can't always be going about the country with me."

"But why not, grampa?"

"Well, my dear, because great girls can't go about the country like
men. It wouldn't be right and proper they should."

"Why shouldn't it be, grampa?" the child persisted.

"Well, Aggie, I can't exactly explain to you why, but so it is. Men and
boys have to work. They go about in ships, or as soldiers to fight for
their country, just as I did. Girls and women have to stop at home, and
keep house, and nurse babies, and that sort of thing. God made man to
be hard and rough, and to work and go about. He made woman gentle and
soft, to stop at home and make things comfortable."

Aggie meditated for some distance, in silence, upon this view of the
case.

"But I have seen women working in the fields, grampa, and some of them
didn't seem very soft and gentle."

"No, Aggie, things don't always go just as they ought to do; and you
see, when people are poor, and men can't earn enough wages, then their
wives and daughters have to help; and then, you see, they get rough,
more like men, because they are not doing their proper work. But I want
you to grow up soft and gentle, and so, for a time, I want you to live
with that lady with the nice boy who pulled you out of the water, and
they will make you very happy, and I shall come and see you sometime."

"I like him," the child said with a nod; "but I would rather be with
you, you know."

"And the lady will teach you to read, Aggie. You have learned your
letters, you know."

Aggie shook her head, to show that this part of the programme was not
particularly to her liking.

"Do you think the boy will play with me, grampa?"

"I daresay he will, Aggie, when you are very good; and you must never
forget, you know, that he saved your life. Just think how unhappy I
should be, if he had not got you out of the water."

"The water was cold and nasty," Aggie said, "and it seemed so warm and
nice to my hands. Aggie won't go near the water any more. Of course, if
the boy is with me I can go, because he won't let me tumble in.

"Shall I get into the basket now, grampa? I is tired."

"Oh, nonsense, little woman! you have not walked half a mile yet.
Anyhow, you must trot along until you get to the top of this hill, then
you shall have a lift for a bit."

And so, with the child sometimes walking and sometimes riding,
sometimes asleep in her basket and sometimes chatting merrily to her
grandfather, the pair mad