The brothers had not the least doubt of it. Angela was Angela still, for better or for worse. Or was it for worse? Yet she went up to bed chanting— “His sister she went beyond the seas, And died an old maid among black savagees.” CHAPTER XXIII—WILLOW WIDOWS “Set your heart at rest. The fairyland buys not that child of me.” —“MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM.” AN expedition to Minsterham finished the visit of Dolores and her faithful “Nag,” whose abilities as an assistant were highly appreciated, and who came home brilliantly happy to keep her remaining holiday with Magdalen; while Dolores repaired to Clipstone. Bernard had been obliged to go to London, to report himself to Sir Ferdinand Travis Underwood, but his wife and little girl were the reigning joy at Clipstone. Phyllis looked very white, much changed from the buxom girl who had gone out with her father two years ago. She had never recovered the loss of the little boy, and suffered the more from her husband’s inability to bear expression, and it was an immense comfort to her to speak freely of her little one to her mother. The little Lilias looked frail, but was healthy, happy, and as advanced as a well-trained companion child of six could well be, and the darling of the young aunts, who expected Dolores to echo their raptures, and declare the infinite superiority of the Ceylonese to “that little cornstalk,” as Valetta said. “There’s no difficulty as to that,” said Dolores, laughing. “The poor little cornstalk looks as if she had grown up under a blight.” “It is a grand romance though,” said Mysie; “only I wish that Cousin Harry had had any constancy in him.” “I wonder if Magdalen will adopt her!” was Valetta’s bold suggestion. “Poor Magdalen has had quite adopting enough to do,” said Mysie. “Besides,” said Dolores, “Sister Angela will never let her go. And certainly I never saw any one more _taking_ than Sister Angela. She is so full of life, and of a certain unexpectedness, and one knows she has done such noble work. I want to see more of her.” “You will,” said Mysie. “Mamma is going to ask her to come, for Phyllis says there is no one that Bernard cares for so much. She was his own companion sister.” “Magdalen might have the little cornstalk,” said Valetta. “Well,” said Mysie, “it is rather funny to have two—what shall I say?—willow widows, and a child that is neither of theirs! How will they settle it?” Magdalen had heard from Agatha on the first evening of the arrival of the sister, and the probability of the identification of little Lena’s father with the Henry Merrifield of her former years, and she was deeply touched by the bestowal of her name—so much that Nag avoided saying more, but only kissed her and went to bed. The Merrifields discussed the subject dispassionately.