“Now, good by, little one. Be sure and be on time to-morrow morning at five.”
“When the clock strikes, you’ll find me there. Good by.”
Becky ran home with a happy heart, bounced into the sitting room, and told them all about it—Mrs. Thompson and Harry; then ran to her mother’s room, and told her; then to the kitchen, and told Aunt Hulda. And such a surprised household it would be hard to find.
Harry Thompson frowned, and was inclined to put a stop to the journey; but his mother looked happy.
“Our little witch has caught the captain. Do not interfere, for out of this friendship I foresee a happy day for you and me. ‘Let patience have her perfect work.’”
CHAPTER XII.
AMONG THE WOODPECKERS.
Twenty years ago, in one of the busiest streets in bustling Boston, up three flights of stairs, sufficiently distant from the tumult of trade to escape its confusion, and near enough to the sun to receive the full benefit of its light, “John Woodfern, Designer and Engraver,” plied his artistic trade, in the enjoyment of a large share of public patronage. He was a man who held the foremost place in his profession, renowned for his skill in fastening the fine points and delicate shades of a drawing upon wooden blocks, whence are produced those pictorial illustrations which often adorn, and sometimes disfigure, books, periodicals, and papers. He was also a man of good business habits, and his establishment was neatly arranged, and conducted in the most orderly manner.