textfiles/etext/FICTION/li_women

                                      1869
                                  LITTLE WOMEN
                              by Louisa May Alcott
PREFACE
                          PREFACE

           GO THEN, my little Book, and show to all
           That entertain and bid thee welcome shall,
           What thou dost keep close shut up in thy breast;
           And wish what thou dost show them may be blest
           To them for good, may make them choose to be
           Pilgrims better, by far, than thee or me.
           Tell them of Mercy; she is one
           Who early hath her pilgrimage begun.
           Yea, let young damsels learn of her to prize
           The world which is to come, and so be wise;
           For little tripping maids may follow God
           Along the ways which saintly feet have trod.

                                       Adapted from JOHN BUNYAN.
                             1
                       Playing Pilgrims

  CHRISTMAS won't be Christmas without any presents," grumbled Jo,
lying on the rug.
  "It's so dreadful to be poor!" sighed Meg, looking down at her old
dress.
  "I don't think it's fair for some girls to have plenty of pretty
things, and other girls nothing at all," added little Amy, with an
injured sniff.
  "We've got father and mother and each other," said Beth contentedly,
from her corner.
  The four young faces on which the firelight shone brightened at
the cheerful words, but darkened again as Jo said sadly-
  "We haven't got father, and shall not have him for a long time." She
didn't say "perhaps never," but each silently added it, thinking of
father far away, where the fighting was.
  Nobody spoke for a minute; then Meg said in an altered tone-
  "You know the reason mother proposed not having any presents this
Christmas was because it is going to be a hard winter for every one;
and she thinks we ought not to spend money for pleasure, when our
men are suffering so in the army. We can't do much, but we can make
our little sacrifices, and ought to do it gladly. But I am afraid I
don't"; and Meg shook her head, as she thought regretfully of all
the pretty things she wanted.
  "But I don't think the little we should spend would do any good.
We've each got a dollar, and the army wouldn't be much helped by our
giving that. I agree not to expect anything from mother or you, but
I do want to buy Undine and Sintram for myself; I've wanted it so
long," said Jo, who was a bookworm.
  "I planned to spend mine in new music," said Beth, with a little
sigh, which no one heard but the hearth-brush and kettle-holder.
  "I shall get a nice box of Faber's drawing-pencils; I really need
them," said Amy decidedly.
  "Mother didn't say anything about our money, and she won't wish us
to give up everything. Let's each buy what we want, and have a
little fun; I'm sure we work hard enough to earn it," cried Jo,
examining the heels of her shoes in a gentlemanly manner.
  "I know I do- teaching those tiresome children nearly all day,
when I'm longing to enjoy myself at home," began Meg, in the
complaining tone again.
  "You don't have half such a hard time as I do," said Jo. "How
would you like to be shut up for hours with a nervous, fussy old lady,
who keeps you trotting, is never satisfied, and worries you till
you're ready to fly out of the window or cry?"
  "It's naughty to fret; but I do think washing dishes and keeping
things tidy is the worst work in the world. It makes me cross; and
my hands get so stiff, I can't practise well at all"; and Beth
looked at her rough hands with a sigh that any one could hear that
time.
  "I don't believe any of you suffer as I do," cried Amy; "for you
don't have to go to school with impertinent girls, who plague you if
you don't know your lessons, and laugh at your dresses, and label your
father if he isn't rich, and insult you when your nose isn't nice."
  "If you mean libel, I'd say so, and not talk about labels, as if
papa was a pickle-bottle," advised Jo laughing.
  "I know what I mean, and you needn't be statirical about it. It's
proper to use good words, and improve your vocabilary," returned
Amy, with dignity.
  "Don't peck at one another, children. Don't you wish we had the
money papa lost when we were little, Jo? Dear me! how happy and good
we'd be, if we had no worries!" said Meg, who could remember better
times.
  "You said, the other day, you thought we were a deal happier than
the King children, for they were fighting and fretting all the time,
in spite of their money."
  "So I did, Beth. Well, I think we are; for, though we do have to
work, we make fun for ourselves, and are a pretty jolly set, as Jo
would say."
  "Jo does use such slang words!" observed Amy, with a reproving
look at the long figure stretched on the rug. Jo immediately sat up,
put her hands in her pockets, and began to whistle.
  "Don't, Jo; it's so boyish!"
  "That's why I do it."
  "I detest rude, unlady-like girls!"
  "I hate affected, niminy-piminy chits!"
  "'Birds in their little nests agree,'" sang Beth, the peace-maker,
with such a funny face that both sharp voices softened to a laugh, and
the "pecking" ended for that time.
  "Really, girls, you are both to be blamed," said Meg, beginning to
lecture in her elder-sisterly fashion. "You are old enough to leave
off boyish tricks, and to behave better, Josephine. It didn't matter
so much when you were a little girl; but now you are so tall, and turn
up your hair, you should remember that you are a young lady."
  "I'm not! and if turning up my hair makes me one, I'll wear it in
two tails till I'm twenty," cried Jo, pulling off her net, and shaking
down a chestnut mane. "I hate to think I've got to grow up, and be
Miss March, and wear long gowns, and look as prim as a China-aster!
It's bad enough to be a girl, anyway, when I like boys' games and work
and manners! I can't get over my disappointment in not being a boy;
and it's worse than ever now, for I'm dying to go and fight with papa,
and I can only stay at home and knit, like a poky old woman!" And Jo
shook the blue army-sock till the needles rattled like castanets,
and her ball bounded across the room.
  "Poor Jo! It's too bad, but it can't be helped; so you must try to
be contented with making your name boyish, and playing brother to us
girls," said Beth, stroking the rough head at her knee with a hand
that all the dishwashing and dusting in the world could not make
ungentle in its touch.
  "As for you, Amy," continued Meg, "you are altogether too particular
and prim. Your airs are funny now; but you'll grow up an affected
little goose, if you don't take care. I like your nice manners and
refined ways of speaking, when you don't try to be elegant; but your
absurd words are as bad as Jo's slang."
  "If Jo is a tom-boy and Amy a goose, what am I, please?" asked Beth,
ready to share the lecture.
  "You're a dear, and nothing else," answered Meg warmly; and no one
contradicted her, for the "Mouse" was the pet of the family.
  As young readers like to know "how people look," we will take this
moment to give them a little sketch of the four sisters, who sat
knitting away in the twilight, while the December snow fell quietly
without, and the fire crackled cheerfully within. It was a comfortable
old room, though the carpet was faded and the furniture very plain;
for a good picture or two hung on the walls, books filled the
recesses, chrysanthemums and Christmas roses bloomed in the windows,
and a pleasant atmosphere of home-peace pervaded it.
  Margaret, the eldest of the four, was sixteen, and very pretty,
being plump and fair, with large eyes, plenty of soft, brown hair, a
sweet mouth, and white hands, of which she was rather vain.
Fifteen-year-old Jo was very tall, thin, and brown, and reminded one
of a colt; for she never seemed to know what to do with her long
limbs, which were very much in her way. She had a decided mouth, a
comical nose, and sharp, gray eyes, which appeared to see
everything, and were by turns fierce, funny, or thoughtful. Her
long, thick hair was her one beauty; but it was usually bundled into a
net, to be out of her way. Round shoulders had Jo, big hands and feet,
a fly-away look to her clothes, and the uncomfortable appearance of
a girl who was rapidly shooting up into a woman, and didn't like it.
Elizabeth- or Beth, as every one called her- was a rosy,
smooth-haired, bright-eyed girl of thirteen, with a shy manner, a
timid voice, and a peaceful expression, which was seldom disturbed.
Her father called her "Little Tranquillity," and the name suited her
excellently; for she seemed to live in a happy world of her own,
only venturing out to meet the few whom she trusted and loved. Amy,
though the youngest, was a most important person- in her own opinion
at least. A regular snow-maiden, with blue eyes, and yellow hair,
curling on her shoulders, pale and slender, and always carrying
herself like a young lady mindful of her manners. What the
characters of the four sisters were we will leave to be found out.
  The clock struck six; and, having swept up the hearth, Beth put a
pair of slippers down to warm. Somehow the sight of the old shoes
had a good effect upon the girls; for mother was coming, and every one
brightened to welcome her. Meg stopped lecturing, and lighted the
lamp, Amy got out of the easy-chair without being asked, and Jo forgot
how tired she was as she sat up to hold the slippers nearer to the
blaze.
  "They are quite worn out; Marmee must have a new pair."
  "I thought I'd get her some with my dollar," said Beth.
  "No, I shall!" cried Amy.
  "I'm the oldest," began Meg, but Jo cut in with a decided-
  "I'm the man of the family now papa is away, and I shall provide the
slippers, for he told me to take special care of mother while he was
gone."
  "I'll tell you what we'll do," said Beth; "Let's each get her
something for Christmas, and not get anything for ourselves."
  "That's like you, dear! What will we get?" exclaimed Jo.
  Every one thought soberly for a minute; then Meg announced, as if
the idea was suggested by the sight of her own pretty hands, "I
shall give her a nice pair of gloves."
  "Army shoes, best to be had," cried Jo.
  "Some handkerchiefs, all hemmed," said Beth.
  "I'll get a little bottle of cologne; she likes it, and it won't
cost much, so I'll have some left to buy my pencils," added Amy.
  "How will we give the things?" asked Meg.
  "Put them on the table, and bring her in and see her open the
bundles. Don't you remember how we used to do on our birthdays?"
answered Jo.
  "I used to be so frightened when it was my turn to sit in the big
chair with the crown on, and see you all come marching round to give
the presents, with a kiss. I liked the things and the kisses, but it
was dreadful to have you sit looking at me while I opened the
bundles," said Beth, who was toasting her face and the bread for
tea, at the same time.
  "Let Marmee think we are getting things for ourselves, and then
surprise her. We must go shopping to-morrow afternoon, Meg; there is
so much to do about the play for Christmas night," said Jo, marching
up and down, with her hands behind her back and her nose in the air.
  "I don't mean to act any more after this time; I'm getting too old
for such things," observed Meg, who was as much a child as ever
about "dressing-up" frolics.
  "You won't stop, I know, as long as you can trail round in a white
gown with your hair down, and wear gold-paper jewelry. You are the
best actress we've got, and there'll be an end of everything if you
quit the boards," said Jo. "We ought to rehearse to-night. Come
here, Amy, and do the fainting scene, for you are as stiff as a
poker in that."
  "I can't help it; I never saw any one faint, and I don't choose to
make myself all black and blue, tumbling flat as you do. If I can go
down easily, I'll drop; if I can't, I shall fall into a chair and be
graceful; I don't care if Hugo does come at me with a pistol,"
returned Amy, who was not gifted with dramatic power, but was chosen
because she was small enough to be borne out shrieking by the
villain of the piece.
  "Do it this way; clasp your hands so, and stagger across the room,
crying frantically, 'Roderigo! save me! save me!'" and away went Jo,
with a melodramatic scream which was truly thrilling.
  Amy followed, but she poked her hands out stiffly before her, and
jerked herself along as if she went by machinery; and her "Ow!" was
more suggestive of pins being run into her than of fear and anguish.
Jo gave a despairing groan, and Meg laughed outright, while Beth let
her bread burn as she watched the fun, with interest.
  "It's no use! Do the best you can when the time comes, and if the
audience laugh, don't blame me. Come on, Meg."
  Then things went smoothly, for Don Pedro defied the world in a
speech of two pages without a single break; Hagar, the witch,
chanted an awful incantation over her kettleful of simmering toads,
with weird effect; Roderigo rent his chains asunder manfully, and Hugo
died in agonies of remorse and arsenic, with a wild "Ha! ha!"
  "It's the best we've had yet," said Meg, as the dead villain sat
up and rubbed his elbows.
  "I don't see how you can write and act such splendid things, Jo.
You're a regular Shakespeare!" exclaimed Beth, who firmly believed
that her sisters were gifted with wonderful genius in all things.
  "Not quite," replied Jo modestly. "I do think, 'The Witch's Curse,
an Operatic Tragedy,' is rather a nice thing; but I'd like to try
Macbeth, if we only had a trapdoor for Banquo. I always wanted to do
the killing part. 'Is that a dagger that I see before me?'" muttered
Jo, rolling her eyes and clutching at the air, as she had seen a
famous tragedian do.
  "No, it's the toasting fork, with mother's shoe on it instead of the
bread. Beth's stage-struck!" cried Meg, and the rehearsal ended in a
general burst of laughter.
  "Glad to find you so merry, my girls," said a cheery voice at the
door, and actors and audience turned to welcome a tall, motherly lady,
with a "can-I-help-you" look about her which was truly delightful. She
was not elegantly dressed, but a noble-looking woman, and the girls
thought the gray cloak and unfashionable bonnet covered the most
splendid mother in the world.
  "Well, dearies, how have you got on to-day? There was so much to do,
getting the boxes ready to go to-morrow, that I didn't come home to
dinner. Has any one called, Beth? How is your cold, Meg? Jo, you
look tired to death. Come and kiss me, baby."
  While making these maternal inquiries Mrs. March got her wet
things off, her warm slippers on, and sitting down in the
easy-chair, drew Amy to her lap, preparing to enjoy the happiest
hour of her busy day. The girls flew about, trying to make things
comfortable, each in her own way. Meg arranged the tea-table; Jo
brought wood and set chairs, dropping, overturning, and clattering
everything she touched; Beth trotted to and fro between parlor and
kitchen, quiet and busy; while Amy gave directions to every one, as
she sat with her hands folded.
  As they gathered about the table, Mrs. March said, with a
particularly happy face, "I've got a treat for you after supper."
  A quick, bright smile went round like a streak of sunshine. Beth
clapped her hands, regardless of the biscuit she held, and Jo tossed
up her napkin, crying, "A letter! a letter! Three cheers for father!"
  "Yes, a nice long letter. He is well, and thinks he shall get
through the cold season better than we feared. He sends all sorts of
loving wishes for Christmas, and an especial message to you girls,"
said Mrs. March, patting her pocket as if she had got a treasure
there.
  "Hurry and get done! Don't stop to quirk your little finger, and
simper over your plate, Amy," cried Jo, choking in her tea, and
dropping her bread, butter side down, on the carpet, in her haste to
get at the treat.
  Beth ate no more but crept away, to sit in her shadowy corner and
brood over the delight to come, till the others were ready.
  "I think it was so splendid in father to go as a chaplain when he
was too old to be drafted, and not strong enough for a soldier,"
said Meg warmly.
  "Don't I wish I could go as a drummer, a vivan- what's its name?
or a nurse, so I could be near him and help him," exclaimed Jo, with a
groan.
  "It must be very disagreeable to sleep in a tent, and eat all
sorts of bad-tasting things, and drink out of a tin mug," sighed Amy.
  "When will he come home, Marmee?" asked Beth, with a little quiver
in her voice.
  "Not for many months, dear, unless he is sick. He will stay and do
his work faithfully as long as he can, and we won't ask for him back a
minute sooner than he can be spared. Now come and hear the letter."
  They all drew to the fire, mother in the big chair with Beth at
her feet, Meg and Amy perched on either arm of the chair, and Jo
leaning on the back, where no one would see any sign of emotion if the
letter should happen to be touching. Very few letters were written
in those hard times that were not touching, especially those which
fathers sent home. In this one little was said of the hardships
endured, the dangers faced, or the homesickness conquered; it was a
cheerful, hopeful letter, full of lively descriptions of camp life,
marches, and military news; and only at the end did the writer's heart
overflow with fatherly love and longing for the little girls at home.
  "Give them all my dear love and a kiss. Tell them I think of them by
day, pray for them by night, and find my best comfort in their
affection at all times. A year seems very long to wait before I see
them, but remind them that while we wait we may all work, so that
these hard days need not be wasted. I know they will remember all I
said to them, that they will be loving children to you, will do
their duty faithfully, fight their bosom enemies bravely, and
conquer themselves so beautifully, that when I come back to them I may
be fonder and prouder than ever of my little women.
  Everybody sniffed when they came to that part; Jo wasn't ashamed
of the great tear that dropped off the end of her nose, and Amy
never minded the rumpling of her curls as she hid her face on her
mother's shoulder and sobbed out:
  "I am a selfish girl! but I'll truly try to be better, so he
mayn't be disappointed in me by and by."
  "We all will!" cried Meg. "I think too much of my looks, and hate to
work, but won't any more, if I can help it."
  "I'll try and be what he loves to call me, 'a little woman,' and not
be rough and wild; but do my duty here instead of wanting to be
somewhere else," said Jo, thinking that keeping her temper at home was
a much harder task than facing a rebel or two down South.
  Beth said nothing, but wiped away her tears with the blue army-sock,
and began to knit with all her might, losing no time in doing the duty
that lay nearest her, while she resolved in her quiet little soul to
be all that father hoped to find her when the year brought round the
happy coming home.
  Mrs. March broke the silence that followed Jo's words, by saying
in her cheery voice, "Do you remember how you used to play Pilgrim's
Progress when you were little things? Nothing delighted you more
than to have me tie my piece-bags on your backs for burdens, give
you hats and sticks and rolls of paper, and let you travel through the
house from the cellar, which was the City of Destruction, up, up, to
the house-top, where you had all the lovely things you could collect
to make a Celestial City."
  "What fun it was, especially going by the lions, fighting
Apollyon, and passing through the Valley where the hobgoblins were!"
said Jo.
  "I liked the place where the bundles fell off and tumbled
downstairs," said Meg.
  "My favorite part was when we came out on the flat roof where our
flowers and arbors and pretty things were, and all stood and sung
for joy up there in the sunshine," said Beth, smiling, as if that
pleasant moment had come back to her.
  "I don't remember much about it, except that I was afraid of the
cellar and the dark entry, and always liked the cake and milk we had
up at the top. If I wasn't too old for such things, I'd rather like to
play it over again," said Amy, who began to talk of renouncing
childish things at the mature age of twelve.
  "We never are too old for this, my dear, because it is a play we are
playing all the time in one way or another. Our burdens are here,
our road is before us, and the longing for goodness and happiness is
the guide that leads us through many troubles and mistakes to the
peace which is a true Celestial City. Now, my little pilgrims, suppose
you begin again, not in play, but in earnest, and see how far on you
can get before father comes home."
  "Really, mother? Where are our bundles?" asked Amy, who was a very
literal young lady.
  "Each of you told what your burden was just now, except Beth; I
rather think she hasn't got any," said her mother.
  "Yes, I have; mine is dishes and dusters, and envying girls with
nice pianos, and being afraid of people."
  Beth's bundle was such a funny one that everybody wanted to laugh;
but nobody did, for it would have hurt her feelings very much.
  "Let us do it," said Meg thoughtfully. "It is only another name
for trying to be good, and the story may help us; for though we do
want to be good, it's hard work, and we forget, and don't do our
best."
  "We were in the Slough of Despond to-night, and mother came and
pulled us out as Help did in the book. We ought to have our roll of
directions, like Christian. What shall we do about that?" asked Jo,
delighted with the fancy which lent a little romance to the very
dull task of doing her duty.
  "Look under your pillows, Christmas morning, and you will find
your guide-book," replied Mrs. March.
  They talked over the new plan while old Hannah cleared the table;
then out came the four little work-baskets, and the needles flew as
the girls made sheets for Aunt March. It was uninteresting sewing, but
to-night no one grumbled. They adopted Jo's plan of dividing the
long seams into four parts, and calling the quarters Europe, Asia,
Africa, and America, and in that way got on capitally, especially when
they talked about the different countries as they stitched their way
through them.
  At nine they stopped work, and sung, as usual, before they went to
bed. No one but Beth could get much music out of the old piano; but
she had a way of softly touching the yellow keys, and making a
pleasant accompaniment to the simple songs they sung. Meg had a
voice like a flute, and she and her mother led the little choir. Amy
chirped like a cricket, and Jo wandered through the airs at her own
sweet will, always coming out at the wrong place with a croak or a
quaver that spoilt the most pensive tune. They had always done this
from the time they could lisp

                "Crinkle, crinkle, 'ittle 'tar,"

and it had become a household custom, for the mother was a born
singer. The first sound in the morning was her voice, as she went
about the house singing like a lark; and the last sound at night was
the same cheery sound, for the girls never grew too old for that
familiar lullaby.
                             2
                       A Merry Christmas

  JO was the first to wake in the gray dawn of Christmas morning. No
stockings hung at the fireplace, and for a moment she felt as much
disappointed as she did long ago, when her little sock fell down
because it was so crammed with goodies. Then she remembered her
mother's promise, and, slipping her hand under her pillow, drew out
a little crimson-covered book. She knew it very well, for it was
that beautiful old story of the best life ever lived, and Jo felt that
it was a true guide-book for any pilgrim going the long journey. She
woke Meg with a "Merry Christmas," and bade her see what was under her
pillow. A green-covered book appeared, with the same picture inside,
and a few words written by their mother, which made their one
present very precious in their eyes. Presently Beth and Amy woke, to
rummage and find their little books also- one dove-colored, the
other blue; and all sat looking at and talking about them, while the
east grew rosy with the coming day.
  In spite of her small vanities, Margaret had a sweet and pious
nature, which unconsciously influenced her sisters, especially Jo, who
loved her very tenderly, and obeyed her because her advice was so
gently given.
  "Girls," said Meg seriously, looking from the tumbled head beside
her to the two little night-capped ones in the room beyond, "mother
wants us to read and love and mind these books, and we must begin at
once. We used to be faithful about it; but since father went away, and
all this war trouble unsettled us, we have neglected many things.
You can do as you please; but I shall keep my book on the table
here, and read a little every morning as soon as I wake, for I know it
will do me good, and help me through the day."
  Then she opened her new book and began to read. Jo put her arm round
her, and, leaning cheek to cheek, read also, with the quiet expression
so seldom seen on her restless face.
  "How good Meg is! Come, Amy, let's do as they do. I'll help you with
the hard words, and they'll explain things if we don't understand,"
whispered Beth, very much impressed by the pretty books and her
sisters' example.
  "I'm glad mine is blue," said Amy; and then the rooms were very
still while the pages were softly turned, and the winter sunshine
crept in to touch the bright heads and serious faces with a
Christmas greeting.
  "Where is mother?" asked Meg, as she and Jo ran down to thank her
for their gifts, half an hour later.
  "Goodness only knows. Some poor creeter come a-beggin, and your ma
went straight off to see what was needed. There never was such a woman
for givin' away vittles and drink, clothes and firin'," replied
Hannah, who had lived with the family since Meg was born, and was
considered by them all more as a friend than a servant.
  "She will be back soon, I think; so fry your cakes, and have
everything ready," said Meg, looking over the presents which were
collected in a basket and kept under the sofa, ready to be produced at
the proper time. "Why, where is Amy's bottle of cologne?" she added,
as the little flask did not appear.
  "She took it out a minute ago, and went off with it to put a
ribbon on it, or some such notion," replied Jo, dancing about the room
to take the first stiffness off the new army-slippers.
  "How nice my handkerchiefs look, don't they? Hannah washed and
ironed them for me, and I marked them all myself," said Beth,
looking proudly at the somewhat uneven letters which had cost her such
labor.
  "Bless the child! she's gone and put 'Mother' on them instead of 'M.
March.' How funny!" cried Jo, taking up one.
  "Isn't it right? I thought it was better to do it so, because
Meg's initials are 'M. M.,' and I don't want any one to use these
but Marmee," said Beth, looking troubled.
  "It's all right, dear, and a very pretty idea- quite sensible,
too, for no one can ever mistake now. It will please her very much,
I know," said Meg, with a frown for Jo and a smile for Beth.
  "There's mother. Hide the basket, quick!" cried Jo, as a door
slammed, and steps sounded in the hall.
  Amy came in hastily, and looked rather abashed when she saw her
sisters all waiting for her.
  "Where have you been, and what are you hiding behind you?" asked
Meg, surprised to see, by her hood and cloak, that lazy Amy had been
out so early.
  "Don't laugh at me, Jo! I didn't mean any one should know till the
time came. I only meant to change the little bottle for a big one, and
I gave all my money to get it, and I'm truly trying not to be
selfish any more."
  As she spoke, Amy showed the handsome flask which replaced the cheap
one; and looked so earnest and humble in her little effort to forget
herself that Meg hugged her on the spot, and Jo pronounced her "a
trump," while Beth ran to the window, and picked her finest rose to
ornament the stately bottle.
  "You see I felt ashamed of my present, after reading and talking
about being good this morning, so I ran round the corner and changed
it the minute I was up: and I'm so glad, for mine is the handsomest
now."
  Another bang of the street-door sent the basket under the sofa,
and the girls to the table, eager for breakfast.
  "Merry Christmas, Marmee! Many of them! Thank you for our books;
we read some, and mean to every day," they cried, in chorus.
  "Merry Christmas, little daughters! I'm glad you began at once,
and hope you will keep on. But I want to say one word before we sit
down. Not far away from here lies a poor woman with a little
new-born baby. Six children are huddled into one bed to keep from
freezing, for they have no fire. There is nothing to eat over there;
and the oldest boy came to tell me they were suffering hunger and
cold. My girls, will you give them your breakfast as a Christmas
present?"
  They were all unusually hungry, having waited nearly an hour, and
for a minute no one spoke; only a minute, for Jo exclaimed
impetuously-
  "I'm so glad you came before we began!"
  "May I go and help carry the things to the poor little children?"
asked Beth eagerly.
  "I shall take the cream and the muffins," added Amy, heroically
giving up the articles she most liked.
  Meg was already covering the buckwheats, and piling the bread into
one big plate.
  "I thought you'd do it," said Mrs. March, smiling as if satisfied.
"You shall all go and help me, and when we come back we will have
bread and milk for breakfast, and make it up at dinner-time."
  They were soon ready, and the procession set out. Fortunately it was
early, and they went through back streets, so few people saw them, and
no one laughed at the queer party.
  A poor, bare, miserable room it was, with broken windows, no fire,
ragged bed-clothes, a sick mother, wailing baby, and a group of
pale, hungry children cuddled under one old quilt, trying to keep
warm.
  How the big eyes stared and the blue lips smiled as the girls went
in!
  "Ach, mein Gott! it is good angels come to us!" said the poor woman,
crying for joy.
  "Funny angels in hoods and mittens," said Jo, and set them laughing.
  In a few minutes it really did seem as if kind spirits had been at
work there. Hannah, who had carried wood, made a fire, and stopped
up the broken panes with old hats and her own cloak. Mrs. March gave
the mother tea and gruel, and comforted her with promises of help,
while she dressed the little baby as tenderly as if it had been her
own. The girls, meantime, spread the table, set the children round the
fire, and fed them like so many hungry birds- laughing, talking, and
trying to understand the funny broken English.
  "Das ist gut!" "Die Engel-kinder!" cried the poor things, as they
ate, and warmed their purple hands at the comfortable blaze.
  The girls had never been called angel children before, and thought
it very agreeable, especially Jo, who had been considered a "Sancho"
ever since she was born. That was a very happy breakfast, though
they didn't get any of it; and when they went away, leaving comfort
behind, I think there were not in all the city four merrier people
than the hungry little girls who gave away their breakfasts and
contented themselves with bread and milk on Christmas morning.
  "That's loving our neighbor better than ourselves, and I like it,"
said Meg, as they set out their presents, while their mother was
upstairs collecting clothes for the poor Hummels.
  Not a very splendid show, but there was a great deal of love done up
in the few little bundles; and the tall vase of red roses, white
chrysanthemums, and trailing vines, which stood in the middle, gave
quite an elegant air to the table.
  "She's coming! Strike up, Beth! Open the door, Amy! Three cheers for
Marmee!" cried Jo, prancing about, while Meg went to conduct mother to
the seat of honor.
  Beth played her gayest march, Amy threw open the door, and Meg
enacted escort with great dignity. Mrs. March was both surprised and
touched; and smiled with her eyes full as she examined her presents,
and read the little notes which accompanied them. The slippers went on
at once, a new handkerchief was slipped into her pocket, well
scented with Amy's cologne, the rose was fastened in her bosom, and
the nice gloves were pronounced a "perfect fit."
  There was a good deal of laughing and kissing and explaining, in the
simple, loving fashion which makes these home-festivals so pleasant at
the time, so sweet to remember long afterward, and then all fell to
work.
  The morning charities and ceremonies took so much time that the rest
of the day was devoted to preparations for the evening festivities.
Being still too young to go often to the theater, and not rich
enough to afford any great outlay for private performances, the
girls put their wits to work, and- necessity being the mother of
invention- made whatever they needed. Very clever were some of their
productions- pasteboard guitars, antique lamps made of old-fashioned
butter-boats covered with silver paper, gorgeous robes of old
cotton, glittering with tin spangles from a pickle factory, and
armor covered with the same useful diamond-shaped bits, left in sheets
when the lids of tin preserve-pots were cut out. The furniture was
used to being turned topsy-turvy, and the big chamber was the scene of
many innocent revels.
  No gentlemen were admitted; so Jo played male parts to her heart's
content, and took immense satisfaction in a pair of russet-leather
boots given her by a friend, who knew a lady who knew an actor.
These boots, an old foil, and a slashed doublet once used by an artist
for some picture, were Jo's chief treasures, and appeared on all
occasions. The smallness of the company made it necessary for the
two principal actors to take several parts apiece; and they
certainly deserved some credit for the hard work they did in
learning three or four different parts, whisking in and out of various
costumes, and managing the stage besides. It was excellent drill for
their memories, a harmless amusement, and employed many hours which
otherwise would have been idle, lonely, or spent in less profitable
society.
  On Christmas night, a dozen girls piled onto the bed which was the
dress-circle, and sat before the blue and yellow chintz curtains in
a most flattering state of expectancy. There was a good deal of
rustling and whispering behind the curtain, a trifle of lamp-smoke,
and an occasional giggle from Amy, who was apt to get hysterical in
the excitement of the moment. Presently a bell sounded, the curtains
flew apart, and the Operatic Tragedy began.
  "A gloomy wood," according to the one play-bill, was represented
by a few shrubs in pots, green baize on the floor, and a cave in the
distance. This cave was made with a clothes-horse for a roof,
bureaus for walls; and in it was a small furnace in full blast, with a
black pot on it, and an old witch bending over it. The stage was dark,
and the glow of the furnace had a fine effect, especially as real
steam issued from the kettle when the witch took off the cover. A
moment was allowed for the first thrill to subside; then Hugo, the
villain, stalked in with a clanking sword at his side, a slouched hat,
black beard, mysterious cloak, and the boots. After pacing to and
fro in much agitation, he struck his forehead, and burst out in a wild
strain, singing of his hatred to Roderigo, his love for Zara, and
his pleasing resolution to kill the one and win the other. The gruff
tones of Hugo's voice, with an occasional shout when his feelings
overcame him, were very impressive, and the audience applauded the
moment he paused for breath. Bowing with the air of one accustomed
to public praise, he stole to the cavern, and ordered Hagar to come
forth with a commanding "What ho, minion! I need thee!"
  Out came Meg, with gray horse-hair hanging about her face, a red and
black robe, a staff, and cabalistic signs upon her cloak. Hugo
demanded a potion to make Zara adore him, and one to destroy Roderigo.
Hagar, in a fine dramatic melody, promised both, and proceeded to call
up the spirit who would bring the love philter:

              "Hither, hither, from thy home,
               Airy sprite, I bid thee come!
               Born of roses, fed on dew,
               Charms and potions canst thou brew?
               Bring me here, with elfin speed,
               The fragrant philter which I need;
               Make it sweet and swift and strong,
               Spirit, answer now my song!"

  A soft strain of music sounded, and then at the back of the cave
appeared a little figure in cloudy white, with glittering wings,
golden hair, and a garland of roses on its head. Waving a wand, it
sang-

                  "Hither I come,
                   From my airy home,
               Afar in the silver moon.
                   Take the magic spell,
                   And use it well,
               Or its power will vanish soon!"

