“The Brownlows,” said Clement, looking up from his paper, “helped me through an ordinary malarial fever. John Lucas is a brilliant specialist in such cases, but certifying an affection of the heart. Tom May latterly has treated me better. As far as I understand the case of your little niece, I should say both that it was more in the line of Tom May, and likewise that it would be very hurtful to her to take her about and subject her to more examinations.” “Poor little thing! no doubt it would be a terrible distress,” acquiesced Bessie; “but still, if it is bracing that she needs—northern air might make all the difference.” Clement sighed a little hopelessly over making a woman understand or give way, and returned to his newspaper; while Geraldine tried to argue that air could not make much difference, speaking in the interest of the child herself and of her sister. Elizabeth listened and agreed; but there was in the Merrifield family a fervour of almost jealous expiation of their neglect of Henry, inattention to his daughter, and desire to appropriate her, and to restore her to health, strength, and wisdom, in spite of her would-be stepmother. “They hate me as much as if I were her stepmother!” cried Angela. “I wish I was, to have a right to protect her! No, Clem; I’ll not break out, if I can help it, as long as they don’t worry her; and I think Bessie does see the rights of it.” Yes; the peaceful, thoughtful atmosphere of Vale Leston, unlike the active bustle of Coalham, had an insensible influence on Elizabeth’s mind; and she saw that Angela’s treatment of the child, always cheerful though tender, was right, and that it would be sheer cruelty to separate them. She promised to use all her power to prevent any such step, and finally left Vale Leston, perfectly satisfied that it was impossible to take Lena with her. But her family did not see it thus, especially Mrs. Samuel Merrifield, the child’s guardian. She insisted that it was her husband’s duty to bring the little one to London for advice, and to remove her from all the weakening, morbid influences of Vale Leston. CHAPTER XXVIII—SUMMONED “What would we give to our beloved?” —E. B. BROWNING. “I WISH they all would not go so very fast,” said little Lena, hiding her face against him from the whirl of cabs and omnibuses. “They bewilder us savages,” said Angela, smiling. “Remember we are from the wilds.” “She shall have her tea, and a good rest,” said Marilda; “and then I have asked her uncle and aunts to meet you at dinner, and Fernan hopes to bring home another old friend. Whom do you think, Angel?” “Oh! Not our Bishop?” “Yes, the Bishop of Albertstown! He is actually in town; Fernan saw him yesterday at the Church House.” “Oh! that is joy!” cried Angela; and Lena raised her head, with, “Is it mine—mine own Bishop?”