It was a good idea, and the dose had courage in it.  Gilbert took the first sip, Kathleen the second, and Nancy the third, and hardly had the last swallow disappeared down the poor aching throats before a carriage drove up to the gate.  Some one got out and handed out Mrs. Carey whose step used to be lighter than Nancy’s.  A strange gentleman, oh! not a stranger, it was the dear Admiral helping mother up the path.  They had been unconsciously expecting the brown muff and blue velvet bonnet, but these had vanished, like father, and all the beautiful things of the past years, and in their place was black raiment that chilled their hearts.  But the black figure had flung back the veil that hid her from the longing eyes of the children, and when she raised her face it was full of the old love.  She was grief-stricken and she was pale, but she was mother, and the three young things tore open the door and clasped her in their arms, sobbing, choking, whispering all sorts of tender comfort, their childish tears falling like healing dew on her poor heart.  The Admiral soothed and quieted them each in turn, all but Nancy.  Cousin Ann’s medicine was of no avail, and strangling with sobs Nancy fled to the attic until she was strong enough to say “for mother’s sake” without a quiver in her voice.  Then she crept down, and as she passed her mother’s room on tiptoe she looked in and saw that the chair by the window, the chair that had been vacant for a month, was filled, and that the black-clad figure was what was left to them; a strange, sad, quiet mother, who had lost part of herself somewhere,—­the gay part, the cheerful part, the part that made her so piquantly and entrancingly different from other women.  Nancy stole in softly and put her young smooth cheek against her mother’s, quietly stroking her hair.  “There are four of us to love you and take care of you,” she said.  “It isn’t quite so bad as if there was nobody!”

Mrs. Carey clasped her close.  “Oh! my Nancy! my first, my oldest, God will help me, I know that, but just now I need somebody close and warm and soft; somebody with arms to hold and breath to speak and lips to kiss!  I ought not to sadden you, nor lean on you, you are too young, —­but I must a little, just at the first.  You see, dear, you come next to father!”

“Next to father!” Nancy’s life was set to a new tune from that moment.  Here was her spur, her creed; the incentive, the inspiration she had lacked.  She did not suddenly grow older than her years, but simply, in the twinkling of an eye, came to a realization of herself, her opportunity, her privilege, her duty; the face of life had changed, and Nancy changed with it.

“Do you love me next to mother?” the Admiral had asked coaxingly once when Nancy was eight and on his lap as usual.

“Oh dear no!” said Nancy thoughtfully, shaking her head.

“Why, that’s rather a blow to me,” the Admiral exclaimed, pinching an ear and pulling a curl.  “I flattered myself that when I was on my best behavior I came next to mother.”