And, dropping a small, gilded bottle at the witch's feet, the spirit
vanished. Another chant from Hagar produced another apparition- not
a lovely one; for, with a bang, an ugly black imp appeared, and,
having croaked a reply, tossed a dark bottle at Hugo, and
disappeared with a mocking laugh. Having warbled his thanks and put
the potions in his boots, Hugo departed; and Hagar informed the
audience that, as he had killed a few of her friends in times past,
she has cursed him, and intends to thwart his plans, and be revenged
on him. Then the curtain fell, and the audience reposed and ate
candy while discussing the merits of the play.
  A good deal of hammering went on before the curtain rose again;
but when it became evident what a masterpiece of stage-carpentering
had been got up, no one murmured at the delay. It was truly superb!
A tower rose to the ceiling; half-way up appeared a window, with a
lamp burning at it, and behind the white curtain appeared Zara in a
lovely blue and silver dress, waiting for Roderigo. He came in
gorgeous array, with plumed cap, red cloak, chestnut love-locks, a
guitar, and the boots, of course. Kneeling at the foot of the tower,
he sang a serenade in melting tones. Zara replied, and after a musical
dialogue, consented to fly. Then came the grand effect of the play.
Roderigo produced a rope-ladder, with five steps to it, threw up one
end, and invited Zara to descend. Timidly she crept from her
lattice, put her hand on Roderigo's shoulder, and was about to leap
gracefully down, when, "Alas! alas for Zara!" she forgot her train- it
caught in the window; the tower tottered, leaned forward, fell with
a crash, and buried the unhappy lovers in the ruins!
  A universal shriek arose as the russet boots waved wildly from the
wreck, and a golden head emerged, exclaiming, "I told you so! I told
you so!" With wonderful presence of mind, Don Pedro, the cruel sire,
rushed in, dragged out his daughter, with a hasty aside-
  "Don't laugh! Act as if it was all right!"- and, ordering Roderigo
up, banished him from the kingdom with wrath and scorn. Though
decidedly shaken by the fall of the tower upon him, Roderigo defied
the old gentleman, and refused to stir. This dauntless example fired
Zara: she also defied her sire, and he ordered them both to the
deepest dungeons of the castle. A stout little retainer came in with
chains, and led them away, looking very much frightened, and evidently
forgetting the speech he ought to have made.
  Act third was the castle hall; and here Hagar appeared, having
come to free the lovers and finish Hugo. She hears him coming, and
hides; sees him put the potions into two cups of wine, and bid the
timid little servant "Bear them to the captives in their cells, and
tell them I shall come anon." The servant takes Hugo aside to tell him
something, and Hagar changes the cups for two others which are
harmless. Ferdinando, the "minion," carries them away, and Hagar
puts back the cup which holds the poison meant for Roderigo. Hugo,
getting thirsty after a long warble, drinks it, loses his wits, and,
after a good deal of clutching and stamping, falls flat and dies;
while Hagar informs him what she has done in a song of exquisite power
and melody.
  This was a truly thrilling scene, though some persons might have
thought that the sudden tumbling down of a quantity of long hair
rather marred the effect of the villain's death. He was called
before the curtain, and with great propriety appeared, leading
Hagar, whose singing was considered more wonderful than all the rest
of the performance put together.
  Act fourth displayed the despairing Roderigo on the point
of-stabbing himself, because he has been told that Zara has deserted
him. Just as the dagger is at his heart, a lovely song is sung under
his window, informing him that Zara is true, but in danger, and he can
save her, if he will. A key is thrown in, which unlocks the door,
and in a spasm of rapture he tears off his chains, and rushes away
to find and rescue his lady-love.
  Act fifth opened with a stormy scene between Zara and Don Pedro.
He wishes her to go into a convent, but she won't hear of it; and,
after a touching appeal, is about to faint, when Roderigo dashes in
and demands her hand. Don Pedro refuses, because he is not rich.
They shout and gesticulate tremendously, but cannot agree, and
Roderigo is about to bear away the exhausted Zara, when the timid
servant enters with a letter and a bag from Hagar, who has
mysteriously disappeared. The latter informs the party that she
bequeaths untold wealth to the young pair, and an awful doom to Don
Pedro, if he doesn't make them happy. The bag is opened, and several
quarts of tin money shower down upon the stage, till it is quite
glorified with the glitter. This entirely softens the "stern sire": he
consents without a murmur, all join in a joyful chorus, and the
curtain falls upon the lovers kneeling to receive Don Pedro's blessing
in attitudes of the most romantic grace.
  Tumultuous applause followed, but received an unexpected check;
for the cot-bed, on which the "dress circle" was built, suddenly
shut up, and extinguished the enthusiastic audience. Roderigo and
Don Pedro flew to the rescue, and all were taken out unhurt, though
many were speechless with laughter. The excitement had hardly
subsided, when Hannah appeared, with "Mrs. March's compliments, and
would the ladies walk down to supper."
  This was a surprise, even to the actors; and, when they saw the
table, they looked at one another in rapturous amazement. It was
like Marmee to get up a little treat for them; but anything so fine as
this was unheard-of since the departed days of plenty. There was
ice-cream- actually two dishes of it, pink and white- and cake and
fruit and distracting French bonbons, and, in the middle of the table,
four great bouquets of hothouse flowers!
  It quite took their breath away; and they stared first at the
table and then at their mother, who looked as if she enjoyed it
immensely.
  "Is it fairies?" asked Amy.
  "It's Santa Claus," said Beth.
  "Mother did it"; and Meg smiled her sweetest, in spite of her gray
beard and white eyebrows.
  "Aunt March had a good fit, and sent the supper," cried Jo, with a
sudden inspiration.
  "All wrong. Old Mr. Laurence sent it," replied Mrs. March.
  "The Laurence boy's grandfather! What in the world put such a
thing into his head? We don't know him!" exclaimed Meg.
  "Hannah told one of his servants about your breakfast party. He is
an odd old gentleman, but that pleased him. He knew my father, years
ago; and he sent me a polite note this afternoon, saying he hoped I
would allow him to express his friendly feeling toward my children
by sending them a few trifles in honor of the day. I could not refuse;
and so you have a little feast at night to make up for the
bread-and-milk breakfast."
  "That boy put it into his head, I know he did! He's a capital
fellow, and I wish we could get acquainted. He looks as if he'd like
to know us; but he's bashful, and Meg is so prim she won't let me
speak to him when we pass," said Jo, as the plates went round, and the
ice began to melt out of sight, with "Ohs!" and "Ahs!" of
satisfaction.
  "You mean the people who live in the big house next door, don't
you?" asked one of the girls. "My mother knows old Mr. Laurence; but
says he's very proud, and doesn't like to mix with his neighbors. He
keeps his grandson shut up, when he isn't riding or walking with his
tutor, and makes him study very hard. We invited him to our party, but
he didn't come. Mother says he's very nice, though he never speaks
to us girls."
  "Our cat ran away once, and he brought her back, and we talked
over the fence, and were getting on capitally- all about cricket,
and so on- when he saw Meg coming, and walked off. I mean to know
him some day; for he needs fun, I'm sure he does," said Jo decidedly.
  "I like his manners, and he looks like a little gentleman; so I've
no objection to your knowing him, if a proper opportunity comes. He
brought the flowers himself; and I should have asked him in, if I
had been sure what was going on upstairs. He looked so wistful as he
went away, hearing the frolic, and evidently having none of his own."
  "It's a mercy you didn't, mother!" laughed Jo, looking at her boots.
"But we'll have another play, some time, that he can see. Perhaps
he'll help act; wouldn't that be jolly?"
  "I never had such a fine bouquet before! How pretty it is!" And
Meg examined her flowers with great interest.
  "They are lovely! But Beth's roses are sweeter to me," said Mrs.
March, smelling the half-dead posy in her belt.
  Beth nestled up to her, and whispered softly, "I wish I could send
my bunch to father. I'm afraid he isn't having such a merry
Christmas as we are."
                             3
                       The Laurence Boy

  "JO! Jo! where are you?" cried Meg, at the foot of the garret
stairs.
  "Here!" answered a husky voice from above; and, running up, Meg
found her sister eating apples and crying over the "Heir of
Redclyffe," wrapped up in a comforter on an old three-legged sofa by
the sunny window. This was Jo's favorite refuge; and here she loved to
retire with a half a dozen russets and a nice book, to enjoy the quiet
and the society of a pet rat who lived near by, and didn't mind her
a particle. As Meg appeared, Scrabble whisked into his hole. Jo
shook the tears off her cheeks, and waited to hear the news.
  "Such fun! only see! a regular note of invitation from Mrs. Gardiner
for to-morrow night!" cried Meg, waving the precious paper, and then
proceeding to read it, with girlish delight.
  "'Mrs. Gardiner would be happy to see Miss March and Miss
Josephine at a little dance on New-Year's Eve.' Marmee is willing we
should go; now what shall we wear?"
  "What's the use of asking that, when you know we shall wear our
poplins, because we haven't got anything else?" answered Jo, with
her mouth full.
  "If I only had a silk!" sighed Meg. "Mother says I may when I'm
eighteen, perhaps; but two years is an everlasting time to wait."
  "I'm sure our pops look like silk, and they are nice enough for
us. Yours is as good as new, but I forgot the burn and the tear in
mine. Whatever shall I do? the burn shows badly, and I can't take
any out."
  "You must sit still all you can, and keep your back out of sight;
the front is all right. I shall have a new ribbon for my hair, and
Marmee will lend me her little pearl pin, and my new slippers are
lovely, and my gloves will do, though they aren't as nice as I'd
like."
  "Mine are spoilt with lemonade, and I can't get any new ones, so I
shall have to go without," said Jo, who never troubled herself much
about dress.
  "You must have gloves, or I won't go," cried Meg decidedly.
"Gloves are more important than anything else; you can't dance without
them, and if you don't I should be so mortified."
  "Then I'll stay still. I don't care much for company dancing; it's
no fun to go sailing round; I like to fly about and cut capers."
  "You can't ask mother for new ones, they are so expensive, and you
are so careless. She said, when you spoilt the others, that she
shouldn't get you any more this winter. Can't you make them do?" asked
Meg anxiously.
  "I can hold them crumpled up in my hand, so no one will know how
stained they are; that's all I can do. No! I'll tell you how we can
manage- each wear one good one and carry a bad one; don't you see?"
  "Your hands are bigger than mine, and you will stretch my glove
dreadfully," began Meg, whose gloves were a tender point with her.
  "Then I'll go without. I don't care what people say!" cried Jo,
taking up her book.
  "You may have it, you may! only don't stain it, and do behave
nicely."
  "Don't put your hands behind you, or stare, or say 'Christopher
Columbus!' will you?"
  "Don't worry about me; I'll be as prim as I can, and not get into
any scrapes, if I can help it. Now go and answer your note, and let me
finish this splendid story."
  So Meg went away to "accept with thanks," look over her dress, and
sing blithely as she did up her one real lace frill; while Jo finished
her story, her four apples, and had a game of romps with Scrabble.
  On New-Year's Eve the parlor was deserted, for the two younger girls
played dressing-maids, and the two elder were absorbed in the
all-important business of "getting ready for the party." Simple as the
toilets were, there was a great deal of running up and down,
laughing and talking, and at one time a strong smell of burnt hair
pervaded the house. Meg wanted a few curls about her face, and Jo
undertook to pinch the papered locks with a pair of hot tongs.
  "Ought they to smoke like that?" asked Beth, from her perch on the
bed.
  "It's the dampness drying," replied Jo.
  "What a queer smell! it's like burnt feathers," observed Amy,
smoothing her own pretty curls with a superior air.
  "There, now I'll take off the papers and you'll see a cloud of
little ringlets," said Jo, putting down the tongs.
  She did take off the papers, but no cloud of ringlets appeared,
for the hair came with the papers, and the horrified hair-dresser laid
a row of little scorched bundles on the bureau before her victim.
  "Oh, oh, oh! what have you done? I'm spoilt! I can't go! My hair,
oh, my hair!" wailed Meg, looking with despair at the uneven frizzle
on her forehead.
  "Just my luck! you shouldn't have asked me to do it; I always
spoil everything. I'm so sorry, but the tongs were too hot, and so
I've made a mess," groaned poor Jo, regarding the black pancakes
with tears of regret.
  "It isn't spoilt; just frizzle it, and tie your ribbon so the ends
come on your forehead a bit, and it will look like the last fashion.
I've seen many girls do it so," said Amy consolingly.
  "Serves me right for trying to be fine. I wish I'd let my hair
alone," cried Meg petulantly.
  "So do I, it was so smooth and pretty. But it will soon grow out
again," said Beth, coming to kiss and comfort the shorn sheep.
  After various lesser mishaps, Meg was finished at last, and by the
united exertions of the family Jo's hair was got up and her dress
on. They looked very well in their simple suits- Meg in silvery
drab, with a blue velvet snood, lace frills, and the pearl pin; Jo
in maroon, with a stiff, gentlemanly collar, and a white chrysanthemum
or two for her only ornament. Each put on one nice light glove, and
carried one soiled one, and all pronounced the effect "quite easy
and fine." Meg's high-heeled slippers were very tight, and hurt her,
though she would not own it, and Jo's nineteen hairpins all seemed
stuck straight into her head, which was not exactly comfortable;
but, dear me, let us be elegant or die!
  "Have a good time, dearies!" said Mrs. March, as the sisters went
daintily down the walk. "Don't eat much supper, and come away at
eleven, when I send Hannah for you." As the gate clashed behind
them, a voice cried from a window-
  "Girls, girls! have you both got nice pocket-handkerchiefs?"
  "Yes, yes, spandy nice, and Meg has cologne on hers," cried Jo,
adding, with a laugh, as they went on, "I do believe Marmee would
ask that if we were all running away from an earthquake."
  "It is one of her aristocratic tastes, and quite proper, for a
real lady is always known by neat boots, gloves, and handkerchief,"
replied Meg, who had a good many little "aristocratic tastes" of her
own.
  "Now don't forget to keep the bad breadth out of sight, Jo. Is my
sash right? and does my hair look very bad?" said Meg, as she turned
from the glass in Mrs. Gardiner's dressing-room, after a prolonged
prink.
  "I know I shall forget. If you see me doing anything wrong, just
remind me by a wink, will you?" returned Jo, giving her collar a
twitch and her head a hasty brush.
  "No, winking isn't lady-like; I'll lift my eyebrows if anything is
wrong, and nod if you are all right. Now hold your shoulders straight,
and take short steps, and don't shake hands if you are introduced to
any one: it isn't the thing."
  "How do you learn all the proper ways? I never can. Isn't that music
gay?"
  Down they went, feeling a trifle timid, for they seldom went to
parties, and, informal as this little gathering was, it was an event
to them. Mrs. Gardiner, a stately old lady, greeted them kindly, and
handed them over to the eldest of her six daughters. Meg knew
Sallie, and was at her ease very soon; but Jo, who didn't care much
for girls or girlish gossip, stood about, with her back carefully
against the wall, and felt as much out of place as a colt in a
flower-garden. Half a dozen jovial lads were talking about skates in
another part of the room, and she longed to go and join them, for
skating was one of the joys of her life. She telegraphed her wish to
Meg, but the eyebrows went up so alarmingly that she dared not stir.
No one came to talk to her, and one by one the group near her dwindled
away, till she was left alone. She could not roam about and amuse
herself, for the burnt breadth would show, so she stared at people
rather forlornly till the dancing began. Meg was asked at once, and
the tight slippers tripped about so briskly that none would have
guessed the pain their wearer suffered smilingly. Jo saw a big
red-headed youth approaching her corner, and fearing he meant to
engage her, she slipped into a curtained recess, intending to peep and
enjoy herself in peace. Unfortunately, another bashful person had
chosen the same refuge; for, as the curtain fell behind her, she found
herself face to face with the "Laurence boy."
  "Dear me, I didn't know any one was here!" stammered Jo, preparing
to back out as speedily as she had bounced in.
  But the boy laughed, and said pleasantly, though he looked a
little startled-
  "Don't mind me; stay, if you like."
  "Shan't I disturb you?"
  "Not a bit; I only came here because I don't know many people, and
felt rather strange at first, you know."
  "So did I. Don't go away, please, unless you'd rather."
  The boy sat down again and looked at his pumps, till Jo said, trying
to be polite and easy-
  "I think I've had the pleasure of seeing you before; you live near
us, don't you?"
  "Next door"; and he looked up and laughed outright, for Jo's prim
manner was rather funny when he remembered how they had chatted
about cricket when he brought the cat home.
  That put Jo at her ease; and she laughed too, as she said, in her
heartiest way, "We did have such a good time over your nice
Christmas present."
  "Grandpa sent it."
  "But you put it into his head, didn't you, now?"
  "How is your cat, Miss March?" asked the boy, trying to look
sober, while his black eyes shone with fun.
  "Nicely, thank you, Mr. Laurence; but I am not Miss March, I'm
only Jo," returned the young lady.
  "I'm not Mr. Laurence, I'm only Laurie."
  "Laurie Laurence- what an odd name!"
  "My first name is Theodore, but I don't like it, for the fellows
called me Dora, so I made them say Laurie instead."
  "I hate my name, too- so sentimental! I wish every one would say Jo,
instead of Josephine. How did you make the boys stop calling you
Dora?"
  "I thrashed 'em."
  "I can't thrash Aunt March, so I suppose I shall have to bear it";
and Jo resigned herself with a sigh.
  "Don't you like to dance, Miss Jo?" asked Laurie, looking as if he
thought the name suited her.
  "I like it well enough if there is plenty of room, and every one
is lively. In a place like this I'm sure to upset something, tread
on people's toes, or do something dreadful, so I keep out of mischief,
and let Meg sail about. Don't you dance?"
  "Sometimes; you see I've been abroad a good many years, and
haven't been into company enough yet to know how you do things here."
  "Abroad!" cried Jo. "Oh, tell me about it! I love dearly to hear
people describe their travels."
  Laurie didn't seem to know where to begin; but Jo's eager
questions soon set him going, and he told her how he had been at
school in Vevey, where the boys never wore hats, and had a fleet of
boats on the lake, and for holiday fun went walking trips about
Switzerland with their teachers.
  "Don't I wish I'd been there!" cried Jo. "Did you go to Paris?"
  "We spent last winter there."
  "Can you talk French?"
  "We were not allowed to speak anything else at Vevey."
  "Do say some! I can read it, but can't pronounce."
  "Quel nom a cette jeune demoiselle en les pantoufles jolis?" said
Laurie good-naturedly.
  "How nicely you do it! Let me see- you said, 'Who is the young
lady in the pretty slippers,' didn't you?"
  "Oui, mademoiselle."
  "It's my sister Margaret, and you knew it was! Do you think she is
pretty?"
  "Yes; she makes me think of the German girls, she looks so fresh and
quiet, and dances like a lady."
  Jo quite glowed with pleasure at this boyish praise of her sister,
and stored it up to repeat to Meg. Both peeped and criticized and
chatted, till they felt like old acquaintances. Laurie's bashfulness
soon wore off; for Jo's gentlemanly demeanor amused and set him at his
ease, and Jo was her merry self again, because her dress was
forgotten, and nobody lifted their eyebrows at her. She liked the
"Laurence boy" better than ever, and took several good looks at him,
so that she might describe him to the girls; for they had no brothers,
very few male cousins, and boys were almost unknown creatures to them.
  "Curly black hair; brown skin; big, black eyes; handsome nose;
fine teeth; small hands and feet; taller than I am; very polite, for a
boy, and altogether jolly. Wonder how old he is?"
  It was on the tip of Jo's tongue to ask; but she checked herself
in time, and, with unusual tact, tried to find out in a roundabout
way.
  "I suppose you are going to college soon? I see you pegging away
at your books- no, I mean studying hard"; and Jo blushed at the
dreadful "pegging" which had escaped her.
  Laurie smiled, but didn't seem shocked, and answered, with a shrug-
  "Not for a year or two; I won't go before seventeen, anyway."
  "Aren't you but fifteen?" asked Jo, looking at the tall lad, whom
she had imagined seventeen already.
  "Sixteen, next month."
  "How I wish I was going to college! You don't look as if you liked
it."
  "I hate it! Nothing but grinding or skylarking. And I don't like the
way fellows do either, in this country."
  "What do you like?"
  "To live in Italy, and to enjoy myself in my own way."
  Jo wanted very much to ask what his own way was; but his black brows
looked rather threatening as he knit them; so she changed the
subject by saying, as her foot kept time, "That's a splendid polka!
Why don't you go and try it?"
  "If you will come too," he answered, with a gallant little bow.
  "I can't; for I told Meg I wouldn't, because-" There Jo stopped, and
looked undecided whether to tell or to laugh.
  "Because what?" asked Laurie curiously.
  "You won't tell?"
  "Never!"
  "Well, I have a bad trick of standing before the fire, and so I burn
my frocks, and I scorched this one; and, though it's nicely mended, it
shows, and Meg told me to keep still, so no one would see it. You
may laugh, if you want to; it is funny, I know."
  But Laurie didn't laugh; he only looked down a minute, and the
expression of his face puzzled Jo, when he said very gently-
  "Never mind that; I'll tell you how we can manage: there's a long
hall out there, and we can dance grandly, and no one will see us.
Please come?"
  Jo thanked him, and gladly went, wishing she had two neat gloves,
when she saw the nice, pearl-colored ones her partner wore. The hall
was empty, and they had a grand polka; for Laurie danced well, and
taught her the German step, which delighted Jo, being full of swing
and spring. When the music stopped, they sat down on the stairs to get
their breath; and Laurie was in the midst of an account of a students'
festival at Heidelberg, when Meg appeared in search of her sister. She
beckoned, and Jo reluctantly followed her into a side room, where
she found her on a sofa, holding her foot, and looking pale.
  "I've sprained my ankle. That stupid high heel turned, and gave me a
sad wrench. It aches so, I can hardly stand, and I don't know how
I'm ever going to get home," she said, rocking to and fro in pain.
  "I knew you'd hurt your feet with those silly shoes. I'm sorry.
But I don't see what you can do, except get a carriage, or stay here
all night," answered Jo, softly rubbing the poor ankle as she spoke.
  "I can't have a carriage, without its costing ever so much. I dare
say I can't get one at all; for most people come in their own, and
it's a long way to the stable, and no one to send."
  "No, indeed! It's past nine, and dark as Egypt. I can't stop here,
for the house is full. Sallie has some girls staying with her. I'll
rest till Hannah comes, and then do the best I can."
  "I'll ask Laurie; he will go," said Jo, looking relieved as the idea
occurred to her.
  "Mercy, no! Don't ask or tell any one. Get me my rubbers, and put
these slippers with our things. I can't dance any more; but as soon as
supper is over, watch for Hannah, and tell me the minute she comes."
  "They are going out to supper now. I'll stay with you; I'd rather."
  "No, dear, run along, and bring me some coffee. I'm so tired, I
can't stir!"
  So Meg reclined, with rubbers well hidden, and Jo went blundering
away to the dining-room, which she found after going into a
china-closet, and opening the door of a room where old Mr. Gardiner
was taking a little private refreshment. Making a dart at the table,
she secured the coffee, which she immediately spilt, thereby making
the front of her dress as bad as the back.
  "Oh, dear, what a blunderbuss I am!" exclaimed Jo, finishing Meg's
glove by scrubbing her gown with it.
  "Can I help you?" said a friendly voice; and there was Laurie,
with a full cup in one hand and a plate of ice in the other.
  "I was trying to get something for Meg, who is very tired, and
some one shook me; and here I am, in a nice state," answered Jo,
glancing dismally from the stained skirt to the coffee-colored glove.
  "Too bad! I was looking for some one to give this to. May I take
it to your sister?"
  "Oh, thank you! I'll show you where she is. I don't offer to take it
myself, for I should only get into another scrape if I did."
  Jo led the way; and, as if used to waiting on ladies, Laurie drew up
a little table, brought a second instalment of coffee and ice for
Jo, and was so obliging that even particular Meg pronounced him a
"nice boy." They had a merry time over the bonbons and mottoes, and
were in the midst of a quiet game of "Buzz," with two or three other
young people who had strayed in, when Hannah appeared. Meg forgot
her foot, and rose so quickly that she was forced to catch hold of Jo,
with an exclamation of pain.
  "Hush! Don't say anything," she whispered, adding aloud, "It's
nothing. I turned my foot a little, that's all"; and limped upstairs
to put her things on.
  Hannah scolded, Meg cried, and Jo was at her wits' end, till she
decided to take things into her own hands. Slipping out, she ran down,
and, finding a servant, asked if he could get her a carriage. It
happened to be a hired waiter, who knew nothing about the
neighborhood; and Jo was looking round for help, when Laurie, who
had heard what she said, came up, and offered his grandfather's
carriage, which had just come for him, he said.
  "It's so early! You can't mean to go yet?" began Jo, looking
relieved, but hesitating to accept the offer.
  "I always go early- I do, truly! Please let me take you home? It's
all on my way, you know, and it rains, they say."
  That settled it; and, telling him of Meg's mishap, Jo gratefully
accepted, and rushed up to bring down the rest of the party. Hannah
hated rain as much as a cat does; so she made no trouble, and they
rolled away in the luxurious close carriage, feeling very festive
and elegant. Laurie went on the box; so Meg could keep her foot up,
and the girls talked over their party in freedom.
  "I had a capital time. Did you?" asked Jo, rumpling up her hair, and
making herself comfortable.
  "Yes, till I hurt myself. Sallie's friend, Annie Moffat, took a
fancy to me, and asked me to come and spend a week with her, when
Sallie does. She is going in the spring, when the opera comes; and
it will be perfectly splendid, if mother only lets me go," answered
Meg, cheering up at the thought.
  "I saw you dancing with the red-headed man I ran away from. Was he
nice?"
  "Oh, very! His hair is auburn, not red; and he was very polite,
and I had a delicious redowa with him."
  "He looked like a grasshopper in a fit, when he did the new step.
Laurie and I couldn't help laughing. Did you hear us?"
  "No; but it was very rude. What were you about all that time, hidden
away there?"
  Jo told her adventures, and, by the time she had finished, they were
at home. With many thanks, they said "Good-night," and crept in,
hoping to disturb no one; but the instant their door creaked, two
little night-caps bobbed up, and two sleepy but eager voices cried
out-
  "Tell about the party! tell about the party!"
  With what Meg called "a great want of manners," Jo had saved some
bonbons for the little girls; and they soon subsided, after hearing
the most thrilling events of the evening.
  "I declare, it really seems like being a fine young lady, to come
home from the party in a carriage, and sit in my dressing-gown, with a
maid to wait on me," said Meg, as Jo bound up her foot with arnica,
and brushed her hair.
  "I don't believe fine young ladies enjoy themselves a bit more
than we do, in spite of our burnt hair, old gowns, one glove apiece,
and tight slippers that sprain our ankles when we are silly enough
to wear them." And I think Jo was quite right.
                             4
                          Burdens

  "OH dear, how hard it does seem to take up our packs and go on,"
sighed Meg, the morning after the party; for, now the holidays were
over, the week of merry-making did not fit her for going on easily
with the task she never liked.
  "I wish it was Christmas or New-Year all the time; wouldn't it be
fun?" answered Jo, yawning dismally.
  "We shouldn't enjoy ourselves half so much as we do now. But it does
seem so nice to have little suppers and bouquets, and go to parties,
and drive home, and read and rest, and not work. It's like other
people, you know, and I always envy girls who do such things; I'm so
fond of luxury," said Meg, trying to decide which of two shabby
gowns was the least shabby.
  "Well, we can't have it, so don't let us grumble, but shoulder our
bundles and trudge along as cheerfully as Marmee does. I'm sure Aunt
March is a regular Old Man of the Sea to me, but I suppose when I've
learned to carry her without complaining, she will tumble off, or
get so light that I shan't mind her."
  This idea tickled Jo's fancy, and put her in good spirits; but Meg
didn't brighten, for her burden, consisting of four spoilt children,
seemed heavier than ever. She hadn't heart enough even to make herself
pretty, as usual, by putting on a blue neck-ribbon, and dressing her
hair in the most becoming way.
  "Where's the use of looking nice, when no one sees me but those
cross midgets, and no one cares whether I'm pretty or not?" she
muttered, shutting her drawer with a jerk. "I shall have to toil and
moil all my days, with only little bits of fun now and then, and get
old and ugly and sour, because I'm poor, and can't enjoy my life as
other girls do. It's a shame!"
  So Meg went down, wearing an injured look, and wasn't at all
agreeable at breakfast-time. Every one seemed rather out of sorts, and
inclined to croak. Beth had a headache, and lay on the sofa, trying to
comfort herself with the cat and three kittens; Amy was fretting
because her lessons were not learned, and she couldn't find her
rubbers; Jo would whistle and make a great racket getting ready;
Mrs. March was very busy trying to finish a letter which must go at
once; and Hannah had the grumps, for being up late didn't suit her.
  "There never was such a cross family!" cried Jo, losing her temper
when she had upset an inkstand, broken both boot-lacings, and sat down
upon her hat.
  "You're the crossest person in it!" returned Amy, washing out the
sum, that was all wrong, with the tears that had fallen on her slate.
  "Beth, if you don't keep these horrid cats down cellar I'll have
them drowned," exclaimed Meg angrily, as she tried to get rid of the
kitten, which had scrambled up her back, and stuck like a burr just
out of reach.
  Jo laughed, Meg scolded, Beth implored, and Amy wailed, because
she couldn't remember how much nine times twelve was.
  "Girls, girls, do be quiet one minute! I must get this off by the
early mail, and you drive me distracted with your worry," cried Mrs.
March, crossing out the third spoilt sentence in her letter.
  There was a momentary lull, broken by Hannah, who stalked in, laid
two hot turn-overs on the table, and stalked out again. These
turn-overs were an institution; and the girls called them "muffs," for
they had no others, and found the hot pies very comforting to their
hands on cold mornings. Hannah never forgot to make them, no matter
how busy or grumpy she might be, for the walk was long and bleak;
the poor things got no other lunch, and were seldom home before two.
  "Cuddle your cats, and get over your headache, Bethy. Good-by,
Marmee; we are a set of rascals this morning, but we'll come home
regular angels. Now then, Meg!" and Jo tramped away, feeling that
the pilgrims were not setting out as they ought to do.
  They always looked back before turning the corner, for their
mother was always at the window, to nod and smile, and wave her hand
to them. Somehow it seemed as if they couldn't have got through the
day without that; for, whatever their mood might be, the last
glimpse of that motherly face was sure to affect them like sunshine.
  "If Marmee shook her fist instead of kissing her hand to us, it
would serve us right, for more ungrateful wretches than we are were
never seen," cried Jo, taking a remorseful satisfaction in the snowy
walk and bitter wind.
  "Don't use such dreadful expressions," said Meg, from the depths
of the veil in which she had shrouded herself like a nun sick of the
world.
  "I like good strong words, that mean something," replied Jo,
catching her hat as it took a leap off her head, preparatory to flying
away altogether.
  "Call yourself any names you like; but I am neither a rascal nor a
wretch, and I don't choose to be called so."
  "You're a blighted being, and decidedly cross to-day because you
can't sit in the lap of luxury all the time. Poor dear, just wait till
I make my fortune, and you shall revel in carriages and ice-cream
and high-heeled slippers and posies and red-headed boys to dance
with."
  "How ridiculous you are, Jo!" but Meg laughed at the nonsense, and
felt better in spite of herself.
  "Lucky for you I am; for if I put on crushed airs, and tried to be
dismal, as you do, we should be in a nice state. Thank goodness, I can
always find something funny to keep me up. Don't croak any more, but
come home jolly, there's a dear."
  Jo gave her sister an encouraging pat on the shoulder as they parted
for the day, each going a different way, each hugging her little
warm turn-over, and each trying to be cheerful in spite of wintry
weather, hard work, and the unsatisfied desires of pleasure-loving
youth.
  When Mr. March lost his property in trying to help an unfortunate
friend, the two oldest girls begged to be allowed to do something
toward their own support, at least. Believing that they could not
begin too early to cultivate energy, industry, and independence, their
parents consented, and both fell to work with the hearty good-will
which, in spite of all obstacles, is sure to succeed at last. Margaret
found a place as nursery governess, and felt rich with her small
salary. As she said, she was "fond of luxury," and her chief trouble
was poverty. She found it harder to bear than the others, because
she could remember a time when home was beautiful, life full of ease
and pleasure, and want of any kind unknown. She tried not to be
envious or discontented, but it was very natural that the young girl
should long for pretty things, gay friends, accomplishments, and a
happy life. At the Kings' she daily saw all she wanted, for the
children's older sisters were just out, and Meg caught frequent
glimpses of dainty ball-dresses and bouquets, heard lively gossip
about theaters, concerts, sleighing parties, and merry-makings of
all kinds, and saw money lavished on trifles which would have been
so precious to her. Poor Meg seldom complained, but a sense of
injustice made her feel bitter toward every one sometimes, for she had
not yet learned to know how rich she was in the blessings which
alone can make life happy.
  Jo happened to suit Aunt March, who was lame, and needed an active
person to wait upon her. The childless old lady had offered to adopt
one of the girls when the troubles came, and was much offended because
her offer was declined. Other friends told the Marches that they had
lost all chance of being remembered in the rich old lady's will; but
the unworldly Marches only said-
  "We can't give up our girls for a dozen fortunes. Rich or poor, we
will keep together and be happy in one another."
  The old lady wouldn't speak to them for a time, but happening to
meet Jo at a friend's, something in her comical face and blunt manners
struck the old lady's fancy, and she proposed to take her for a
companion. This did not suit Jo at all; but she accepted the place
since nothing better appeared, and, to every one's surprise, got on
remarkably well with her irascible relative. There was an occasional
tempest, and once Jo had marched home, declaring she couldn't bear
it any longer; but Aunt March always cleared up quickly, and sent
for her back again with such urgency that she could not refuse, for in
her heart she rather liked the peppery old lady.
  I suspect that the real attraction was a large library of fine
books, which was left to dust and spiders since Uncle March died. Jo
remembered the kind old gentleman, who used to let her build railroads
and bridges with his big dictionaries, tell her stories about the
queer pictures in his Latin books, and buy her cards of gingerbread
whenever he met her in the street. The dim, dusty room, with the busts
staring down from the tall book-cases, the cosy chairs, the globes,
and, best of all, the wilderness of books, in which she could wander
where she liked, made the library a region of bliss to her. The moment
Aunt March took her nap, or was busy with company, Jo hurried to
this quiet place, and, curling herself up in the easy-chair,
devoured poetry, romance, history, travels, and pictures, like a
regular book-worm. But, like all happiness, it did not last long;
for as sure as she had just reached the heart of the story, the
sweetest verse of the song, or the most perilous adventure of her
traveller, a shrill voice called, "Josy-phine! Josy-phine!" and she
had to leave her paradise to wind yarn, wash the poodle, or read
Belsham's Essays by the hour together.
  Jo's ambition was to do something very splendid; what it was she had
no idea as yet, but left it for time to tell her; and, meanwhile,
found her greatest affliction in the fact that she couldn't read, run,
and ride as much as she liked. A quick temper, sharp tongue, and
restless spirit were always getting her into scrapes, and her life was
a series of ups and downs, which were both comic and pathetic. But the
training she received at Aunt March's was just what she needed; and
the thought that she was doing something to support herself made her
happy, in spite of the perpetual "Josy-phine!"
  Beth was too bashful to go to school; it had been tried, but she
suffered so much that it was given up, and she did her lessons at
home, with her father. Even when he went away, and her mother was
called to devote her skill and energy to Soldiers' Aid Societies, Beth
went faithfully on by herself, and did the best she could. She was a
housewifely little creature, and helped Hannah keep home neat and
comfortable for the workers, never thinking of any reward but to be
loved. Long, quiet days she spent, not lonely nor idle, for her little
world was peopled with imaginary friends, and she was by nature a busy
bee. There were six dolls to be taken up and dressed every morning,
for Beth was a child still, and loved her pets as well as ever. Not
one whole or handsome one among them; all were outcasts till Beth took
them in; for, when her sisters outgrew these idols, they passed to
her, because Amy would have nothing old or ugly. Beth cherished them
all the more tenderly for that very reason, and set up a hospital
for infirm dolls. No pins were ever stuck into their cotton vitals; no
harsh words or blows were ever given them; no neglect ever saddened
the heart of the most repulsive: but all were fed and clothed,
nursed and caressed, with an affection which never failed. One forlorn
fragment of dollanity had belonged to Jo; and, having led a
tempestuous life, was left a wreck in the ragbag, from which dreary
poorhouse it was rescued by Beth, and taken to her refuge. Having no
top to its head, she tied on a neat little cap, and, as both arms
and legs were gone, she hid these deficiencies by folding it in a
blanket, and devoting her best bed to this chronic invalid. If any one
had known the care lavished on that dolly, I think it would have
touched their hearts, even while they laughed. She brought it bits
of bouquets; she read to it, took it out to breathe the air, hidden
under her coat; she sung it lullabys, and never went to bed without
kissing its dirty face, and whispering tenderly, "I hope you'll have a
good night, my poor dear."
  Beth had her troubles as well as the others; and not being an angel,
but a very human little girl, she often "wept a little weep," as Jo
said, because she couldn't take music lessons and have a fine piano.
She loved music so dearly, tried so hard to learn, and practised
away so patiently at the jingling old instrument, that it did seem
as if some one (not to hint Aunt March) ought to help her. Nobody did,
however, and nobody saw Beth wipe the tears off the yellow keys,
that wouldn't keep in tune, when she was all alone. She sang like a
little lark about her work, never was too tired to play for Marmee and
the girls, and day after day said hopefully to herself, "I know I'll
get my music some time, if I'm good."
  There are many Beths in the world, shy and quiet, sitting in corners
till needed, and living for others so cheerfully that no one sees
the sacrifices till the little cricket on the hearth stops chirping,
and the sweet, sunshiny presence vanishes, leaving silence and
shadow behind.
  If anybody had asked Amy what the greatest trial of her life was,
she would have answered at once, "My nose." When she was a baby, Jo
had accidentally dropped her into the coal-hod, and Amy insisted
that the fall had ruined her nose forever. It was not big, nor red,
like poor "Petrea's"; it was only rather flat, and all the pinching in
the world could not give it an aristocratic point. No one minded it
but herself, and it was doing its best to grow, but Amy felt deeply
the want of a Grecian nose, and drew whole sheets of handsome ones
to console herself.
  "Little Raphael," as her sisters called her, had a decided talent
for drawing, and was never so happy as when copying flowers, designing
fairies, or illustrating stories with queer specimens of art. Her
teachers complained that, instead of doing her sums, she covered her
slate with animals; the blank pages of her atlas were used to copy
maps on; and caricatures of the most ludicrous description came
fluttering out of all her books at unlucky moments. She got through
her lessons as well as she could, and managed to escape reprimands
by being a model of deportment. She was a great favorite with her
mates, being good-tempered, and possessing the happy art of pleasing
without effort. Her little airs and graces were much admired, so
were her accomplishments; for beside her drawing, she could play
twelve tunes, crochet, and read French without mispronouncing more
than two thirds of the words.
  She had a plaintive way of saying, "When papa was rich we did
so-and-so," which was very touching; and her long words were
considered "perfectly elegant" by the girls.
  Amy was in a fair way to be spoilt; for every one petted her, and
her small vanities and selfishnesses were growing nicely. One thing,
however, rather quenched the vanities; she had to wear her cousin's
clothes. Now Florence's mamma hadn't a particle of taste, and Amy
suffered deeply at having to wear a red instead of a blue bonnet,
unbecoming gowns, and fussy aprons that did not fit. Everything was
good, well made, and little worn; but Amy's artistic eyes were much
afflicted, especially this winter, when her school dress was a dull
purple, with yellow dots, and no trimming.
  "My only comfort," she said to Meg, with tears in her eyes, "is,
that mother don't take tucks in my dresses whenever I'm naughty, as
Maria Park's mother does. My dear, it's really dreadful; for sometimes
she is so bad, her frock is up to her knees, and she can't come to
school. When I think of this deggerredation, I feel that I can bear
even my flat nose and purple gown, with yellow sky-rockets on it."
  Meg was Amy's confidant and monitor, and, by some strange attraction
of opposites, Jo was gentle Beth's. To Jo alone did the shy child tell
her thoughts; and over her big, harum-scarum sister, Beth
unconsciously exercised more influence than any one in the family. The
two older girls were a great deal to one another, but each took one of
the younger into her keeping, and watched over her in her own way;
"playing mother" they called it, and put their sisters in the places
of discarded dolls, with the maternal instinct of little women.
  "Has anybody got anything to tell? It's been such a dismal day I'm
really dying for some amusement," said Meg, as they sat sewing
together that evening.
  "I had a queer time with aunt to-day, and, as I got the best of
it, I'll tell you about it," began Jo, who dearly loved to tell
stories. "I was reading that everlasting Belsham, and droning away
as I always do, for aunt soon drops off, and then I take out some nice
book, and read like fury till she wakes up. I actually made myself
sleepy; and, before she began to nod, I gave such a gape that she
asked me what I meant by opening my mouth wide enough to take the
whole book in at once.
  "'I wish I could, and be done with it,' said I, trying not to be
saucy.
  "Then she gave me a long lecture on my sins, and told me to sit
and think them over while she just 'lost' herself for a moment. She
never finds herself very soon; so the minute her cap began to bob,
like a top-heavy dahlia, I whipped the 'Vicar of Wakefield' out of
my pocket, and read away, with one eye on him, and one on aunt. I'd
just got to where they all tumbled into the water, when I forgot,
and laughed out loud. Aunt woke up; and, being more good-natured after
her nap, told me to read a bit, and show what frivolous work I
preferred to the worthy and instructive Belsham. I did my very best,
and she liked it, though she only said-
  "'I don't understand what it's all about. Go back and begin it,
child.'
  "Back I went, and made the Primroses as interesting as ever I could.
Once I was wicked enough to stop in a thrilling place, and say meekly,
'I'm afraid it tires you, ma'am; shan't I stop now?'
  "She caught up her knitting, which had dropped out of her hands,
gave me a sharp look through her specs, and said, in her short way-
  "'Finish the chapter, and don't be impertinent, miss.'"
  "Did she own she liked it?" asked Meg.
  "Oh, bless you, no! but she let old Belsham rest; and, when I ran
back after my gloves this afternoon, there she was, so hard at the
Vicar that she didn't hear me laugh as I danced a jig in the hall,
because of the good time coming. What a pleasant life she might
have, if she only chose. I don't envy her much, in spite of her money,
for after all rich people have about as many worries as poor ones, I
think," added Jo.
  "That reminds me," said Meg, "that I've got something to tell. It
isn't funny, like Jo's story, but I thought about it a good deal as
I came home. At the Kings' to-day I found everybody in a flurry, and
one of the children said that her oldest brother had done something
dreadful, and papa had sent him away. I heard Mrs. King crying and Mr.
King talking very loud, and Grace and Ellen turned away their faces
when they passed me, so I shouldn't see how red their eyes were. I
didn't ask any questions, of course; but I felt so sorry for them, and
was rather glad I hadn't any wild brothers to do wicked things and
disgrace the family."
  "I think being disgraced in school is a great deal tryinger than
anything bad boys can do," said Amy, shaking her head, as if her
experience of life had been a deep one. "Susie Perkins came to
school to-day with a lovely red carnelian ring; I wanted it
dreadfully, and wished I was her with all my might. Well, she drew a
picture of Mr. Davis, with a monstrous nose and a hump, and the words,
'Young ladies, my eye is upon you!' coming out of his mouth in a
balloon thing. We were laughing over it, when all of a sudden his
eye was on us, and he ordered Susie to bring up her slate. She was
parrylized with fright, but she went, and oh, what do you think he
did? He took her by the ear- the ear! just fancy how horrid!- and
led her to the recitation platform, and made her stand there half an
hour, holding that slate so every one could see."
  "Didn't the girls laugh at the picture?" asked Jo, who relished
the scrape.
  "Laugh? Not one! They sat as still as mice; and Susie cried
quarts, I know she did. I didn't envy her then; for I felt that
millions of carnelian rings wouldn't have made me happy, after that. I
never, never should have got over such a agonizing mortification." And
Amy went on with her work, in the proud consciousness of virtue, and
the successful utterance of two long words in a breath.
  "I saw something that I liked this morning, and I meant to tell it
at dinner, but I forgot," said Beth, putting Jo's topsy-turvy basket
in order as she talked. "When I went to get some oysters for Hannah,
Mr. Laurence was in the fish-shop; but he didn't see me, for I kept
behind a barrel, and he was busy with Mr. Cutter, the fish-man. A poor
woman came in, with a pail and a mop, and asked Mr. Cutter if he would
let her do some scrubbing for a bit of fish, because she hadn't any
dinner for her children, and had been disappointed of a day's work.
Mr. Cutter was in a hurry, and said 'No,' rather crossly; so she was
going away, looking hungry and sorry, when Mr. Laurence hooked up a
big fish with the crooked end of his cane, and held it out to her. She
was so glad and surprised, she took it right in her arms, and
thanked him over and over. He told her to 'go along and cook it,'
and she hurried off, so happy! Wasn't it good of him? Oh, she did look
so funny, hugging the big, slippery fish, and hoping Mr. Laurence's
bed in heaven would be 'aisy.'"
  When they had laughed at Beth's story, they asked their mother for
one; and, after a moment's thought, she said soberly-
  "As I sat cutting out blue flannel jackets to-day, at the rooms, I
felt very anxious about father, and thought how lonely and helpless we
should be, if anything happened to him. It was not a wise thing to do;
but I kept on worrying, till an old man came in, with an order for
some clothes. He sat down near me, and I began to talk to him; for
he looked poor and tired and anxious.
  "'Have you sons in the army?' I asked; for the note he brought was
not to me.
  "'Yes, ma'am. I had four, but two were killed, one is a prisoner,
and I'm going to the other, who is very sick in a Washington
hospital,' he answered quietly.
  "'You have done a great deal for your country, sir,' I said, feeling
respect now, instead of pity.
  "'Not a mite more than I ought, ma'am. I'd go myself, if I was any
use; as I ain't, I give my boys, and give 'em free.'
  "He spoke so cheerfully, looked so sincere, and seemed so glad to
give his all, that I was ashamed of myself. I'd given one man, and
thought it too much, while he gave four, without grudging them. I
had all my girls to comfort me at home; and his last son was
waiting, miles away, to say 'good-by' to him, perhaps! I felt so rich,
so happy, thinking of my blessings, that I made him a nice bundle,
gave him some money, and thanked him heartily for the lesson he had
taught me."
  "Tell another story, mother- one with a moral to it, like this. I
like to think about them afterwards, if they are real, and not too
preachy," said Jo, after a minute's silence.
  Mrs. March smiled, and began at once; for she had told stories to
this little audience for many years, and knew how to please them.
  "Once upon a time, there were four girls, who had enough to eat
and drink and wear, a good many comforts and pleasures, kind friends
and parents, who loved them dearly, and yet they were not
contented." (Here the listeners stole sly looks at one another, and
began to sew diligently.) "These girls were anxious to be good, and
made many excellent resolutions; but they did not keep them very well,
and were constantly saying, 'If we only had this,' or 'If we could
only do that,' quite forgetting how much they already had, and how
many pleasant things they actually could do. So they asked an old
woman what spell they could use to make them happy, and she said,
'When you feel discontented, think over your blessings, and be
grateful.'" (Here Jo looked up quickly, as if about to speak, but
changed her mind, seeing that the story was not done yet.)
  "Being sensible girls, they decided to try her advice, and soon were
surprised to see how well off they were. One discovered that money
couldn't keep shame and sorrow out of rich people's houses; another
that, though she was poor, she was a great deal happier, with her
youth, health, and good spirits, than a certain fretful, feeble old
lady, who couldn't enjoy her comforts; a third that, disagreeable as
it was to help get dinner, it was harder still to have to go begging
for it; and the fourth, that even carnelian rings were not so valuable
as good behavior. So they agreed to stop complaining, to enjoy the
blessings already possessed, and try to deserve them, lest they should
be taken away entirely, instead of increased; and I believe they
were never disappointed, or sorry that they took the old woman's
advice."
  "Now, Marmee, that is very cunning of you to turn our own stories
against us, and give us a sermon instead of a romance!" cried Meg.
  "I like that kind of sermon. It's the sort father used to tell
us," said Beth thoughtfully, putting the needles straight on Jo's
cushion.
  "I don't complain near as much as the others do, and I shall be more
careful than ever now; for I've had warning from Susie's downfall,"
said Amy morally.
  "We needed that lesson, and we won't forget it. If we do, you just
say to us, as old Chloe did in 'Uncle Tom,' 'Tink ob yer marcies,
chillen! tink ob yer marcies!'" added Jo, who could not, for the
life of her, help getting a morsel of fun out of the little sermon,
though she took it to heart as much as any of them.
                             5
                      Being Neighborly

