Everybody
meant mamma, Mildred, Frances, Elbert, Lawrence, Sammy and Jessie.
Somehow, a downright rainy day in autumn, with a bit of a blaze on the
hearth, makes you feel like dropping into talk and staying in one place,
and discussing eventful things, such as Grace Wainwright's return, and
what her effect would be on her family, and what effect they would have
on her.
"I really do not think Grace is in the very least bit prepared for the
life she is coming to," said Frances.
"No," said mamma, "I fear not. But she is coming to her duty, and one
can always do that."
"For my part," said Elbert, "I see nothing so much amiss at the
Wainwrights. They're a jolly set, and go when you will, you find them
having good times. Of course they are in straitened circumstances."
"And Grace has been accustomed to lavish expenditure," said Mildred.
"If she had remained in Paris, with her Uncle Ralph and Aunt Gertrude
she would have escaped a good deal of hardship," said Lawrence.
"Oh," mamma broke in, impatiently, "how short-sighted you young people
are! You look at everything from your own point of view. It is not of
Grace I am thinking so much. I am considering her mother and the girls
and her poor, worn-out father. I couldn't sleep last night, thinking of
the Wainwrights. Mildred, you might send over a nut-cake and some soft
custard and a glass of jelly, when it stops raining, and the last number
of the "Christian Herald" and of "Harper's Monthly" might be slipped
into the basket, too--that is, if you have all done with it.
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