"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."