"My husband came up into my chamber, where was only Cicely beside with the babe on her lap; and he said, 'Lucy, my dear, there is a strange thing happened at the Park gates. A little babe lies there all alone,--it would move thy motherly heart to see it. Shall we send and take the poor little soul in?' I said, 'Send Cicely to see and fetch it.' So Cicely brought it in--a poor, weak babe that had scarce strength to breathe. It was lapped in fine white linen, laced with real point, and there was a gold pin fastening a paper on its little coat, with but one word--'Celia.' Well, to be sure, Cicely had some work to bring it round! For hours we feared it would die. But at last it seemed a little easier, and we thought it breathed stronger. And when my husband next came up he said, 'Well, Lucy, shall we send the babe away?' But I said, 'Nay, John, it seems fairly to ask pity from us: let us keep it, and bring it up as our own, and call it Bell's twin-sister. It will never harm us--perchance bring a blessing with it, for truly it looks as if God Almighty had sent it to us.' So we did that. I do not know, my dear, whether it was quite right of us to call you Bell's twin-sister: I am afraid not, for certainly it is not true. But as to your having brought a blessing with you, that's true enough. But that is how it was." Celia sat still and silent, feeling crushed and cut off from all she loved by this disclosure. "You have no thought," she said slowly, at last, "who I was, nor whence I came?" "Well, my dear, my husband thought you might be the child of some Jacobite forced to fly, who must needs leave you behind. 'Twas plain you were not forsaken because your father was too poor to keep you, for he must have been well to do, to judge from the lace on your clothes and the gold pin. Mayhap some nobleman, for aught I know." "Mother," said Celia, with a great effort, "think you that my parents, whosoever they were, could be--Papists?" The last word was scarcely more than whispered. It conveyed to the Passmore mind the essence of all that was wrong, cruel, and fearful. "I trust not, indeed, my dear," replied Madam Passmore, kindly, but evidently struck and distressed by Celia's question, "for I know nought. Now, Celia, child, don't take this to heart. Remember thou art as much our daughter, bound to us by every bond of love and custom, as before I spoke a word regarding this. There is ever a home for thee at Ashcliffe, child; and truly I scarce love my own better than I do thee. Let it not trouble thy mind. Go and chat with Harriet and Bell, to keep off the vapors.[3] Farewell, my dear!"