Gwen was silent, and at this moment Susan offered Jan a letter.
“Oh, it’s from mamma!” she cried. “Please open it for me, Gwen. And lay it on my lap where I can read it.”
Gwen obeyed, but the attempt at reading was not successful. The pages slipped and Jan’s fingers were not free to hold them.
“You would rather not have me read it to you?” asked Gwen. “Do you think it’s secrets?”
“No, but I do love to read mamma’s letters myself,” sighed Jan. “Thank you, Gwen. Please take it.”
Gwen did as she was bidden, and read:
“My Dearest Little Janet-Girl: It is really several days since I wrote you, but papa and Fred have written, and there wasn’t any news. Only that there are five more citizens of Crescendo than there were last week—four are kittens—nice little Maltese and white things, belonging to Madam Puff—and one a calf, the long-legged daughter of Mrs. Cusha. I am so glad that my little girl is not getting too fond of luxury to want to see her plain home again! They are very good to you at Uncle Howard’s, and it was beautiful in him to fit you out as prettily as his own daughters, so that you should not be mortified nor mortify them when you appear together. By and by you will see more of Aunt Tina, I am sure. She must be fond of all those dear children, of course. [Here Jan began to blush furiously, but Gwen only elevated her eyebrows and went on reading with increasing interest as she caught sight of her own name farther down the page.] And though it is delightful for you to see so much of the tiny ones, and have them love you so dearly, I am especially glad that you like Gwen, and that she seems to like you, for I feel sure she is a noble girl, as well as a clever one, and I always wanted Howard’s oldest daughter and my oldest girl to be friends, as we were, he and I, years ago. And no, dear, you certainly must not mind Gladys’s dislike too much, nor even feel sure it is dislike, because one is likely to get the kind of treatment one expects. I am as sorry as I can be that she apparently despises poverty. Of course that is nonsense. Rich people are not better than poor ones, nor are poor people better than rich ones. It all depends how one meets and uses his opportunities, and money or its lack is an accident. Rich people are tempted to be hard and selfish, but, on the other hand, poor people are tempted to be envious and jealous. ‘The betwixt and between’ folk have the best of it, for they are not so strongly tempted either way. Still, they often get dissatisfied with enough. Agur was very wise when he prayed to be given ‘neither poverty nor riches.’ I am sorry as I can be that my poor little niece is so worldly, but I hope she will learn better when she is a little older. If she doesn’t she will have some hard lessons, for worldly people are taught very sharply how vain are the things upon which they have set their hearts, and no one with false ambitions is ever happy. But if little Jan doesn’t get worldly, I can not care as much as I should about any one else. I was so afraid, so dreadfully afraid, to put my single-hearted girl among things which could never be hers—afraid I should spoil her content and her unconsciousness of differences, which really are imaginary and do not matter at all. Go your ways, my Jan, like an honest, simple little girl, and do not be other than your true, good little self. It grieves me to think that any one in my brother’s house—much more one of his children—should not be quite kind to Jan, but I feel sure you will win Gladys by and by, if you are patient. The greatest English writer after Shakespeare—to my thinking, at least—said that the world was a looking-glass, reflecting our own expression toward it. And he was perfectly right. So smile away, Janet, and by and by all your little world will smile at you. All the children and your father send kisses enough to take your breath away. And so does she who loves you a little more than any one else can love you, and who prays ‘that God will keep you so pure, and true, and fair.’ You remember our favorite song?
“Your loving and only mother,
“Jennie Graham Howe.”
To Jan’s surprise and dismay, Gwen sprang up after reading this letter, which Jan would not have allowed her to see for the world if she had known that it was going to reflect her own comments on her surroundings, and threw herself on the bed, sobbing as though her heart would break. “Why, Gwen, why, dear Gwen, don’t!” cried Jan, clasping her cousin in her wounded arms. “I didn’t mean anything about Gladys! I’m so sorry you read it! But it really wasn’t anything bad I said!”
“Oh, it’s not that. I don’t care what you said—Gladys is a pig!” sobbed Gwen. “It’s because Aunt Jennie is so awfully, beautifully dear! And because—because—O Janet Howe, you don’t deserve credit. You ought to be a nice girl!” And puzzled Jan agreed with her, as she stroked her hair in wondering silence.