So out of the old life a second time had come her deliverance in time of trouble. Not altogether wasted, after all.
Mr. John Woodfern took the proffered portfolio and placed it in his lap. As he did so his eyes met Becky’s, and the comical situation in which he had been placed overpowered him. He threw himself back in his chair, and burst into a prolonged, loud and hearty peal of laughter. Having thus effectually dissipated the fog he opened the portfolio, and examined its contents.
“So, so; this is your work—is it? Very good, fine, excellent! You had a good teacher, that’s evident; but you have talent, that’s still more evident. Who is your teacher?”
“Harry Thompson, sir,” replied Becky.
“Harry Thompson of Harvard?” queried Mr. Woodfern.
“He was at Harvard, sir. He’s now at Cleverly—Cleverly, Maine; that’s where I live,” said Becky.
“Indeed! It’s my old friend. He’s your teacher at cricket, too, I’ll be bound. Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“If you’ll be kind enough to remember, sir, you were very busy when I came in. You didn’t give me a chance to tell you anything,” said Becky, taking a mischievous pleasure in reminding the engraver of his brusque behavior.
“Hem, hem; that’s so. I was busy, very busy, Miss—Miss—what’s your name?”
“Rebecca Sleeper, sir. Harry calls me Becky.”