Part 5 (2/2)
”So do I,” said Betty decidedly. ”Don't you hate being poor, Jack?”
”If you were only grown up,” Jack went on, ignoring his sister's question, ”you could go out and give the lessons on wet days or when mother didn't feel well, and she could stay at home and rest.”
”No, I couldn't,” said Betty, dolefully. ”You know I'm not a bit musical; I couldn't play like mother if I tried all my life. I don't see how I'm ever going to be any kind of a teacher if I can't go to school and get a diploma. People can't teach without diplomas; Mrs. Flynn says so. Her daughter's trying for one this year.”
”Well, you would be able to do something any way,” Jack maintained, ”and mother wouldn't have to work so dreadfully hard. I wish you were grown up, Betty, only then I should have to be grown up too, and I shouldn't like that.”
”Why not?” inquired Betty in some surprise.
Jack flushed, and turned his face towards the wall.
”I don't know exactly,” he stammered, ”but I think--I'm sure it must be much worse to be a grown up cripple, than to be a little boy one.”
Betty left her seat by the window, and coming over to her brother's side, sat down on the end of the sofa by Jack's feet.
”You wouldn't mind so much if you could be a great artist and paint beautiful pictures, would you, Jack?” she asked gently.
”N--no, I don't suppose I should, not quite so much, because then I could sell my pictures, and make lots of money for you and mother. Then we could live in a lovely place in the country, and keep a carriage.”
”And you could go to drive every day,” added Betty, falling in at once with Jack's fancy, ”and mother could have a fine piano, and go to hear all the concerts and operas. Then we could give money to poor people instead of having people want to give it to us, and I could be very accomplished, and go to parties sometimes.”
”Yes,” said Jack eagerly, ”and some time we could all go to England, and see the place where mother used to live.”
Betty looked a little doubtful.
”I don't know whether mother would like that or not,” she said. ”You see, when mother lived there she knew father, and now he's dead. It might make her feel badly to go back.”
”So it might; I never thought about that, but she might like to see Uncle Jack. I should like to see him, shouldn't you, Betty?”
”Yes; I wonder if we ever shall. Mother doesn't like to have us talk much about him, but I know she loves him very much; her eyes always look that way when she tells us how handsome and splendid he used to be when he was a boy.”
”Wouldn't it be nice if Winifred Hamilton came to see us this afternoon,” Jack remarked rather irrelevantly; ”I do like her very much, don't you?”
”Yes, she's lovely; she said she'd come to see you some day.”
”We haven't seen her since the day we went for the drive. Perhaps she's waiting for you to call on her first.”
”Mother won't let me go,” said Betty regretfully; ”she says she's afraid Mrs. Hamilton might not want Winifred to know us.”
”But if she hadn't wanted to know us she wouldn't have taken us to drive, would she?”
”I shouldn't think so, but, any way, mother won't let me go there till Winifred has been here.”
”There's the clock striking four,” exclaimed Jack joyfully; ”mother'll be in in a few minutes now. Why don't you light the gas stove, Betty, and get her slippers nice and warm? She'll be so tired and wet.”
”I will,” said Betty, springing up with alacrity; ”and I'll make her a cup of tea, too; she'll like that.” And away bustled the little housewife, disappointment and vexation alike forgotten in the pleasant prospect of making mother comfortable.
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