“Well, I didn’t see how it was coming out till it was finished.”

“To be sure!  Well, now, what’s the matter with this one?” and the mother singled out another sketch.  “This one seems to be about right.”

“Why, yes, I think it’s splendid,” said Gertrude, leaning over her mother’s shoulder and studying the plan under consideration.  “There’s the cellar-way opening from the pantry, and there’s a movable slide between dining-room and pantry, right over the sink.—­Why, Susie, I think this is wonderfully nice.  Why don’t you adopt this plan?”

“The objection to it is that the pantry has no window:  it would be as dark as a pocket.  Don’t you see there can’t be a window?”

“So there can’t,” said Gertrude.

“That spoils the whole thing,” said the mother.  “If there’s anything I do despise, it’s this thing of fumblin’ ’round in a dark pantry; and, before everything else, I want my mouldin’-board so I can see what goes into my bread.  Now, I never noticed about that window, and I s’pose would never have minded about it till the house was built an’ I’d gone in to mix my bread.  Then wouldn’t I have been in a pretty pickle?  Clean beat!  Well, I suppose there’s something or other the matter with all these plans?”

“Yes,” said Susan, “they’re all faulty.”

“I don’t see any fault in this one, Susie,” said Gertrude.

“That one has the kitchen chimney in the pantry,” Susan explained.

“Dear me! that would never do,” said the mother.  “Of all things, I dote on a cool pantry.  What with the baking and the laundry-work, that chimney would keep the pantry all the while het up.  It would be handy for canned fruits and jellies in the winter, though—­so many of ours froze and bursted last winter.”

“Now, this one,” said Gertrude—­“I’m sure this is all right, Susie.  I can’t see anything wrong about this one.”

“Why, don’t you see?  That kitchen hasn’t a door in it except the cellar-door,” said Susan.

“Well, I declare!” Gertrude said.  “What ridiculous plans you do make, Susie!  The idea of planning a kitchen without a door!”

“Why, that would never do, Susan,” the mother objected.  “Folks never could take all the victuals and things down through the cellar.”

“I warrant I could plan a house, and a model house, the first time,” Gertrude boasted.

“Try it,” replied Susan quietly.

“I know I can,” Gertrude insisted, settling herself with paper and pencil.

“I believe I’ll try my hand,” said the mother.  “I’ve housekept so long I likely know what are the belongings of a handy house;” and she too settled herself with paper and pencil and spectacles.

There was silence for a few minutes as the three drew lines and rubbed them out.

Presently Brother Tom came in.  “Well, for ever!” he exclaimed, with the inevitable laugh.  “What are you people all about?  Have you all gone house-mad?  Are you, too, going to build a house, Gert?”