“What do you want to do? What’s your special talent?” asked Gwen.
“I haven’t any,” replied Jan. “Unless,” she added, with a twinkle, “it is a talent to wash and dress children, and dust, and wash dishes, and make cake, and those things—I can do all that.”
“How perfectly awful!” cried Gwen with conviction. “You poor little soul, have you been leading such a poky, drudge’s life as that? I am glad, then, that papa got you here, after all.”
Janet was too quick-witted to miss the implication that Gwen had not always been glad of her coming, but she said with spirit: “You needn’t pity me, Gwen, for no girl ever had more fun than I have. I like to do those things—at least, usually I do.” Jan was too honest not to leave a margin for those occasions when household tasks had been irksome. “I have the very nicest home in all the world, and it would be bad enough if I weren’t willing to do something in it! And we children have the loveliest times—you ought to see what a splendid little crowd they are! I don’t know, but I shouldn’t wonder if—” Jan stopped short, not wishing to impart to her cousin her first impression that the Grahams were less happy than the Howes.
Gwen was too preoccupied to notice the halt. “And what do you mean to do, then, when you are grown up?” she insisted.
Jan hesitated. “I believe,” she said slowly, “I don’t want to be very much of anything—not anything famous or showy, I mean. Papa says it is hardest, and greatest of all, to be a true-hearted, noble woman who makes home happy and helps everybody to be good. I believe I would rather do that—be the sort of woman mamma is—than anything.”
“What sort of woman is she?” asked Gwen respectfully; the glow in Jan’s eyes and the loving tremor in her voice impressed the girl, who had never had this side of life presented to her aspirations before.
“She is so cheery and kind, she makes you feel better, no matter how miserable you are, if she just walks through the room,” said Jan. “She never thinks of herself at all—it keeps us busy to stop her going without things for us all the time. She never is too tired to listen to our fusses, nor too busy to unsnarl us. She never says a word if she is sick or troubled, but puts it all out of sight so no one else will be unhappy, too. And she makes time, somehow, for her neighbors’ troubles. And she not only cooks, and sews, and nurses us children, but she reads to us, and talks to us, and we each feel as though we were all alone in the world with her. And she never breaks a promise to us, whether it is to do something pleasant for us or to punish us, and she is never the least wee bit partial or unjust. And when we’re bad, or have crooked days, she is so patient! And she just loves us straight and good. And there isn’t one of us that wouldn’t just die if we thought we had deceived or disappointed her, because she trusts us. And everybody wonders why the Howe children are so square, and honorable, and good, on the whole. As if they could help being—with such a mother! Oh, I love her, I do love her!” And Jan’s tears rolled over as she remembered how many miles now separated her from this dear woman, and how long it must be before she held her tight in her arms again.
Gwen sat motionless, looking down on the long fingers clasping her knee, as Jan stopped speaking. Her face was sweet and serious, although a trifle puzzled. Jan had given her an entirely new point of view, had filled her mind with new thoughts; and it was a fine mind, guiding a noble nature, both quite capable of appreciating the picture her cousin had painted.
“Thank you, Jan,” she said at last, to Jan’s surprise, as she rose to leave her. “I think I see what you mean. I shouldn’t wonder if your ambition was better than mine; I mean to think that over. By and by you’ll tell me more about Crescendo and Aunt Jennie; I wish I knew her; I wish—” Here Gwen stopped in her turn. “Don’t be homesick, and don’t mind Gladys. She is so silly that it doesn’t mean one thing. Come down, when you get ready, to the library—where we were when you came. Papa will want to speak to you before he goes out. And don’t miss those nice people too much; we’ll try to be decent, and I guess you’ll like New York. I’ll tell Norah to have your trunk sent up when it comes.”