But nurse, aunts, all the troubles and disappointments of this world had vanished from Angelina's heart and soul. She had seen, at that first glimpse that her nurse had so rudely given her, that here at last, after long, long waiting, was the blessing that she had so desired. She had had other dolls—quite a number of them. Even now Lizzie (without an eye) and Rachel (rather fine in bridesmaid's attire) were leaning their disconsolate backs against the boarding beneath the window seat. There had been, besides Rachel and Lizzie, two Annies, a Mary, a May, a Blackamoor, a Jap, a Sailor, and a Baby in a Bath. They were now as though they had never been; Angelina knew with absolute certainty of soul, with that blending of will and desire, passion, self-sacrifice and absence of humour that must inevitably accompany true love that here was her Fate.
"It's been sent you by your kind Uncle Teny," said nurse. "You'll have to write a nice letter and thank him."
But Angelina knew better. She—a name had not yet been chosen—had been sent to her by her friend.... He had promised her last night that this should be a day of days.
Her aunts, appearing to receive thanks where thanks were due, darkened the doorway.
"Good-morning, mum. Good-morning, mum. Now, Miss 'Lina, thank your kind aunties for their beautiful presents."
She stood up, clutching the doll.
"T'ank you, Auntie Vi'let; t'ank you, Auntie Em'ly—your lovely pwesents."
"That's right, Angelina. I hope you'll use them sensibly. What's that she's holding, nurse?"
"It's a doll Mr. Edward's sent her, mum."