“Well, Miss Becky, I like your drawings; but the fact is you’ve had no experience in drawing on wood.”
“But I could learn, sir,” said Becky, quickly. “If you only knew how much need I have of money, you would give me a chance—I know you would.”
At this moment the door opened, and a young lady made her appearance. She was taller than Becky, but young and graceful, with a bright, handsome face, lustrous black eyes, and a profusion of dark ringlets.
“Good morning, Miss Parks,” said Mr. Woodfern, courteously.
Becky started, and stared at the visitor—Harry’s paragon. It must be; it could be no other.
“Good morning, Mr. Woodfern,” said Miss Parks, gayly. “It’s the day after the fair, I know; but you will forgive me. I couldn’t finish them in time.”
The young lady unfastened her reticule, and produced three blocks, which she laid before the engraver.
“Forgive you?” said Mr. Woodfern. “I don’t know about that. Five minutes more, and you would have been superceded by this young artist;” and he pointed to Becky.
Miss Parks looked at Becky, and Becky looked at Miss Parks.