Nancy had a great many ideas, first and last.  They were generally unique and interesting at least, though it is to be feared that few of them were practical.  However, it was Nancy’s idea to build Peter a playhouse in the plot of ground at the back of the Charlestown house, and it was she who was the architect and head carpenter.  That plan had brought much happiness to Peter and much comfort to the family.  It was Nancy’s idea that she, Gilbert, and Kathleen should all be so equally polite to Cousin Ann Chadwick that there should be no favorite to receive an undue share of invitations to the Chadwick house.  Nancy had made two visits in succession, both offered in the nature of tributes to her charms and virtues, and she did not wish a third.

“If you two can’t be more attractive, then I’ll be less, that’s all,” was her edict. “‘Turn and turn about’ has got to be the rule in this matter.  I’m not going to wear the martyr’s crown alone; it will adorn your young brows every now and then or I’ll know the reason why!”

It was Nancy’s idea to let Joanna go, and divide her work among the various members of the family.  It was also Nancy’s idea that, there being no strictly masculine bit of martyrdom to give to Gilbert, he should polish the silver for his share.  This was an idea that proved so unpopular with Gilbert that it was speedily relinquished.  Gilbert was wonderful with tools, so wonderful that Mother Carey feared he would be a carpenter instead of the commander of a great war ship; but there seemed to be no odd jobs to offer him.  There came a day when even Peter realized that life was real and life was earnest.  When the floor was strewn with playthings his habit had been to stand amid the wreckage and smile, whereupon Joanna would fly and restore everything to its accustomed place.  After the passing of Joanna, Mother Carey sat placidly in her chair in the nursery and Peter stood ankle deep among his toys, smiling.

“Now put everything where it belongs, sweet Pete,” said mother.

“You do it,” smiled Peter.

“I am very busy darning your stockings, Peter.”

“I don’t like to pick up, Muddy.”

“No, it isn’t much fun, but it has to be done.”

Peter went over to the window and gazed at the landscape.  “I dess I’ll go play with Ellen,” he remarked in honeyed tones.

“That would be nice, after you clear away your toys and blocks.”

“I dess I’ll play with Ellen first,” suggested Peter, starting slowly towards the door.

“No, we always work first and play afterwards!” said mother, going on darning.

Peter felt caught in a net of irresistible and pitiless logic.

“Come and help me, Muddy?” he coaxed, and as she looked up he suddenly let fly all his armory of weapons at once,—­two dimples, tossing back of curls, parted lips, tiny white teeth, sweet voice.

Mother Carey’s impulse was to cast herself on the floor and request him simply to smile on her and she would do his lightest bidding, but controlling her secret desires she answered:  “I would help if you needed me, but you don’t.  You’re a great big boy now!”