  "WHAT in the world are you going to do now, Jo?" asked Meg, one
snowy afternoon, as her sister came tramping through the hall, in
rubber boots, old sack and hood, with a broom in one hand and a shovel
in the other.
  "Going out for exercise," answered Jo, with a mischievous twinkle in
her eyes.
  "I should think two long walks this morning would have been
enough! It's cold and dull out; and I advise you to stay, warm and
dry, by the fire, as I do," said Meg, with a shiver.
  "Never take advice! Can't keep still all day, and, not being a
pussy-cat, I don't like to doze by the fire. I like adventures, and
I'm going to find some."
  Meg went back to toast her feet and read "Ivanhoe"; and Jo began
to dig paths with great energy. The snow was light, and with her broom
she soon swept a path all round the garden, for Beth to walk in when
the sun came out; and the invalid dolls needed air. Now, the garden
separated the Marches' house from that of Mr. Laurence. Both stood
in a suburb of the city, which was still country-like, with groves and
lawns, large gardens, and quiet streets. A low hedge parted the two
estates. On one side was an old, brown house, looking rather bare
and shabby, robbed of the vines that in summer covered its walls,
and the flowers which then surrounded it. On the other side was a
stately stone mansion, plainly betokening every sort of comfort and
luxury, from the big coach-house and well-kept grounds to the
conservatory and the glimpses of lovely things one caught between
the rich curtains. Yet it seemed a lonely, lifeless sort of house; for
no children frolicked on the lawn, no motherly face ever smiled at the
windows, and few people went in and out, except the old gentleman
and his grandson.
  To Jo's lively fancy, this fine house seemed a kind of enchanted
palace, full of splendors and delights, which no one enjoyed. She
had long wanted to behold these hidden glories, and to know the
"Laurence boy," who looked as if he would like to be known, if he only
knew how to begin. Since the party, she had been more eager than ever,
and had planned many ways of making friends with him; but he had not
been seen lately, and Jo began to think he had gone away, when she one
day spied a brown face at an upper window, looking wistfully down into
their garden, where Beth and Amy were snowballing one another.
  "That boy is suffering for society and fun," she said to herself.
"His grandpa does not know what's good for him, and keeps him shut
up all alone. He needs a party of jolly boys to play with, or somebody
young and lively. I've a great mind to go over and tell the old
gentleman so!"
  The idea amused Jo, who liked to do daring things, and was always
scandalizing Meg by her queer performances. The plan of "going over"
was not forgotten; and when the snowy afternoon came, Jo resolved to
try what could be done. She saw Mr. Laurence drive off, and then
sallied out to dig her way down to the hedge, where she paused, and
took a survey. All quiet- curtains down at the lower windows; servants
out of sight, and nothing human visible but a curly black head leaning
on a thin hand at the upper window.
  "There he is," thought Jo, "poor boy! all alone and sick this dismal
day. It's a shame! I'll toss up a snowball, and make him look out, and
then say a kind word to him."
  Up went a handful of soft snow, and the head turned at once, showing
a face which lost its listless look in a minute, as the big eyes
brightened and the mouth began to smile. Jo nodded and laughed, and
flourished her broom as she called out-
  "How do you do? Are you sick?"
  Laurie opened the window, and croaked out as hoarsely as a raven-
  "Better, thank you. I've had a bad cold, and been shut up a week."
  "I'm sorry. What do you amuse yourself with?"
  "Nothing; it's as dull as tombs up here."
  "Don't you read?"
  "Not much; they won't let me."
  "Can't somebody read to you?"
  "Grandpa does, sometimes; but my books don't interest him, and I
hate to ask Brooke all the time."
  "Have some one come and see you, then."
  "There isn't any one I'd like to see. Boys make such a row, and my
head is weak."
  "Isn't there some nice girl who'd read and amuse you? Girls are
quiet, and like to play nurse."
  "Don't know any."
  "You know us," began Jo, then laughed, and stopped.
  "So I do! Will you come, please?" cried Laurie.
  "I'm not quiet and nice; but I'll come, if mother will let me.
I'll go ask her. Shut that window, like a good boy, and wait till I
come."
  With that, Jo shouldered her broom and marched into the house,
wondering what they would all say to her. Laurie was in a flutter of
excitement at the idea of having company, and flew about to get ready;
for, as Mrs. March said, he was "a little gentleman," and did honor to
the coming guest by brushing his curly pate, putting on a fresh
collar, and trying to tidy up the room, which, in spite of half a
dozen servants, was anything but neat. Presently there came a loud
ring, then a decided voice, asking for "Mr. Laurie," and a
surprised-looking servant came running up to announce a young lady.
  "All right, show her up, it's Miss Jo," said Laurie, going to the
door of his little parlor to meet Jo, who appeared, looking rosy and
kind and quite at her ease, with a covered dish in one hand and Beth's
three kittens in the other.
  "Here I am, bag and baggage," she said briskly. "Mother sent her
love, and was glad if I could do anything for you. Meg wanted me to
bring some of her blanc-mange; she makes it very nicely, and Beth
thought her cats would be comforting. I knew you'd laugh at them,
but I couldn't refuse, she was so anxious to do something."
  It so happened that Beth's funny loan was just the thing; for, in
laughing over the kits, Laurie forgot his bashfulness, and grew
sociable at once.
  "That looks too pretty to eat," he said, smiling with pleasure, as
Jo uncovered the dish, and showed the blanc-mange, surrounded by a
garland of green leaves, and the scarlet flowers of Amy's pet
geranium.
  "It isn't anything, only they all felt kindly, and wanted to show
it. Tell the girl to put it away for your tea: it's so simple, you can
eat it; and, being soft, it will slip down without hurting your sore
throat. What a cosy room this is!"
  "It might be if it was kept nice; but the maids are lazy, and I
don't know how to make them mind. It worries me, though."
  "I'll right it up in two minutes; for it only needs to have the
hearth brushed, so- and the things made straight on the
mantel-piece, so- and the books put here, and the bottles there, and
your sofa turned from the light, and the pillows plumped up a bit.
Now, then, you're fixed."
  And so he was; for, as she laughed and talked, Jo had whisked things
into place, and given quite a different air to the room. Laurie
watched her in respectful silence; and when she beckoned him to his
sofa, he sat down with a sigh of satisfaction, saying gratefully-
  "How kind you are! Yes, that's what it wanted. Now please take the
big chair, and let me do something to amuse my company."
  "No; I came to amuse you. Shall I read aloud?" and Jo looked
affectionately toward some inviting books near by.
  "Thank you; I've read all those, and if you don't mind, I'd rather
talk," answered Laurie.
  "Not a bit; I'll talk all day if you'll only set me going. Beth says
I never know when to stop."
  "Is Beth the rosy one, who stays at home a good deal, and
sometimes goes out with a little basket?" asked Laurie, with interest.
  "Yes, that's Beth; she's my girl, and a regular good one she is,
too."
  "The pretty one is Meg, and the curly-haired one is Amy, I believe?"
  "How did you find that out?"
  Laurie colored up, but answered frankly, "Why, you see, I often hear
you calling to one another, and when I'm alone up here, I can't help
looking over at your house, you always seem to be having such good
times. I beg your pardon for being so rude, but sometimes you forget
to put down the curtain at the window where the flowers are; and
when the lamps are lighted, it's like looking at a picture to see
the fire, and you all round the table with your mother; her face is
right opposite, and it looks so sweet behind the flowers, I can't help
watching it. I haven't got any mother, you know"; and Laurie poked the
fire to hide a little twitching of the lips that he could not control.
  The solitary, hungry look in his eyes went straight to Jo's warm
heart. She had been so simply taught that there was no nonsense in her
head, and at fifteen she was as innocent and frank as any child.
Laurie was sick and lonely; and, feeling how rich she was in home-love
and happiness, she gladly tried to share it with him. Her face was
very friendly and her sharp voice unusually gentle as she said-
  "We'll never draw that curtain any more, and I give you leave to
look as much as you like. I just wish, though, instead of peeping,
you'd come over and see us. Mother is so splendid, she'd do you
heaps of good, and Beth would sing to you if I begged her to, and
Amy would dance; Meg and I would make you laugh over our funny stage
properties, and we'd have jolly times. Wouldn't your grandpa let you?"
  "I think he would, if your mother asked him. He's very kind,
though he does not look so; and he lets me do what I like, pretty
much, only he's afraid I might be a bother to strangers," began
Laurie, brightening more and more.
  "We are not strangers, we are neighbors, and you needn't think you'd
be a bother. We want to know you, and I've been trying to do this ever
so long. We haven't been here a great while, you know, but we have got
acquainted with all our neighbors but you."
  "You see grandpa lives among his books, and doesn't mind much what
happens outside. Mr. Brooke, my tutor, doesn't stay here, you know,
and I have no one to go about with me, so I just stop at home and
get on as I can."
  "That's bad. You ought to make an effort, and go visiting everywhere
you are asked; then you'll have plenty of friends, and pleasant places
to go to. Never mind being bashful; it won't last long if you keep
going."
  Laurie turned red again, but wasn't offended at being accused of
bashfulness; for there was so much good-will in Jo, it was
impossible not to take her blunt speeches as kindly as they were
meant.
  "Do you like your school?" asked the boy, changing the subject,
after a little pause, during which he stared at the fire, and Jo
looked about her, well pleased.
  "Don't go to school; I'm a business man- girl, I mean. I go to
wait on my great-aunt, and a dear, cross old soul she is, too,"
answered Jo.
  Laurie opened his mouth to ask another question; but remembering
just in time that it wasn't manners to make too many inquiries into
people's affairs, he shut it again, and looked uncomfortable. Jo liked
his good breeding, and didn't mind having a laugh at Aunt March, so
she gave him a lively description of the fidgety old lady, her fat
poodle, the parrot that talked Spanish, and the library where she
revelled. Laurie enjoyed that immensely; and when she told about the
prim old gentleman who came once to woo Aunt March, and, in the middle
of a fine speech, how Poll had tweaked his wig off to his great
dismay, the boy lay back and laughed till the tears ran down his
cheeks, and a maid popped her head in to see what was the matter.
  "Oh! that does me no end of good. Tell on, please," he said,
taking his face out of the sofa-cushion, red and shining with
merriment.
  Much elated with her success, Jo did "tell on," all about their
plays and plans, their hopes and fears for father, and the most
interesting events of the little world in which the sisters lived.
Then they got to talking about books; and to Jo's delight, she found
that Laurie loved them as well as she did, and had read even more than
herself.
  "If you like them so much, come down and see ours. Grandpa is out,
so you needn't be afraid," said Laurie, getting up.
  "I'm not afraid of anything," returned Jo, with a toss of the head.
  "I don't believe you are!" exclaimed the boy, looking at her with
much admiration, though he privately thought she would have good
reason to be a trifle afraid of the old gentleman, if she met him in
some of his moods.
  The atmosphere of the whole house being summer-like, Laurie led
the way from room to room, letting Jo stop to examine whatever
struck her fancy; and so at last they came to the library, where she
clapped her hands, and pranced, as she always did when especially
delighted. It was lined with books, and there were pictures and
statues, and distracting little cabinets full of coins and
curiosities, and sleepy-hollow chairs, and queer tables, and
bronzes; and, best of all, a great open fireplace, with quaint tiles
all round it.
  "What richness!" sighed Jo, sinking into the depth of a velvet
chair, and gazing about her with an air of intense satisfaction.
"Theodore Laurence, you ought to be the happiest boy in the world,"
she added impressively.
  "A fellow can't live on books," said Laurie, shaking his head, as he
perched on a table opposite.
  Before he could say more, a bell rung, and Jo flew up, exclaiming
with alarm, "Mercy me! it's your grandpa!"
  "Well, what if it is? You are not afraid of anything, you know,"
returned the boy, looking wicked.
  "I think I am a little bit afraid of him, but I don't know why I
should be. Marmee said I might come, and I don't think you're any
the worse for it," said Jo, composing herself, though she kept her
eyes on the door.
  "I'm a great deal better for it, and ever so much obliged. I'm
only afraid you are very tired talking to me; it was so pleasant, I
couldn't bear to stop," said Laurie gratefully.
  "The doctor to see you, sir," and the maid beckoned as she spoke.
  "Would you mind if I left you for a minute? I suppose I must see
him," said Laurie.
  "Don't mind me. I'm as happy as a cricket here," answered Jo.
  Laurie went away, and his guest amused herself in her own way. She
was standing before a fine portrait of the old gentleman, when the
door opened again, and, without turning, she said decidedly, "I'm sure
now that I shouldn't be afraid of him, for he's got kind eyes,
though his mouth is grim, and he looks as if he had a tremendous
will of his own. He isn't as handsome as my grandfather, but I like
him."
  "Thank you, ma'am," said a gruff voice behind her; and there, to her
great dismay, stood old Mr. Laurence.
  Poor Jo blushed till she couldn't blush any redder, and her heart
began to beat uncomfortably fast as she thought what she had said. For
a minute a wild desire to run away possessed her; but that was
cowardly, and the girls would laugh at her: so she resolved to stay,
and get out of the scrape as she could. A second look showed her
that the living eyes, under the bushy gray eyebrows, were kinder
even than the painted ones; and there was a sly twinkle in them, which
lessened her fear a good deal. The gruff voice was gruffer than
ever, as the old gentleman said abruptly, after that dreadful pause:
  "So you're not afraid of me, hey?"
  "Not much, sir."
  "And you don't think me as handsome as your grandfather?"
  "Not quite, sir."
  "And I've got a tremendous will, have I?"
  "I only said I thought so."
  "But you like me, in spite of it?"
  "Yes, I do, sir."
  That answer pleased the old gentleman; he gave a short laugh,
shook hands with her, and, putting his finger under her chin, turned
up her face, examined it gravely, and let it go, saying, with a nod,
"You've got your grandfather's spirit, if you haven't his face. He was
a fine man, my dear; but, what is better, he was a brave and an honest
one, and I was proud to be his friend."
  "Thank you, sir"; and Jo was quite comfortable after that, for it
suited her exactly.
  "What have you been doing to this boy of mine, hey?" was the next
question, sharply put.
  "Only trying to be neighborly, sir"; and Jo told how her visit
came about.
  "You think he needs cheering up a bit, do you?"
  "Yes, sir; he seems a little lonely, and young folks would do him
good perhaps. We are only girls, but we should be glad to help if we
could, for we don't forget the splendid Christmas present you sent
us," said Jo eagerly.
  "Tut, tut, tut! that was the boy's affair. How is the poor woman?"
  "Doing nicely, sir"; and off went Jo, talking very fast, as she told
all about the Hummels, in whom her mother had interested richer
friends than they were.
  "Just her father's way of doing good. I shall come and see your
mother some fine day. Tell her so. There's the tea-bell; we have it
early, on the boy's account. Come down, and go on being neighborly."
  "If you'd like to have me, sir."
  "Shouldn't ask you, if I didn't"; and Mr. Laurence offered her his
arm with old-fashioned courtesy.
  "What would Meg say to this?" thought Jo, as she was marched away,
while her eyes danced with fun as she imagined herself telling the
story at home.
  "Hey! Why, what the dickens has come to the fellow?" said the old
gentleman, as Laurie came running down stairs, and brought up with a
start of surprise at the astonishing sight of Jo arm-in-arm with his
redoubtable grandfather.
  "I didn't know you'd come, sir," he began, as Jo gave him a
triumphant little glance.
  "That's evident, by the way you racket down stairs. Come to your
tea, sir, and behave like a gentleman"; and having pulled the boy's
hair by way of a caress, Mr. Laurence walked on, while Laurie went
through a series of comic evolutions behind their backs, which
nearly produced an explosion of laughter from Jo.
  The old gentleman did not say much as he drank his four cups of tea,
but he watched the young people, who soon chatted away like old
friends, and the change in his grandson did not escape him. There
was color, light, and life in the boy's face now, vivacity in his
manner, and genuine merriment in his laugh.
  "She's right; the lad is lonely. I'll see what these little girls
can do for him," thought Mr. Laurence, as he looked and listened. He
liked Jo, for her odd, blunt ways suited him; and she seemed to
understand the boy almost as well as if she had been one herself.
  If the Laurences had been what Jo called "prim and poky," she
would not have got on at all, for such people always made her shy
and awkward; but finding them free and easy, she was so herself, and
made a good impression. When they rose she proposed to go, but
Laurie said he had something more to show her, and took her away to
the conservatory, which had been lighted for her benefit. It seemed
quite fairy-like to Jo, as she went up and down the walks, enjoying
the blooming walls on either side, the soft light, the damp sweet air,
and the wonderful vines and trees that hung above her- while her new
friend cut the finest flowers till his hands were full; then he tied
them up, saying, with the happy look Jo liked to see, "Please give
these to your mother, and tell her I like the medicine she sent me
very much."
  They found Mr. Laurence standing before the fire in the great
drawing-room, but Jo's attention was entirely absorbed by a grand
piano, which stood open.
  "Do you play?" she asked, turning to Laurie with a respectful
expression.
  "Sometimes," he answered modestly.
  "Please do now. I want to hear it, so I can tell Beth."
  "Won't you first?"
  "Don't know how; too stupid to learn, but I love music dearly."
  So Laurie played, and Jo listened, with her nose luxuriously
buried in heliotrope and tea-roses. Her respect and regard for the
"Laurence boy" increased very much, for he played remarkably well, and
didn't put on any airs. She wished Beth could hear him, but she did
not say so; only praised him till he was quite abashed, and his
grandfather came to the rescue. "That will do, that will do, young
lady. Too many sugar-plums are not good for him. His music isn't
bad, but I hope he will do as well in more important things. Going?
Well, I'm much obliged to you, and I hope you'll come again. My
respects to your mother. Good-night, Doctor Jo."
  He shook hands kindly, but looked as if something did not please
him. When they got into the hall, Jo asked Laurie if she had said
anything amiss. He shook his head.
  "No, it was me; he doesn't like to hear me play."
  "Why not?"
  "I'll tell you some day. John is going home with you, as I can't."
  "No need of that; I am not a young lady, and it's only a step.
Take care of yourself, won't you?"
  "Yes; but you will come again, I hope?"
  "If you promise to come and see us after you are well."
  "I will."
  "Good-night, Laurie!"
  "Good-night, Jo, good-night!"
  When all the afternoon's adventures had been told, the family felt
inclined to go visiting in a body, for each found something very
attractive in the big house on the other side of the hedge. Mrs. March
wanted to talk of her father with the old man who had not forgotten
him; Meg longed to walk in the conservatory; Beth sighed for the grand
piano; and Amy was eager to see the fine pictures and statues.
  "Mother, why didn't Mr. Laurence like to have Laurie play?" asked
Jo, who was of an inquiring disposition.
  "I'm not sure, but I think it was because his son, Laurie's
father, married an Italian lady, a musician, which displeased the
old man, who is very proud. The lady was good and lovely and
accomplished, but he did not like her, and never saw his son after
he married. They both died when Laurie was a little child, and then
his grandfather took him home. I fancy the boy, who was born in Italy,
is not very strong, and the old man is afraid of losing him, which
makes him so careful. Laurie comes naturally by his love of music, for
he is like his mother, and I dare say his grandfather fears that he
may want to be a musician; at any rate, his skill reminds him of the
woman he did not like, and so he 'glowered,' as Jo said."
  "Dear me, how romantic!" exclaimed Meg.
  "How silly!" said Jo. "Let him be a musician, if he wants to, and
not plague his life out sending him to college, when he hates to go."
  "That's why he has such handsome black eyes and pretty manners, I
suppose. Italians are always nice," said Meg, who was a little
sentimental.
  "What do you know about his eyes and his manners? You never spoke to
him hardly," cried Jo, who was not sentimental.
  "I saw him at the party, and what you tell shows that he knows how
to behave. That was a nice little speech about the medicine mother
sent him."
  "He meant the blanc-mange, I suppose."
  "How stupid you are, child! He meant you, of course."
  "Did he?" and Jo opened her eyes as if it had never occurred to
her before.
  "I never saw such a girl! You don't know a compliment when you get
it," said Meg, with the air of a young lady who knew all about the
matter.
  "I think they are great nonsense, and I'll thank you not to be
silly, and spoil my fun. Laurie's a nice boy, and I like him, and I
won't have any sentimental stuff about compliments and such rubbish.
We'll all be good to him, because he hasn't got any mother, and he may
come over and see us, mayn't he, Marmee?"
  "Yes, Jo, your little friend is very welcome, and I hope Meg will
remember that children should be children as long as they can."
  "I don't call myself a child, and I'm not in my teens yet," observed
Amy. "What do you say, Beth?"
  "I was thinking about our 'Pilgrim's Progress,'" answered Beth,
who had not heard a word. "How we got out of the Slough and through
the Wicket Gate by resolving to be good, and up the steep hill by
trying; and that maybe the house over there, full of splendid
things, is going to be our Palace Beautiful."
  "We have got to get by the lions, first," said Jo, as if she
rather liked the prospect.
                             6
                Beth Finds the Palace Beautiful

  THE big house did prove a Palace Beautiful, though it took some time
for all to get in, and Beth found it very hard to pass the lions.
Old Mr. Laurence was the biggest one; but after he had called, said
something funny or kind to each one of the girls, and talked over
old times with their mother, nobody felt much afraid of him, except
timid Beth. The other lion was the fact that they were poor and Laurie
rich; for this made them shy of accepting favors which they could
not return. But, after a while, they found that he considered them the
benefactors, and could not do enough to show how grateful he was for
Mrs. March's motherly welcome, their cheerful society, and the comfort
he took in that humble home of theirs. So they soon forgot their
pride, and interchanged kindnesses without stopping to think which was
the greater.
  All sorts of pleasant things happened about that time; for the new
friendship flourished like grass in spring. Every one liked Laurie,
and he privately informed his tutor that "the Marches were regularly
splendid girls." With the delightful enthusiasm of youth, they took
the solitary boy into their midst, and made much of him, and he
found something very charming in the innocent companionship of these
simple-hearted girls. Never having known mother or sisters, he was
quick to feel the influences they brought about him; and their busy,
lively ways made him ashamed of the indolent life he led. He was tired
of books, and found people so interesting now that Mr. Brooke was
obliged to make very unsatisfactory reports; for Laurie was always
playing truant, and running over to the Marches'.
  "Never mind; let him take a holiday, and make it up afterwards,"
said the old gentleman. "The good lady next door says he is studying
too hard, and needs young society, amusement, and exercise. I
suspect she is right, and that I've been coddling the fellow as if I'd
been his grandmother. Let him do what he likes, as long as he is
happy. He can't get into mischief in that little nunnery over there;
and Mrs. March is doing more for him than we can."
  What good times they had, to be sure! Such plays and tableaux,
such sleigh-rides and skating frolics, such pleasant evenings in the
old parlor, and now and then such gay little parties at the great
house. Meg could walk in the conservatory whenever she liked, and
revel in bouquets; Jo browsed over the new library voraciously, and
convulsed the old gentleman with her criticisms; Amy copied
pictures, and enjoyed beauty to her heart's content; and Laurie played
"lord of the manor" in the most delightful style.
  But Beth, though yearning for the grand piano, could not pluck up
courage to go to the "Mansion of Bliss," as Meg called it. She went
once with Jo; but the old gentleman, not being aware of her infirmity,
stared at her so hard from under his heavy eyebrows, and said "Hey!"
so loud, that he frightened her so much her "feet chattered on the
floor," she told her mother; and she ran away, declaring she would
never go there any more, not even for the dear piano. No persuasions
or enticements could overcome her fear, till, the fact coming to Mr.
Laurence's ear in some mysterious way, he set about mending matters.
During one of the brief calls he made, he artfully led the
conversation to music, and talked away about great singers whom he had
seen, fine organs he had heard, and told such charming anecdotes
that Beth found it impossible to stay in her distant corner, but crept
nearer and nearer, as if fascinated. At the back of his chair she
stopped, and stood listening, with her great eyes wide open, and her
cheeks red with the excitement of this unusual performance. Taking
no more notice of her than if she had been a fly, Mr. Laurence
talked on about Laurie's lessons and teachers; and presently, as if
the idea had just occurred to him, he said to Mrs. March-
  "The boy neglects his music now, and I'm glad of it, for he was
getting too fond of it. But the piano suffers for want of use.
Wouldn't some of your girls like to run over, and practise on it now
and then, just to keep it in tune, you know, ma'am?"
  Beth took a step forward, and pressed her hands tightly together
to keep from clapping them, for this was an irresistible temptation;
and the thought of practising on that splendid instrument quite took
her breath away. Before Mrs. March could reply, Mr. Laurence went on
with an odd little nod and smile-
  "They needn't see or speak to any one, but run in at any time; for
I'm shut up in my study at the other end of the house, Laurie is out a
great deal, and the servants are never near the drawing-room after
nine o'clock."
  Here he rose, as if going, and Beth made up her mind to speak, for
that last arrangement left nothing to be desired. "Please tell the
young ladies what I say; and if they don't care to come, why, never
mind." Here a little hand slipped into his, and Beth looked up at
him with a face full of gratitude, as she said, in her earnest yet
timid way-
  "O sir, they do care, very, very much!"
  "Are you the musical girl?" he asked, without any startling "Hey!"
as he looked down at her very kindly.
  "I'm Beth. I love it dearly, and I'll come, if you are quite sure
nobody will hear me- and be disturbed," she added, fearing to be rude,
and trembling at her own boldness as she spoke.
  "Not a soul, my dear. The house is empty half the day; so come,
and drum away as much as you like, and I shall be obliged to you."
  "How kind you are, sir!"
  Beth blushed like a rose under the friendly look he wore; but she
was not frightened now, and gave the big hand a grateful squeeze,
because she had no words to thank him for the precious gift he had
given her. The old gentleman softly stroked the hair off her forehead,
and, stooping down, he kissed her, saying, in a tone few people ever
heard-
  "I had a little girl once, with eyes like these. God bless you, my
dear! Good day, madam"; and away he went, in a great hurry.
  Beth had a rapture with her mother, and then rushed up to impart the
glorious news to her family of invalids, as the girls were not at
home. How blithely she sung that evening, and how they all laughed
at her, because she woke Amy in the night by playing the piano on
her face in her sleep. Next day, having seen both the old and young
gentleman out of the house, Beth, after two or three retreats,
fairly got in at the side-door, and made her way, as noiselessly as
any mouse, to the drawing-room, where her idol stood. Quite by
accident, of course, some pretty, easy music lay on the piano; and,
with trembling fingers, and frequent stops to listen and look about,
Beth at last touched the great instrument, and straightway forgot
her fear, herself, and everything else but the unspeakable delight
which the music gave her, for it was like the voice of a beloved
friend.
  She stayed till Hannah came to take her home to dinner; but she
had no appetite, and could only sit and smile upon every one in a
general state of beatitude.
  After that, the little brown hood slipped through the hedge nearly
every day, and the great drawing-room was haunted by a tuneful
spirit that came and went unseen. She never knew that Mr. Laurence
often opened his study-door to hear the old-fashioned airs he liked;
she never saw Laurie mount guard in the hall to warn the servants
away; she never suspected that the exercise-books and new songs
which she found in the rack were put there for her especial benefit;
and when he talked to her about music at home, she only thought how
kind he was to tell things that helped her so much. So she enjoyed
herself heartily, and found, what isn't always the case, that her
granted wish was all she had hoped. Perhaps it was because she was
so grateful for this blessing that a greater was given her; at any
rate, she deserved both.
  "Mother, I'm going to work Mr. Laurence a pair of slippers. He is so
kind to me, I must thank him, and I don't know any other way. Can I do
it?" asked Beth, a few weeks after that eventful call of his.
  "Yes, dear. It will please him very much, and be a nice way of
thanking him. The girls will help you about them, and I will pay for
the making up," replied Mrs. March, who took peculiar pleasure in
granting Beth's requests, because she so seldom asked anything for
herself. After many serious discussions with Meg and Jo, the pattern
was chosen, the materials bought, and the slippers begun. A cluster of
grave yet cheerful pansies, on a deeper purple ground, was
pronounced very appropriate and pretty; and Beth worked away early and
late, with occasional lifts over hard parts. She was a nimble little
needle-woman, and they were finished before any one got tired of them.
Then she wrote a very short, simple note, and, with Laurie's help, got
them smuggled on to the study-table one morning before the old
gentleman was up.
  When this excitement was over, Beth waited to see what would happen.
All that day passed, and a part of the next, before any acknowledgment
arrived, and she was beginning to fear she had offended her
crotchety friend. On the afternoon of the second day, she went out
to do an errand, and give poor Joanna, the invalid doll, her daily
exercise. As she came up the street, on her return, she saw three,
yes, four, heads popping in and out of the parlor windows, and the
moment they saw her, several hands were waved, and several joyful
voices screamed-
  "Here's a letter from the old gentleman! Come quick, and read it!"
  "O Beth, he's sent you-" began Amy, gesticulating with unseemly
energy; but she got no further, for Jo quenched her by slamming down
the window.
  Beth hurried on in a flutter of suspense. At the door, her sisters
seized and bore her to the parlor in a triumphal procession, all
pointing, and all saying at once, "Look there! look there!" Beth did
look, and turned pale with delight and surprise; for there stood a
little cabinet-piano, with a letter lying on the glossy lid, directed,
like a sign-board, to "Miss Elizabeth March."
  "For me?" gasped Beth, holding on to Jo, and feeling as if she
should tumble down, it was such an overwhelming thing altogether.
  "Yes; all for you, my precious! Isn't it splendid of him? Don't
you think he's the dearest old man in the world? Here's the key in the
letter. We didn't open it, but we are dying to know what he says,"
cried Jo, hugging her sister, and offering the note.
  "You read it! I can't, I feel so queer! Oh, it is too lovely!" and
Beth hid her face in Jo's apron, quite upset by her present.
  Jo opened the paper, and began to laugh, for the first words she saw
were-

  "MISS MARCH:
    "Dear Madam-"

  "How nice it sounds! I wish some one would write to me so!" said
Amy, who thought the old-fashioned address very elegant.

