e on Sunday with his hat on one side,
and a cigarette in his mouth.

"I have asked the consent of my parents to our marriage," said Raphael.
"They refuse, unless you have a dower of at least a hundred francs. We
must wait."

Gita sighed and shook her head as she pursued her way down to the shore.
In these countries the young people must obtain the consent of their
parents to marry, and the bride should have a dowry. Gita had not a
penny; Raphael's father might as well have asked him to bring the moon
as one hundred francs.

Grandmother was seated under an archway, with her little furnace before
her, roasting chestnuts. Grandmother, a wrinkled old woman, with a red
handkerchief wound about her head, was a chestnut merchant. The sailors,
children, and Italians coming over the border bought her wares, and when
she was not employed in serving them she twisted flax on a distaff.

"Raphael's father needs a dowry of one hundred francs," said Gita, as
grandmother gave her a few chestnuts.

"Ah, if you were a lemon girl!" said grandmother, beginning to twist the
flax.

Gita poised a basket on her head, took a white stocking from her pocket,
and began to knit as she walked away. The women of the country carry all
burdens on their heads. You may see a mother with a mound of cut grass
on her head, dandling a little baby in her arms as she moves along.
Grandmother had been a lemon girl in her day, but Gita was not strong
enough. The lemon girls bring the fruit on their heads many miles, from
the lemon groves down to the ships, when they are sent to America and
other distant lands.

When you next taste a lemonade at a Sunday-school picnic, little reader,
remember how far the lemon has travelled to furnish you this refreshing
drink.

Gita went along the shore knitting, her empty basket tilted on her head.
The blue Mediterranean Sea sparkled as far as the eye could reach, and
broke on the pebbles of the beach in waves as clear as crystal. Soon she
turned back toward the hills, following a narrow path between high
garden walls, passed under a railroad bridge, and entered an olive
garden. She worked here all day, gathering up the little black olives
which fall from the trees, much as children gather nuts in the woods at
home. Other women were already at work; their dresses of gay colors,
yellow and red, showed against the gray background of the trees. A boy
beat the branches with a long pole. Gita began to work with the rest.