she gave her boy a pretty good education--as education went in those
days--and certainly a much better one than was given to boys in such
out-of-the-way regions. She taught him to read and write, and carried
him on in arithmetic as far as compound division, where she stuck,
having reached the extreme limits of her own tether.

Contemporaneously with the cessation of squalling and kicking, and the
acquirement of the A, B, C, there arose in little March's bosom
unutterable love for his mother; or, rather, the love that had always
dwelt there began to well up powerfully, and to overflow in copious
streams of obedience and considerate attention. About the same time the
roving, reckless "madness," as it was styled, began to develop itself.
And, strange to say, Mrs Marston did not check that! She was a
large-minded, a liberal-minded woman, that semi-widow. She watched her
son closely, but very few of his deeds were regarded by her in the light
of faults. Tumbling off trees was not. Falling into ditches and horse
ponds was not. Fighting was, to some extent; and on this point alone
did mother and son seem to entertain any difference of opinion, if we
may style that difference of opinion where the son fell into silent and
extreme perplexity after a short, and on his part humble, discussion on
the subject.

"Why, mother," said March in surprise (having attained the mature age of
eight when he said it), "if a grisly bear was to 'tack me, you'd let me
defend myself, wouldn't you?"

Mrs Marston smiled to see the rotund little object of two-feet-ten
standing before the fire with its legs apart and its arms crossed,
putting such a question, and replied--

"Certainly, my boy."

"And when Tom Blake offered to hit Susy Jefferson, wasn't I right to
fight him for that?"

"Yes, my boy, I think it right to fight in defence of the weak and
helpless."

The object of two-feet-ten began to swell and his eyes to brighten at
the unexpected success of this catechising of its mother, and went on to
say--

"Well, mother, why do you blame me for fightin', then, if it's right?"

"Because fighting is not always right, my boy. You had a fight with
Bill Summers, hadn't you, yesterday?"

"Yes, mother."

Two-feet-ten said this in a hesitating tone, and shrank into its
ordinary proportions as it continued--

"But I didn't lick him, mother, he licked _me_. But I'll try again,
mother--indeed I will, and I'll be sure to lick him next ti