  "'I have had many pairs of slippers in my life, but I never had
any that suited me so well as yours,'" continued Jo. "'Heart's-ease is
my favorite flower, and these will always remind me of the gentle
giver. I like to pay my debts; so I know you will allow 'the old
gentleman' to send you something which once belonged to the little
granddaughter he lost. With hearty thanks and best wishes, I remain.'"
  "'Your grateful friend and humble servant,'"
                                             "'JAMES LAURENCE.'"

  "There, Beth, that's an honor to be proud of, I'm sure! Laurie
told me how fond Mr. Laurence used to be of the child who died, and
how he kept all her little things carefully. Just think, he's given
you her piano. That comes of having big blue eyes and loving music,"
said Jo, trying to soothe Beth, who trembled, and looked more
excited than she had ever been before.
  "See the cunning brackets to hold candles, and the nice green
silk, puckered up, with a gold rose in the middle, and the pretty rack
and stool all complete," added Meg, opening the instrument and
displaying its beauties.
  "'Your humble servant, James Laurence'; only think of his writing
that to you. I'll tell the girls. They'll think it's splendid," said
Amy, much impressed by the note.
  "Try it, honey. Let's hear the sound of the baby-pianny," said
Hannah, who always took a share in the family joys and sorrows.
  So Beth tried it; and every one pronounced it the most remarkable
piano ever heard. It had evidently been newly tuned and put in
apple-pie order; but, perfect as it was, I think the real charm of
it lay in the happiest of all happy faces which leaned over it, as
Beth lovingly touched the beautiful black and white keys and pressed
the bright pedals.
  "You'll have to go and thank him," said Jo, by way of a joke; for
the idea of the child's really going never entered her head.
  "Yes, I mean to. I guess I'll go now, before I get frightened
thinking about it." And, to the utter amazement of the assembled
family, Beth walked deliberately down the garden, through the hedge,
and in at the Laurences' door.
  "Well, I wish I may die if it ain't the queerest thing I ever see!
The pianny has turned her head! She'd never have gone in her right
mind," cried Hannah, staring after her, while the girls were
rendered quite speechless by the miracle.
  They would have been still more amazed if they had seen what Beth
did afterward. If you will believe me, she went and knocked at the
study-door before she gave herself time to think; and when a gruff
voice called out, "Come in!" she did go in, right up to Mr.
Laurence, who looked quite taken aback, and held out her hand, saying,
with only a small quaver in her voice, "I came to thank you, sir,
for-" But she didn't finish; for he looked so friendly that she forgot
her speech, and, only remembering that he had lost the little girl
he loved, she put both arms round his neck, and kissed him.
  If the roof of the house had suddenly flown off, the old gentleman
wouldn't have been more astonished; but he liked it- oh, dear, yes, he
liked it amazingly!- and was so touched and pleased by that
confiding little kiss that all his crustiness vanished; and he just
set her on his knee, and laid his wrinkled cheek against her rosy one,
feeling as if he had got his own little granddaughter back again. Beth
ceased to fear him from that moment, and sat there talking to him as
cosily as if she had known him all her life; for love casts out
fear, and gratitude can conquer pride. When she went home, he walked
with her to her own gate, shook hands cordially, and touched his hat
as he marched back again, looking very stately and erect, like a
handsome, soldierly old gentleman, as he was.
  When the girls saw that performance, Jo began to dance a jig, by way
of expressing her satisfaction; Amy nearly fell out of the window in
her surprise; and Meg exclaimed, with uplifted hands, "Well, I do
believe the world is coming to an end!"
                             7
                 Amy's Valley of Humiliation

  "THAT boy is a perfect Cyclops, isn't he?" said Amy, one day, as
Laurie clattered by on horseback, with a flourish of his whip as he
passed.
  "How dare you say so, when he's got both his eyes? and very handsome
ones they are, too," cried Jo, who resented any slighting remarks
about her friend.
  "I didn't say anything about his eyes, and I don't see why you
need fire up when I admire his riding."
  "Oh, my goodness! that little goose means a centaur, and she
called him a Cyclops," exclaimed Jo, with a burst of laughter.
  "You needn't be so rude; it's only a 'lapse of lingy,' as Mr.
Davis says," retorted Amy, finishing Jo with her Latin. "I just wish I
had a little of the money Laurie spends on that horse," she added,
as if to herself, yet hoping her sisters would hear.
  "Why?" asked Meg kindly, for Jo had gone off in another laugh at
Amy's second blunder.
  "I need it so much; I'm dreadfully in debt, and it won't be my
turn to have the rag-money for a month."
  "In debt, Amy? What do you mean?" and Meg looked sober.
  "Why, I owe at least a dozen pickled limes, and I can't pay them,
you know, till I have money, for Marmee forbade my having anything
charged at the shop."
  "Tell me all about it. Are limes the fashion now? It used to be
pricking bits of rubber to make balls"; and Meg tried to keep her
countenance, Amy looked so grave and important.
  "Why, you see, the girls are always buying them, and unless you want
to be thought mean, you must do it, too. It's nothing but limes now,
for every one is sucking them in their desks in school-time, and
trading them off for pencils, bead-rings, paper dolls, or something
else, at recess. If one girl likes another, she gives her a lime; if
she's mad with her, she eats one before her face, and don't offer even
a suck. They treat by turns; and I've had ever so many, but haven't
returned them; and I ought, for they are debts of honor, you know."
  "How much will pay them off, and restore your credit?" asked Meg,
taking out her purse.
  "A quarter would more than do it, and leave a few cents over for a
treat for you. Don't you like limes?"
  "Not much; you may have my share. Here's the money. Make it last
as long as you can, for it isn't very plenty, you know."
  "Oh, thank you! It must be so nice to have pocket-money! I'll have a
grand feast, for I haven't tasted a lime this week. I felt delicate
about taking any, as I couldn't return them, and I'm actually
suffering for one."
  Next day Amy was rather late at school; but could not resist the
temptation of displaying, with pardonable pride, a moist brown-paper
parcel, before she consigned it to the inmost recesses of her desk.
During the next few minutes the rumor that Amy March had got
twenty-four delicious limes (she ate one on the way), and was going to
treat, circulated through her "set," and the attentions of her friends
became quite overwhelming. Katy Brown invited her to her next party on
the spot; Mary Kingsley insisted on lending her her watch till recess;
and Jenny Snow, a satirical young lady, who had basely twitted Amy
upon her limeless state, promptly buried the hatchet, and offered to
furnish answers to certain appalling sums. But Amy had not forgotten
Miss Snow's cutting remarks about "some persons whose noses were not
too flat to smell other people's limes, and stuck-up people, who
were not too proud to ask for them"; and she instantly crushed "that
Snow girl's" hopes by the withering telegram, "You needn't be so
polite all of a sudden, for you won't get any."
  A distinguished personage happened to visit the school that morning,
and Amy's beautifully drawn maps received praise, which honor to her
foe rankled in the soul of Miss Snow, and caused Miss March to
assume the airs of a studious young peacock. But, alas, alas! pride
goes before a fall, and the revengeful Snow turned the tables with
disastrous success. No sooner had the guest paid the usual stale
compliments, and bowed himself out, than Jenny, under pretence of
asking an important question, informed Mr. Davis, the teacher, that
Amy March had pickled limes in her desk.
  Now Mr. Davis had declared limes a contraband article, and
solemnly vowed to publicly ferrule the first person who was found
breaking the law. This much-enduring man had succeeded in banishing
chewing-gum after a long and stormy war, had made a bonfire of the
confiscated novels and newspapers, had suppressed a private
post-office, had forbidden distortions of the face, nick-names, and
caricatures, and done all that one man could to keep half a hundred
rebellious girls in order. Boys are trying enough to human patience,
goodness knows! but girls are infinitely more so, especially to
nervous gentlemen, with tyrannical tempers, and no more talent for
teaching than Dr. Blimber. Mr. Davis knew any quantity of Greek,
Latin, Algebra, and ologies of all sorts, so he was called a fine
teacher; and manners, morals, feelings, and examples were not
considered of any particular importance. It was a most unfortunate
moment for denouncing Amy, and Jenny knew it. Mr. Davis had
evidently taken his coffee too strong that morning; there was an
east wind, which always affected his neuralgia; and his pupils had not
done him the credit which he felt he deserved: therefore, to use the
expressive, if not elegant, language of a school-girl, "he was as
nervous as a witch and as cross as a bear." The word "limes" was
like fire to powder; his yellow face flushed, and he rapped on his
desk with an energy which made Jenny skip to her seat with unusual
rapidity.
  "Young ladies, attention, if you please!"
  At the stern order the buzz ceased, and fifty pairs of blue,
black, gray, and brown eyes were obediently fixed upon his awful
countenance.
  "Miss March, come to the desk."
  Amy rose to comply with outward composure, but a secret fear
oppressed her, for the limes weighed upon her conscience.
  "Bring with you the limes you have in your desk," was the unexpected
command which arrested her before she got out of her seat.
  "Don't take all," whispered her neighbor, a young lady of great
presence of mind.
  Amy hastily shook out half a dozen, and laid the rest down before
Mr. Davis, feeling that any man possessing a human heart would
relent when that delicious perfume met his nose. Unfortunately, Mr.
Davis particularly detested the odor of the fashionable pickle, and
disgust added to his wrath.
  "Is that all?"
  "Not quite," stammered Amy.
  "Bring the rest immediately."
  With a despairing glance at her set, she obeyed.
  "You are sure there are no more?"
  "I never lie, sir."
  "So I see. Now take these disgusting things two by two, and throw
them out of the window."
  There was a simultaneous sigh, which created quite a little gust, as
the last hope fled, and the treat was ravished from their longing
lips. Scarlet with shame and anger, Amy went to and fro six dreadful
times; and as each doomed couple- looking oh! so plump and juicy- fell
from her reluctant hands, a shout from the street completed the
anguish of the girls, for it told them that their feast was being
exulted over by the little Irish children, who were their sworn
foes. This- this was too much; all flashed indignant or appealing
glances at the inexorable Davis, and one passionate lime-lover burst
into tears.
  As Amy returned from her last trip, Mr. Davis gave a portentous
"Hem!" and said, in his most impressive manner "Young ladies, you
remember what I said to you a week ago. I am sorry this has
happened; but I never allow my rules to be infringed, and I never
break my word. Miss March, hold out your hand."
  Amy started, and put both hands behind her, turning on him an
imploring look which pleaded for her better than the words she could
not utter. She was rather a favorite with "old Davis," as, of
course, he was called, and it's my private belief that he would have
broken his word if the indignation of one irrepressible young lady had
not found vent in a hiss. That hiss, faint as it was, irritated the
irascible gentleman, and sealed the culprit's fate.
  "Your hand, Miss March!" was the only answer her mute appeal
received; and, too proud to cry or beseech, Amy set her teeth, threw
back her head defiantly, and bore without flinching several tingling
blows on her little palm. They were neither many nor heavy, but that
made no difference to her. For the first time in her life she had been
struck; and the disgrace, in her eyes, was as deep as if he had
knocked her down.
  "You will now stand on the platform till recess," said Mr. Davis,
resolved to do the thing thoroughly, since he had begun.
  That was dreadful. It would have been bad enough to go to her
seat, and see the pitying faces of her friends, or the satisfied
ones of her few enemies; but to face the whole school, with that shame
fresh upon her, seemed impossible, and for a second she felt as if she
could only drop down where she stood, and break her heart with crying.
A bitter sense of wrong, and the thought of Jenny Snow, helped her
to bear it; and, taking the ignominious place, she fixed her eyes on
the stove-funnel above what now seemed a sea of faces, and stood
there, so motionless and white that the girls found it very hard to
study, with that pathetic figure before them.
  During the fifteen minutes that followed, the proud and sensitive
little girl suffered a shame and pain which she never forgot. To
others it might seem a ludicrous or trivial affair, but to her it
was a hard experience; for during the twelve years of her life she had
been governed by love alone, and a blow of that sort had never touched
her before. The smart of her hand and the ache of her heart were
forgotten in the sting of the thought-
  "I shall have to tell at home, and they will be so disappointed in
me!"
  The fifteen minutes seemed an hour; but they came to an end at last,
and the word "Recess!" had never seemed so welcome to her before.
  "You can go, Miss March," said Mr. Davis, looking, as he felt,
uncomfortable.
  He did not soon forget the reproachful glance Amy gave him, as she
went, without a word to any one, straight into the ante-room, snatched
her things, and left the place "forever," as she passionately declared
to herself. She was in a sad state when she got home; and when the
older girls arrived, some time later, an indignation meeting was
held at once. Mrs. March did not say much, but looked disturbed, and
comforted her afflicted little daughter in her tenderest manner. Meg
bathed the insulted hand with glycerine and tears; Beth felt that even
her beloved kittens would fail as a balm for griefs like this; Jo
wrathfully proposed that Mr. Davis be arrested without delay; and
Hannah shook her fist at the "villain," and pounded potatoes for
dinner as if she had him under her pestle.
  No notice was taken of Amy's flight, except by her mates; but the
sharp-eyed demoiselles discovered that Mr. Davis was quite benignant
in the afternoon, also unusually nervous. Just before school closed,
Jo appeared, wearing a grim expression, as she stalked up to the desk,
and delivered a letter from her mother; then collected Amy's property,
and departed, carefully scraping the mud from her boots on the
door-mat, as if she shook the dust of the place off her feet.
  "Yes, you can have a vacation from school, but I want you to study a
little every day, with Beth," said Mrs. March, that evening. "I
don't approve of corporal punishment, especially for girls. I
dislike Mr. Davis's manner of teaching, and don't think the girls
you associate with are doing you any good, so I shall ask your
father's advice before I send you anywhere else."
  "That's good! I wish all the girls would leave, and spoil his old
school. It's perfectly maddening to think of those lovely limes,"
sighed Amy, with the air of a martyr.
  "I am not sorry you lost them, for you broke the rules, and deserved
some punishment for disobedience," was the severe reply, which
rather disappointed the young lady, who expected nothing but sympathy.
  "Do you mean you are glad I was disgraced before the whole
school?" cried Amy.
  "I should not have chosen that way of mending a fault," replied
her mother; "but I'm not sure that it won't do you more good than a
milder method. You are getting to be rather conceited, my dear, and it
is quite time you set about correcting it. You have a good many little
gifts and virtues, but there is no need of parading them, for
conceit spoils the finest genius. There is not much danger that real
talent or goodness will be overlooked long; even if it is, the
consciousness of possessing and using it well should satisfy one,
and the great charm of all power is modesty."
  "So it is!" cried Laurie, who was playing chess in a corner with Jo.
"I knew a girl, once, who had a really remarkable talent for music,
and she didn't know it; never guessed what sweet little things she
composed when she was alone, and wouldn't have believed it if any
one had told her."
  "I wish I'd known that nice girl; maybe she would have helped me,
I'm so stupid," said Beth, who stood beside him, listening eagerly.
  "You do know her, and she helps you better than any one else could,"
answered Laurie, looking at her with such mischievous meaning in his
merry black eyes, that Beth suddenly turned very red, and hid her face
in the sofa-cushion, quite overcome by such an unexpected discovery.
  Jo let Laurie win the game, to pay for that praise of her Beth,
who could not be prevailed upon to play for them after her compliment.
So Laurie did his best, and sung delightfully, being in a particularly
lively humor, for to the Marches he seldom showed the moody side of
his character. When he was gone, Amy, who had been pensive all the
evening, said suddenly, as if busy over some new idea-
  "Is Laurie an accomplished boy?"
  "Yes; he has had an excellent education, and his much talent; he
will make a fine man, if not spoilt by petting," replied her mother.
  "And he isn't conceited, is he?" asked Amy.
  "Not in the least; that is why he is so charming, and we all like
him so much."
  "I see; it's nice to have accomplishments, and be elegant; but not
to show off, or get perked up," said Amy thoughtfully.
  "These things are always seen and felt in a person's manner and
conversation, if modestly used; but it is not necessary to display
them," said Mrs. March.
  "Any more than it's proper to wear all your bonnets and gowns and
ribbons at once, that folks may know you've got them," added Jo; and
the lecture ended in a laugh.
                             8
                      Jo meets Apollyon

  "GIRLS, where are you going?" asked Amy, coming into their room
one Saturday afternoon, and finding them getting ready to go out, with
an air of secrecy which excited her curiosity.
  "Never mind; little girls shouldn't ask questions," returned Jo
sharply.
  Now if there is anything mortifying to our feelings, when we are
young, it is to be told that; and to be bidden to "run away, dear," is
still more trying to us. Amy bridled up at this insult, and determined
to find out the secret, if she teased for an hour. Turning to Meg, who
never refused her anything very long, she said coaxingly, "Do tell me!
I should think you might let me go, too; for Beth is fussing over
her piano, and I haven't got anything to do, and am so lonely."
  "I can't, dear, because you aren't invited," began Meg; but Jo broke
in impatiently, "Now, Meg, be quiet, or you will spoil it all. You
can't go, Amy; so don't be a baby, and whine about it."
  "You are going somewhere with Laurie, I know you are; you were
whispering and laughing together, on the sofa, last night, and you
stopped when I came in. Aren't you going with him?"
  "Yes, we are; now do be still, and stop bothering."
  Amy held her tongue, but used her eyes, and saw Meg slip a fan
into her pocket.
  "I know! I know! you're going to the theater to see the 'Seven
Castles'!" she cried; adding resolutely, "And I shall go, for mother
said I might see it; and I've got my rag-money, and it was mean not to
tell me in time."
  "Just listen to me a minute, and be a good child," said Meg
soothingly. "Mother doesn't wish you to go this week, because your
eyes are not well enough yet to bear the light of this fairy piece.
Next week you can go with Beth and Hannah, and have a nice time."
  "I don't like that half as well as going with you and Laurie. Please
let me; I've been sick with this cold so long, and shut up, I'm
dying for some fun. Do, Meg! I'll be ever so good," pleaded Amy,
looking as pathetic as she could.
  "Suppose we take her. I don't believe mother would mind, if we
bundle her up well," began Meg.
  "If she goes I shan't; and if I don't, Laurie won't like it; and
it will be very rude, after he invited only us, to go and drag in Amy.
I should think she'd hate to poke herself where she isn't wanted,"
said Jo crossly, for she disliked the trouble of overseeing a
fidgety child, when she wanted to enjoy herself.
  Her tone and manner angered Amy, who began to put her boots on,
saying, in her most aggravating way, "I shall go; Meg says I may;
and if I pay for myself, Laurie hasn't anything to do with it."
  "You can't sit with us, for our seats are reserved, and you
mustn't sit alone; so Laurie will give you his place, and that will
spoil our pleasure; or he'll get another seat for you, and that
isn't proper, when you weren't asked. You shan't stir a step; so you
may just stay where you are," scolded Jo, crosser than ever, having
just pricked her finger in her hurry.
  Sitting on the floor, with one boot on, Amy began to cry, and Meg to
reason with her, when Laurie called from below, and the two girls
hurried down, leaving their sister wailing; for now and then she
forgot her grownup ways, and acted like a spoilt child. Just as the
party was setting out, Amy called over the banisters, in a threatening
tone, "You'll be sorry for this, Jo March; see if you ain't."
  "Fiddlesticks!" returned Jo, slamming the door.
  They had a charming time, for "The Seven Castles of the Diamond
Lake" were as brilliant and wonderful as heart could wish. But, in
spite of the comical red imps, sparkling elves, and gorgeous princes
and princesses, Jo's pleasure had a drop of bitterness in it; the
fairy queen's yellow curls reminded her of Amy; and between the acts
she amused herself with wondering what her sister would do to make her
"sorry for it." She and Amy had had many lively skirmishes in the
course of their lives, for both had quick tempers, and were apt to
be violent when fairly roused. Amy teased Jo, and Jo irritated Amy,
and semi-occasional explosions occurred, of which both were much
ashamed afterward. Although the oldest, Jo had the least self-control,
and had hard times trying to curb the fiery spirit which was
continually getting her into trouble; her anger never lasted long,
and, having humbly confessed her fault, she sincerely repented, and
tried to do better. Her sisters used to say that they rather liked
to get Jo into a fury, because she was such an angel afterward. Poor
Jo tried desperately to be good, but her bosom enemy was always
ready to flame up and defeat her; and it took years of patient
effort to subdue it.
  When they got home, they found Amy reading in the parlor. She
assumed an injured air as they came in; never lifted her eyes from her
book, or asked a single question. Perhaps curiosity might have
conquered resentment, if Beth had not been there to inquire, and
receive a glowing description of the play. On going up to put away her
best hat, Jo's first look was toward the bureau; for, in their last
quarrel, Amy had soothed her feelings by turning Jo's top drawer
upside down on the floor. Everything was in its place, however; and
after a hasty glance into her various closets, bags, and boxes, Jo
decided that Amy had forgiven and forgotten her wrongs.
  There Jo was mistaken; for next day she made a discovery which
produced a tempest. Meg, Beth, and Amy were sitting together, late
in the afternoon, when Jo burst into the room, looking excited, and
demanding breathlessly, "Has any one taken my book?"
  Meg and Beth said "No," at once, and looked surprised; Amy poked the
fire, and said nothing. Jo saw her color rise, and was down upon her
in a minute.
  "Amy, you've got it!"
  "No, I haven't."
  "You know where it is, then!"
  "No, I don't."
  "That's a fib!" cried Jo, taking her by the shoulders, and looking
fierce enough to frighten a much braver child than Amy.
  "It isn't. I haven't got it, don't know where it is now, and don't
care."
  "You know something about it, and you'd better tell at once, or I'll
make you," and Jo gave her a slight shake.
  "Scold as much as you like, you'll never see your silly old book
again," cried Amy, getting excited in her turn.
  "Why not?"
  "I burnt it up."
  "What! my little book I was so fond of, and worked over, and meant
to finish before father got home? Have you really burnt it?" said
Jo, turning very pale, while her eyes kindled and her hands clutched
Amy nervously.
  "Yes, I did! I told you I'd make you pay for being so cross
yesterday, and I have, so-"
  Amy got no farther, for Jo's hot temper mastered her, and she
shook Amy till her teeth chattered in her head; crying, in a passion
of grief and anger-
  "You wicked, wicked girl! I never can write it again, and I'll never
forgive you as long as I live."
  Meg flew to rescue Amy, and Beth to pacify Jo, but Jo was quite
beside herself; and, with a parting box on her sister's ear, she
rushed out of the room up to the old sofa in the garret, and
finished her fight alone.
  The storm cleared up below, for Mrs. March came home, and, having
heard the story, soon brought Amy to a sense of the wrong she had done
her sister. Jo's book was the pride of her heart, and was regarded
by her family as a literary sprout of great promise. It was only
half a dozen little fairy tales, but Jo had worked over them
patiently, putting her whole heart into her work, hoping to make
something good enough to print. She had just copied them with great
care, and had destroyed the old manuscript, so that Amy's bonfire
had consumed the loving work of several years. It seemed a small
loss to others, but to Jo it was a dreadful calamity, and she felt
that it never could be made up to her. Beth mourned as for a
departed kitten, and Meg refused to defend her pet; Mrs. March
looked grave and grieved, and Amy felt that no one would love her till
she had asked pardon for the act which she now regretted more than any
of them.
  When the tea-bell rung, Jo appeared, looking so grim and
unapproachable that it took all Amy's courage to say meekly-
  "Please forgive me, Jo; I'm very, very sorry."
  "I never shall forgive you," was Jo's stern answer; and, from that
moment, she ignored Amy entirely.
  No one spoke of the great trouble- not even Mrs. March- for all
had learned by experience that when Jo was in that mood words were
wasted; and the wisest course was to wait till some little accident,
or her own generous nature, softened Jo's resentment, and healed the
breach. It was not a happy evening; for, though they sewed as usual,
while their mother read aloud from Bremer, Scott, or Edgeworth,
something was wanting, and the sweet home-peace was disturbed. They
felt this most when singing-time came; for Beth could only play, Jo
stood dumb as a stone, and Amy broke down, so Meg and mother sung
alone. But, in spite of their efforts to be as cheery as larks, the
flute-like voices did not seem to chord as well as usual, and all felt
out of tune.
  As Jo received her good-night kiss, Mrs. March whispered gently-
  "My dear, don't let the sun go down upon your anger; forgive each
other, help each other, and begin again to-morrow."
  Jo wanted to lay her head down on that motherly bosom and cry her
grief and anger all away; but tears were an unmanly weakness, and
she felt so deeply injured that she really couldn't quite forgive yet.
So she winked hard, shook her head, and said, gruffly because Amy
was listening-
  "It was an abominable thing, and she don't deserve to be forgiven."
  With that she marched off to bed, and there was no merry or
confidential gossip that night.
  Amy was much offended that her overtures of peace had been repulsed,
and began to wish she had not humbled herself, to feel more injured
than ever, and to plume herself on her superior virtue in a way
which was particularly exasperating. Jo still looked like a
thunder-cloud, and nothing went well all day. It was bitter cold in
the morning; she dropped her precious turn-over in the gutter, Aunt
March had an attack of fidgets, Meg was pensive, Beth would look
grieved and wistful when she got home, and Amy kept making remarks
about people who were always talking about being good, and yet
wouldn't try, when other people set them a virtuous example.
  "Everybody is so hateful, I'll ask Laurie to go skating. He is
always kind and jolly, and will put me to rights, I know," said Jo
to herself, and off she went.
  Amy heard the clash of skates, and looked out with an impatient
exclamation "There! she promised I should go next time, for this is
the last ice we shall have. But it's no use to ask such a
cross-patch to take me."
  "Don't say that; you were very naughty, and it is hard to forgive
the loss of her precious little book; but I think she might do it now,
and I guess she will, if you try her at the right minute," said Meg.
"Go after them; don't say anything till Jo has got good-natured with
Laurie, then take a quiet minute, and just kiss her, or do some kind
thing, and I'm sure she'll be friends again, with all her heart."
  "I'll try," said Amy, for the advice suited her; and, after a flurry
to get ready, she ran after the friends, who were just disappearing
over the hill.
  It was not far to the river, but both were ready before Amy
reached them. Jo saw her coming, and turned her back; Laurie did not
see, for he was carefully skating along the shore, sounding the ice,
for a warm spell had preceded the cold snap.
  "I'll go on to the first bend, and see if it's all right, before
we begin to race," Amy heard him say, as he shot away, looking like
a young Russian, in his fur-trimmed coat and cap.
  Jo heard Amy panting after her run, stamping her feet and blowing
her fingers, as she tried to put her skates on; but Jo never turned,
and went slowly zigzagging down the river, taking a bitter, unhappy
sort of satisfaction in her sister's troubles. She had cherished her
anger till it grew strong, and took possession of her, as evil
thoughts and feelings always do, unless cast out at once. As Laurie
turned the bend, he shouted back-
  "Keep near the shore; it isn't safe in the middle."
  Jo heard, but Amy was just struggling to her feet, and did not catch
a word. Jo glanced over her shoulder, and the little demon she was
harboring said in her ear-
  "No matter whether she heard or not, let her take care of herself."
  Laurie had vanished round the bend; Jo was just at the turn, and
Amy, far behind, striking out toward the smoother ice in the middle of
the river. For a minute Jo stood still, with a strange feeling at
her heart; then she resolved to go on, but something held and turned
her round, just in time to see Amy throw up her hands and go down,
with the sudden crash of rotten ice, the splash of water, and a cry
that made Jo's heart stand still with fear. She tried to call
Laurie, but her voice was gone; she tried to rush forward, but her
feet seemed to have no strength in them; and, for a second, she
could only stand motionless, staring, with a terror-stricken face,
at the little blue hood above the black water. Something rushed
swiftly by her, and Laurie's voice cried out-
  "Bring a rail; quick, quick!"
  How she did it, she never knew; but for the next few minutes she
worked as if possessed, blindly obeying Laurie, who was quite
self-possessed, and, lying flat, held Amy up by his arm and hockey
till Jo dragged a rail from the fence, and together they got the child
out, more frightened than hurt.
  "Now then, we must walk her home as fast as we can; pile our
things on her, while I get off these confounded skates," cried Laurie,
wrapping his coat round Amy, and tugging away at the straps, which
never seemed so intricate before.
  Shivering, dripping, and crying, they got Amy home; and, after an
exciting time of it, she fell asleep, rolled in blankets, before a hot
fire. During the bustle Jo had scarcely spoken; but flown about,
looking pale and wild, with her things half off, her dress torn, and
her hands cut and bruised by ice and rails, and refractory buckles.
When Amy was comfortably asleep, the house quiet, and Mrs. March
sitting by the bed, she called Jo to her, and began to bind up the
hurt hands.
  "Are you sure she is safe?" whispered Jo, looking remorsefully at
the golden head, which might have been swept away from her sight
forever under the treacherous ice.
  "Quite safe, dear; she is not hurt, and won't even take cold, I
think, you were so sensible in covering and getting her home quickly,"
replied her mother cheerfully.
  "Laurie did it all; I only let her go. Mother, if she should die, it
would be my fault"; and Jo dropped down beside the bed, in a passion
of penitent tears, telling all that had happened, bitterly
condemning her hardness of heart, and sobbing out her gratitude for
being spared the heavy punishment which might have come upon her.
  "It's my dreadful temper! I try to cure it; I think I have, and then
it breaks out worse than ever. O mother, what shall I do? what shall I
do?" cried poor Jo, in despair.
  "Watch and pray, dear; never get tired of trying; and never think it
is impossible to conquer your fault," said Mrs. March, drawing the
blowzy head to her shoulder, and kissing the wet cheek so tenderly
that Jo cried harder than ever.
  "You don't know, you can't guess how bad it is! It seems as if I
could do anything when I'm in a passion; I get so savage, I could hurt
any one, and enjoy it. I'm afraid I shall do something dreadful some
day, and spoil my life, and make everybody hate me. O mother, help me,
do help me!"
  "I will, my child, I will. Don't cry so bitterly, but remember
this day, and resolve, with all your soul, that you will never know
another like it. Jo, dear, we all have our temptations, some far
greater than yours, and it often takes us all our lives to conquer
them. You think your temper is the worst in the world; but mine used
to be just like it."
  "Yours, mother? Why, you are never angry!" and, for the moment, Jo
forgot remorse in surprise.
  "I've been trying to cure it for forty years, and have only
succeeded in controlling it. I am angry nearly every day of my life,
Jo; but I have learned not to show it; and I still hope to learn not
to feel it, though it may take me another forty years to do so."
  The patience and the humility of the face she loved so well was a
better lesson to Jo than the wisest lecture, the sharpest reproof. She
felt comforted at once by the sympathy and confidence given her; the
knowledge that her mother had a fault like hers, and tried to mend it,
made her own easier to bear and strengthened her resolution to cure
it; though forty years seemed rather a long time to watch and pray, to
a girl of fifteen.
  "Mother, are you angry when you fold your lips tight together, and
go out of the room sometimes, when Aunt March scolds, or people
worry you?" asked Jo, feeling nearer and dearer to her mother than
ever before.
  "Yes, I've learned to check the hasty words that rise to my lips;
and when I feel that they mean to break out against my will, I just go
away a minute, and give myself a little shake, for being so weak and
wicked," answered Mrs. March, with a sigh and a smile, as she smoothed
and fastened up Jo's dishevelled hair.
  "How did you learn to keep still? That is what troubles me- for
the sharp words fly out before I know what I'm about; and the more I
say the worse I get, till it's a pleasure to hurt people's feelings,
and say dreadful things. Tell me how you do it, Marmee dear."
  "My good mother used to help me-"
  "As you do us-" interrupted Jo, with a grateful kiss.
  "But I lost her when I was a little older than you are, and for
years had to struggle on alone, for I was too proud to confess my
weakness to any one else. I had a hard time, Jo, and shed a good
many bitter tears over my failures; for, in spite of my efforts, I
never seemed to get on. Then your father came, and I was so happy that
I found it easy to be good. But by and by, when I had four little
daughters round me, and we were poor, then the old trouble began
again; for I am not patient by nature, and it tried me very much to
see my children wanting anything."
  "Poor mother! what helped you then?"
  "Your father, Jo. He never loses patience- never doubts or
complains- but always hopes, and works and waits so cheerfully, that
one is ashamed to do otherwise before him. He helped and comforted me,
and showed me that I must try to practise all the virtues I would have
my little girls possess, for I was their example. It was easier to try
for your sakes than for my own; a startled or surprised look from
one of you, when I spoke sharply, rebuked me more than any words could
have done; and the love, respect, and confidence of my children was
the sweetest reward I could receive for my efforts to be the woman I
would have them copy."
  "O mother, if I'm ever half as good as you, I shall be satisfied,"
cried Jo, much touched.
  "I hope you will be a great deal better, dear; but you must keep
watch over your 'bosom enemy,' as father calls it, or it may sadden,
if not spoil your life. You have had a warning; remember it, and try
with heart and soul to master this quick temper, before it brings
you greater sorrow and regret than you have known to-day."
  "I will try, mother; I truly will. But you must help me, remind
me, and keep me from flying out. I used to see father sometimes put
his finger on his lips, and look at you with a very kind, but sober
face, and you always folded your lips tight or went away: was he
reminding you then?" asked Jo softly.
  "Yes; I asked him to help me so, and he never forgot it, but saved
me from many a sharp word by that little gesture and kind look."
  Jo saw that her mother's eyes filled and her lips trembled, as she
spoke; and, fearing that she had said too much, she whispered
anxiously, "Was it wrong to watch you, and to speak of it? I didn't
mean to be rude, but it's so comfortable to say all I think to you,
and feel so safe and happy here."
  "My Jo, you may say anything to your mother, for it is my greatest
happiness and pride to feel that my girls confide in me, and know
how much I love them."
  "I thought I'd grieved you."
  "No, dear; but speaking of father reminded me how much I miss him,
how much I owe him, and how faithfully I should watch and work to keep
his little daughters safe and good for him."
  "Yet you told him to go, mother, and didn't cry when he went, and
never complain now, or seem as if you needed any help," said Jo,
wondering.
  "I gave my best to the country I love, and kept my tears till he was
gone. Why should I complain, when we both have merely done our duty
and will surely be the happier for it in the end? If I don't seem to
need help, it is because I have a better friend, even than father,
to comfort and sustain me. My child, the troubles and temptations of
your life are beginning, and may be many; but you can overcome and
outlive them all if you learn to feel the strength and tenderness of
your Heavenly Father as you do that of your earthly one. The more
you love and trust Him, the nearer you will feel to Him, and the
less you will depend on human power and wisdom. His love and care
never tire or change, can never be taken from you, but may become
the source of life-long peace, happiness, and strength. Believe this
heartily, and go to God with all your little cares, and hopes, and
sins, and sorrows, as freely and confidingly as you come to your
mother."
  Jo's only answer was to hold her mother close, and, in the silence
which followed, the sincerest prayer she had ever prayed left her
heart without words; for in that sad, yet happy hour, she had
learned not only the bitterness of remorse and despair, but the
sweetness of self-denial and self-control; and, led by her mother's
hand, she had drawn nearer to the Friend who welcomes every child with
a love stronger than that of any father, tenderer than that of any
mother.
  Amy stirred, and sighed in her sleep; and, as if eager to begin at
once to mend her fault, Jo looked up with an expression on her face
which it had never worn before.
  "I let the sun go down on my anger; I wouldn't forgive her, and
to-day, if it hadn't been for Laurie, it might have been too late! How
could I be so wicked?" said Jo, half aloud, as she leaned over her
sister, softly stroking the wet hair scattered on the pillow.
  As if she heard, Amy opened her eyes, and held out her arms, with
a smile that went straight to Jo's heart. Neither said a word, but
they hugged one another close, in spite of the blankets, and
everything was forgiven and forgotten in one hearty kiss.
                             9
                   Meg Goes to Vanity Fair

