All this was a source of wonder to her. She had felt a glow of pleasure when she saw the flush on her mother’s cheek, the tears standing in her eyes, and a faint smile upon her lips. There was something very warming to her heart, when Aunt Hulda said, with a shake of the head,—
“What did I tell you? She’s a brave, good girl; and I knew she’d come out strong when she did come;” with a defiant glance at an invisible somebody, who might be inclined to doubt her.
Mrs. Thompson’s warm kiss of approval; Harry’s loud “Well done, pet! I’m proud of you!” all these were very gratifying to her. But these outward demonstrations seemed to her something to which she was not entitled, and so dismayed her that she took every opportunity possible to hide herself on the appearance of visitors.
The destruction of the mill was a bitter disappointment to her. She had set her heart on earning a hundred dollars. She had reached ninety, and the opportunity had vanished in fire and smoke. Not all the praise of Cleverly could compensate her for this loss. But though disappointed, she was not disheartened; and leaving the ninety safely locked, like the good woman in the Scriptures, she went searching about to discover the missing ten.
October came, and school opened once more, Mr. Drinkwater in his place, and Becky and Teddy among his pupils. For a time the young master, with his lively interest in their studies and out-door pastimes, his original way of making the most laborious duties pleasant, was missed; but Mr. Drinkwater was an earnest teacher, a kind and honorable man, methodical in his course of training, and under his charge the school prospered.
Harry Thompson was still an inmate of Mr. Drinkwater’s house, chafing under the restraint of inaction, yet obedient to the wishes of the mother to whom he owed his education, whose loving heart could not harbor the thought of a long absence, and whose faith in the reconciliation that would place her son in his home was still strong. How it was to be brought about, she knew not; but this separation was unnatural; it must have an end. Only have patience, and the perfect worker, in God’s good time, would mend the broken threads.
One cold November afternoon, Mrs. Thompson, with her knitting needles busily plying, sat in the sitting-room of the little brown house, now made very comfortable by the zealous workers. A miniature bonfire crackled and blazed in the broad fireplace, bountifully supplied by Harry Thompson, who lazily lounged in a rocking-chair before it, and divided his attention between a frequent piling of sticks and the contents of a portfolio in his lap.
Into this cosy retreat, with a rush of cold air, burst Becky Sleeper, in her usual dashing style, flinging her books on the sofa, her hat in one corner, her cloak in another, her gloves on the mantel-piece, and herself into a chair.
“There, Aunt Rebecca! I’ve stood this just as long as I’m a going to. I must earn money somehow. That hateful ten got into two of my sums to-day, and completely ruined them. It haunts me. Master Drinkwater asked me how many straight lines there were in a dollar mark, and I said ten; how many senses there were, and I said ten; and I got well laughed at. It’s no use. I never can succeed in anything more until I earn that ten dollars. So don’t oppose me, for I’m determined to get work at the woolen mill.”
Having emphatically launched this alarming threat, Becky applied herself to the task of raising the temperature of that truthful thermometer,—her nose,—which indicated a state of the weather but little above zero. This she did by a brisk application of her hand, with her eyes fastened upon her companions.