“Never, madam; indeed I knew not of them.”

“I need them not to know thee for mine own, but it is not well that they should be in stranger hands.  Thou canst say—­But hush, we must be mum for the present.”

For it became necessary to admit the Queen’s morning draught of spiced milk, borne in by one of her suite who had to remain uninitiated; and from that moment no more confidences could be exchanged, until the time that Cis had to leave the Queen’s chamber to join the rest of the household in the daily prayers offered in the chapel.  Her dress and hair had, according to promise, been carefully attended to, but she was only finished and completed just in time to join her adopted parents on the way down the stairs.  She knelt in the hall for their blessing—­an action as regular and as mechanical as the morning kiss and greeting now are between parent and child; but there was something in her face that made Susan say to herself, “She knows all.”

They could not speak to one another till not only matins but breakfast were ended, and then—­after the somewhat solid meal—­the ladies had to put on their out-of-door gear to attend Queen Mary in her daily exercise.  The dress was not much, high summer as it was, only a loose veil over the stiff cap, and a fan in the gloved hand to act as parasol.  However the retirement gave Cicely an interval in which to say, “O mother, she has told me,” and as Susan sat holding out her arms, the adopted child threw herself on her knees, hiding her face on that bosom where she had found comfort all her life, and where, her emotion at last finding full outlet, she sobbed without knowing why for some moments, till she started nervously at the entrance of Richard, saying, “The Queen is asking for you both.  But how now?  Is all told?”

“Ay,” whispered his wife.

“So!  And why these tears?  Tell me, my maid, was not she good to thee?  Doth she seek to take thee into her own keeping?”

“Oh no, sir, no,” said Cis, still kneeling against the motherly knee and struggling with her sobs.  “No one is to guess.  I am to be Cicely Talbot all the same, till better days come to her.”

“The safer and the happier for thee, child.  Here are two honest hearts that will not cast thee off, even if, as I suspect, yonder lady would fain be quit of thee.”

“Oh no!” burst from Cicely, then, shocked at having committed the offence of interrupting him, she added, “Dear sir, I crave your pardon, but, indeed, she is all fondness and love.”

“Then what means this passion?” he asked, looking from one to the other.

“It means only that the child’s senses and spirits are overcome,” said Susan, “and that she scarce knows how to take this discovery.  Is it not so, sweetheart?”

“Oh, sweet mother, yes in sooth.  You will ever be mother to me indeed!”

“Well said, little maid!” said Richard.  “Thou mightest search the world over and never hap upon such another.”