  "I DO think it was the most fortunate thing in the world that
those children should have the measles just now," said Meg, one
April day, as she stood packing the "go abroady" trunk in her room,
surrounded by her sisters.
  "And so nice of Annie Moffat not to forget her promise. A whole
fortnight of fun will be regularly splendid," replied Jo, looking like
a windmill, as she folded skirts with her long arms.
  "And such lovely weather; I'm so glad of that," added Beth, tidily
sorting neck and hair ribbons in her best box, lent for the great
occasion.
  "I wish I was going to have a fine time, and wear all these nice
things," said Amy, with her mouth full of pins, as she artistically
replenished her sister's cushion.
  "I wish you were all going; but, as you can't, I shall keep my
adventures to tell you when I come back. I'm sure it's the least I can
do, when you have been so kind, lending me things, and helping me
get ready," said Meg, glancing round the room at the very simple
outfit, which seemed nearly perfect in their eyes.
  "What did mother give you out of the treasure-box?" asked Amy, who
had not been present at the opening of a certain cedar chest, in which
Mrs. March kept a few relics of past splendor, as gifts for her
girls when the proper time came.
  "A pair of silk stockings, that pretty carved fan, and a lovely blue
sash. I wanted the violet silk; but there isn't time to make it
over, so I must be contented with my old tarlatan."
  "It will look nicely over my new muslin skirt, and the sash will set
it off beautifully. I wish I hadn't smashed my coral bracelet, for you
might have had it," said Jo, who loved to give and lend, but whose
possessions were usually too dilapidated to be of much use.
  "There is a lovely old-fashioned pearl set in the treasure-box;
but mother said real flowers were the prettiest ornament for a young
girl, and Laurie promises to send me all I want," replied Meg. "Now,
let me see; there's my new gray walking-suit- just curl up the feather
in my hat, Beth- then my poplin, for Sunday, and the small party- it
looks heavy for spring, doesn't it? The violet silk would be so
nice; oh, dear!"
  "Never mind; you've got the tarlatan for the big party, and you
always look like an angel in white," said Amy, brooding over the
little store of finery in which her soul delighted.
  "It isn't low-necked, and it doesn't sweep enough, but it will
have to do. My blue house-dress looks so well, turned and freshly
trimmed, that I feel as if I'd got a new one. My silk sacque isn't a
bit the fashion, and my bonnet doesn't look like Sallie's; I didn't
like to say anything, but I was sadly disappointed in my umbrella, I
told mother black, with a white handle, but she forgot, and bought a
green one, with a yellowish handle. It's strong and neat, so I ought
not to complain, but I know I shall feel ashamed of it beside
Annie's silk one with a gold top," sighed Meg, surveying the little
umbrella with great disfavor.
  "Change it," advised Jo.
  "I won't be so silly, or hurt Marmee's feelings, when she took so
much pains to get my things. It's a nonsensical notion of mine, and
I'm not going to give up to it. My silk stockings and two pairs of new
gloves are my comfort. You are a dear, to lend me yours, Jo. I feel so
rich, and sort of elegant, with two new pairs, and the old ones
cleaned up for common"; and Meg took a refreshing peep at her
glove-box.
  "Annie Moffat has blue and pink bows on her nightcaps; would you put
some on mine?" she asked, as Beth brought up a pile of snowy
muslins, fresh from Hannah's hands.
  "No, I wouldn't; for the smart caps won't match the plain gowns,
without any trimming on them. Poor folks shouldn't rig," said Jo
decidedly.
  "I wonder if I shall ever be happy enough to have real lace on my
clothes, and bows on my caps?" said Meg impatiently.
  "You said the other day that you'd be perfectly happy if you could
only go to Annie Moffat's," observed Beth, in her quiet way.
  "So I did! Well, I am happy, and I won't fret; but it does seem as
if the more one gets the more one wants, doesn't it? There, now, the
trays are ready, and everything in but my ball-dress, which I shall
leave for mother to pack," said Meg, cheering up, as she glanced
from the half-filled trunk to the many-times pressed and mended
white tarlatan, which she called her "ball-dress," with an important
air.
  The next day was fine, and Meg departed, in style, for a fortnight
of novelty and pleasure. Mrs. March had consented to the visit
rather reluctantly, fearing that Margaret would come back more
discontented than she went. But she had begged so hard, and Sallie had
promised to take good care of her, and a little pleasure seemed so
delightful after a winter of irksome work, that the mother yielded,
and the daughter went to take her first taste of fashionable life.
  The Moffats were very fashionable, and simple Meg was rather
daunted, at first, by the splendor of the house and the elegance of
its occupants. But they were kindly people, in spite of the
frivolous life they led, and soon put their guest at her ease. Perhaps
Meg felt, without understanding why, that they were not particularly
cultivated or intelligent people, and that all their gilding could not
quite conceal the ordinary material of which they were made. It
certainly was agreeable to fare sumptuously, drive in a fine carriage,
wear her best frock every day, and do nothing but enjoy herself. It
suited her exactly; and soon she began to imitate the manners and
conversation of those about her; to put on little airs and graces, use
French phrases, crimp her hair, take in her dresses, and talk about
the fashions as well as she could. The more she saw of Annie
Moffat's pretty things, the more she envied her, and sighed to be
rich. Home now looked bare and dismal as she thought of it, work
grew harder than ever, and she felt that she was a very destitute
and much-injured girl, in spite of the new gloves and silk stockings.
  She had not much time for repining, however, for the three young
girls were busily employed in "having a good time." They shopped,
walked, rode, and called all day; went to theaters and operas, or
frolicked at home in the evening; for Annie had many friends, and knew
how to entertain them. Her older sisters were very fine young
ladies, and one was engaged, which was extremely interesting and
romantic, Meg thought. Mr. Moffat was a fat, jolly old gentleman,
who knew her father; and Mrs. Moffat, a fat, jolly old lady, who
took as great a fancy to Meg as her daughter had done. Every one
petted her; and "Daisy," as they called her, was in a fair way to have
her head turned.
  When the evening for the "small party" came, she found that the
poplin wouldn't do at all, for the other girls were putting on thin
dresses, and making themselves very fine indeed; so out came the
tarlatan, looking older, limper, and shabbier than ever beside
Sallie's crisp new one. Meg saw the girls glance at it and then at one
another, and her cheeks began to burn, for, with all her gentleness,
she was very proud. No one said a word about it, but Sallie offered to
dress her hair, and Annie to tie her sash, and Belle, the engaged
sister, praised her white arms; but in their kindness Meg saw only
pity for her poverty, and her heart felt very heavy as she stood by
herself, while the others laughed, chattered, and flew about like
gauzy butterflies. The hard, bitter feeling was getting pretty bad,
when the maid brought in a box of flowers. Before she could speak,
Annie had the cover off, and all were exclaiming at the lovely
roses, heath, and fern within.
  "It's for Belle, of course; George always sends her some, but
these are altogether ravishing," cried Annie, with a great sniff.
  "They are for Miss March, the man said. And here's a note," put in
the maid, holding it to Meg.
  "What fun! Who are they from? Didn't know you had a lover," cried
the girls, fluttering about Meg in a high state of curiosity and
surprise.
  "The note is from mother, and the flowers from Laurie," said Meg
simply, yet much gratified that he had not forgotten her.
  "Oh, indeed!" said Annie, with a funny look, as Meg slipped the note
into her pocket, as a sort of talisman against envy, vanity, and false
pride; for the few loving words had done her good, and the flowers
cheered her up by their beauty.
  Feeling almost happy again, she laid by a few ferns and roses for
herself, and quickly made up the rest in dainty bouquets for the
breasts, hair, or skirts of her friends, offering them so prettily
that Clara, the elder sister, told her she was "the sweetest little
thing she ever saw"; and they looked quite charmed with her small
attention. Somehow the kind act finished her despondency; and when all
the rest went to show themselves to Mrs. Moffat, she saw a happy,
bright-eyed face in the mirror, as she laid her ferns against her
rippling hair, and fastened the roses in the dress that didn't
strike her as so very shabby now.
  She enjoyed herself very much that evening, for she danced to her
heart's content; every one was very kind, and she had three
compliments. Annie made her sing, and some one said she had a
remarkably fine voice; Major Lincoln asked who "the fresh little girl,
with the beautiful eyes," was; and Mr. Moffat insisted on dancing with
her, because she "didn't dawdle, but had some spring in her," as he
gracefully expressed it. So, altogether, she had a very nice time,
till she overheard a bit of a conversation, which disturbed her
extremely. She was sitting just inside the conservatory, waiting for
her partner to bring her an ice, when she heard a voice ask, on the
other side of the flowery wall, "How old is he?"
  "Sixteen or seventeen, I should say," replied another voice.
  "It would be a grand thing for one of those girls, wouldn't it?
Sallie says they are very intimate now, and the old man quite dotes on
them."
  "Mrs. M. has made her plans, I dare say, and will play her cards
well, early as it is. The girl evidently doesn't think of it yet,"
said Mrs. Moffat.
  "She told that fib about her mamma, as if she did know, and
colored up when the flowers came, quite prettily. Poor thing! she'd be
so nice if she was only got up in style. Do you think she'd be
offended if we offered to lend her a dress for Thursday?" asked
another voice.
  "She's proud, but I don't believe she'd mind, for that dowdy
tarlatan is all she has got. She may tear it to-night, and that will
be a good excuse for offering a decent one."
  "We'll see. I shall ask young Laurence, as a compliment to her,
and we'll have fun about it afterward."
  Here Meg's partner appeared, to find her looking much flushed and
rather agitated. She was proud, and her pride was useful just then,
for it helped her hide her mortification, anger, and disgust at what
she had just heard; for, innocent and unsuspicious as she was, she
could not help understanding the gossip of her friends, She tried to
forget it, but could not, and kept repeating to herself, "Mrs. M.
has made her plans," "that fib about her mamma," and "dowdy tarlatan,"
till she was ready to cry, and rush home to tell her troubles and
ask for advice. As that was impossible, she did her best to seem
gay; and, being rather excited, she succeeded so well that no one
dreamed what an effort she was making. She was very glad when it was
all over, and she was quiet in her bed, where she could think and
wonder and fume till her head ached and her hot cheeks were cooled
by a few natural tears. Those foolish, yet well-meant words, had
opened a new world to Meg, and much disturbed the peace of the old
one, in which, till now, she had lived as happily as a child. Her
innocent friendship with Laurie was spoilt by the silly speeches she
had overheard; her faith in her mother was a little shaken by the
worldly plans attributed to her by Mrs. Moffat, who judged others by
herself; and the sensible resolution to be contented with the simple
wardrobe which suited a poor man's daughter, was weakened by the
unnecessary pity of girls who thought a shabby dress one of the
greatest calamities under heaven.
  Poor Meg had a restless night, and got up heavy-eyed, unhappy,
half resentful toward her friends, and half ashamed of herself for not
speaking out frankly, and setting everything right. Everybody
dawdled that morning, and it was noon before the girls found energy
enough even to take up their worsted work. Something in the manner
of her friends struck Meg at once; they treated her with more respect,
she thought; took quite a tender interest in what she said, and looked
at her with eyes that plainly betrayed curiosity. All this surprised
and flattered her, though she did not understand it till Miss Belle
looked up from her writing, and said, with a sentimental air-
  "Daisy, dear, I've sent an invitation to your friend, Mr.
Laurence, for Thursday. We should like to know him, and it's only a
proper compliment to you."
  Meg colored, but a mischievous fancy to tease the girls made her
reply demurely-
  "You are very kind, but I'm afraid he won't come."
  "Why not, cherie?" asked Miss Belle.
  "He's too old."
  "My child, what do you mean? What is his age, I beg to know!"
cried Miss Clara.
  "Nearly seventy, I believe," answered Meg, counting stitches, to
hide the merriment in her eyes.
  "You sly creature! Of course we meant the young man," exclaimed Miss
Belle, laughing.
  "There isn't any; Laurie is only a little boy," and Meg laughed also
at the queer look which the sisters exchanged as she thus described
her supposed lover.
  "About your age," Nan said.
  "Nearer my sister Jo's; I am seventeen in August," returned Meg,
tossing her head.
  "It's very nice of him to send you flowers, isn't it?" said Annie,
looking wise about nothing.
  "Yes, he often does, to all of us; for their house is full, and we
are so fond of them. My mother and old Mr. Laurence are friends, you
know, so it is quite natural that we children should play together";
and Meg hoped they would say no more.
  "It's evident Daisy isn't out yet," said Miss Clara to Belle, with a
nod.
  "Quite a pastoral state of innocence all round," returned Miss
Belle, with a shrug.
  "I'm going out to get some little matters for my girls; can I do
anything for you, young ladies?" asked Mrs. Moffat, lumbering in, like
an elephant, in silk and lace.
  "No, thank you, ma'am," replied Sallie. "I've got my new pink silk
for Thursday, and don't want a thing."
  "Nor I-" began Meg, but stopped, because it occurred to her that she
did want several things, and could not have them.
  "What shall you wear?" asked Sallie. "My old white one again, if I
can mend it fit to be seen; it got sadly torn last night," said Meg,
trying to speak quite easily, but feeling very uncomfortable.
  "Why don't you send home for another?" said Sallie, who was not an
observing young lady.
  "I haven't got any other." It cost Meg an effort to say that, but
Sallie did not see it, and exclaimed, in amiable surprise-
  "Only that? How funny-" She did not finish her speech, for Belle
shook her head at her, and broke in, saying kindly-
  "Not at all; where is the use of having a lot of dresses when she
isn't out? There's no need of sending home, Daisy, even if you had a
dozen, for I've got a sweet blue silk laid away, which I've
outgrown, and you shall wear it, to please me, won't you, dear?"
  "You are very kind, but I don't mind my old dress, if you don't;
it does well enough for a little girl like me," said Meg.
  "Now do let me please myself by dressing you up in style. I admire
to do it, and you'd be a regular little beauty, with a touch here
and there. I shan't let any one see you till you are done, and then
we'll burst upon them like Cinderella and her godmother, going to
the ball," said Belle, in her persuasive tone.
  Meg couldn't refuse the offer so kindly made, for a desire to see if
she would be "a little beauty" after touching up, caused her to
accept, and forget all her former uncomfortable feelings towards the
Moffats.
  On the Thursday evening, Belle shut herself up with her maid; and,
between them, they turned Meg into a fine lady. They crimped and
curled her hair, they polished her neck and arms with some fragrant
powder, touched her lips with coralline salve, to make them redder,
and Hortense would have added "a soupcon of rouge," if Meg had not
rebelled. They laced her into a sky-blue dress, which was so tight she
could hardly breathe, and so low in the neck that modest Meg blushed
at herself in the mirror. A set of silver filagree was added,
bracelets, necklace, brooch, and even earrings; for Hortense tied them
on, with a bit of pink silk, which did not show. A cluster of
tea-rosebuds at the bosom, and a ruche, reconciled Meg to the
display of her pretty white shoulders, and a pair of high-heeled
blue silk boots satisfied the last wish of her heart. A laced
handkerchief, a plumy fan, and a bouquet in a silver holder finished
her off; and Miss Belle surveyed her with the satisfaction of a little
girl with a newly dressed doll.
  "Mademoiselle is charmante, tres jolie, is she not?" cried Hortense,
clasping her hands in an affected rapture.
  "Come and show yourself," said Miss Belle, leading the way to the
room where the others were waiting.
  As Meg went rustling after, with her long skirts trailing, her
earrings tinkling, her curls waving, and her heart beating, she felt
as if her "fun" had really begun at last, for the mirror had plainly
told her that she was "a little beauty." Her friends repeated the
pleasing phrase enthusiastically; and, for several minutes, she stood,
like the jackdaw in the fable, enjoying her borrowed plumes, while the
rest chattered like a party of magpies.
  "While I dress, do you drill her, Nan, in the management of her
skirt, and those French heels, or she will trip herself up. Take
your silver butterfly, and catch up that long curl on the left side of
her head, Clara, and don't any of you disturb the charming work of
my hands," said Belle, as she hurried away, looking well pleased
with her success.
  "I'm afraid to go down, I feel so queer and stiff and half-dressed,"
said Meg to Sallie, as the bell rang, and Mrs. Moffat sent to ask
the young ladies to appear at once.
  "You don't look a bit like yourself, but you are very nice. I'm
nowhere beside you, for Belle has heaps of taste, and you're quite
French, I assure you. Let your flowers hang; don't be so careful of
them, and be sure you don't trip," returned Sallie, trying not to care
that Meg was prettier than herself.
  Keeping that warning carefully in mind, Margaret got safely down
stairs, and sailed into the drawing-rooms, where the Moffats and a few
early guests were assembled. She very soon discovered that there is
a charm about fine clothes which attracts a certain class of people,
and secures their respect. Several young ladies, who had taken no
notice of her before, were very affectionate all of a sudden;
several young gentlemen, who had only stared at her at the other
party, now not only stared, but asked to be introduced, and said all
manner of foolish but agreeable things to her; and several old ladies,
who sat on sofas, and criticized the rest of the party, inquired who
she was, with an air of interest. She heard Mrs. Moffat reply to one
of them-
  "Daisy March- father a colonel in the army- one of our first
families, but reverses of fortune, you know; intimate friends of the
Laurences; sweet creature, I assure you; my Ned is quite wild about
her."
  "Dear me!" said the old lady, putting up her glass for another
observation of Meg, who tried to look as if she had not heard, and
been rather shocked at Mrs. Moffat's fibs.
  The "queer feeling" did not pass away, but she imagined herself
acting the new part of fine lady, and so got on pretty well, though
the tight dress gave her a side-ache, the train kept getting under her
feet, and she was in constant fear lest her ear-rings should fly
off, and get lost or broken. She was flirting her fan, and laughing at
the feeble jokes of a young gentleman who tried to be witty, when
she suddenly stopped laughing, and looked confused; for, just
opposite, she saw Laurie. He was staring at her with undisguised
surprise, and disapproval also, she thought; for, though he bowed
and smiled, yet something in his honest eyes made her blush, and
wish she had her old dress on. To complete her confusion, she saw
Belle nudge Annie, and both glance from her to Laurie, who, she was
happy to see, looked unusually boyish and shy.
  "Silly creatures, to put such thoughts into my head! I won't care
for it, or let it change me a bit," thought Meg, and rustled across
the room to shake hands with her friend.
  "I'm glad you came, I was afraid you wouldn't," she said, with her
most grown-up air.
  "Jo wanted me to come, and tell her how you looked, so I did,"
answered Laurie, without turning his eyes upon her, though he half
smiled at her maternal tone.
  "What shall you tell her?" asked Meg, full of curiosity to know
his opinion of her, yet feeling ill at ease with him, for the first
time.
  "I shall say I didn't know you; for you look so grown-up, and unlike
yourself, I'm quite afraid of you," he said, fumbling at his
glove-button.
  "How absurd of you! The girls dressed me up for fun, and I rather
like it. Wouldn't Jo stare if she saw me?" said Meg, bent on making
him say whether he thought her improved or not.
  "Yes, I think she would," returned Laurie gravely.
  "Don't you like me so?" asked Meg.
  "No, I don't," was the blunt reply.
  "Why not?" in an anxious tone.
  He glanced at her frizzled head, bare shoulders, and fantastically
trimmed dress, with an expression that abashed her more than his
answer, which had not a particle of his usual politeness about it.
  "I don't like fuss and feathers."
  That was altogether too much from a lad younger than herself; and
Meg walked away, saying petulantly-
  "You are the rudest boy I ever saw."
  Feeling very much ruffled, she went and stood at a quiet window,
to cool her cheeks, for the tight dress gave her an uncomfortably
brilliant color. As she stood there, Major Lincoln passed by; and, a
minute after, she heard him saying to his mother-
  "They are making a fool of that little girl; I wanted you to see
her, but they have spoilt her entirely; she's nothing but a doll,
to-night."
  "Oh, dear!" sighed Meg; "I wish I'd been sensible, and worn my own
things; then I should not have disgusted other people, or felt so
uncomfortable and ashamed myself." She leaned her forehead on the cool
pane, and stood half hidden by the curtains, never minding that her
favorite waltz had begun, till some one touched her; and, turning, she
saw Laurie, looking penitent, as he said, with his very best bow,
and his hand out-
  "Please forgive my rudeness, and come and dance with me."
  "I'm afraid it will be too disagreeable to you," said Meg, trying to
look offended, and failing entirely.
  "Not a bit of it; I'm dying to do it. Come, I'll be good; I don't
like your gown, but I do think you are- just splendid"; and he waved
his hands, as if words failed to express his admiration.
  Meg smiled and relented, and whispered, as they stood waiting to
catch the time-
  "Take care my skirt don't trip you up; it's the plague of my life
and I was a goose to wear it."
  "Pin it round your neck, and then it will be useful," said Laurie,
looking down at the little blue boots, which he evidently approved of.
  Away they went, fleetly and gracefully; for, having practised at
home, they were well matched, and the blithe young couple were a
pleasant sight to see, as they twirled merrily round and round,
feeling more friendly than ever after their small tiff.
  "Laurie, I want you to do me a favor; will you?" said Meg, as he
stood fanning her, when her breath gave out, which it did very soon,
though she would not own why.
  "Won't I!" said Laurie, with alacrity.
  "Please don't tell them at home about my dress to-night. They
won't understand the joke, and it will worry mother."
  "Then why did you do it?" said Laurie's eyes, so plainly that Meg
hastily added-
  "I shall tell them, myself, all about it, and ''fess' to mother
how silly I've been. But I'd rather do it myself; so you'll not
tell, will you?"
  "I give you my word I won't; only what shall I say when they ask
me?"
  "Just say I looked pretty well, and was having a good time."
  "I'll say the first, with all my heart; but how about the other? You
don't look as if you were having a good time; are you?" and Laurie
looked at her with an expression which made her answer, in a whisper-
  "No; not just now. Don't think I'm horrid; I only wanted a little
fun, but this sort doesn't pay, I find, and I'm getting tired of it."
  "Here comes Ned Moffat; what does he want?" said Laurie, knitting
his black brows, as if he did not regard his young host in the light
of a pleasant addition to the party.
  "He put his name down for three dances, and I suppose he's coming
for them. What a bore!" said Meg, assuming a languid air, which amused
Laurie immensely.
  He did not speak to her again till supper-time, when he saw her
drinking champagne with Ned and his friend Fisher, who were behaving
"like a pair of fools," as Laurie said to himself, for he felt a
brotherly sort of right to watch over the Marches, and fight their
battles whenever a defender was needed.
  "You'll have a splitting headache to-morrow, if you drink much of
that. I wouldn't, Meg; your mother doesn't like it, you know," he
whispered, leaning over her chair, as Ned turned to refill her
glass, and Fisher stooped to pick up her fan.
  "I'm not Meg, to-night; I'm 'a doll,' who does all sorts of crazy
things. To-morrow I shall put away my 'fuss and feathers, and be
desperately good again," she answered, with an affected little laugh.
  "Wish to-morrow was here, then," muttered Laurie, walking off, ill
pleased at the change he saw in her.
  Meg danced and flirted, chattered and giggled, as the other girls
did; after supper she undertook the German, and blundered through
it, nearly upsetting her partner with her long skirt, and romping in a
way that scandalized Laurie, who looked on and meditated a lecture.
But he got no chance to deliver it, for Meg kept away from him till he
came to say good-night.
  "Remember!" she said, trying to smile, for the splitting headache
had already begun.
  "Silence a la mort," replied Laurie, with a melodramatic flourish,
as he went away.
  This little bit of by-play excited Annie's curiosity; but Meg was
too tired for gossip, and went to bed, feeling as if she had been to a
masquerade, and hadn't enjoyed herself as much as she expected. She
was sick all the next day, and on Saturday went home, quite used up
with her fortnight's fun, and feeling that she had "sat in the lap
of luxury" long enough.
  "It does seem pleasant to be quiet, and not have company manners
on all the time. Home is a nice place, though it isn't splendid," said
Meg, looking about her with a restful expression, as she sat with
her mother and Jo on the Sunday evening.
  "I'm glad to hear you say so, dear, for I was afraid home would seem
dull and poor to you, after your fine quarters," replied her mother,
who had given her many anxious looks that day; for motherly eyes are
quick to see any change in children's faces.
  Meg had told her adventures gayly, and said over and over what a
charming time she had had; but something still seemed to weigh upon
her spirits, and, when the younger girls were gone to bed, she sat
thoughtfully staring at the fire, saying little, and looking
worried. As the clock struck nine, and Jo proposed bed, Meg suddenly
left her chair, and, taking Beth's stool, leaned her elbows on her
mother's knee, saying bravely-
  "'Marmee, I want to' 'fess.'"
  "I thought so; what is it, dear?"
  "Shall I go away?" asked Jo discreetly.
  "Of course not; don't I always tell you everything? I was ashamed to
speak of it before the children, but I want you to know all the
dreadful things I did at the Moffats."
  "We are prepared," said Mrs. March, smiling, but looking a little
anxious.
  "I told you they dressed me up, but I didn't tell you that they
powdered and squeezed and frizzled, and made me look like a
fashion-plate. Laurie thought I wasn't proper; I know he did, though
he didn't say so, and one man called me 'a doll.' I knew it was silly,
but they flattered me, and said I was a beauty, and quantities of
nonsense, so I let them make a fool of me."
  "Is that all?" asked Jo, as Mrs. March looked silently at the
downcast face of her pretty daughter, and could not find it in her
heart to blame her little follies.
  "No; I drank champagne and romped and tried to flirt, and was
altogether abominable," said Meg self-reproachfully.
  "There is something more, I think"; and Mrs. March smoothed the soft
cheek, which suddenly grew rosy, as Meg answered slowly-
  "Yes; it's very silly, but I want to tell it, because I hate to have
people say and think such things about us and Laurie."
  Then she told the various bits of gossip she had heard at the
Moffats'; and, as she spoke, Jo saw her mother fold her lips
tightly, as if ill pleased that such ideas should be put into Meg's
innocent mind.
  "Well, if that isn't the greatest rubbish I ever heard," cried Jo
indignantly. "Why didn't you pop out and tell them so, on the spot?"
  "I couldn't, it was so embarrassing for me. I couldn't help hearing,
at first, and then I was so angry and ashamed, I didn't remember
that I ought to go away."
  "Just wait till I see Annie Moffat, and I'll show you how to
settle such ridiculous stuff. The idea of having 'plans,' and being
kind to Laurie, because he's rich, and may marry us by and by! Won't
he shout, when I tell him what those silly things say about us poor
children?" and Jo laughed, as if, on second thoughts, the thing struck
her as a good joke.
  "If you tell Laurie, I'll never forgive you! She mustn't, must
she, mother?" said Meg, looking distressed.
  "No; never repeat that foolish gossip, and forget it as soon as
you can said Mrs. March gravely. "I was very unwise to let you go
among people of whom I know so little- kind, I dare say, but
worldly, ill-bred, and full of these vulgar ideas about young
people. I am more sorry than I can express for the mischief this visit
may have done you, Meg."
  "Don't be sorry, I won't let it hurt me; I'll forget all the bad,
and remember only the good; for I did enjoy a great deal, and thank
you very much for letting me go. I'll not be sentimental or
dissatisfied, mother; I know I'm a silly little girl, and I'll stay
with you till I'm fit to take care of myself. But it is nice to be
praised, and admired, and I can't help saying I like it," said Meg,
looking half ashamed of the confession.
  "That is perfectly natural, and quite harmless, if the liking does
not become a passion, and lead one to do foolish or unmaidenly things.
Learn to know and value the praise which is worth having, and to
excite the admiration of excellent people by being modest as well as
pretty, Meg."
  Margaret sat thinking a moment, while Jo stood with her hands behind
her, looking both interested and a little perplexed; for it was a
new thing to see Meg blushing and talking about admiration, lovers,
and things of that sort; and Jo felt as if, during that fortnight, her
sister had grown up amazingly, and was drifting away from her into a
world where she could not follow.
  "Mother, do you have 'plans,' as Mrs. Moffat said?" asked Meg
bashfully.
  "Yes, my dear, I have a great many; all mothers do, but mine
differ somewhat from Mrs. Moffat's, I suspect. I will tell you some of
them, for the time has come when a word may set this romantic little
head and heart of yours right, on a very serious subject. You are
young, Meg, but not too young to understand me; and mothers' lips
are the fittest to speak of such things to girls like you. Jo, your
turn will come in time, perhaps, so listen to my 'plans,' and help
me carry them out, if they are good."
  Jo went and sat on one arm of the chair, looking as if she thought
they were about to join in some very solemn affair. Holding a hand
of each, and watching the two young faces wistfully, Mrs. March
said, in her serious yet cheery way-
  "I want my daughters to be beautiful, accomplished, and good; to
be admired, loved, and respected; to have a happy youth, to be well
and wisely married, and to lead useful, pleasant lives, with as little
care and sorrow to try them as God sees fit to send. To be loved and
chosen by a good man is the best and sweetest thing which can happen
to a woman; and I sincerely hope my girls may know this beautiful
experience. It is natural to think of it, Meg; right to hope and
wait for it, and wise to prepare for it; so that, when the happy
time comes, you may feel ready for the duties and worthy of the joy.
My dear girls, I am ambitious for you, but not to have you make a dash
in the world- marry rich men merely because they are rich, or have
splendid houses, which are not homes because love is wanting. Money is
a needful and precious thing- and, when well used, a noble thing-
but I never want you to think it is the first or only prize to
strive for. I'd rather see you poor men's wives, if you were happy,
beloved, contented, than queens on thrones, without self-respect and
peace."
  "Poor girls don't stand any chance, Belle says, unless they put
themselves forward," sighed Meg.
  "Then we'll be old maids," said Jo stoutly.
  "Right, Jo; better be happy old maids than unhappy wives, or
unmaidenly girls, running about to find husbands," said Mrs. March
decidedly. "Don't be troubled, Meg; poverty seldom daunts a sincere
lover. Some of the best and most honored women I know were poor girls,
but so love-worthy that they were not allowed to be old maids. Leave
these things to time; make this home happy, so that you may be fit for
homes of your own, if they are offered you, and contented here if they
are not. One thing remember, my girls: mother is always ready to be
your confidant, father to be your friend; and both of us trust and
hope that our daughters, whether married or single, will be the
pride and comfort of our lives."
  "We will, Marmee, we will!" cried both, with all their hearts, as
she bade them good-night.
                             10
                      The P. C. and P. O.

  AS spring came on, a new set of amusements became the fashion, and
the lengthening days gave long afternoons for work and play of all
sorts. The garden had to be put in order, and each sister had a
quarter of the little plot to do what she liked with. Hannah used to
say, "I'd know which each of them gardings belonged to, ef I see 'em
in Chiny"; and so she might, for the girls' tastes differed as much as
their characters. Meg's had roses and heliotrope, myrtle, and a little
orange-tree in it. Jo's bed was never alike two seasons, for she was
always trying experiments; this year it was to be a plantation of
sun-flowers, the seeds of which cheerful and aspiring plant were to
feed "Aunt Cockle-top" and her family of chicks. Beth had
old-fashioned, fragrant flowers in her garden- sweet peas and
mignonette, larkspur, pinks, pansies, and southernwood, with chickweed
for the bird, and catnip for the pussies. Amy had a bower in hers-
rather small and earwiggy, but very pretty to look at- with
honeysuckles and morning-glories hanging their colored horns and bells
in graceful wreaths all over it; tall, white lilies, delicate ferns,
and as many brilliant, picturesque plants as would consent to
blossom there.
  Gardening, walks, rows on the river, and flower-hunts employed the
fine days; and for rainy ones, they had house diversions- some old,
some new- all more or less original. One of these was the "P. C.";
for, as secret societies were the fashion, it was thought proper to
have one; and, as all of the girls admired Dickens, they called
themselves the Pickwick Club. With a few interruptions, they had
kept this up for a year, and met every Saturday evening in the big
garret, on which occasions the ceremonies were as follows: Three
chairs were arranged in a row before a table, on which was a lamp,
also four white badges, with a big "P. C." in different colors on
each, and the weekly newspaper, called "The Pickwick Portfolio," to
which all contributed something; while Jo, who revelled in pens and
ink, was the editor. At seven o'clock, the four members ascended to
the club-room, tied their badges round their heads, and took their
seats with great solemnity. Meg, as the eldest, was Samuel Pickwick;
Jo, being of a literary turn, Augustus Snodgrass; Beth, because she
was round and rosy, Tracy Tupman; and Amy, who was always trying to do
what she couldn't, was Nathaniel Winkle. Pickwick, the president, read
the paper, which was filled with original tales, poetry, local news,
funny advertisements, and hints, in which they good-naturedly reminded
each other of their faults and short-comings. On one occasion, Mr.
Pickwick put on a pair of spectacles without any glasses, rapped
upon the table, hemmed, and, having stared hard at Mr. Snodgrass,
who was tilting back in his chair, till he arranged himself
properly, began to read:

                     THE PICKWICK PORTFOLIO
---------------------------------------------------------------------
                          POET'S CORNER
              - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
                         ANNIVERSARY ODE

             AGAIN we meet to celebrate
                With badge and solemn rite,
              Our fifty-second anniversary,
                In Pickwick Hall, to-night.

              We all are here in perfect health,
                None gone from our small band;
              Again we see each well-known face,
                And press each friendly hand.

              Our Pickwick, always at his post,
                With reverence we greet,
              As, spectacles on nose, he reads
                Our well-filled weekly sheet.

              Although he suffers from a cold,
                We joy to hear him speak,
              For words of wisdom from him fall,
                In spite of croak or squeak.

              Old six-foot Snodgrass looms on high,
                With elephantine grace,
              And beams upon the company,
                With brown and jovial face.

              Poetic fire lights up his eye,
                He struggles 'gainst his lot.
              Behold ambition on his brow,
                And on his nose a blot!

              Next our peaceful Tupman comes,
                So rosy, plump, and sweet,
              Who chokes with laughter at the puns,
                And tumbles off his seat.

              Prim little Winkle too is here,
                With every hair in place,
              A model of propriety,
                Though he hates to wash his face.

              The year is gone, we still unite
                To joke and laugh and read,
              And tread the path of literature
                That doth to glory lead.

