“O, Aunt Rebecca, if you don’t hate me, if you will try and make something of me, I’ll never go out doors again as long as I live!”
Mrs. Thompson smiled.
“Plants will not thrive without air, Becky: you shall have plenty of it. Now, dry your eyes, and come with me to see mother.”
“Not now, Aunt Rebecca; I’m not fit. I hope you’ll make something of me; but it’s an awful bad job. One thing I mean to do. I’ll try just as hard as ever I can to do just what you tell me.”
“That’s right, Miss Becky Sleeper; and if you do what that angel woman tells you, you are on the straight road to heaven, I can tell you.”
Mr. Harry Thompson came running into the room.
“Don’t scold, mother. I’ve been listening outside the door for the last five minutes. Let me congratulate you on your promising pupil.”
“I think I can make something of her,” said Mrs. Thompson looking with pride at her handsome son.
“Not without my help, mother. I know all the good points of that sportive genius, for, alas! I helped to train them in the wrong way. So, to make amends, employ me in the good work of training this wandering vine in the proper direction. What do you say, Miss Becky?”
“I don’t know what you mean, Harry,” said Becky, soberly. “Is it some new game you want to teach me? If it is, I can’t learn it, for I’ve promised not to play any more.”