“O, Harry, you do like to torment me. I hope you won’t plague her so, when you get her.”
“When I get her? O, no, Becky, I shall be a different man, a very different man—when I get her.”
Still the same mischievous look. What could he mean? Was it all settled, then? Was he sure of her? She turned away, sick at heart, disappointed at she knew not what. She only wished she was at home.
“Here, Becky, come with me. I have purloined a big dish of goodies, and hidden it under the sofa in the sitting-room. Come with me; we shall be alone in there.”
It was the voice of the captain; a welcome relief to her embarrassed position. Smilingly she took the arm of her friend, and soon they were comfortably snuggled together on the sofa, and the captain’s teasing offspring forgotten.
“Ah, Becky, there’s lots of young and gay fellows about to-night; but I know you will spare a few moments for the old man,” said the captain, as he produced his “goodies” from beneath the sofa.
“Indeed I will. O, you are so kind to make Harry’s coming home so pleasant to all of us!”
“Yes, chatterbox; and you were kind to give me the opportunity to do it. But tell me, what shall we do with him, now we’ve got him home?”
“Why keep him, of course. You don’t think he’ll run away—do you?”