and soul on fitting the children for life.  If she could keep strength enough to guide and guard, train and develop them into happy, useful, agreeable human beings,—­masters of their own powers; wise and discreet enough, when years of discretion were reached, to choose right paths,—­that, she conceived, was her chief task in life, and no easy one.  “Happy I must contrive that they shall be,” she thought, “for unhappiness and discontent are among the foxes that spoil the vines.  Stupid they shall not be, while I can think of any force to stir their brains; they have ordinary intelligence, all of them, and they shall learn to use it; dull and sleepy children I can’t abide.  Fairly good they will be, if they are busy and happy, and clever enough to see the folly of being anything but good!  And so, month after month, for many years to come, I must be helping Nancy and Kathleen to be the right sort of women, and wives, and mothers, and Gilbert and Peter the proper kind of men, and husbands, and fathers.  Mother Carey’s chickens must be able to show the good birds the way home, as the Admiral said, and I should think they ought to be able to set a few bad birds on the right track now and then!”

Well, all this would be a task to frighten and stagger many a person, but it only kindled Mrs. Carey’s love and courage to a white heat.

Do you remember where Kingsley’s redoubtable Tom the Water Baby swims past Shiny Wall, and reaches at last Peacepool?  Peacepool, where the good whales lie, waiting till Mother Carey shall send for them “to make them out of old beasts into new”?

Tom swims up to the nearest whale and asks the way to Mother Carey.

“There she is in the middle,” says the whale, though Tom sees nothing but a glittering white peak like an iceberg.  “That’s Mother Carey,” spouts the whale, “as you will find if you get to her.  There she sits making old beasts into new all the year round.”

“How does she do that?” asks Tom.

“That’s her concern, not mine!” the whale remarks discreetly.

And when Tom came nearer to the white glittering peak it took the form of something like a lovely woman sitting on a white marble throne.  And from the foot of the throne, you remember, there swam away, out and out into the sea, millions of new-born creatures of more shapes and colors than man ever dreamed.  And they were Mother Carey’s children whom she makes all day long.

Tom expected,—­I am still telling you what happened to the famous water baby,—­Tom expected (like some grown people who ought to know better) that he would find Mother Carey snipping, piecing, fitting, stitching, cobbling, basting, filing, planing, hammering, turning, polishing, moulding, measuring, chiselling, clipping, and so forth, as men do when they go to work to make anything.  But instead of that she sat quite still with her chin upon her hand, looking down into the sea with two great blue eyes as blue as the sea itself. (As blue as our own mother’s blue velvet bonnet, Kitty would have said.)