Madam Passmore kissed Celia, and let her go. She did not follow her advice to go and chat with her sisters, but walked very slowly along the passage which led to her own room. She felt as if all around her were changed, and she herself were isolated and lost. Heretofore the old house and its furniture had seemed a part of herself: now they felt as if suddenly placed at an immense distance from her. Even the portrait in the passage of the Squire Passmore who had fought at Edgehill, brandishing his sword fiercely--even the china dragons which faced the hall-window--old familiar objects, seemed to scowl at her as she went by them. She would be Celia Passmore no longer. At another time she would have smiled at the superstitious fancy--only natural now--that these disowned her as a daughter of the house. She turned aside sadly, mechanically, into the little room where old Cicely sat sewing and singing. Her joint occupations ceased when she saw Celia's face. "Eh, my dear! I see Madam's told you. Come hither and sit down a bit. Is it very sore, dear heart?" "Cicely, do you know any more?" Celia asked, without answering her question. "I know nought more than Madam," said Cicely. "I went and fetched you, sweet heart, and a nice little babe you was, though you did keep crying, crying on for everlasting. Such beauties of clothes as they'd wrapped you in! I never see a bit of finer lace than was on them, nor never want; and the cambric was just beautiful! I have them laid by, if you'd like to see." "Oh! let me see them, Cicely! I meant to have asked Mother." What a mockery the last word seemed now! 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.