"Who's forty-two?" I demanded.
"We are," explained Robina, "Dick and I--between us. We shall be
forty-two next birthday. Nearly your own age."
"Veronica," she continued, "for the next few days won't be a child at
all. She knows nothing of the happy medium. She is either herself
or she goes to the opposite extreme, and tries to be an angel. Till
about the end of the week it will be like living with a vision. As
for the donkey, we'll try and make him feel as much at home as if you
were here."
"I don't mean to be rude, Pa," Robina explained, "but from the way
you put it you evidently regard yourself as the only one among us
capable of interesting him. I take it he won't mind for a night or
two sharing the shed with the cow. If he looks shocked at the
suggestion, Dick can knock up a partition. I'd rather for the
present, till you come down again, the cow stopped where she was.
She helps to wake me in the morning. You may reckon you have settled
everything as far as Dick is concerned. If you talk to St. Leonard
again for an hour it will be about the future of the Yellow Races or
the possibility of life in Jupiter. If you mention terms he will be
insulted, and if he won't let you then you will be insulted, and the
whole thing will be off. Let me talk to Janie. We've both of us got
sense. As for Mr. Bute, I know all your ideas about the house, and I
sha'n't listen to any of his silly arguments.
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