“How are people to know when they’re not being imposed upon by children? You can’t apply to the funny little beings the rules that explain the ways of grown people.”
“Is it the most dreadful thing in the world to be imposed upon by a child?” asked Tom. “We never impose upon them, do we? We never give them unfair answers, arbitrary commands, unkind restrictions, simply to save ourselves a little extra labor or thought?”
“Tom!” Mrs. Burton exclaimed; “I don’t do anything of the sort, I am sure.”
“Why will you display so touchy a conscience, then?” whispered her husband. “If you continue to put up your defense the instant Tom launches a criticism, he’ll begin to suspect you of dreadful cruelty to the boys.”
“Not I,” laughed Tom.
“She had you to reform, for half a year before the boys visited her,” said Helen, “and you still live.”
“But, Tom, seriously now, you don’t mean to have me infer that children shouldn’t be made to mind, and be prevented from doing things that can bother their elders?” asked Mr. Burton.
“Certainly they should have to obey,” said Tom, “but I’d rather they wouldn’t, if at the same time they must learn, as in general they do, that obedience is imposed more for the benefit of their elders than themselves.”
“I was always taught to obey,” said Mrs. Burton, with the not unusual though always unconscious peculiarity of supposing the recital of personal experience to be a sufficient argument and precedent.
“Do you find the habit still strong in her, Harry?” asked Tom.