r
picturesque side. Once as they were sauntering homeward by the brink of
the turbid Eger, they came to a man lying on the grass with a pipe
in his mouth, and lazily watching from under his fallen lids the cows
grazing by the river-side, while in a field of scraggy wheat a file of
women were reaping a belated harvest with sickles, bending wearily over
to clutch the stems together and cut them with their hooked blades. "Ah,
delightful!" March took off his hat as if to salute the pleasant sight.

"But don't you think, Mr. March," the boy ventured, "that the man had
better be cutting the wheat, and letting the women watch the cows?"

"Well, I don't know. There are more of them; and he wouldn't be half so
graceful as they are, with that flow of their garments, and the sway of
their aching backs." The boy smiled sadly, and March put his hand on
his shoulder as they walked on. "You find a lot of things in Europe that
need putting right, don't you, Rose?"

"Yes; I know it's silly."

"Well, I'm not sure. But I'm afraid it's useless. You see, these old
customs go such a way back, and are so grounded in conditions. We think
they might be changed, if those who rule could be got to see how cruel
and ugly they are; but probably they couldn't. I'm afraid that the
Emperor of Austria himself couldn't change them, in his sovereign
plenitude of power. The Emperor is only an old custom too, and he's as
much grounded in the conditions as any." This was the serious way Rose
felt that March ought always to talk; and he was too much grieved to
laugh when he went on. "The women have so much of the hard work to do,
over here, because the emperors need the men for their armies. They
couldn't let their men cut wheat unless it was for their officers'
horses, in the field of some peasant whom it would ruin."

If Mrs. March was by she would not allow him to work these paradoxes
for the boy's confusion. She said the child adored him, and it was a
sacrilege to play with his veneration. She always interfered to save
him, but with so little logic though so much justice that Rose suffered
a humiliation from her championship, and was obliged from a sense
of self-respect to side with the mocker. She understood this, and
magnanimously urged it as another reason why her husband should not
trifle with Rose's ideal of him; to make his mother laugh at him was
wicked.

"Oh, I'm not his only ideal," March protested. "He adores Kenby too,
and every now and