"I'm not thinking about them," I said. "What I look at is--"
"I don't like her," said Ethelbertha. "I don't like any of them."
"But--" She didn't seem to be listening.
"I know that class of man," she said; "and the wife appears, if
anything, to be worse. As for the girl--"
"When you come to know them--" I said.
She said she didn't want to know them. She wanted to go down on
Monday, early.
I got her to see--it took some little time--the disadvantages of
this. We should only be adding to Robina's troubles; and change of
plan now would unsettle Dick's mind.
"He has promised to write me," I said, "and tell me the result of his
first day's experience. Let us wait and hear what he says."
She said that whatever could have possessed her to let me take those
poor unfortunate children away from her, and muddle up everything
without her, was a mystery to herself. She hoped that, at least, I
had done nothing irrevocable in the case of Veronica.
"Veronica," I said, "is really wishful, I think, to improve. I have
bought her a donkey."
"A what?" exclaimed Ethelbertha.
"A donkey," I repeated. "The child took a fancy to it, and we all
agreed it might help to steady her--give her a sense of
responsibility."
"I somehow felt you hadn't overlooked Veronica," said Ethelbertha.
I thought it best to change the conversation. She seemed in a
fretful mood.
CHAPTER VIII
Robina's letter was dated Monday evening, and reached us Tuesday
morning.
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