              Long may our paper prosper well,
                Our club unbroken be,
              And coming years their blessings pour
                On the useful, gay "P. C."
                                                   A. SNODGRASS.
              - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

                       THE MASKED MARRIAGE
                        A TALE OF VENICE

  GONDOLA after gondola swept up to the marble steps, and left its
lovely load to swell the brilliant throng that filled the stately
halls of Count de Adelon. Knights and ladies, elves and pages, monks
and flower-girls, all mingled gayly in the dance. Sweet voices and
rich melody filled the air; and so with mirth and music the masquerade
went on.
  "Has your Highness seen the Lady Viola to-night?" asked a gallant
troubadour of the fairy queen who floated down the hall upon his arm.
  "Yes; is she not lovely, though so sad! Her dress is well chosen,
too, for in a week she weds Count Antonio, whom she passionately
hates."
  "By my faith, I envy him. Yonder he comes, arrayed like a
bridegroom, except the black mask. When that is off we shall see how
he regards the fair maid whose heart he cannot win, though her stern
father bestows her hand," returned the troubadour.
  "'T is whispered that she loves the young English artist who
haunts her steps, and is spurned by the old count," said the lady,
as they joined the dance.
  The revel was at its height when a priest appeared, and, withdrawing
the young pair to an alcove hung with purple velvet, he motioned them
to kneel. Instant silence fell upon the gay throng; and not a sound,
but the dash of fountains or the rustle of orange-groves sleeping in
the moonlight, broke the hush, as Count de Adelon spoke thus:
  "My lords and ladies, pardon the ruse by which I have gathered you
here to witness the marriage of my daughter. Father, we wait your
services."
  All eyes turned toward the bridal party, and a low murmur of
amazement went through the throng, for neither bride nor groom removed
their masks. Curiosity and wonder possessed all hearts, but respect
restrained all tongues till the holy rite was over. Then the eager
spectators gathered round the count, demanding an explanation.
  "Gladly would I give it if I could; but I only know that it was
the whim of my timid Viola, and I yielded to it. Now, my children, let
the play end. Unmask, and receive my blessing."
  But neither bent the knee; for the young bridegroom replied, in a
tone that startled all listeners, as the mask fell, disclosing the
noble face of Ferdinand Devereux, the artist lover; and, leaning on
the breast where now flashed the star of an English earl, was the
lovely Viola, radiant with joy and beauty.
  "My lord, you scornfully bade me claim your daughter when I could
boast as high a name and vast a fortune as the Count Antonio. I can do
more; for even your ambitious soul cannot refuse the Earl of
Devereux and De Vere, when he gives his ancient name and boundless
wealth in return for the beloved hand of this fair lady, now my wife."
  The count stood like one changed to stone; and, turning to the
bewildered crowd, Ferdinand added, with a gay smile of triumph, "To
you, my gallant friends, I can only wish that your wooing may
prosper as mine has done; and that you may all win as fair a bride
as I have, by this masked marriage."
                                                    S. PICKWICK.
              - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

            Why is the P. C. like the Tower of Babel!
                  It is full of unruly members.
              - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

                    THE HISTORY OF A SQUASH.

  ONCE upon a time a farmer planted a little seed in his garden, and
after a while it sprouted and became a vine, and bore many squashes.
One day in October, when they were ripe, he picked one and took it
to market. A grocerman bought and put it in his shop. That same
morning, a little girl, in a brown hat and blue dress, with a round
face and snub nose, went and bought it for her mother. She lugged it
home, cut it up, and boiled it in the big pot; mashed some of it, with
salt and butter, for dinner; and to the rest she added a pint of milk,
two eggs, four spoons of sugar, nutmeg, and some crackers; put it in a
deep dish, and baked it till it was brown and nice; and next day it
was eaten by a family named March.
                                                      T. TUPMAN.
              - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

  MR. PICKWICK, Sir:
    I address you upon the subject of sin the sinner I mean is a man
named Winkle who makes trouble in his club by laughing and sometimes
won't write his piece in this fine paper I hope you will pardon his
badness and let him send a French fable because he can't write out
of his head as he has so many lessons to do and no brains in future
I will try to take time by the fetlock and prepare some work which
will be all commy la fo that means all right I am in haste as it is
nearly school time
  Yours respectably,                                  N. WINKLE.

 [The above is a manly and handsome acknowledgment of past
misdemeanors. If our young friend studied punctuation, it would be
well.]
              - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

                         A SAD ACCIDENT

  ON FRIDAY last, we were startled by a violent shock in our basement,
followed by cries of distress. On rushing, in a body, to the cellar,
we discovered our beloved President prostrate upon the floor, having
tripped and fallen while getting wood for domestic purposes. A perfect
scene of ruin met our eyes; for in his fall Mr. Pickwick had plunged
his head and shoulders into a tub of water, upset a keg of soft soap
upon his manly form, and torn his garments badly. On being removed
from this perilous situation, it was discovered that he had suffered
no injury but several bruises; and, we are happy to add, is now
doing well.
                                                             ED.
              - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

                     THE PUBLIC BEREAVEMENT

  IT IS our painful duty to record the sudden and mysterious
disappearance of our cherished friend, Mrs. Snowball Pat Paw. This
lovely and beloved cat was the pet of a large circle of warm and
admiring friends; for her beauty attracted all eyes, her graces and
virtues endeared her to all hearts, and her loss is deeply felt by the
whole community.
  When last seen, she was sitting at the gate, watching the
butcher's cart; and it is feared that some villain, tempted by her
charms, basely stole her. Weeks have passed, but no trace of her has
been discovered; and we relinquish all hope, tie a black ribbon to her
basket, set aside her dish, and weep for her as one lost to us
forever.

  A sympathizing friend sends the following gem:

                            A LAMENT
                       FOR S. B. PAT PAW.

            WE MOURN the loss of our little pet,
              And sigh o'er her hapless fate,
            For never more by the fire she'll sit,
              Nor play by the old green gate.

            The little grave where her infant sleeps
              Is 'neath the chestnut tree;
            But o'er her grave we may not weep,
              We know not where it may be.

            Her empty bed, her idle ball,
              Will never see her more;
            No gentle tap, no loving purr
              Is heard at the parlor-door.

            Another cat comes after her mice,
              A cat with a dirty face;
            But she does not hunt as our darling did,
              Nor play with her airy grace.

            Her stealthy paws tread the very hall
              Where Snowball used to play,
            But she only spits at the dogs our pet
              So gallantly drove away.

            She is useful and mild, and does her best,
              But she is not fair to see;
            And we cannot give her your place, dear,
              Nor worship her as we worship thee.
                                                           A. S.

              - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
                         ADVERTISEMENTS
              - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
  MISS ORANTHY BLUGGAGE, the accomplished Strong-Minded Lecturer, will
deliver her famous Lecture on "WOMAN AND HER POSITION," at Pickwick
Hall, next Saturday Evening, after the usual performances.
              - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

  A WEEKLY MEETING will be held at Kitchen Place, to teach young
ladies how to cook. Hannah Brown will preside; and all are invited
to attend.
              - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

  THE DUSTPAN SOCIETY will meet on Wednesday next, and parade in the
upper story of the Club House. All members to appear in uniform and
shoulder their brooms at nine precisely.
              - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

  MRS. BETH BOUNCER will open her new assortment of Doll's Millinery
next week. The latest Paris Fashions have arrived, and orders are
respectfully solicited.
              - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

  A NEW PLAY will appear at the Barnville Theater, in the course of
a few weeks, which will surpass anything ever seen on the American
stage. "THE GREEK SLAVE, or Constantine the Avenger," is the name of
this thrilling drama!!!
              - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

                              HINTS

  If S. P. didn't use so much soap on his hands, he wouldn't always be
late at breakfast. A. S. is requested not to whistle in the street. T.
T., please don't forget Amy's napkin. N. W. must not fret because
his dress has not nine tucks.
              - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

                          WEEKLY REPORT

                        MEG - Good.
                        JO - Bad.
                        BETH - Very good.
                        AMY - Middling.

  As the President finished reading the paper (which I beg leave to
assure my readers is a bona fide copy of one written by bona fide
girls once upon a time), a round of applause followed, and then Mr.
Snodgrass rose to make a proposition.
  "Mr. President and gentlemen," he began, assuming a parliamentary
attitude and tone, "I wish to propose the admission of a new member-
one who highly deserves the honor, would be deeply grateful for it,
and would add immensely to the spirit of the club, the literary value
of the paper, and be no end jolly and nice. I propose Mr. Theodore
Laurence as an honorary member of the P. C. Come now, do have him."
  Jo's sudden change of tone made the girls laugh; but all looked
rather anxious, and no one said a word, as Snodgrass took his seat.
  "We'll put it to vote," said the President. "All in favor of this
motion please to manifest it by saying 'Ay.'"
  A loud response from Snodgrass, followed, to everybody's surprise,
by a timid one from Beth.
  "Contrary minded say 'No.'"
  Meg and Amy were contrary minded; and Mr. Winkle rose to say, with
great elegance, "We don't wish any boys; they only joke and bounce
about. This is a ladies' club, and we wish to be private and proper."
  "I'm afraid he'll laugh at our paper, and make fun of us afterward,"
observed Pickwick, pulling the little curl on her forehead, as she
always did when doubtful.
  Up rose Snodgrass, very much in earnest. "Sir, I give you my word as
a gentleman, Laurie won't do anything of the sort. He likes to
write, and he'll give a tone to our contributions, and keep us from
being sentimental, don't you see? We can do so little for him, and
he does so much for us, I think the least we can do is to offer him
a place here, and make him welcome if he comes."
  This artful allusion to benefits conferred brought Tupman to his
feet, looking as if he had quite made up his mind.
  "Yes, we ought to do it, even if we are afraid. I say he may come,
and his grandpa, too, if he likes."
  This spirited burst from Beth electrified the club, and Jo left
her seat to shake hands approvingly. "Now then, vote again.
Everybody remember it's our Laurie, and say 'Ay!'" cried Snodgrass
excitedly.
  "Ay! ay! ay!" replied three voices at once.
  "Good! Bless you! Now, as there's nothing like 'taking time by the
fetlock,' as Winkle characteristically observes, allow me to present
the new member"; and, to the dismay of the rest of the club, Jo
threw open the door of the closet, and displayed Laurie sitting on a
rag-bag, flushed and twingling with suppressed laughter.
  "You rogue! you traitor! Jo, how could you?" cried the three
girls, as Snodgrass led her friend triumphantly forth; and,
producing both a chair and a badge, installed him in a jiffy.
  "The coolness of you two rascals is amazing," began Mr. Pickwick,
trying to get up an awful frown, and only succeeding in producing an
amiable smile. But the new member was equal to the occasion; and,
rising, with a grateful salutation to the Chair, said, in the most
engaging manner, "Mr. President and ladies- I beg pardon, gentlemen-
allow me to introduce myself as Sam Weller, the very humble servant of
the club."
  "Good! good!" cried Jo, pounding with the handle of the old
warming-pan on which she leaned.
  "My faithful friend and noble patron," continued Laurie, with a wave
of the hand, "who has so flatteringly presented me, is not to be
blamed for the base stratagem of to-night. I planned it, and she
only gave in after lots of teasing."
  "Come now, don't lay it all on yourself; you know I proposed the
cupboard," broke in Snodgrass, who was enjoying the joke amazingly.
  "Never you mind what she says. I'm the wretch that did it, sir,"
said the new member, with a Welleresque nod to Mr. Pickwick. "But on
my honor, I never will do so again, and henceforth dewote myself to
the interest of this immortal club."
  "Hear! hear!" cried Jo, clashing the lid of the warming-pan like a
cymbal.
  "Go on, go on!" added Winkle and Tupman, while the President bowed
benignly.
  "I merely wish to say, that as a slight token of my gratitude for
the honor done me, and as a means of promoting friendly relations
between adjoining nations, I have set up a post-office in the hedge in
the lower corner of the garden; a fine spacious building, with
padlocks on the doors, and every convenience for the mails- also the
females, if I may be allowed the expression. It's the old
martin-house; but I've stopped up the door, and made the roof open, so
it will hold all sorts of things, and save our valuable time. Letters,
manuscripts, books, and bundles can be passed in there; and, as each
nation has a key, it will be uncommonly nice, I fancy. Allow me to
present the club key; and, with many thanks for your favor, take my
seat."
  Great applause as Mr. Weller deposited a little key on the table,
and subsided; the warming-pan clashed and waved wildly, and it was
some time before order could be restored. A long discussion
followed, and every one came out surprising, for every one did her
best; so it was an unusually lively meeting, and did not adjourn
till a late hour, when it broke up with three shrill cheers for the
new member. No one ever regretted the admittance of Sam Weller, for
a more devoted, well-behaved, and jovial member no club could have. He
certainly did add "spirit" to the meetings, and "a tone" to the paper;
for his orations convulsed his hearers, and his contributions were
excellent, being patriotic, classical, comical, or dramatic, but never
sentimental. Jo regarded them as worthy of Bacon, Milton, or
Shakespeare; and remodelled her own works with good effect, she
thought.
  The P. O. was a capital little institution, and flourished
wonderfully, for nearly as many queer things passed through it as
through the real office. Tragedies and cravats, poetry and pickles,
garden-seeds and long letters, music and gingerbread, rubbers,
invitations, scoldings and puppies. The old gentleman liked the fun,
and amused himself by sending odd bundles, mysterious messages, and
funny telegrams; and his gardener, who was smitten with Hannah's
charms, actually sent a love-letter to Jo's care. How they laughed
when the secret came out, never dreaming how many love-letters that
little post-office would hold in the years to come!
                             11
                         Experiments

  "THE first of June! The Kings are off to the seashore to-morrow
and I'm free. Three months' vacation- how I shall enjoy it!" exclaimed
Meg, coming home one warm day to find Jo laid upon the sofa in an
unusual state of exhaustion, while Beth took off her dusty boots,
and Amy made lemonade for the refreshment of the whole party.
  "Aunt March went to-day, for which, oh, be joyful!" said Jo. "I
was mortally afraid she'd ask me to go with her; if she had, I
should have felt as if I ought to do it; but Plumfield is about as gay
as a churchyard, you know, and I'd rather be excused. We had a
flurry getting the old lady off, and I had a fright every time she
spoke to me, for I was in such a hurry to be through that I was
uncommonly helpful and sweet, and feared she'd find it impossible to
part from me. I quaked till she was fairly in the carriage, and had
a final fright, for, as it drove off, she popped out her head, saying,
'Josyphine, won't you-?' I didn't hear any more, for I basely turned
and fled; I did actually run, and whisked round the corner, where I
felt safe."
  "Poor old Jo! she came in looking as if bears were after her,"
said Beth, as she cuddled her sister's feet with a motherly air.
  "Aunt March is a regular samphire, is she not?" observed Amy,
tasting her mixture critically.
  "She means vampire, not sea-weed; but it doesn't matter; it's too
warm to be particular about one's parts of speech," murmured Jo.
  "What shall you do all your vacation?" asked Amy, changing the
subject, with tact.
  "I shall lie abed late, and do nothing," replied Meg, from the
depths of the rocking-chair. "I've been routed up early all winter,
and had to spend my days working for other people; so now I'm going to
rest and revel to my heart's content."
  "No," said Jo; "that dozy way wouldn't suit me. I've laid in a
heap of books, and I'm going to improve my shining hours reading on my
perch in the old apple-tree, when I'm not having l-"
  "Don't say 'larks'!" implored Amy, as a return snub for the
"samphire" correction.
  "I'll say 'nightingales,' then, with Laurie; that's proper and
appropriate, since he's a warbler."
  "Don't let us do any lessons, Beth, for a while, but play all the
time, and rest, as the girls mean to," proposed Amy.
  "Well, I will, if mother doesn't mind. I want to learn some new
songs, and my children need fitting up for the summer; they are
dreadfully out of order, and really suffering for clothes."
  "May we, mother?" asked Meg, turning to Mrs. March, who sat
sewing, in what they called "Marmee's corner."
  "You may try your experiment for a week, and see how you like it.
I think by Saturday night you will find that all play and no work is
as bad as all work and no play."
  "Oh, dear, no! it will be delicious, I'm sure," said Meg
complacently.
  "I now propose a toast, as my 'friend and pardner, Sairy Gamp,'
says. Fun forever, and no grubbing!" cried Jo, rising, glass in
hand, as the lemonade went round.
  They all drank it merrily, and began the experiment by lounging
for the rest of the day. Next morning, Meg did not appear till ten
o'clock; her solitary breakfast did not taste nice, and the room
seemed lonely and untidy; for Jo had not filled the vases, Beth had
not dusted, and Amy's books lay scattered about. Nothing was neat
and pleasant but "Marmee's corner," which looked as usual; and there
Meg sat, to "rest and read," which meant yawn, and imagine what pretty
summer dresses she would get with her salary. Jo spent the morning
on the river, with Laurie, and the afternoon reading and crying over
"The Wide, Wide World," up in the apple-tree. Beth began by
rummaging everything out of the big closet, where her family
resided; but, getting tired before half done, she left her
establishment topsy-turvy, and went to her music, rejoicing that she
had no dishes to wash. Amy arranged her bower, put on her best white
frock, smoothed her curls, and sat down to draw, under the
honeysuckles, hoping some one would see and inquire who the young
artist was. As no one appeared but an inquisitive daddy-long-legs, who
examined her work with interest, she went to walk, got caught in a
shower, and came home dripping.
  At tea-time they compared notes, and all agreed that it had been a
delightful, though unusually long day. Meg, who went shopping in the
afternoon, and got a "sweet blue muslin," had discovered, after she
had cut the breadths off, that it wouldn't wash, which mishap made her
slightly cross. Jo had burnt the skin off her nose boating, and got
a raging headache by reading too long. Beth was worried by the
confusion of her closet, and the difficulty of learning three or
four songs at once; and Amy deeply regretted the damage done her
frock, for Katy Brown's party was to be the next day; and now, like
Flora McFlimsey, she had "nothing to wear." But these were mere
trifles; and they assured their mother that the experiment was working
finely. She smiled, said nothing, and, with Hannah's help, did their
neglected work, keeping home pleasant, and the domestic machinery
running smoothly. It was astonishing what a peculiar and uncomfortable
state of things was produced by the "resting and revelling" process.
The days kept getting longer and longer; the weather was unusually
variable, and so were tempers; an unsettled feeling possessed every
one, and Satan found plenty of mischief for the idle hands to do. As
the height of luxury, Meg put out some of her sewing, and then found
time hang so heavily that she fell to snipping and spoiling her
clothes, in her attempts to furnish them up a la Moffat. Jo read
till her eyes gave out, and she was sick of books; got so fidgety that
even good-natured Laurie had a quarrel with her, and so reduced in
spirits that she desperately wished she had gone with Aunt March. Beth
got on pretty well, for she was constantly forgetting that it was to
be all play, and no work, and fell back into her old ways now and
then; but something in the air affected her, and, more than once,
her tranquillity was much disturbed; so much so, that, on one
occasion, she actually shook poor dear Joanna, and told her she was "a
fright." Amy fared worst of all, for her resources were small; and
when her sisters left her to amuse and care for herself, she soon
found that accomplished and important little self a great burden.
She didn't like dolls, fairy-tales were childish, and one couldn't
draw all the time; tea-parties didn't amount to much, neither did
picnics, unless very well conducted. "If one could have a fine
house, full of nice girls, or go travelling, the summer would be
delightful; but to stay at home with three selfish sisters and a
grown-up boy was enough to try the patience of a Boaz," complained
Miss Malaprop, after several days devoted to pleasure, fretting, and
ennui.
  No one would own that they were tired of the experiment; but, by
Friday night, each acknowledged to herself that she was glad the
week was nearly done. Hoping to impress the lesson more deeply, Mrs.
March, who had a good deal of humor, resolved to finish off the
trial in an appropriate manner; so she gave Hannah a holiday, and
let the girls enjoy the full effect of the play system.
  When they got up on Saturday morning, there was no fire in the
kitchen, no breakfast in the dining-room, and no mother anywhere to be
seen.
  "Mercy on us! what has happened?" cried Jo, staring about her in
dismay.
  Meg ran upstairs, and soon came back again, looking relieved, but
rather bewildered, and a little ashamed.
  "Mother isn't sick, only very tired, and she says she is going to
stay quietly in her room all day, and let us do the best we can.
It's a very queer thing for her to do, she doesn't act a bit like
herself; but she says it has been a hard week for her, so we mustn't
grumble, but take care of ourselves."
  "That's easy enough, and I like the idea; I'm aching for something
to do- that is, some new amusement, you know," added Jo quickly.
  In fact it was an immense relief to them all to have a little
work, and they took hold with a will, but soon realized the truth of
Hannah's saying, "Housekeeping ain't no joke." There was plenty of
food in the larder, and, while Beth and Amy set the table, Meg and
Jo got breakfast, wondering, as they did so, why servants ever
talked about hard work.
  "I shall take some up to mother, though she said we were not to
think of her, for she'd take care of herself," said Meg, who presided,
and felt quite matronly behind the teapot.
  So a tray was fitted out before any one began, and taken up, with
the cook's compliments. The boiled tea was very bitter, the omelette
scorched, and the biscuits speckled with saleratus; but Mrs. March
received her repast with thanks, and laughed heartily over it after Jo
was gone.
  "Poor little souls, they will have a hard time, I'm afraid; but they
won't suffer, and it will do them good," she said, producing the
more palatable viands with which she had provided herself, and
disposing of the bad breakfast, so that their feelings might not be
hurt- a motherly little deception, for which they were grateful.
  Many were the complaints below, and great the chagrin of the head
cook at her failures. "Never mind, I'll get the dinner, and be
servant; you be mistress, keep your hands nice, see company, and
give orders," said Jo, who knew still less than Meg about culinary
affairs.
  This obliging offer was gladly accepted; Margaret retired to the
parlor, which she hastily put in order by whisking the litter under
the sofa, and shutting the blinds, to save the trouble of dusting. Jo,
with perfect faith in her own powers, and a friendly desire to make up
the quarrel, immediately put a note in the office, inviting Laurie
to dinner.
  "You'd better see what you have got before you think of having
company," said Meg, when informed of the hospitable but rash act.
  "Oh, there's corned beef and plenty of potatoes; and I shall get
some asparagus, and a lobster, 'for a relish,' as Hannah says. We'll
have lettuce, and make a salad. I don't know how, but the book
tells. I'll have blanc-mange and strawberries for dessert; and coffee,
too, if you want to be elegant."
  "Don't try too many messes, Jo, for you can't make anything but
gingerbread and molasses candy, fit to eat. I wash my hands of the
dinner-party; and, since you have asked Laurie on your own
responsibility, you may just take care of him."
  "I don't want you to do anything but be civil to him, and help
with the pudding. You'll give me your advice if I get in a muddle,
won't you?" asked Jo, rather hurt.
  "Yes; but I don't know much, except about bread, and a few
trifles. You had better ask mother's leave before you order anything,"
returned Meg prudently.
  "Of course I shall; I'm not a fool," and Jo went off in a huff at
the doubts expressed of her powers.
  "Get what you like, and don't disturb me; I'm going out to dinner,
and can't worry about things at home," said Mrs. March, when Jo
spoke to her. "I never enjoyed housekeeping, and I'm going to take a
vacation to-day, and read, write, go visiting, and amuse myself."
  The unusual spectacle of her busy mother rocking comfortably, and
reading, early in the morning, made Jo feel as if some natural
phenomenon had occurred; for an eclipse, an earthquake, or a
volcanic eruption would hardly have seemed stranger.
  "Everything is out of sorts, somehow," she said to herself, going
downstairs. "There's Beth crying; that's a sure sign that something is
wrong with this family. If Amy is bothering, I'll shake her."
  Feeling very much out of sorts herself, Jo hurried into the parlor
to find Beth sobbing over Pip, the canary, who lay dead in the cage,
with his little claws pathetically extended, as if imploring the
food for want of which he had died.
  "It's all my fault- I forgot him- there isn't a seed or a drop left.
O Pip! O Pip! how could I be so cruel to you?" cried Beth, taking
the poor thing in her hands, and trying to restore him.
  Jo peeped into his half-open eye, felt his little heart, and finding
him stiff and cold, shook her head, and offered her domino-box for a
coffin.
  "Put him in the oven, and maybe he will get warm and revive," said
Amy hopefully.
  "He's been starved, and he shan't be baked, now he's dead. I'll make
him a shroud, and he shall be buried in the garden; and I'll never
have another bird, never, my Pip! for I am too bad to own one,"
murmured Beth, sitting on the floor with her pet folded in her hands.
  "The funeral shall be this afternoon, and we will all go. Now, don't
cry, Bethy; it's a pity, but nothing goes right this week, and Pip has
had the worst of the experiment. Make the shroud, and lay him in my
box; and, after the dinner-party, we'll have a nice little funeral,"
said Jo, beginning to feel as if she had undertaken a good deal.
  Leaving the others to console Beth, she departed to the kitchen,
which was in a most discouraging state of confusion. Putting on a
big apron, she fell to work, and got the dishes piled up ready for
washing, when she discovered that the fire was out.
  "Here's a sweet prospect!" muttered Jo, slamming the stove-door
open, and poking vigorously among the cinders.
  Having rekindled the fire, she thought she would go to market
while the water heated. The walk revived her spirits; and,
flattering herself that she had made good bargains, she trudged home
again, after buying a very young lobster, some very old asparagus, and
two boxes of acid strawberries. By the time she got cleared up, the
dinner arrived, and the stove was red-hot. Hannah had left a pan of
bread to rise, Meg had worked it up early, set it on the hearth for
a second rising, and forgotten it. Meg was entertaining Sallie
Gardiner in the parlor, when the door flew open, and a floury, crocky,
flushed, and dishevelled figure appeared, demanding tartly-
  "I say, isn't bread 'riz' enough when it runs over the pans?"
  Sallie began to laugh; but Meg nodded, and lifted her eyebrows as
high as they would go, which caused the apparition to vanish, and
put the sour bread into the oven without further delay. Mrs. March
went out, after peeping here and there to see how matters went, also
saying a word of comfort to Beth, who sat making a winding-sheet,
while the dear departed lay in state in the domino-box. A strange
sense of helplessness fell upon the girls as the gray bonnet
vanished round the corner; and despair seized them, when, a few
minutes later, Miss Crocker appeared, and said she'd come to dinner.
Now, this lady was a thin, yellow spinster, with a sharp nose and
inquisitive eyes, who saw everything, and gossiped about all she
saw. They disliked her, but had been taught to be kind to her,
simply because she was old and poor, and had few friends. So Meg
gave her the easy-chair, and tried to entertain her, while she asked
questions, criticized everything, and told stories of the people
whom she knew.
  Language cannot describe the anxieties, experiences, and exertions
which Jo underwent that morning; and the dinner she served up became a
standing joke. Fearing to ask any more advice, she did her best alone,
and discovered that something more than energy and good-will is
necessary to make a cook. She boiled the asparagus for an hour, and
was grieved to find the heads cooked off and the stalks harder than
ever. The bread burnt black; for the salad-dressing so aggravated her,
that she let everything else go till she had convinced herself that
she could not make it fit to eat. The lobster was a scarlet mystery to
her, but she hammered and poked, till it was unshelled, and its meagre
proportions concealed in a grove of lettuce-leaves. The potatoes had
to be hurried, not to keep the asparagus waiting, and were not done at
last. The blanc-mange was lumpy, and the strawberries not as ripe as
they looked, having been skilfully "deaconed."
  "Well, they can eat beef, and bread and butter, if they are
hungry; only it's mortifying to have to spend your whole morning for
nothing," thought Jo, as she rang the bell half an hour later than
usual, and stood, hot, tired, and dispirited, surveying the feast
spread for Laurie, accustomed to all sorts of elegance, and Miss
Crocker, whose curious eyes would mark all failures, and whose
tattling tongue would report them far and wide.
  Poor Jo would gladly have gone under the table, as one thing after
another was tasted and left; while Amy giggled, Meg looked distressed,
Miss Crocker pursed up her lips, and Laurie talked and laughed with
all his might, to give a cheerful tone to the festive scene. Jo's
one strong point was the fruit, for she had sugared it well, and had a
pitcher of rich cream to eat with it. Her hot cheeks cooled a
trifle, and she drew a long breath, as the pretty glass plates went
round, and every one looked graciously at the little rosy islands
floating in a sea of cream. Miss Crocker tasted first, made a wry
face, and drank some water hastily. Jo, who had refused, thinking
there might not be enough, for they dwindled sadly after the picking
over, glanced at Laurie, but he was eating away manfully, though there
was a slight pucker about his mouth, and he kept his eye fixed on
his plate. Amy, who was fond of delicate fare, took a heaping
spoonful, choked, hid her face in her napkin, and left the table
precipitately.
  "Oh, what is it?" exclaimed Jo, trembling.
  "Salt instead of sugar, and the cream is sour," replied Meg, with
a tragic gesture.
  Jo uttered a groan, and fell back in her chair; remembering that she
had given a last hasty powdering to the berries out of one of the
two boxes on the kitchen table, and had neglected to put the milk in
the refrigerator. She turned scarlet, and was on the verge of
crying, when she met Laurie's eyes, which would look merry in spite of
his heroic efforts; the comical side of the affair suddenly struck
her, and she laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. So did
every one else, even "Croaker," as the girls called the old lady;
and the unfortunate dinner ended gayly, with bread and butter,
olives and fun.
  "I haven't strength of mind enough to clear up now, so we will sober
ourselves with a funeral," said Jo, as they rose; and Miss Crocker
made ready to go, being eager to tell the new story at another
friend's dinner-table.
  They did sober themselves, for Beth's sake; Laurie dug a grave under
the ferns in the grove, little Pip was laid in, with many tears, by
his tender-hearted mistress, and covered with moss, while a wreath
of violets and chickweed was hung on the stone which bore his epitaph,
composed by Jo, while she struggled with the dinner:

                 Here lies Pip March,
                   Who died the 7th of June;
                 Loved and lamented sore,
                   And not forgotten soon.

  At the conclusion of the ceremonies, Beth retired to her room,
overcome with emotion and lobster; but there was no place of repose,
for the beds were not made, and she found her grief much assuaged by
beating up pillows and putting things in order. Meg helped Jo clear
away the remains of the feast, which took half the afternoon, and left
them so tired that they agreed to be contented with tea and toast
for supper. Laurie took Amy to drive, which was a deed of charity, for
the sour cream seemed to have had a bad effect upon her temper. Mrs.
March came home to find the three older girls hard at work in the
middle of the afternoon; and a glance at the closet gave her an idea
of the success of one part of the experiment.
  Before the housewives could rest, several people called, and there
was a scramble to get ready to see them; then tea must be got, errands
done; and one or two necessary bits of sewing neglected till the
last minute. As twilight fell, dewy and still, one by one they
gathered in the porch where the June roses were budding beautifully,
and each groaned or sighed as she sat down, as if tired or troubled.
  "What a dreadful day this has been!" began Jo, usually the first
to speak.
  "It has seemed shorter than usual, but so uncomfortable," said Meg.
  "Not a bit like home," added Amy.
  "It can't seem so without Marmee and little Pip," sighed Beth,
glancing, with full eyes, at the empty cage above her head.
  "Here's mother, dear, and you shall have another bird to-morrow,
if you want it."
  As she spoke, Mrs. March came and took her place among them, looking
as if her holiday had not been much pleasanter than theirs.
  "Are you satisfied with your experiment, girls, or do you want
another week of it?" she asked, as Beth nestled up to her, and the
rest turned toward her with brightening faces, as flowers turn
toward the sun.
  "I don't!" cried Jo decidedly.
  "Nor I," echoed the others.
  "You think, then, that it is better to have a few duties, and live a
little for others, do you?"
  "Lounging and larking doesn't pay," observed Jo, shaking her head.
"I'm tired of it, and mean to go to work at something right off."
  "Suppose you learn plain cooking; that's a useful accomplishment,
which no woman should be without," said Mrs. March, laughing inaudibly
at the recollection of Jo's dinner-party; for she had met Miss
Crocker, and heard her account of it.
  "Mother, did you go away and let everything be, just to see how we'd
get on?" cried Meg, who had had suspicions all day.
  "Yes; I wanted you to see how the comfort of all depends on each
doing her share faithfully. While Hannah and I did your work, you
got on pretty well, though I don't think you were very happy or
amiable; so I thought, as a little lesson, I would show you what
happens when every one thinks only of herself. Don't you feel that
it is pleasanter to help one another, to have daily duties which
make leisure sweet when it comes, and to bear and forbear, that home
may be comfortable and lovely to us all?"
  "We do, mother, we do!" cried the girls.
  "Then let me advise you to take up your little burdens again; for
though they seem heavy sometimes, they are good for us, and lighten as
we learn to carry them. Work is wholesome, and there is plenty for
every one; it keeps us from ennui and mischief, is good for health and
spirits, and gives us a sense of power and independence better than
money or fashion."
  "We'll work like bees, and love it too; see if we don't!" said Jo.
"I'll learn plain cooking for my holiday task; and the next
dinner-party I have shall be a success."
  "I'll make the set of shirts for father, instead of letting you do
it, Marmee. I can and I will, though I'm not fond of sewing; that will
be better than fussing over my own things, which are plenty nice
enough as they are," said Meg.
  "I'll do my lessons every day, and not spend so much time with my
music and dolls. I am a stupid thing, and ought to be studying, not
playing," was Beth's resolution; while Amy followed their example by
heroically declaring, "I shall learn to make buttonholes, and attend
to my parts of speech."
  "Very good! then I am quite satisfied with the experiment, and fancy
that we shall not have to repeat it; only don't go to the other
extreme, and delve like slaves. Have regular hours for work and
play; make each day both useful and pleasant, and prove that you
understand the worth of time by employing it well. Then youth will
be delightful, old age will bring few regrets, and life become a
beautiful success, in spite of poverty."
  "We'll remember, mother!" and they did.
                             12
                        Camp Laurence

  BETH was post-mistress, for, being most at home, she could attend to
it regularly, and dearly liked the daily task of unlocking the
little door and distributing the mail. One July day she came in with
her hands full, and went about the house leaving letters and
parcels, like the penny post.
  "Here's your posy, mother! Laurie never forgets that," she said,
putting the fresh nosegay in the vase that stood in "Marmee's corner,"
and was kept supplied by the affectionate boy.
  "Miss Meg March, one letter and a glove," continued Beth, delivering
the articles to her sister, who sat near her mother, stitching
wrist-bands.
  "Why, I left a pair over there, and here is only one," said Meg,
looking at the gray cotton glove.
  "Didn't you drop the other in the garden?"
  "No, I'm sure I didn't; for there was only one in the office."
  "I hate to have odd gloves! Never mind, the other may be found. My
letter is only a translation of the German song I wanted; I think
Mr. Brooke did it, for this isn't Laurie's writing."
  Mrs. March glanced at Meg, who was looking very pretty in her
gingham morning-gown, with the little curls blowing about her
forehead, and very womanly, as she sat sewing at her little
work-table, full of tidy white rolls; so unconscious of the thought in
her mother's mind as she sewed and sung, while her fingers flew, and
her thoughts were busied with girlish fancies as innocent and fresh as
the pansies in her belt, that Mrs. March smiled, and was satisfied.
  "Two letters for Doctor Jo, a book, and a funny old hat, which
covered the whole post-office, stuck outside," said Beth, laughing, as
she went into the study, where Jo sat writing.
  "What a sly fellow Laurie is! I said I wished bigger hats were the
fashion, because I burn my face every hot day. He said, 'Why mind
the fashion? Wear a big hat, and be comfortable!' I said I would if
I had one, and he has sent me this, to try me. I'll wear it, for
fun, and show him I don't care for the fashion"; and, hanging the
antique broad-brim on a bust of Plato, Jo read her letters.
  One from her mother made her cheeks glow and her eyes fill, for it
said to her-

  MY DEAR:
    I write a little word to tell you with how much satisfaction I
watch your efforts to control your temper. You say nothing about
your trials, failures, or successes, and think, perhaps, that no one
sees them but the Friend whose help you daily ask, if I may trust
the well-worn cover of your guide-book. I, too, have seen them all,
and heartily believe in the sincerity of your resolution, since it
begins to bear fruit. Go on, dear, patiently and bravely, and always
believe that no one sympathizes more tenderly with you than your
loving
                                                         MOTHER.

  "That does me good! that's worth millions of money and pecks of
praise. O Marmee, I do try! I will keep on trying, and not get
tired, since I have you to help me."
  Laying her head on her arms, Jo wet her little romance with a few
happy tears, for she had thought that no one saw and appreciated her
efforts to be good; and this assurance was doubly precious, doubly
encouraging, because unexpected, and from the person whose
commendation she most valued. Feeling stronger than ever to meet and
subdue her Apollyon, she pinned the note inside her frock, as a shield
and a reminder, lest she be taken unaware, and proceeded to open her
other letter, quite ready for either good or bad news. In a big,
dashing hand, Laurie wrote-

  DEAR JO:
    What ho!
  Some English girls and boys are coming to see me to-morrow and I
want to have a jolly time. If it's fine, I'm going to pitch my tent in
Longmeadow, and row up the whole crew to lunch and croquet- have a
fire, make messes, gypsy fashion, and all sorts of larks. They are
nice people, and like such things. Brooke will go, to keep us boys
steady, and Kate Vaughn will play propriety for the girls. I want
you all to come; can't let Beth off, at any price, and nobody shall
worry her. Don't bother about rations- I'll see to that, and
everything else- only do come, there's a good fellow!
  In a tearing hurry,
                             Yours ever,
                                                         LAURIE.

