Mrs. Moore, with her two oldest sons frolicking about her like excited puppies, came up to Carolan Hall one exquisite morning a month later.  Brush fires were burning in the thinning woods, and the blue, fragrant smoke drifted in thin veils across the sunlight.

A visit to the circus was afoot, and Peter Carolan, seated on the porch steps in the full glory of starched blue linen and tan sandals, leaped up to join his friends in a war-dance of wild anticipation.

Jean came out, also starched and radiant, kissed her guests, piled some wraps into the waiting motor, and engineered the group into the shaded dining-room, where the excited children were somehow to be coaxed into eating their luncheon.  Sidney came in late, to smile at them all from the top of the table.

It was rapidly dawning on the adult consciousness that, above every other sound, the voices of the children were really reaching inexcusable heights, when a burst of laughter and a brief struggle between Peter and Billy Moore resulted in an overturned mug, the usual rapidly spreading pool of milk, and the usual reckless mopping.  Peter’s silver mug fell to the floor, and rolled to the sideboard, where it lay against the carved mahogany base, winking in the sun.

“Peter!” said Jean, severely.  “No, don’t ring, Sidney!  He did that by his own carelessness, and mother can’t ask poor, busy Julia to pick up things for boys who are noisy and rude at the table.  Go pick up your mug, dear!”

“Yes.  Quite right!” approved Sidney, under his breath.

Peter, who had been laughing violently a moment before seemed rather inclined to regard the incident as a tribute to his own brilliancy.  He caught his heels in a rung of his chair, raised himself to a standing position, and turned a bright little face to his mother.

“But—­but—­but what if I don’t want to pick it up, mother?” he said gayly.

The little Moore boys, still bubbling, giggled outright, and Peter’s cheeks grew pink.  He was innocently elated with this new role of clown.

“What do you mean?” said Sidney’s big voice, very quietly.  There was a pause.  Peter slowly turned his eyes toward his father.

“Oh, please, Sidney!” said Jean, a shade impatiently.  “He thinks he has some reason.”  She turned to Peter.  “What do you mean, dear?” she asked pleasantly.

Peter looked about the group.  He was confused and excited at finding himself so suddenly the centre of attention.

“Well—­well—­why are you all looking at me?” he asked in his confident little treble, with his baffling smile.

“Dearie, did you hear mother tell you to get quietly down and pick up your mug?” demanded Jean, authoritatively.

“Well—­well, you know, I don’t want to, mother, because Billy and I were both reaching for that mug,” drawled Peter, “and maybe it was Billy who—­”

“Now, look here, son!” said his father, controlling his impatience with difficulty, “we’ve had enough of this!  You do it because your mother told you to, and you do it right now!”