d spent the summer away."

"Nonsense! You know we couldn't spend the summer in New York."

"I know I could."

"What stuff! You couldn't manage."

"Oh yes, I could. I could take my meals at Fulkerson's widow's; or at
Maroni's, with poor old Lindau: he's got to dining there again. Or, I
could keep house, and he could dine with me here."

There was a teasing look in March's eyes, and he broke into a laugh, at
the firmness with which his wife said: "I think if there is to be any
housekeeping, I will stay, too; and help to look after it. I would try
not intrude upon you and your guest."

"Oh, we should be only too glad to have you join us," said March,
playing with fire.

"Very well, then, I wish you would take him off to Maroni's, the next
time he comes to dine here!" cried his wife.

The experiment of making March's old friend free of his house had not
given her all the pleasure that so kind a thing ought to have afforded
so good a woman. She received Lindau at first with robust benevolence,
and the high resolve not to let any of his little peculiarities alienate
her from a sense of his claim upon her sympathy and gratitude, not only
as a man who had been so generously fond of her husband in his youth,
but a hero who had suffered for her country. Her theory was that his
mutilation must not be ignored, but must be kept in mind as a monument
of his sacrifice, and she fortified Bella with this conception, so that
the child bravely sat next his maimed arm at table and helped him to
dishes he could not reach, and cut up his meat for him. As for Mrs.
March herself, the thought of his mutilation made her a little faint;
she was not without a bewildered resentment of its presence as a sort
of oppression. She did not like his drinking so much of March's beer,
either; it was no harm, but it was somehow unworthy, out of character
with a hero of the war. But what she really could not reconcile
herself to was the violence of Lindau's sentiments concerning the whole
political and social fabric. She did not feel sure that he should be
allowed to say such things before the children, who had been nurtured in
the faith of Bunker Hill and Appomattox, as the beginning and the end of
all possible progress in human rights. As a woman she was naturally an
aristocrat, but as an American she was theoretically a democrat; and
it astounded, it alarmed her, to hear American democracy denounced as
a shuffling evasion. She had never cared much