"I will manage it all," she said to Stevens. "If mother makes a great fuss, why, I'll take the little creature to live with us. I am not so particular or fidgety. Don't take any notice of what mother may say; she means well."
Alas! how many people "mean well," and how much better it would be if they made their meaning clear. Their good intentions are often like a riddle, hard to find out. If the intention is good, it is a pity that it is not better fulfilled. People who say they mean well are, I am afraid, often very disagreeable, and do not make the lives of others easier by their "good meaning."
The evening passed. Tea was over. The "little ones" were in bed. Stevens was sitting at supper with Mrs. Pryor when Raymond rang the bell.
"Where have you been, Raymond?" Salome said, going out to meet her brother. "Why did you not go to the station to meet mamma?"
"Why didn't I go?—there were plenty without me," he said crossly. "I have been with Barington; I met him in Roxburgh, and I was thankful to get out of this hole."
"Raymond, don't say that to mamma," Salome entreated.
"Well, my dear boy," Mrs. Wilton said, rising wearily from her chair as Raymond went into the room, "I was getting quite anxious about you;" and then she kissed him affectionately.
"I met an old friend—Barington," Raymond said; "and I knew Reginald would meet you.—Hallo, Ada, how are you? Barington wanted to come to-morrow to see you. He admires your photograph so much; but I could not let him see us here, so I put him off."
Ada looked up with a placid smile from her work—for Ada was never idle for a moment—and said, "Who is Barington?"
"Oh, an awfully nice fellow!—I say, mother, you won't stay here, will you? No decent people will call upon you. I can easily find you some nice lodgings Barington told me of."