When lips are narrow and straight, when noses are likewise absolutely straight, as Pearl's and Clara's were, they may be perfect or even beautiful, but they are not _interesting_. A wiggly mouth, as Jeanne said, keeps one guessing. So does an uncertain nose. Then there was the mirror-child's chin. Not a _big_ chin like the one in the picture of Bridget's first husband, the prize-fighter; nor a chinless chin like Ethel's. "Quite a good deal of a chin, I should say," was Jeanne's verdict. Then the rest of the mirror-child. A little smaller, perhaps, than many girls of the same age; but very nicely made. Arms the right size and length, hands not too big, shoulders straight and not too high like Bridget's, nor too sloping like Maggie's. A slight waist that didn't need to be pinched in like Aunt Agatha's. Legs that looked like _girls'_ legs, not like piano legs--as Hannah Schmidt's did, for instance, when Hannah wore white stockings. The feet were small. The hair grew prettily about the bright, sociable face. "You're just about the best _young_ friend I have," declared Jeanne, kissing the mirror-child. "I'm glad you live in my closet--I'd be awfully lonesome if you didn't." Jeanne, however, was not a vain little girl, nor a conceited one. She simply didn't think of the mirror-child as _herself_. The girl in the mirror was merely another girl of her own age, and she loved her quite unselfishly. Perhaps Jeanne's most personal thought came when she washed her face. "I'm so glad I don't have beginning-whiskers like the milkman," said she, "or a wart on my nose like Bridget's. It's much pleasanter, I'm sure, to wash a smooth face like this." CHAPTER XV ALLEN ROSSITER In November there came a day when nobody in the Huntington house spoke above a whisper. There was a trained nurse in the house, three very solemn doctors coming and going, and an air of everybody _waiting_ for something. James told Maggie, and Maggie told Jeanne, that old Mr. Huntington had had a stroke. "Is my grandfather going to die?" asked Jeannette, when Maggie had patiently explained the serious nature of Mr. Huntington's sudden illness. "I don't know," returned Maggie. "Nobody knows, not even the doctors." For a great many dreary days, her grandfather remained "Just the same," until Jeanne considered those three words the most hateful ones in the English tongue. Then, one memorable morning--_years_ later, it seemed--she heard Dr. Duncan say, on his way out: "A decided change for the better, Mrs. Huntington." Jeanne was so glad that she danced a little jig with her friend in the mirror. Often, after that, she waylaid the pleasant white-capped nurse to ask about the invalid; but Miss Raymond's one response was "Nicely, my dear, nicely." For weeks and weeks, Jeanne saw nothing of her grandfather; consequently, her mathematics became very bad indeed. But at last, one Sunday morning, the nurse summoned her to her grandfather's room.