“Thinking of Alice, of course,” said Becky, with a little snap of temper. “I don’t see what that’s got to do with a pencil.”
“Then we’ll come to the point—of the story, not the pencil,” said Harry, who was evidently enjoying the confusion of Becky. “Well, you must know, I took a great fancy to this girl, she was so pretty, and so gentle and obliging. They were poor people, and found it hard to keep up a respectable appearance, and make their home comfortable, and table inviting. But they did it; and it was just the nicest, cosiest place in all the world, except home.” Harry sobered here, and looked at his mother. “Well, Alice had a talent for painting and drawing, and amused herself in her leisure moments with making sketches and water colors, with which to adorn their rooms. I was very grateful to them for their kindness to me; and one day I purloined some of Alice’s drawings, and took them into Boston. I had often played cricket with an Englishman,—John Woodfern,—who, I knew, was one of the best engravers in America. I took the sketches to him, told my story, and asked him to do something for the girl. He took a fancy to the drawings at once. He had a fancy for me already; and, fortunately, he had just taken a contract to supply a children’s magazine, then in successful operation. He sent for Alice, took a fancy to her, too, and at once set her to work. She is now a successful artist. So you see, Becky, what a young girl can do, when she has a smart, enterprising man to help her. Ahem!”
“Do you think I could do that too?” asked Becky, with sparkling eyes.
“Of course you could. John Woodfern could never refuse such convincing proofs as are packed away in this portfolio.”
“O, isn’t that splendid! I know I should like that work,” cried Becky, jumping up and clapping her hands. “I’ll go to Boston at once!”
“Hold on, hold on, aspiring genius!” exclaimed Harry. “You go to Boston—one hundred and twenty miles! Nonsense! You will stay at home, and go to school; and when the term is over, we’ll see what can be done.”
“But I can’t wait. I must have work. O, let me go. I can find the way, and Mr. John Woodfern, too.”
“No, no; I won’t aid you unless you strictly conform to my wishes. Am I not right, mother?”
“Yes, Harry,” said Mrs. Thompson; “it’s best that Becky give her attention to home and school this winter. Be patient, Becky. Harry has opened an agreeable field of labor to you, where you shall work in good time.”