“Jumpin’ jooks, Phœbe!” she exclaimed; “it’s a typewriter. Where on earth did it come from?”
Phœbe flushed and for a moment looked distressed.
“I rented it,” she replied. “It’s a great secret, Becky, and you must promise not to tell anyone.”
“Can you run it? Have you had lessons?” asked the younger girl, sitting up in her eagerness and forgetting her affliction for a time.
“I’ve taught myself,” said Phœbe. “It is not very hard to learn. At first, you know, I made lots of mistakes; but, now I do very well. I’ve had it almost six months, and every Saturday I typewrite all day.”
“But why? What are you copying?” demanded Becky, going to the table and looking down at the piles of manuscript.
“It is a book of sermons that Doctor Huntley is preparing for a publisher. He is too busy to do it himself, so he gave me the job. I get ten cents a page, and I’ve copied nearly four hundred pages already.”
“My!” cried Becky; “what a lot of money! Whatever will you do with it, dear?”
Phœbe smiled a little sadly, but put her arm around her sister and kissed her, affectionately.
“That’s a part of my secret, dear, and you mustn’t ask me. You’ll not mention the typewriter, Becky—nor anything I’ve told you? I don’t want Phil or the children to know.”