“Take care, Becky; you’ll rub it off. It’s very tender, and there’s but little of it,” said Harry, with a laugh. “Woolen mill, indeed! You can’t get up a blaze there; it’s brick.”
“Don’t think of such a thing, child. There’s no necessity for your earning money,” said Mrs. Thompson.
“Necessity or not, I mean to try. To-morrow morning I shall go there, and ask for work,” replied Becky; “so don’t try to stop me, for I know it’s right for me to do all I can for the support of the family.”
“Earn money in the woolen mill! Nonsense! Why, there’s talent enough in this portfolio to give you a handsome living, independent of the dust and dirt of an ugly, noisy mill.”
“In that portfolio?” said Becky. “What do you mean, Harry?”
“Why, didn’t you know, Becky, that men have made fortunes by their skill with the pencil and brush?”
“Men! Men can do anything; but girls can’t.”
“Don’t be so sure of that Becky. I know a young lady who earns twice as much as you ever did in the paper mill, by the use of a pencil.”
“You know a young lady?” said Becky, with a flush. “Who—where? What’s her name?”
Harry laughed.