  "Here's richness!" cried Jo, flying in to tell the news to Meg.
  "Of course we can go, mother? it will be such a help to Laurie,
for I can row, and Meg see to the lunch, and the children be useful in
some way."
  "I hope the Vaughns are not fine, grown-up people. Do you know
anything about them, Jo?" asked Meg.
  "Only that there are four of them. Kate is older than you, Fred
and Frank (twins) about my age, and a little girl (Grace), who is nine
or ten. Laurie knew them abroad, and liked the boys; I fancied, from
the way he primmed up his mouth in speaking of her, that he didn't
admire Kate much."
  "I'm so glad my French print is clean; it's just the thing, and so
becoming!" observed Meg complacently. "Have you anything decent, Jo?"
  "Scarlet and gray boating suit, good enough for me. I shall row
and tramp about, so I don't want any starch to think of. You'll
come, Betty?"
  "If you won't let any of the boys talk to me."
  "Not a boy!"
  "I like to please Laurie; and I'm not afraid of Mr. Brooke, he is so
kind; but I don't want to play, or sing, or say anything. I'll work
hard, and not trouble any one; and you'll take care of me, Jo, so I'll
go."
  "That's my good girl; you do try to fight off your shyness, and I
love you for it. Fighting faults isn't easy, as I know; and a cheery
word kind of gives a lift. Thank you, mother," and Jo gave the thin
cheek a grateful kiss, more precious to Mrs. March than if it had
given back the rosy roundness of her youth.
  "I had a box of chocolate drops, and the picture I wanted to
copy," said Amy, showing her mail.
  "And I got a note from Mr. Laurence, asking me to come over and play
to him to-night, before the lamps are lighted, and I shall go,"
added Beth, whose friendship with the old gentleman prospered finely.
  "Now let's fly round, and do double duty to-day, so that we can play
tomorrow with free minds," said Jo, preparing to replace her pen
with a broom.
  When the sun peeped into the girls' room early next morning, to
promise them a fine day, he saw a comical sight. Each had made such
preparation for the fete as seemed necessary and proper. Meg had an
extra row of little curl-papers across her forehead, Jo had
copiously anointed her afflicted face with cold cream, Beth had
taken Joanna to bed with her to atone for the approaching
separation, and Amy had capped the climax by putting a clothes-pin
on her nose, to uplift the offending feature. It was one of the kind
artists use to hold the paper on their drawing-boards, therefore quite
appropriate and effective for the purpose to which it was now put.
  This funny spectacle appeared to amuse the sun, for he burst out
with such radiance that Jo woke up, and roused all her sisters by a
hearty laugh at Amy's ornament.
  Sunshine and laughter were good omens for a pleasure party, and soon
a lively bustle began in both houses. Beth, who was ready first,
kept reporting what went on next door, and enlivened her sisters'
toilets by frequent telegrams from the window.
  "There goes the man with the tent! I see Mrs. Barker doing up the
lunch in a hamper and a great basket. Now Mr. Laurence is looking up
at the sky, and the weathercock; I wish he would go, too. There's
Laurie, looking like a sailor- nice boy! Oh, mercy me! here's a
carriage full of people- a tall lady, a little girl, and two
dreadful boys. One is lame; poor thing, he's got a crutch. Laurie
didn't tell us that. Be quick, girls! it's getting late. Why, there is
Ned Moffat, I do declare. Look, Meg, isn't that the man who bowed to
you one day, when we were shopping?"
  "So it is. How queer that he should come. I thought he was at the
Mountains. There is Sallie; I'm glad she got back in time. Am I all
right, Jo?" cried Meg, in a flutter.
  "A regular daisy. Hold up your dress and put your hat straight; it
looks sentimental tipped that way, and will fly off at the first puff.
Now, then, come on!"
  "O Jo, you are not going to wear that awful hat? It's too absurd!
You shall not make a guy of yourself," remonstrated Meg, as Jo tied
down, with a red ribbon, the broad-brimmed, old-fashioned Leghorn
Laurie had sent for a joke.
  "I just will, though, for it's capital- so shady, light, and big. It
will make fun; and I don't mind being a guy if I'm comfortable."
With that Jo marched straight away, and the rest followed- a bright
little band of sisters, all looking their best, in summer suits,
with happy faces under the jaunty hat-brims.
  Laurie ran to meet, and present them to his friends, in the most
cordial manner. The lawn was the reception-room, and for several
minutes a lively scene was enacted there. Meg was grateful to see that
Miss Kate, though twenty, was dressed with a simplicity which American
girls would do well to imitate; and she was much flattered by Mr.
Ned's assurances that he came especially to see her. Jo understood why
Laurie "primmed up his mouth" when speaking of Kate, for that young
lady had a stand-off-don't-touch-me air, which contrasted strongly
with the free and easy demeanor of the other girls. Beth took an
observation of the new boys, and decided that the lame one was not
"dreadful," but gentle and feeble, and she would be kind to him on
that account. Amy found Grace a well-mannered, merry little person;
and after staring dumbly at one another for a few minutes, they
suddenly became very good friends.
  Tents, lunch, and croquet utensils having been sent on beforehand,
the party was soon embarked, and the two boats pushed off together,
leaving Mr. Laurence waving his hat on the shore. Laurie and Jo
rowed one boat; Mr. Brooke and Ned the other; while Fred Vaughn, the
riotous twin, did his best to upset both by paddling about in a wherry
like a disturbed water-bug. Jo's funny hat deserved a vote of
thanks, for it was of general utility; it broke the ice in the
beginning, by producing a laugh; it created quite a refreshing breeze,
flapping to and fro, as she rowed, and would make an excellent
umbrella for the whole party, if a shower came up, she said. Kate
looked rather amazed at Jo's proceedings, especially as she
exclaimed "Christopher Columbus!" when she lost her oar; and Laurie
said, "My dear fellow, did I hurt you?" when he tripped over her
feet in taking his place. But after putting up her glass to examine
the queer girl several times, Miss Kate decided that she was "odd, but
rather clever," and smiled upon her from afar.
  Meg, in the other boat, was delightfully situated, face to face with
the rowers, who both admired the prospect, and feathered their oars
with uncommon "skill and dexterity." Mr. Brooke was a grave, silent
young man, with handsome brown eyes and a pleasant voice. Meg liked
his quiet manners, and considered him a walking encyclopaedia of
useful knowledge. He never talked to her much; but he looked at her
a good deal, and she felt sure that he did not regard her with
aversion. Ned, being in college, of course put on all the airs which
Freshmen think it their bounden duty to assume; he was not very
wise, but very good-natured, and altogether an excellent person to
carry on a picnic. Sallie Gardiner was absorbed in keeping her white
pique dress clean, and chattering with the ubiquitous Fred, who kept
Beth in constant terror by his pranks.
  It was not far to Longmeadow; but the tent was pitched and the
wickets down by the time they arrived. A pleasant green field, with
three wide-spreading oaks in the middle, and a smooth strip of turf
for croquet.
  "Welcome to Camp Laurence!" said the young host, as they landed,
with exclamations of delight.
  "Brooke is commander-in-chief; I am commissary-general; the other
fellows are staff-officers; and you, ladies, are company. The tent
is for your especial benefit, and that oak is your drawing-room;
this is the messroom, and the third is the camp-kitchen. Now, let's
have a game before it gets hot, and then we'll see about dinner."
  Frank, Beth, Amy, and Grace sat down to watch the game played by the
other eight. Mr. Brooke chose Meg, Kate, and Fred; Laurie took Sallie,
Jo, and Ned. The Englishers played well; but the Americans played
better, and contested every inch of the ground as strongly as if the
spirit Of '76 inspired them. Jo and Fred had several skirmishes, and
once narrowly escaped high words. Jo was through the last wicket,
and had missed the stroke, which failure ruffled her a good deal. Fred
was close behind her, and his turn came before hers; he gave a stroke,
his ball hit the wicket, and stopped an inch on the wrong side. No one
was very near; and running up to examine, he gave it a sly nudge
with his toe, which put it just an inch on the right side.
  "I'm through! Now, Miss Jo, I'll settle you, and get in first,"
cried the young gentleman, swinging his mallet for another blow.
  "You pushed it; I saw you; it's my turn now," said Jo sharply.
  "Upon my word, I didn't move it; it rolled a bit, perhaps, but
that is allowed; so stand off, please, and let me have a go at the
stake."
  "We don't cheat in America, but you can, if you choose," said Jo
angrily.
  "Yankees are a deal the most tricky, everybody knows. There you go!"
returned Fred, croqueting her ball far away.
  Jo opened her lips to say something rude, but checked herself in
time, colored up to her forehead, and stood a minute, hammering down a
wicket with all her might, while Fred hit the stake, and declared
himself out with much exultation. She went off to get her ball, and
was a long time finding it, among the bushes; but she came back,
looking cool and quiet, and waited her turn patiently. It took several
strokes to regain the place she had lost; and, when she got there, the
other side had nearly won, for Kate's ball was the last but one, and
lay near the stake.
  "By George, it's all up with us! Good-by, Kate. Miss Jo owes me one,
so you are finished," cried Fred excitedly, as they all drew near to
see the finish.
  "Yankees have a trick of being generous to their enemies," said
Jo, with a look that made the lad redden, especially when they beat
them, she added, as, leaving Kate's ball untouched, she won the game
by a clever stroke.
  Laurie threw up his hat; then remembered that it wouldn't do to
exult over the defeat of his guests, and stopped in the middle of a
cheer to whisper to his friend, "Good for you, Jo! He did cheat, I saw
him; we can't tell him so, but he won't do it again, take my word
for it."
  Meg drew her aside, under pretence of pinning up a loose braid,
and said approvingly, "It was dreadfully provoking; but you kept
your temper, and I'm so glad, Jo."
  "Don't praise me, Meg, for I could box his ears this minute. I
should certainly have boiled over if I hadn't stayed among the nettles
till I got my rage under enough to hold my tongue. It's simmering now,
so I hope he'll keep out of my way," returned Jo, biting her lips,
as she glowered at Fred from under her big hat.
  "Time for lunch," said Mr. Brooke, looking at his watch. "Commissary
general, will you make the fire and get water, while Miss March,
Sallie, and I spread the table? Who can make good coffee?"
  "Jo can," said Meg, glad to recommend her sister. So Jo, feeling
that her late lessons in cookery were to do her honor, went to preside
over the coffee-pot, while the children collected dry sticks, and
the boys made a fire, and got water from a spring near by. Miss Kate
sketched, and Frank talked to Beth, who was making little mats of
braided rushes to serve as plates.
  The commander-in-chief and his aids soon spread the table-cloth with
an inviting array of eatables and drinkables, prettily decorated
with green leaves. Jo announced that the coffee was ready, and every
one settled themselves to a hearty meal; for youth is seldom
dyspeptic, and exercise develops wholesome appetites. A very merry
lunch it was; for everything seemed fresh and funny, and frequent
peals of laughter startled a venerable horse who fed near by. There
was a pleasing inequality in the table, which produced many mishaps to
cups and plates; acorns dropped into the milk, little black ants
partook of the refreshments without being invited, and fuzzy
caterpillars swung down from the tree, to see what was going on. Three
white-headed children peeped over the fence, and an objectionable
dog barked at them from the other side of the river with all his might
and main.
  "There's salt here, if you prefer it," said Laurie, as he handed
Jo a saucer of berries.
  "Thank you, I prefer spiders," she replied, fishing up two unwary
little ones who had gone to a creamy death. "How dare you remind me of
that horrid dinner-party, when yours is so nice in every way?" added
Jo, as they both laughed, and ate out of one plate, the china having
run short.
  "I had an uncommonly good time that day, and haven't got over it
yet. This is no credit to me, you know; I don't do anything; it's
you and Meg and Brooke who make it go, and I'm no end obliged to
you. What shall we do when we can't eat any more?" asked Laurie,
feeling that his trump card had been played when lunch was over.
  "Have games, till it's cooler. I brought 'Authors,' and I dare say
Miss Kate knows something new and nice. Go and ask her; she's company,
and you ought to stay with her more."
  "Aren't you company too? I thought she'd suit Brooke; but he keeps
talking to Meg, and Kate just stares at them through that ridiculous
glass of hers. I'm going, so you needn't try to preach propriety,
for you can't do it, Jo."
  Miss Kate did know several new games; and as the girls would not,
and the boys could not, eat any more, they all adjourned to the
drawing-room to play "Rigmarole."
  "One person begins a story, any nonsense you like, and tells as long
as he pleases, only taking care to stop short at some exciting
point, when the next takes it up and does the same. It's very funny
when well done, and makes a perfect jumble of tragical comical stuff
to laugh over. Please start it, Mr. Brooke," said Kate, with a
commanding air, which surprised Meg, who treated the tutor with as
much respect as any other gentleman.
  Lying on the grass at the feet of the two young ladies, Mr. Brooke
obediently began the story with the handsome brown eyes steadily fixed
upon the sunshiny river.
  "Once on a time, a knight went out into the world to seek his
fortune, for he had nothing but his sword and his shield. He travelled
a long while, nearly eight-and-twenty years, and had a hard time of
it, till he came to the palace of a good old king, who had offered a
reward to any one who would tame and train a fine but unbroken colt,
of which he was very fond. The knight agreed to try, and got on slowly
but surely; for the colt was a gallant fellow, and soon learned to
love his new master, though he was freakish and wild. Every day,
when he gave his lessons to this pet of the king's, the knight rode
him through the city; and, as he rode, he looked everywhere for a
certain beautiful face, which he had seen many times in his dreams,
but never found. One day, as he went prancing down a quiet street,
he saw at the window of a ruinous castle the lovely face. He was
delighted, inquired who lived in this old castle, and was told that
several captive princesses were kept there by a spell, and spun all
day to lay up money to buy their liberty. The knight wished
intensely that he could free them; but he was poor, and could only
go by each day, watching for the sweet face, and longing to see it out
in the sunshine. At last he resolved to get into the castle and ask
how he could help them. He went and knocked; the great door flew open,
and he beheld-"
  "A ravishingly lovely lady, who exclaimed, with a cry of rapture,
'At last! at last!'" continued Kate, who had read French novels, and
admired the style. "'Tis she!' cried Count Gustave, and fell at her
feet in an ecstasy of joy. 'Oh, rise!' she said, extending a hand of
marble fairness. 'Never! till you tell me how I may rescue you,' swore
the knight, still kneeling. 'Alas, my cruel fate condemns me to remain
here till my tyrant is destroyed.' 'Where is the villain?' 'In the
mauve salon. Go, brave heart, and save me from despair.' 'I obey,
and return victorious or dead!' With these thrilling words he rushed
away, and flinging open the door of the mauve salon, was about to
enter, when he received-"
  "A stunning blow from the big Greek lexicon, which an old fellow
in a black gown fired at him," said Ned. "Instantly Sir
What's-his-name recovered himself, pitched the tyrant out of the
window, and turned to join the lady, victorious, but with a bump on
his brow; found the door locked, tore up the curtains, made a rope
ladder, got half-way down when the ladder broke, and he went head
first into the moat, sixty feet below. Could swim like a duck, paddled
round the castle till he came to a little door guarded by two stout
fellows; knocked their heads together till they cracked like a
couple of nuts, then, by a trifling exertion of his prodigious
strength, he smashed in the door, went up a pair of stone steps
covered with dust a foot thick, toads as big as your fist, and spiders
that would frighten you into hysterics, Miss March. At the top of
these steps he came plump upon a sight that took his breath away and
chilled his blood-"
  "A tall figure, all in white with a veil over its face and a lamp in
its wasted hand," went on Meg. "It beckoned gliding noiselessly before
him down a corridor as dark and cold as any tomb. Shadowy effigies
in armor stood on either side, a dead silence reigned, the lamp burned
blue, and the ghostly figure ever and anon turned its face toward him,
showing the glitter of awful eyes through its white veil. They reached
a curtained door, behind which sounded lovely music; he sprang forward
to enter but the spectre plucked him back, and waved threateningly
before him a-"
  "Snuff-box," said Jo, in a sepulchral tone, which convulsed the
audience. "'Thankee,' said the knight politely, as he took a pinch,
and sneezed seven times so violently that his head fell off. 'Ha! ha!'
laughed the ghost; and having peeped through the key-hole at the
princesses spinning away for dear life, the evil spirit picked up
her victim and put him in a large tin box, where there were eleven
other knights packed together without their heads, like sardines,
who all rose and began to-"
  "Dance a hornpipe," cut in Fred, as Jo paused for breath; "and, as
they danced, the rubbishy old castle turned to a man-of-war in full
sail. 'Up with the jib, reef the tops'l halliards, helm hard a lee,
and man the guns!' roared the captain, as a Portuguese pirate hove
in sight, with a flag black as ink flying from her foremast. 'Go in
and win, my hearties!' says the captain; and a tremendous fight begun.
Of course the British beat; they always do."
  "No, they don't!" cried Jo, aside.
  "Having taken the pirate captain prisoner, sailed slap over the
schooner, whose decks were piled with dead, and whose lee-scuppers ran
blood, for the order had been 'Cutlasses, and die hard!' 'Bosen's
mate, take a bight of the flying-jib sheet, and start this villain
if he don't confess his sins double quick,' said the British
captain. The Portuguese held his tongue like a brick, and walked the
plank, while the jolly tars cheered like mad. But the sly dog dived,
came up under the man-of-war, scuttled her, and down she went, with
all sail set, 'To the bottom of the sea, sea, sea,' where-"
  "Oh, gracious! what shall I say?" cried Sallie, as Fred ended his
rigmarole, in which he had jumbled together, pell-mell, nautical
phrases and facts, out of one of his favorite books. "Well, they
went to the bottom, and a nice mermaid welcomed them, but was much
grieved on finding the box of headless knights, and kindly pickled
them in brine, hoping to discover the mystery about them; for, being a
woman she was curious. By and by a diver came down, and the mermaid
said, 'I'll give you this box of pearls if you can take it up'; for
she wanted to restore the poor things to life, and couldn't raise
the heavy load herself. So the diver hoisted it up, and was much
disappointed, on opening it, to find no pearls. He left it in a
great lonely field, where it was found by a-"
  "Little goose-girl, who kept a hundred fat geese in the field," said
Amy, when Sallie's invention gave out. "The little girl was sorry
for them, and asked an old woman what she should do to help them.
'Your geese will tell you, they know everything,' said the old
woman. So she asked what she should use for new heads, since the old
ones were lost, and all the geese opened their hundred mouths and
screamed-"
  "'Cabbages!'" continued Laurie promptly. "'Just the thing,' said the
girl, and ran to get twelve fine ones from her garden. She put them
on, the knights revived at once, thanked her, and went on their way
rejoicing, never knowing the difference, for there were so many
other heads like them in the world that no one thought anything of it.
The knight in whom I'm interested went back to find the pretty face,
and learned that the princesses had spun themselves free, and all gone
to be married, but one. He was in a great state of mind at that; and
mounting the colt, who stood by him through thick and thin, rushed
to the castle to see which was left. Peeping over the hedge, he saw
the queen of his affections picking flowers in her garden. 'Will you
give me a rose?' said he. 'You must come and get it. I can't come to
you; it isn't proper,' said she, as sweet as honey. He tried to
climb over the hedge, but it seemed to grow higher and higher; then he
tried to push through, but it grew thicker and thicker, and he was
in despair. So he patiently broke twig after twig, till he had made
a little hole, through which he peeped, saying imploringly, 'Let me
in! let me in!' But the pretty princess did not seem to understand,
for she picked her roses quietly, and left him to fight his way in.
Whether he did or not, Frank will tell you."
  "I can't; I'm not playing, I never do," said Frank, dismayed at
the sentimental predicament out of which he was to rescue the absurd
couple. Beth had disappeared behind Jo, and Grace was asleep.
  "So the poor knight is to be left sticking in the hedge, is he?"
asked Mr. Brooke, still watching the river, and playing with the
wild rose in his button-hole.
  "I guess the princess gave him a posy, and opened the gate, after
a while," said Laurie, smiling to himself, as he threw acorns at his
tutor.
  "What a piece of nonsense we have made! With practice we might do
something quite clever. Do you know 'Truth'?" asked Sallie, after they
had laughed over their story.
  "I hope so," said Meg soberly.
  "The game, I mean?"
  "What is it?" said Fred.
  "Why, you pile up your hands, choose a number, and draw out in turn,
and the person who draws at the number has to answer truly any
questions put by the rest. It's great fun."
  "Let's try it," said Jo, who liked new experiments.
  Miss Kate and Mr. Brooke, Meg, and Ned declined, but Fred, Sallie,
Jo, and Laurie piled and drew; and the lot fell to Laurie.
  "Who are your heroes?" asked Jo.
  "Grandfather and Napoleon."
  "Which lady here do you think prettiest?" said Sallie.
  "Margaret."
  "Which do you like best?" from Fred.
  "Jo, of course."
  "What silly questions you ask!" and Jo gave a disdainful shrug as
the rest laughed at Laurie's matter-of-fact tone.
  "Try again; Truth isn't a bad game," said Fred.
  "It's a very good one for you," retorted Jo, in a low voice.
  Her turn came next.
  "What is your greatest fault?" asked Fred, by way of testing in
her the virtue he lacked himself.
  "A quick temper."
  "What do you most wish for?" said Laurie.
  "A pair of boot-lacings," returned Jo, guessing and defeating his
purpose.
  "Not a true answer; you must say what you really do want most."
  "Genius; don't you wish you could give it to me, Laurie?" and she
slyly smiled in his disappointed face.
  "What virtues do you most admire in a man?" asked Sallie.
  "Courage and honesty."
  "Now my turn," said Fred, as his hand came last.
  "Let's give it to him," whispered Laurie to Jo, who nodded, and
asked at once-
  "Didn't you cheat at croquet?"
  "Well, yes, a little bit."
  "Good! Didn't you take your story out of 'The Sea-Lion'?" said
Laurie.
  "Rather."
  "Don't you think the English nation perfect in every respect?" asked
Sallie.
  "I should be ashamed of myself if I didn't."
  "He's a true John Bull. Now, Miss Sallie, you shall have a chance
without waiting to draw. I'll harrow up your feelings first, by asking
if you don't think you are something of a flirt," said Laurie, as Jo
nodded to Fred, as a sign that peace was declared.
  "You impertinent boy! of course I'm not," exclaimed Sallie, with
an air that proved the contrary.
  "What do you hate most?" asked Fred.
  "Spiders and rice-pudding."
  "What do you like best?" asked Jo.
  "Dancing and French gloves."
  "Well, I think Truth is a very silly play; let's have a sensible
game of Authors, to refresh our minds," proposed Jo.
  Ned, Frank, and the little girls joined in this, and, while it
went on, the three elders sat apart, talking. Miss Kate took out her
sketch again, and Margaret watched her, while Mr. Brooke lay on the
grass, with a book, which he did not read.
  "How beautifully you do it! I wish I could draw," said Meg, with
mingled admiration and regret in her voice.
  "Why don't you learn? I should think you had taste and talent for
it," replied Miss Kate graciously.
  "I haven't time."
  "Your mamma prefers other accomplishments, I fancy. So did mine; but
I proved to her that I had talent, by taking a few lessons
privately, and then she was quite willing I should go on. Can't you do
the same with your governess?"
  "I have none."
  "I forgot; young ladies in America go to school more than with us.
Very fine schools they are, too, papa says. You go to a private one, I
suppose?"
  "I don't go at all; I am a governess myself."
  "Oh, indeed!" said Miss Kate; but she might as well have said, "Dear
me, how dreadful!" for her tone implied it, and something in her
face made Meg color, and wish she had not been so frank.
  Mr. Brooke looked up, and said quickly, "Young ladies in America
love independence as much as their ancestors did, and are admired
and respected for supporting themselves."
  "Oh, yes; of course it's very nice and proper in them to do so. We
have many most respectable and worthy young women, who do the same and
are employed by the nobility, because, being the daughters of
gentlemen, they are both well-bred and accomplished, you know," said
Miss Kate, in a patronizing tone, that hurt Meg's pride, and made
her work seem not only more distasteful, but degrading.
  "Did the German song suit, Miss March?" inquired Mr. Brooke,
breaking an awkward pause.
  "Oh, yes! it was very sweet, and I'm much obliged to whoever
translated it for me"; and Meg's downcast face brightened as she
spoke.
  "Don't you read German?" asked Miss Kate, with a look of surprise.
  "Not very well. My father, who taught me, is away, and I don't get
on very fast alone, for I've no one to correct my pronunciation."
  "Try a little now; here is Schiller's 'Mary Stuart,' and a tutor who
loves to teach," and Mr. Brooke laid his book on her lap, with an
inviting smile.
  "It's so hard I'm afraid to try," said Meg, grateful, but bashful in
the presence of the accomplished young lady beside her.
  "I'll read a bit to encourage you"; and Miss Kate read one of the
most beautiful passages, in a perfectly correct but perfectly
expressionless manner.
  Mr. Brooke made no comment, as she returned the book to Meg, who
said innocently-
  "I thought it was poetry."
  "Some of it is. Try this passage."
  There was a queer smile about Mr. Brooke's mouth as he opened at
poor Mary's lament.
  Meg obediently following the long grass-blade which her new tutor
used to point with, read slowly and timidly, unconsciously making
poetry of the hard words by the soft intonation of her musical
voice. Down the page went the green guide, and presently, forgetting
her listener in the beauty of the sad scene, Meg read as if alone,
giving a little touch of tragedy to the words of the unhappy queen. If
she had seen the brown eyes then, she would have stopped short; but
she never looked up, and the lesson was not spoiled for her.
  "Very well indeed!" said Mr. Brooke, as she paused, quite ignoring
her many mistakes, and looking as if he did, indeed, "love to teach."
  Miss Kate put up her glass, and, having taken a survey of the little
tableau before her, shut her sketch-book, saying, with condescension-
  "You've a nice accent, and, in time, will be a clever reader. I
advise you to learn, for German is a valuable accomplishment to
teachers. I must look after Grace, she is romping"; and Miss Kate
strolled away, adding to herself, with a shrug, "I didn't come to
chaperone a governess, though she is young and pretty. What odd people
these Yankees are; I'm afraid Laurie will be quite spoilt among them."
  "I forgot that English people rather turn up their noses at
governesses, and don't treat them as we do," said Meg, looking after
the retreating figure with an annoyed expression.
  "Tutors, also, have rather a hard time of it there, as I know to
my sorrow. There's no place like America for us workers, Miss
Margaret"; and Mr. Brooke looked so contented and cheerful, that Meg
was shamed to lament her hard lot.
  "I'm glad I live in it then. I don't like my work, but I get a
good deal of satisfaction out of it after all, so I won't complain;
I only wish I liked teaching as you do."
  "I think you would if you had Laurie for a pupil. I shall be very
sorry to lose him next year," said Mr. Brooke, busily punching holes
in the turf.
  "Going to college, I suppose?" Meg's lips asked that question, but
her eyes added, "And what becomes of you?"
  "Yes; it's high time he went, for he is ready; and as soon as he
is off, I shall turn soldier. I am needed."
  "I am glad of that!" exclaimed Meg. "I should think every young
man would want to go; though it is hard for the mothers and sisters
who stay at home," she added sorrowfully.
  "I have neither, and very few friends, to care whether I live or
die," said Mr. Brooke, rather bitterly, as he absently put the dead
rose in the hole he had made and covered it up, like a little grave.
  "Laurie and his grandfather would care a great deal, and we should
all be very sorry to have any harm happen to you," said Meg heartily.
  "Thank you; that sounds pleasant," began Mr. Brooke, looking
cheerful again; but before he could finish his speech, Ned, mounted on
the old horse, came lumbering up to display his equestrian skill
before the young ladies, and there was no more quiet that day.
  "Don't you love to ride?" asked Grace of Amy, as they stood resting,
after a race round the field with the others, led by Ned.
  "I dote upon it; my sister Meg used to ride when papa was rich,
but we don't keep any horses now, except Ellen Tree," added Amy,
laughing.
  "Tell me about Ellen Tree; is it a donkey?" asked Grace, curiously.
  "Why, you see, Jo is crazy about horses, and so am I, but we've only
got an old side-saddle, and no horse. Out in our garden is an
apple-tree, that has a nice low branch; so Jo put the saddle on it,
fixed some reins on the part that turns up, and we bounce away on
Ellen Tree whenever we like."
  "How funny!" laughed Grace. "I have a pony at home, and ride
nearly every day in the park, with Fred and Kate; it's very nice,
for my friends go too, and the Row is full of ladies and gentlemen."
  "Dear, how charming! I hope I shall go abroad some day; but I'd
rather go to Rome than the Row," said Amy who had not the remotest
idea what the Row was, and wouldn't have asked for the world.
  Frank, sitting just behind the little girls, heard what they were
saying, and pushed his crutch away from him with an impatient
gesture as he watched the active lads going through all sorts of
comical gymnastics. Beth, who was collecting the scattered
Author-cards, looked up, and said, in her shy yet friendly way-
  "I'm afraid you are tired; can I do anything for you?"
  "Talk to me, please; it's dull, sitting by myself," answered
Frank, who had evidently been used to being made much of at home.
  If he had asked her to deliver a Latin oration, it would not have
seemed a more impossible task to bashful Beth; but there was no
place to run to, no Jo to hide behind now, and the poor boy looked
so wistfully at her, that she bravely resolved to try.
  "What do you like to talk about?" she asked, fumbling over the
cards, and dropping half as she tried to tie them up.
  "Well, I like to hear about cricket and boating and hunting," said
Frank, who had not yet learned to suit his amusements to his strength.
  "My heart! what shall I do? I don't know anything about them,"
thought Beth; and, forgetting the boy's misfortune in her flurry,
she said, hoping to make him talk, "I never saw any hunting, but I
suppose you know all about it."
  "I did once; but I can never hunt again, for I got hurt leaping a
confounded five-barred gate; so there are no more horses and hounds
for me," said Frank, with a sigh that made Beth hate herself for her
innocent blunder.
  "Your deer are much prettier than our ugly buffaloes," she said,
turning to the prairies for help, and feeling glad that she had read
one of the boys' books in which Jo delighted.
  Buffaloes proved soothing and satisfactory; and, in her eagerness to
amuse another, Beth forgot herself, and was quite unconscious of her
sister's surprise and delight at the unusual spectacle of Beth talking
away to one of the dreadful boys, against whom she had begged
protection.
  "Bless her heart! She pities him, so she is good to him," said Jo,
beaming at her from the croquet-ground.
  "I always said she was a little saint," added Meg, as if there could
be no further doubt of it.
  "I haven't heard Frank laugh so much for ever so long," said Grace
to Amy, as they sat discussing dolls, and making tea-sets out of the
acorn-cups.
  "My sister Beth is a very fastidious girl, when she likes to be,"
said Amy, well pleased at Beth's success. She meant "fascinating," but
as Grace didn't know the exact meaning of either word, "fastidious"
sounded well, and made a good impression.
  An impromptu circus, fox and geese, and an amicable game of croquet,
finished the afternoon. At sunset the tent was struck, hampers packed,
wickets pulled up, boats loaded, and the whole party floated down
the river, singing at the tops of their voices. Ned, getting
sentimental, warbled a serenade with the pensive refrain-

                 "Alone, alone, ah! woe, alone,"

and at the lines-

             "We each are young, we each have a heart,
              Oh, why should we stand thus coldly apart?"

he looked at Meg with such a lackadaisical expression that she laughed
outright and spoilt his song.
  "How can you be so cruel to me?" he whispered, under cover of a
lively chorus. "You've kept close to that starched-up Englishwoman all
day, and now you snub me."
  "I didn't mean to; but you looked so funny I really couldn't help
it," replied Meg, passing over the first part of his reproach; for
it was quite true that she had shunned him, remembering the Moffat
party and the talk after it.
  Ned was offended, and turned to Sallie for consolation, saying to
her rather pettishly, "There isn't a bit of flirt in that girl, is
there?"
  "Not a particle; but she's a dear," returned Sallie, defending her
friend even while confessing her shortcomings.
  "She's not a stricken deer, anyway," said Ned, trying to be witty,
and succeeding as well as very young gentlemen usually do.
  On the lawn, where it had gathered, the little party separated
with cordial good-nights and good-byes, for the Vaughns were going
to Canada. As the four sisters went home through the garden, Miss Kate
looked after them, saying, without the patronizing tone in her
voice, "In spite of their demonstrative manners, American girls are
very nice when one knows them."
  "I quite agree with you," said Mr. Brooke.
                             13
                      Castles in the Air

