Bernard heard it with immense pleasure, as did the faithful Ferdinand and Marilda; while Elizabeth felt more and more that Sister Angela was not to be treated, as she feared Sam and his wife were inclined to do, as a mere interloper in their family affairs, but as one to be not merely considered with gratitude, but even reverenced. Indeed, Sam began to feel it, as he saw how the other men, both practical business men, listened, and were impressed; but it was not quite the case with his wife, who did not particularly esteem colonial Bishops, and still less Sisterhoods or devotion to missionary efforts, especially among the Australian blacks, whom her old geography book had told her were the most degraded and hopeless of natives, scarcely removed from mere animals. When Angela appeared half through dinner time and said that Lena was safely asleep, and Marilda sat her down to be happy in exchange of Carrigaboola tidings with her Bishop, Fernando greeted her with a reverence not undeserved, though perhaps all the more from the contrast to the mischievous little sprite who used to disturb the days of his philandering with Alda. How much shocked Mrs. Samuel was, when the magnificent Sir Ferdinand, whom she regarded with awe as a millionaire, was flippantly answered by this extraordinary Sister, “Thank you, Fernan, I should like to have a sight of the old office. I hope you have a descendant of the old cat, Betty. Didn’t she come from your grandmother, Marilda? Do you remember her being found playing tricks with the nugget, just come from Victoria?” “That was in her kitten days,” said Ferdinand. “Is that personal, Fernan?” “A compliment, Angel,” said the Bishop. “Kittens alter a good deal.” “Not much for the better,” said Angela. “If you only could see Mrs. Lamb, who used to be the very moral of a kitten, scratchiness and all!” “I thought her very much improved,” said Lady Underwood gravely. “Oh, yes; grown into a sleek and personable tabby, able to wave her tail at the tip and tuck her paws—her velvet paws—well under her; and lick her lips over the—oh, dear!—what do you call it?—your _menu_ is quite too much for us poor savages, Marilda. A bit of damper is quite enough for us, isn’t it, Bishop?” “Varied with opossum and fern root,” he said smiling; “but that’s only when we have lost our way.” The talk drifted off to the history of a shepherd’s child, who had strayed into the bush, and after much searching, in which the Bishop and Fulbert had been half starved, had finally been found and carried home by Angela’s “crack gin,” as she told it to Bernard; and as Marilda thought the poor child was in a trap, it had to be translated into “favourite pupil,” though Bernard carried on the joke by asking Marilda if she thought the natives cannibals given to the snaring of mankind.