"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. "Cry it out, my dear; you'll be all the better for it after. And if you'll list me, Mrs. Celia, you'll never trouble no more about this by yourself, but just go and tell the Lord all about it. He knows who they be, child, and He made you their child, knowing it. And, my dear, I do find 'tis no good to carry a burden to the Lord, so long as I just get up and lift it on again. I'm very much given to lifting on again, Mrs. Celia, and perchance you be. But when I find that, why, I just go and go again, till I can lay it down and come away without it. Takes a deal of going sometimes, that do! But what would you think of me, if I says, 'Mrs. Celia, you carry this linen up-stairs, if you please;' and then goes and walks off with it myself?" Old Cicely's homely illustration was just what Celia wanted. "Thank you, Cicely," she said; "I will try to leave the burden behind." Father Cuthbert Stevens sat in his lodging at Moreton, complacently turning over the contents of his portfolio. To his landlady he had told the same tale as to Squire Passmore, representing himself as an artist in the employ of Sir Godfrey Kneller; and had, to her thinking, verified his story beyond all doubt, by producing in part-payment of his debt a new shop-sign, representing a very fat and amiable-looking lion, standing on one leg, the other three paws flourishing in the air, while the eyes of the quadruped were fixed on the spectator. Mrs. Smith considered it a marvellous work of art, and cut off a large slice of Mr. Stevens' bill accordingly. Mr. Stevens passed his sketches slowly in review, tearing up the greater part, and committing them to the safe custody of the fire. But when he came to the staircase at Ashcliffe, he quietly placed that in security in a special pocket of the portfolio. He was too wise to speak his thoughts aloud; but had he done so he would have said: "I have not done with this yet. To-morrow I propose to pay a visit to Marcombe, and this will secure me an unsuspected entrance into Mr. Rowe's family, where I may obtain some further information, on which a little paper and lead will be well spent."