“Yes,” said the sergeant, “it is a woman that made that, and to my mind she made a man. I get tired of these heroes in petticoats, sitting round on monuments. I never saw a man in petticoats in my life, except a Christian brother; yet when any one of our famous men is going to be put up in stone for us to admire, the sculptor swaddles him round like a baby in long clothes; though Boston isn’t as bad in this respect as some of our cities.”
“It is a thousand pities,” said Eugene absently.
“Why don’t you leave those flowers with Leif?” asked the sergeant jokingly.
“Let Me put Them up for You,” said the Sergeant.
Eugene immediately awaked out of his revery. “No, no,” he said; and he hurried on with a disturbed face, and scarcely spoke until they reached the bronze monument.
“Let me put them up for you,” said the sergeant, when Eugene stood on tiptoe, and tried to toss his violets near O’Reilly’s face.
The boy gave them up, and anxiously watched him as he deposited them on the stone ledge on which the bust rested.
“I wish O’Reilly could see you,” said the sergeant. “Perhaps he does. He was a patriot, and I guess he would approve of your devotion to your country.”
Eugene stood gazing up in rapt attention until Virgie and the two nurses arrived; then he sighed, and brought his eyes to the earth again.