“How?”
She unclasped her hand and showed him a bright five-dollar gold piece.
“That’s my last week’s wage—as an amateur typist. I’ve been copying manuscript for Reverend Doctor Huntley.”
Phil couldn’t help it; he gathered his twin into his arms and cried like a baby, while Phœbe sobbed on his shoulder and was glad the secret was out at last. There were not many secrets between these two.
Finally, when they had quieted down and could smile into each other’s eyes again, the girl explained how she had found the work and how the kindly clergyman had secured a typewriter for her and been very patient with her mistakes until she had thoroughly mastered it.
“He said, to-day, that it was the neatest and most correct copying he had ever seen,” she added, proudly.
The discovery that Phœbe had been working while he played added fuel to Phil’s remorse. He wanted to quit school at once and seek work, but Phœbe argued long and patiently and at last prevailed upon him to complete his course. It would only require a couple of weeks more to do this, and meantime he could be inquiring for work in the village.
“I’ll not be likely to find it, though,” he predicted. “Riverdale is a dull place, and I’m afraid I’ll have to go to the city.”
“Oh, no!” she exclaimed, for the twins had never been parted in their lives, and she could not endure the thought. “I’m sure that some position may be found here, and although the pay will not be as liberal as in the city, your expenses will be much less. And, above all, we can then remain together.”
“I’ll see what can be done,” he promised, kissing her affectionately; and then the younger ones came trooping in to end their conversation.