“Yes, I have been able to do you some good, Becky. My labor has not been fruitless, after all.”
Fruitless! No. One look at the thoughtful face beside him, one glance at the trim figure, might convince him of that. Six months ago a hoiden, to-day a woman; bright, young, beautiful, still; but strong, energetic, persevering, rapidly unfolding the intellectual graces of true womanhood.
He was fond of his pupil; and to her he was a hero—always had been; but for the last six months they had been constantly in each other’s company. Out of school, many of the old familiar ways had been revived. They had ridden, sailed, rowed, even indulged in an occasional game of cricket. At her home he was a constant visitor, that being the established rendezvous for meeting his mother; and mother and son had diligently wrought—quietly, but earnestly—a great change in her life. She knew it, and blessed them for it. These two were very dear to each other, and, without knowing it, were passing beyond the boundaries of friendship into the perplexing maze of love.
“Harry,” said Becky, suddenly, “where does all the money come from?”
“Money, Becky! What money?”
“The money that gets us all we have at home. Mother’s went long ago; and yet we are always well supplied with food and clothing. Does it come from your father?”
“I think it does, Becky. My angel mother possesses a key which unlocks all his treasures; and I suspect that some of them fly across the bridge to your home.”
“I thought so. It isn’t right. Is there not some way in which I could earn money?”
“Well, I don’t know of any. Stay. You might blow the bellows for Fox, the blacksmith, or get employment in the shipyard.”