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.