my namesake, there’s no doubt about that.”
Little Mrs. Bell flushed and trembled. “Excuse me, miss,” she stammered faintly. “I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have made so bold. Indeed I wouldn’t.”