Still Angela felt the only way of bearing it was that after setting Mrs. Merrifield down, she stopped the carriage at a church she knew to have a noon-tide Litany, knelt there, with the little girl beside her, and tried to say, “Thy will be done! To Thy keeping I commit her.” Her “hours” came to help her. “Quench Thou the fires of hate and strife, The wasting fever of the heart, From perils guard her feeble life, And to our souls Thy help impart.” She was able to be calm, and to utter none of her rage when they came back to luncheon; and Marilda, declaring she liked nothing so well as seeing children at the Zoo, wished to go with the party. All, save Mrs. Merrifield and her boy, had gone different ways in London, so there was plenty of room in the barouche. The boy’s mind was set on riding on the elephant, and they walked on that way, turning aside, however, to the yard where towered the kangaroo, tall, gentle, graceful and gracious. Lena sprang forward with a cry of joy, and clasped her hands; but in one moment the same spasm, at first of ecstasy then of overpowering feeling, becoming agony, came over her, and gasping and choking, Angela held her in her arms and carried her to a seat, holding her up, loosening her clothes; but still she did not come round. Her aunt tried to say, “hysteric.” Some one brought water, but it was of no use—there were still the labouring gasps, and the convulsive motion. “Let us take her home,” Marilda said. “Nothing but hysterics!” repeated the aunt. “I will stay with Jackie.” Marilda found her servant and the carriage, and in the long drive, a few drops of strong stimulant at a chemist’s brought a little relief though scarcely consciousness; and when Angela had carried her up to her room, there was a blueness about the lips, a coldness about the fingers, that told much. Marilda had at once sent for Dr. Brownlow as the nearest, and he was at home; but he could only look and do nothing, but attempt to revive circulation, all in vain; and with Marilda standing by, with one convulsive clutch of Angela’s hand, the true mother of her orphaned life, little Lena sank to a peaceful rest from the tribulations that awaited her here. CHAPTER XXIX—SAFE “Rest beyond all grief and pain, Death to thee is truest gain.” KEBLE. ANGELA’S nearest and best friends had anticipated that the peaceful climax of all her cares would be a relief to her; and so indeed in the long run it would be to her higher sense, and she would be thankful. But even those who knew her most thoroughly had not estimated the pangs of personal affection and deprivation of the child she had fostered with a mother’s tenderness for seven years, and the absolute suffering of the sudden parting, even though it was to security of bliss, instead of doubt and uneasiness.