  LAURIE lay luxuriously swinging to and fro in his hammock, one
warm September afternoon, wondering what his neighbors were about, but
too lazy to go and find out. He was in one of his moods; for the day
had been both unprofitable and unsatisfactory, and he was wishing he
could live it over again. The hot weather made him indolent, and he
had shirked his studies, tried Mr. Brooke's patience to the utmost,
displeased his grandfather by practising half the afternoon,
frightened the maid-servants half out of their wits, by
mischievously hinting that one of his dogs was going mad, and, after
high words with the stable-man about some fancied neglect of his
horse, he had flung himself into his hammock, to fume over the
stupidity of the world in general, till the peace of the lovely day
quieted him in spite of himself Staring up into the green gloom of the
horse-chestnut trees above him, he dreamed dreams of all sorts, and
was just imagining himself tossing on the ocean, in a voyage round the
world, when the sound of voices brought him ashore in a flash. Peeping
through the meshes of the hammock, he saw the Marches coming out, as
if bound on some expedition.
  "What in the world are those girls about now?" thought Laurie,
opening his sleepy eyes to take a good look, for there was something
rather peculiar in the appearance of his neighbors. Each wore a large,
flapping hat, a brown linen pouch slung over one shoulder, and carried
a long staff. Meg had a cushion, Jo a book, Beth a basket, and Amy a
portfolio. All walked quietly through the garden, out at the little
back gate, and began to climb the hill that lay between the house
and river.
  "Well, that's cool!" said Laurie to himself, "to have a picnic and
never ask me. They can't be going in the boat, for they haven't got
the key. Perhaps they forgot it; I'll take it to them, and see
what's going on."
  Though possessed of half a dozen hats, it took him some time to find
one; then there was a hunt for the key, which was at last discovered
in his pocket; so that the girls were quite out of sight when he
leaped the fence and ran after them. Taking the shortest way to the
boat-house, he waited for them to appear: but no one came, and he went
up the hill to take an observation. A grove of pines covered one
part of it, and from the heart of this green spot came a clearer sound
than the soft sigh of the pines or the drowsy chirp of the crickets.
  "Here's a landscape!" thought Laurie, peeping through the bushes,
and looking wide-awake and good-natured already.
  It was rather a pretty little picture; for the sisters sat
together in the shady nook, with sun and shadow flickering over
them, the aromatic wind lifting their hair and cooling their hot
cheeks, and all the little wood-people going on with their affairs
as if these were no strangers, but old friends. Meg sat upon her
cushion, sewing daintily with her white hands, and looking as fresh
and sweet as a rose, in her pink dress, among the green. Beth was
sorting the cones that lay thick under the hemlock near by, for she
made pretty things of them. Amy was sketching a group of ferns, and Jo
was knitting as she read aloud. A shadow passed over the boy's face as
he watched them, feeling that he ought to go away, because
uninvited; yet lingering, because home seemed very lonely, and this
quiet party in the woods most attractive to his restless spirit. He
stood so still that a squirrel, busy with its harvesting, ran down a
pine close beside him, saw him suddenly and skipped back, scolding
so shrilly that Beth looked up, espied the wistful face behind the
birches, and beckoned with a reassuring smile.
  "May I come in, please? or shall I be a bother?" he asked, advancing
slowly.
  Meg lifted her eyebrows, but Jo scowled at her defiantly, and
said, at once, "Of course you may. We should have asked you before,
only we thought you wouldn't care for such a girl's game as this."
  "I always liked your games; but if Meg doesn't want me, I'll go
away."
  "I've no objection, if you do something; it's against the rules to
be idle here," replied Meg, gravely but graciously.
  "Much obliged; I'll do anything if you'll let me stop a bit, for
it's as dull as the Desert of Sahara down there. Shall I sew, read,
cone, draw, or do all at once? Bring on your bears; I'm ready," and
Laurie sat down, with a submissive expression delightful to behold.
  "Finish this story while I set my heel," said Jo, handing him the
book.
  "Yes'm," was the meek answer, as he began, doing his best to prove
his gratitude for the favor of an admission into the "Busy Bee
Society."
  The story was not a long one, and, when it was finished, he ventured
to ask a few questions as a reward of merit.
  "Please, ma'am, could I inquire if this highly instructive and
charming institution is a new one?"
  "Would you tell him?" asked Meg of her sisters.
  "He'll laugh," said Amy warningly.
  "Who cares?" said Jo.
  "I guess he'll like it," added Beth.
  "Of course I shall! I give you my word I won't laugh. Tell away, Jo,
and don't be afraid."
  "The idea of being afraid of you! Well, you see we used to play
'Pilgrim's Progress,' and we have been going on with it in earnest,
all winter and summer."
  "Yes, I know," said Laurie, nodding wisely.
  "Who told you?" demanded Jo.
  "Spirits."
  "No, I did; I wanted to amuse him one night when you were all
away, and he was rather dismal. He did like it, so don't scold, Jo,"
said Beth meekly.
  "You can't keep a secret. Never mind; it saves trouble now."
  "Go on, please," said Laurie, as Jo became absorbed in her work,
looking a trifle displeased.
  "Oh, didn't she tell you about this new plan of ours? Well, we
have tried not to waste our holiday, but each has had a task, and
worked at it with a will. The vacation is nearly over, the stints
are all done, and we are ever so glad we didn't dawdle."
  "Yes, I should think so"; and Laurie thought regretfully of his
own idle days.
  "Mother likes to have us out of doors as much as possible; so we
bring our work here, and have nice times. For the fun of it we bring
our things in these bags, wear the old hats, use poles to climb the
hill, and play pilgrims, as we used to do years ago. We call this hill
the 'Delectable Mountain,' for we can look far away and see the
country where we hope to live some time."
  Jo pointed, and Laurie sat up to examine; for through an opening
in the wood one could look across the wide, blue river, the meadows on
the other side, far over the outskirts of the great city, to the green
hills that rose to meet the sky. The sun was low, and the heavens
glowed with the splendor of an autumn sunset. Gold and purple clouds
lay on the hill-tops; and rising high into the ruddy light were
silvery white peaks, that shone like the airy spires of some Celestial
City.
  "How beautiful that is!" said Laurie softly, for he was quick to see
and feel beauty of any kind.
  "It's often so; and we like to watch it, for it is never the same,
but always splendid," replied Amy, wishing she could paint it.
  "Jo talks about the country where we hope to live some time- the
real country, she means, with pigs and chickens and haymaking. It
would be nice, but I wish the beautiful country up there was real, and
we could ever go to it," said Beth musingly.
  "There is a lovelier country even than that, where we shall go, by
and by, when we are good enough," answered Meg, with her sweet voice.
  "It seems so long to wait, so hard to do; I want to fly away at
once, as those swallows fly, and go in at that splendid gate."
  "You'll get there, Beth, sooner or later; no fear of that," said Jo;
"I'm the one that will have to fight and work, and climb and wait, and
maybe never get in after all."
  "You'll have me for company, if that's any comfort. I shall have
to do a deal of travelling before I come in sight of your Celestial
City. If I arrive late, you'll say a good word for me, won't you,
Beth?"
  Something in the boy's face troubled his little friend; but she said
cheerfully, with her quiet eyes on the changing clouds, "If people
really want to go, and really try all their lives, I think they will
get in; for I don't believe there are any locks on that door, or any
guards at the gate. I always imagine it is as it is in the picture,
where the shining ones stretch out their hands to welcome poor
Christian as he comes up from the river."
  "Wouldn't it be fun if all the castles in the air which we make
could come true, and we could live in them?" said Jo, after a little
pause.
  "I've made such quantities it would be hard to choose which I'd
have," said Laurie, lying flat, and throwing cones at the squirrel who
had betrayed him.
  "You'd have to take your favorite one. What is it?" asked Meg.
  "If I tell mine, will you tell yours?"
  "Yes, if the girls will too."
  "We will. Now, Laurie."
  "After I'd seen as much of the world as I want to, I'd like to
settle in Germany, and have just as much music as I choose. I'm to
be a famous musician myself, and all creation is to rush to hear me;
and I'm never to be bothered about money or business, but just enjoy
myself, and live for what I like. That's my favorite castle. What's
yours, Meg?"
  Margaret seemed to find it a little hard to tell hers, and waved a
brake before her face, as if to disperse imaginary gnats, while she
said slowly, "I should like a lovely house, full of all sorts of
luxurious things- nice food, pretty clothes, handsome furniture,
pleasant people, and heaps of money. I am to be mistress of it, and
manage it as I like, with plenty of servants, so I never need work a
bit. How I should enjoy it! for I wouldn't be idle, but do good, and
make every one love me dearly."
  "Wouldn't you have a master for your castle in the air?" asked
Laurie slyly.
  "I said 'pleasant people,' you know"; and Meg carefully tied up
her shoe as she spoke, so that no one saw her face.
  "Why don't you say you'd have a splendid, wise, good husband, and
some angelic little children? You know your castle wouldn't be perfect
without," said blunt Jo, who had no tender fancies yet, and rather
scorned romance, except in books.
  "You'd have nothing but horses, inkstands, and novels in yours,"
answered Meg petulantly.
  "Wouldn't I, though? I'd have a stable full of Arabian steeds, rooms
piled with books, and I'd write out of a magic inkstand, so that my
works should be as famous as Laurie's music. I want to do something
splendid before I go into my castle- something heroic or wonderful,
that won't be forgotten after I'm dead. I don't know what, but I'm
on the watch for it, and mean to astonish you all, some day. I think I
shall write books, and get rich and famous: that would suit me, so
that is my favorite dream."
  "Mine is to stay at home safe with father and mother, and help
take care of the family," said Beth contentedly.
  "Don't you wish for anything else?" asked Laurie.
  "Since I had my little piano, I am perfectly satisfied. I only
wish we may all keep well and be together; nothing else."
  "I have ever so many wishes; but the pet one is to be an artist, and
go to Rome, and do fine pictures, and be the best artist in the
whole world," was Amy's modest desire.
  "We're an ambitious set, aren't we? Every one of us, but Beth, wants
to be rich and famous, and gorgeous in every respect. I do wonder if
any of us will ever get our wishes," said Laurie, chewing grass,
like a meditative calf.
  "I've got the key to my castle in the air; but whether I can
unlock the door remains to be seen," observed Jo mysteriously.
  "I've got the key to mine, but I'm not allowed to try it. Hang
college!" muttered Laurie, with an impatient sigh.
  "Here's mine!" and Amy waved her pencil.
  "I haven't got any," said Meg forlornly.
  "Yes, you have," said Laurie at once.
  "Where?"
  "In your face."
  "Nonsense; that's of no use."
  "Wait and see if it doesn't bring you something worth having,"
replied the boy, laughing at the thought of a charming little secret
which he fancied he knew.
  Meg colored behind the brake, but asked no questions, and looked
across the river with the same expectant expression which Mr. Brooke
had worn when he told the story of the knight.
  "If we are all alive ten years hence, let's meet, and see how many
of us have got our wishes, or how much nearer we are then than now,"
said Jo, always ready with a plan.
  "Bless me! how old I shall be- twenty-seven!" exclaimed Meg, who
felt grown up already, having just reached seventeen.
  "You and I will be twenty-six, Teddy, Beth twenty-four, and Amy
twenty-two. What a venerable party!" said Jo.
  "I hope I shall have done something to be proud of by that time; but
I'm such a lazy dog, I'm afraid I shall 'dawdle,' Jo."
  "You need a motive, mother says; and when you get it, she is sure
you'll work splendidly."
  "Is she? By Jupiter I will, if I only get the chance!" cried Laurie,
sitting up with sudden energy. "I ought to be satisfied to please
grandfather, and I do try, but it's working against the grain, you
see, and comes hard. He wants me to be an India merchant, as he was,
and I'd rather be shot. I hate tea and silk and spices, and every sort
of rubbish his old ships bring, and I don't care how soon they go to
the bottom when I own them. Going to college ought to satisfy him, for
if I give him four years he ought to let me off from the business; but
he's set, and I've got to do just as he did, unless I break away and
please myself, as my father did. If there was any one left to stay
with the old gentleman, I'd do it to-morrow."
  Laurie spoke excitedly, and looked ready to carry his threat into
execution on the slightest provocation; for he was growing up very
fast, and, in spite of his indolent ways, had a young man's hatred
of subjection, a young man's restless longing to try the world for
himself.
  "I advise you to sail away in one of your ships, and never come home
again till you have tried your own way," said Jo, whose imagination
was fired by the thought of such a daring exploit, and whose
sympathy was excited by what she called "Teddy's wrongs."
  "That's not right, Jo; you mustn't talk in that way, and Laurie
mustn't take your bad advice. You should do just what your grandfather
wishes, my dear boy," said Meg, in her most maternal tone. "Do your
best at college, and, when he sees that you try to please him, I'm
sure he won't be hard or unjust to you. As you say, there is no one
else to stay with and love him, and you'd never forgive yourself if
you left him without his permission. Don't be dismal or fret, but do
your duty; and you'll get your reward, as good Mr. Brooke has, by
being respected and loved."
  "What do you know about him?" asked Laurie, grateful for the good
advice, but objecting to the lecture, and glad to turn the
conversation from himself, after his unusual outbreak.
  "Only what your grandpa told us about him- how he took good care
of his own mother till she died, and wouldn't go abroad as tutor to
some nice person, because he wouldn't leave her; and how he provides
now for an old woman who nursed his mother; and never tells any one,
but is just as generous and patient and good as he can be."
  "So he is, dear old fellow!" said Laurie heartily, as Meg paused,
looking flushed and earnest with her story. "It's like grandpa to find
out all about him, without letting him know, and to tell all his
goodness to others, so that they might like him. Brooke couldn't
understand why your mother was so kind to him, asking him over with
me, and treating him in her beautiful friendly way. He thought she was
just perfect, and talked about it for days and days, and went on about
you all in flaming style. If ever I do get my wish, you see what
I'll do for Brooke."
  "Begin to do something now, by not plaguing his life out," said
Meg sharply.
  "How do you know I do, miss?"
  "I can always tell by his face, when he goes away. If you have
been good, he looks satisfied and walks briskly; if you have plagued
him, he's sober and walks slowly, as if he wanted to go back and do
his work better."
  "Well, I like that! So you keep an account of my good and bad
marks in Brooke's face, do you? I see him bow and smile as he passes
your window, but I didn't know you'd got up a telegraph."
  "We haven't; don't be angry, and oh, don't tell him I said anything!
It was only to show that I cared how you get on, and what is said here
is said in confidence, you know," cried Meg, much alarmed at the
thought of what might follow from her careless speech.
  "I don't tell tales," replied Laurie, with his "high and mighty"
air, as Jo called a certain expression which he occasionally wore.
"Only if Brooke is going to be a thermometer, I must mind and have
fair weather for him to report."
  "Please don't be offended. I didn't mean to preach or tell tales
or be silly; I only thought Jo was encouraging you in a feeling
which you'd be sorry for, by and by. You are so kind to us, we feel as
if you were our brother, and say just what we think. Forgive me, I
meant it kindly." And Meg offered her hand with a gesture both
affectionate and timid.
  Ashamed of his momentary pique, Laurie squeezed the kind little
hand, and said frankly, "I'm the one to be forgiven; I'm cross, and
have been out of sorts all day. I like to have you tell me my faults
and be sisterly, so don't mind if I am grumpy sometimes; I thank you
all the same."
  Bent on showing that he was not offended, he made himself as
agreeable as possible- wound cotton for Meg, recited poetry to
please Jo, shook down cones for Beth and helped Amy with her ferns,
proving himself a fit person to belong to the "Busy Bee Society." In
the midst of an animated discussion on the domestic habits of
turtles (one of those amiable creatures having strolled up from the
river), the faint sound of a bell warned them that Hannah had put
the tea "to draw," and they would just have time to get home to
supper.
  "May I come again?" asked Laurie.
  "Yes, if you are good, and love your book, as the boys in the primer
are told to do," said Meg, smiling.
  "I'll try."
  "Then you may come, and I'll teach you to knit as the Scotchmen
do; there's a demand for socks just now," added Jo, waving hers,
like a big blue worsted banner, as they parted at the gate.
  That night, when Beth played to Mr. Laurence in the twilight,
Laurie, standing in the shadow of the curtain, listened to the
little David, whose simple music always quieted his moody spirit,
and watched the old man, who sat with his gray head on his hand,
thinking tender thoughts of the dead child he had loved so much.
Remembering the conversation of the afternoon, the boy said to
himself, with the resolve to make the sacrifice cheerfully, "I'll
let my castle go, and stay with the dear old gentleman while he
needs me, for I am all he has."
                             14
                           Secrets

  JO was very busy in the garret, for the October days began to grow
chilly, and the afternoons were short. For two or three hours the
sun lay warmly in the high window, showing Jo seated on the old
sofa, writing busily, with her papers spread out upon a trunk before
her, while Scrabble, the pet rat, promenaded the beams overhead,
accompanied by his oldest son, a fine young fellow, who was
evidently very proud of his whiskers. Quite absorbed in her work, Jo
scribbled away till the last page was filled, when she signed her name
with a flourish, and threw down her pen, exclaiming-
  "There, I've done my best! If this won't suit I shall have to wait
till I can do better."
  Lying back on the sofa, she read the manuscript carefully through,
making dashes here and there, and putting in many exclamation
points, which looked like little balloons; then she tied it up with
a smart red ribbon, and sat a minute looking at it with a sober,
wistful expression, which plainly showed how earnest her work had
been. Jo's desk up here was an old tin kitchen, which hung against the
wall. In it she kept her papers and a few books, safely shut away from
Scrabble, who, being likewise of a literary turn, was fond of making a
circulating library of such books as were left in his way, by eating
the leaves. From this tin receptacle Jo produced another manuscript;
and, putting both in her pocket, crept quietly down stairs, leaving
her friends to nibble her pens and taste her ink.
  She put on her hat and jacket as noiselessly as possible, and, going
to the back entry window, got out upon the roof of a low porch,
swung herself down to the grassy bank, and took a roundabout way to
the road. Once there, she composed herself, hailed a passing
omnibus, and rolled away to town, looking very merry and mysterious.
  If any one had been watching her, he would have thought her
movements decidedly peculiar; for, on alighting, she went off at a
great pace till she reached a certain number in a certain busy street;
having found the place with some difficulty, she went into the
doorway, looked up the dirty stairs, and, after standing stock still a
minute suddenly dived into the street, and walked away as rapidly as
she came. This manoeuvre she repeated several times, to the great
amusement of a black-eyed young gentleman lounging in the window of
a building opposite. On returning for the third time, Jo gave
herself a shake, pulled her hat over her eyes, and walked up the
stairs, looking as if she were going to have all her teeth out.
  There was a dentist's sign, among others, which adorned the
entrance, and, after staring a moment at the pair of artificial jaws
which slowly opened and shut to draw attention to a fine set of teeth,
the young gentleman put on his coat, took his hat, and went down to
post himself in the opposite doorway, saying, with a smile and a
shiver-
  "It's like her to come alone, but if she has a bad time she'll
need some one to help her home."
  In ten minutes Jo came running down stairs with a very red face, and
the general appearance of a person who had just passed through a
trying ordeal of some sort. When she saw the young gentleman she
looked anything but pleased, and passed him with a nod; but he
followed, asking, with an air of sympathy-
  "Did you have a bad time?"
  "Not very."
  "You got through quickly."
  "Yes, thank goodness!"
  "Why did you go alone?"
  "Didn't want any one to know."
  "You're the oddest fellow I ever saw. How many did you have out?"
  Jo looked at her friend as if she did not understand him; then began
to laugh, as if mightily amused at something.
  "There are two which I want to have come out, but I must wait a
week."
  "What are you laughing at? You are up to some mischief, Jo," said
Laurie, looking mystified.
  "So are you. What were you doing, sir, up in that billiard saloon?"
  "Begging your pardon, ma'am, it wasn't a billiard saloon, but a
gymnasium, and I was taking a lesson in fencing."
  "I'm glad of that."
  "Why?"
  "You can teach me, and then when we play Hamlet, you can be Laertes,
and we'll make a fine thing of the fencing scene."
  Laurie burst out with a hearty boy's laugh, which made several
passers-by smile in spite of themselves.
  "I'll teach you whether we play Hamlet or not; it's grand fun, and
will straighten you up capitally. But I don't believe that was your
only reason for saying 'I'm glad,' in that decided way; was it, now?"
  "No, I was glad that you were not in the saloon, because I hope
you never go to such places. Do you?"
  "Not often."
  "I wish you wouldn't."
  "It's no harm, Jo. I have billiards at home, but it's no fun
unless you have good players; so, as I'm fond of it, I come
sometimes and have a game with Ned Moffat or some of the other
fellows."
  "Oh dear, I'm so sorry, for you'll get to liking it better and
better, and will waste time and money, and grow like those dreadful
boys. I did hope you'd stay respectable, and be a satisfaction to your
friends," said Jo, shaking her head.
  "Can't a fellow take a little innocent amusement now and then
without losing his respectability?" asked Laurie, looking nettled.
  "That depends upon how and where he takes it. I don't like Ned and
his set, and wish you'd keep out of it. Mother won't let us have him
at our house, though he wants to come; and if you grow like him she
won't be willing to have us frolic together as we do now."
  "Won't she?" asked Laurie anxiously.
  "No, she can't bear fashionable young men, and she'd shut us all
up in bandboxes rather than have us associate with them."
  "Well, she needn't get out her bandboxes yet; I'm not a
fashionable party, and don't mean to be; but I do like harmless
larks now and then, don't you?"
  "Yes, nobody minds them, so lark away, but don't get wild, will you?
or there will be an end of all our good times."
  "I'll be a double-distilled saint."
  "I can't bear saints: just be a simple, honest, respectable boy, and
we'll never desert you. I don't know what I should do if you acted
like Mr. King's son; he had plenty of money, but didn't know how to
spend it, and got tipsy and gambled, and ran away, and forged his
father's name, I believe, and was altogether horrid."
  "You think I'm likely to do the same? Much obliged."
  "No, I don't- oh, dear, no!- but I hear people talking about money
being such a temptation, and I sometimes wish you were poor; I
shouldn't worry then."
  "Do you worry about me, Jo?"
  "A little, when you look moody or discontented, as you sometimes do;
for you've got such a strong will, if you once get started wrong,
I'm afraid it would be hard to stop you."
  Laurie walked in silence a few minutes, and Jo watched him,
wishing she had held her tongue, for his eyes looked angry, though his
lips still smiled as if at her warnings.
  "Are you going to deliver lectures all the way home?" he asked
presently.
  "Of course not; why?"
  "Because if you are, I'll take a 'bus; if you are not, I'd like to
walk with you, and tell you something very interesting."
  "I won't preach any more, and I'd like to hear the news immensely."
  "Very well, then; come on. It's a secret, and if I tell you, you
must tell me yours."
  "I haven't got any," began Jo, but stopped suddenly, remembering
that she had.
  "You know you have- you can't hide anything; so up and 'fess, or I
won't tell," cried Laurie.
  "Is your secret a nice one?"
  "Oh, isn't it! all about people you know, and such fun! You ought to
hear it, and I've been aching to tell it this long time. Come, you
begin."
  "You'll not say anything about it at home, will you?"
  "Not a word."
  "And you won't tease me in private?"
  "I never tease."
  "Yes, you do; you get everything you want out of people. I don't
know how you do it, but you are a born wheedler."
  "Thank you; fire away."
  "Well, I've left two stories with a newspaper man, and he's to
give his answer next week," whispered Jo, in her confidant's ear.
  "Hurrah for Miss March, the celebrated American authoress!" cried
Laurie, throwing up his hat and catching it again, to the great
delight of two ducks, four cats, five hens, and half a dozen Irish
children; for they were out of the city now.
  "Hush! It won't come to anything, I dare say; but I couldn't rest
till I had tried, and I said nothing about it, because I didn't want
any one else to be disappointed."
  "It won't fail. Why, Jo, your stories are works of Shakespeare,
compared to half the rubbish that is published every day. Won't it
be fun to see them in print; and shan't we feel proud of our
authoress?"
  Jo's eyes sparkled, for it is always pleasant to be believed in; and
a friend's praise is always sweeter than a dozen newspaper puffs.
  "Where's your secret? Play fair, Teddy, or I'll never believe you
again," she said, trying to extinguish the brilliant hopes that blazed
up at a word of encouragement.
  "I may get into a scrape for telling; but I didn't promise not to,
so I will, for I never feel easy in my mind till I've told you any
plummy bit of news I get. I know where Meg's glove is."
  "Is that all?" said Jo, looking disappointed, as Laurie nodded and
twinkled, with a face full of mysterious intelligence.
  "It's quite enough for the present, as you'll agree when I tell
you where it is."
  "Tell, then."
  Laurie bent, and whispered three words in Jo's ear, which produced a
comical change. She stood and stared at him for a minute, looking both
surprised and displeased, then walked on, saying sharply, "How do
you know?"
  "Saw it."
  "Where?"
  "Pocket."
  "All this time?"
  "Yes; isn't that romantic?"
  "No, it's horrid."
  "Don't you like it?"
  "Of course I don't. It's ridiculous; it won't be allowed. My
patience! what would Meg say?"
  "You are not to tell any one; mind that."
  "I didn't promise."
  "That was understood, and I trusted you."
  "Well, I won't for the present, any way; but I'm disgusted, and wish
you hadn't told me."
  "I thought you'd be pleased."
  "At the idea of anybody coming to take Meg away? No, thank you."
  "You'll feel better about it when somebody comes to take you away."
  "I'd like to see any one try it," cried Jo fiercely.
  "So should I!" and Laurie chuckled at the idea.
  "I don't think secrets agree with me; I feel rumpled up in my mind
since you told me that," said Jo, rather ungratefully.
  "Race down this hill with me, and you'll be all right," suggested
Laurie.
  No one was in sight; the smooth road sloped invitingly before her;
and finding the temptation irresistible, Jo darted away, soon
leaving hat and comb behind her, and scattering hair-pins as she
ran. Laurie reached the goal first, and was quite satisfied with the
success of his treatment; for his Atalanta came panting up, with
flying hair, bright eyes, ruddy cheeks, and no signs of
dissatisfaction in her face.
  "I wish I was a horse; then I could run for miles in this splendid
air, and not lose my breath. It was capital; but see what a guy it's
made me. Go, pick up my things, like a cherub as you are," said Jo,
dropping down under a maple-tree, which was carpeting the bank with
crimson leaves.
  Laurie leisurely departed to recover the lost property, and Jo
bundled up her braids, hoping no one would pass by till she was tidy
again. But some one did pass, and who should it be but Meg, looking.
particularly ladylike in her state and festival suit, for she had been
making calls.
  "What in the world are you doing here?" she asked, regarding her
dishevelled sister with well-bred surprise.
  "Getting leaves," meekly answered Jo, sorting the rosy handful she
had just swept up.
  "And hair-pins," added Laurie, throwing half a dozen into Jo's
lap. "They grow on this road, Meg; so do combs and brown straw hats."
  "You have been running, Jo; how could you? When will you stop such
romping ways?" said Meg reprovingly, as she settled her cuffs, and
smoothed her hair, with which the wind had taken liberties.
  "Never till I'm stiff and old, and have to use a crutch. Don't try
to make me grow up before my time, Meg; it's hard enough to have you
change all of a sudden; let me be a little girl as long as I can."
  As she spoke, Jo bent over the leaves to hide the trembling of her
lips; for lately she had felt that Margaret was fast getting to be a
woman, and Laurie's secret made her dread the separation which must
surely come some time, and now seemed very near. He saw the trouble in
her face? and drew Meg's attention from it by asking quickly, "Where
have you been calling, all so fine?"
  "'At the Gardiners' and Sallie has been telling me all about Belle
Moffat's wedding. It was very splendid, and they have gone to spend
the winter in Paris. Just think how delightful that must be!"
  "Do you envy her, Meg?" said Laurie.
  "I'm afraid I do."
  "I'm glad of it!" murmured Jo, tying on her hat with a jerk.
  "Why?" asked Meg, looking surprised.
  "Because if you care much about riches, you will never go and
marry a poor man," said Jo, frowning at Laurie, who was mutely warning
her to mind what she said.
  "I shall never 'go and marry' any one," observed Meg, walking on
with great dignity, while the others followed, laughing, whispering,
skipping stones, and "behaving like children," as Meg said to herself,
though she might have been tempted to join them if she had not had her
best dress on.
  For a week or two, Jo behaved so queerly that her sisters were quite
bewildered. She rushed to the door when the postman rang; was rude
to Mr. Brooke whenever they met; would sit looking at Meg with a
woebegone face, occasionally jumping up to shake and then to kiss her,
in a very mysterious manner; Laurie and she were always making signs
to one another, and talking about "Spread Eagles," till the girls
declared they had both lost their wits. On the second Saturday after
Jo got out of the window, Meg, as she sat sewing at her window, was
scandalized by the sight of Laurie chasing Jo all over the garden, and
finally capturing her in Amy's bower. What went on there, Meg could
not see; but shrieks of laughter were heard, followed by the murmur of
voices and a great flapping of newspapers.
  "What shall we do with that girl? She never will behave like a young
lady," sighed Meg, as she watched the race with a disapproving face.
  "I hope she won't; she is so funny and dear as she is," said Beth,
who had never betrayed that she was a little hurt at Jo's having
secrets with any one but her.
  "It's very trying, but we never can make her commy la fo," added
Amy, who sat making some new frills for herself, with her curls tied
up in a very becoming way- two agreeable things, which made her feel
unusually elegant and ladylike.
  In a few minutes Jo bounced in, laid herself on the sofa, and
affected to read.
  "Have you anything interesting there?" asked Meg, with
condescension.
  "Nothing but a story; won't amount to much, I guess," returned Jo,
carefully keeping the name of the paper out of sight.
  "You'd better read it aloud; that will amuse us and keep you out
of mischief," said Amy, in her most grown-up tone.
  "What's the name?" asked Beth, wondering why Jo kept her face behind
the sheet.
  "The Rival Painters."
  "That sounds well; read it," said Meg.
  With a loud "Hem!" and a long breath, Jo began to read very fast.
The girls listened with interest, for the tale was romantic, and
somewhat pathetic, as most of the characters died in the end.
  "I like that about the splendid picture," was Amy's approving
remark, as Jo paused.
  "I prefer the lovering part. Viola and Angelo are two of our
favorite names; isn't that queer?" said Meg, wiping her eyes, for
the "lovering part" was tragical.
  "Who wrote it?" asked Beth, who had caught a glimpse of Jo's face.
  The reader suddenly sat up, cast away the paper, displaying a
flushed countenance, and, with a funny mixture of solemnity and
excitement, replied in a loud voice, "Your sister."
  "You?" cried Meg, dropping her work.
  "It's very good," said Amy critically.
  "I knew it! I knew it! O my Jo, I am so proud!" and Beth ran to
hug her sister, and exult over this splendid success.
  Dear me, how delighted they all were, to be sure! how Meg wouldn't
believe it till she saw the words, "Miss Josephine March," actually
printed in the paper; how graciously Amy criticized the artistic parts
of the story, and offered hints for a sequel, which unfortunately
couldn't be carried out, as the hero and heroine were dead; how Beth
got excited, and skipped and sung with joy; how Hannah came in to
exclaim "Sakes alive, well I never!" in great astonishment at "that
Jo's doin's"; how proud Mrs. March was when she knew it; how Jo
laughed, with tears in her eyes, as she declared she might as well
be a peacock and done with it; and how the "Spread Eagle" might be
said to flap his wings triumphantly over the House of March, as the
paper passed from hand to hand.
  "Tell us all about it." "When did it come?" "How much did you get
for it?" "What will father say?" "Won't Laurie laugh?" cried the
family, all in one breath, as they clustered about Jo; for these
foolish, affectionate people made a jubilee of every little
household joy.
  "Stop jabbering, girls, and I'll tell you everything," said Jo,
wondering if Miss Burney felt any grander over her "Evelina" than
she did over her "Rival Painters." Having told how she disposed of her
tales, Jo added, "And when I went to get my answer, the man said he
liked them both, but didn't pay beginners, only let them print in
his paper, and noticed the stories. It was good practice, he said; and
when the beginners improved, any one would pay. So I let him have
the two stories, and to-day this was sent to me, and Laurie caught
me with it, and insisted on seeing it, so I let him; and he said it
was good, and I shall write more, and he's going to get the next
paid for, and I am so happy, for in time I may be able to support
myself and help the girls."
  Jo's breath gave out here; and, wrapping her head in the paper,
she bedewed her little story with a few natural tears; for to be
independent, and earn the praise of those she loved were the dearest
wishes of her heart, and this seemed to be the first step toward
that happy end.
                             15
                          A Telegram

  "NOVEMBER is the most disagreeable mouth in the whole year," said
Margaret, standing at the window one dull afternoon, looking out at
the frost-bitten garden.
  "That's the reason I was born in it," observed Jo pensively, quite
unconscious of the blot on her nose.
  "If something very pleasant should happen now, we should think it
a delightful month," said Beth, who took a hopeful view of everything,
even November.
  "I dare say; but nothing pleasant ever does happen in this
family," said Meg, who was out of sorts. "We go grubbing along day
after day, without a bit of change, and very little fun. We might as
well be in a treadmill."
  "My patience, how blue we are!" cried Jo. "I don't much wonder, poor
dear, for you see other girls having splendid times, while you
grind, grind, year in and year out. Oh, don't I wish I could manage
things for you as I do for my heroines! You're pretty enough and
good enough already, so I'd have some rich relation leave you a
fortune unexpectedly; then you'd dash out as an heiress, scorn every
one who has slighted you, go abroad, and come home my Lady
Something, in a blaze of splendor and elegance."
  "People don't have fortunes left them in that style now-a-days;
men have to work, and women to marry for money. It's a dreadfully
unjust world," said Meg bitterly.
  "Jo and I are going to make fortunes for you all; just wait ten
years, and see if we don't," said Amy, who sat in a corner, making mud
pies, as Hannah called her little clay models of birds, fruit, and
faces.
  "Can't wait, and I'm afraid I haven't much faith in ink and dirt,
though I'm grateful for your good intentions."
  Meg sighed, and turned to the frost-bitten garden again; Jo groaned,
and leaned both elbows on the table in a despondent attitude, but
Amy spatted away energetically; and Beth, who sat at the other window,
said, smiling, "Two pleasant things are going to happen right away:
Marmee is coming down the street, and Laurie is tramping through the
garden as if he had something nice to tell."
  In they both came, Mrs. March with her usual question, "Any letter
from father, girls?" and Laurie to say in his persuasive way, "Won't
some of you come for a drive? I've been working away at mathematics
till my head is in a muddle, and I'm going to freshen my wits by a
brisk turn. It's a dull day, but the air isn't bad, and I'm going to
take Brooke home, so it will be gay inside, if it isn't out. Come, Jo,
you and Beth will go, won't you?"
  "Of course we will."
  "Much obliged, but I'm busy"; and Meg whisked out her work-basket,
for she had agreed with her mother that it was best, for her at least,
not to drive often with the young gentleman.
  "We three will be ready in a minute," cried Amy, running away to
wash her hands.
  "Can I do anything for you, Madam Mother?" asked Laurie, leaning
over Mrs. March's chair, with the affectionate look and tone he always
gave her.
  "No, thank you, except call at the office, if you'll be so kind,
dear. It's our day for a letter, and the postman hasn't been. Father
is as regular as the sun, but there's some delay on the way, perhaps."
  A sharp ring interrupted her, and a minute after Hannah came in with
a letter.
  "It's one of them horrid telegraph things, mum," she said, handing
it as if she was afraid it would explode and do some damage.
  At the word "telegraph," Mrs. March snatched it, read the two
lines it contained, and dropped back into her chair as white as if the
little paper had sent a bullet to her heart. Laurie dashed down stairs
for water, while Meg and Hannah supported her, and Jo read aloud, in a
frightened voice-

  "MRS. MARCH:
    "Your husband is very ill. Come at once.
                                                   "S. HALE,
                                   "Blank Hospital, Washington."

  How still the room was as they listened breathlessly, how
strangely the day darkened outside, and how suddenly the whole world
seemed to change, as the girls gathered about their mother, feeling as
if all the happiness and support of their lives was about to be
taken from them, Mrs. March was herself again directly; read the
message over, and stretched out her arms to her daughters, saying in a
tone they never forgot, "I shall go at once, but it may be too late. O
children, children, help me to bear it!"
  For several minutes there was nothing but the sound of sobbing in
the room, mingled with broken words of comfort, tender assurances of
help, and hopeful whispers that died away in tears. Poor Hannah was
the first to recover, and with unconscious wisdom she set all the rest
a good example; for, with her, work was the panacea for most
afflictions.
  "The Lord keep the dear man! I won't waste no time a cryin', but git
your things ready right away, mum," she said heartily, as she wiped
her face on her apron, gave her mistress a warm shake of the hand with
her own hard one, and went away, to work like three women in one.
  "She's right; there's no time for tears now. Be calm, girls, and let
me think."
  They tried to be calm, poor things, as their mother sat up,
looking pale, but steady, and put away her grief to think and plan for
them.
  "Where's Laurie?" she asked presently, when she had collected her
thoughts, and decided on the first duties to be done.
  "Here, ma'am. Oh, let me do something!" cried the boy, hurrying from
the next room, whither he had withdrawn, feeling that their first
sorrow was too sacred for even his friendly eyes to see.
  "Send a telegram saying I will come at once. The next train goes
early in the morning. I'll take that."
  "What else? The horses are ready; I can go anywhere, do anything,"
he said, looking ready to fly to the ends of the earth.
  "Leave a note at Aunt March's. Jo, give me that pen and paper."
  Tearing off the blank side of one of her newly copied pages, Jo drew
the table before her mother, well knowing that money for the long, sad
journey must be borrowed, and feeling as if she could do anything to
add a little to the sum for her father.
  "Now go, dear; but don't kill yourself driving at a desperate
pace; there is no need of that."
  Mrs. March's warning was evidently thrown away; for five minutes
later Laurie tore by the window on his own fleet horse, riding as if
for his life.
  "Jo, run to the rooms, and tell Mrs. King that I can't come. On
the way get these things. I'll put them down; they'll be needed, and I
must go prepared for nursing. Hospital stores are not always good.
Beth, go and ask Mr. Laurence for a couple of bottles of old wine: I'm
not too proud to beg for father; he shall have the best of everything.
Amy, tell Hannah to get down the black trunk; and, Meg, come and
help me find my things, for I'm half bewildered."
  Writing, thinking, and directing, all at once, might well bewilder
the poor lady, and Meg begged her to sit quietly in her room for a
little while, and let them work. Every one scattered like leaves
before a gust of wind; and the quiet, happy household was broken up as
suddenly as if the paper had been an evil spell.
  Mr. Laurence came hurrying back with Beth, bringing every comfort
the kind old gentleman could think of for the invalid, and friendliest
promises of protection for the girls during the mother's absence,
which comforted her very much. There was nothing he didn't offer, from
his own dressing-gown to himself as escort. But that last was
impossible. Mrs. March would not hear of the old gentleman's
undertaking the long journey; yet an expression of relief was
visible when he spoke of it, for anxiety ill fits one for
travelling. He saw the look, knit his heavy eyebrows, rubbed his
hands, and marched abruptly away, saying he'd be back directly. No one
had time to think of him again till, as Meg ran through the entry,
with a pair of rubbers in one hand and a cup of tea in the other,
she came suddenly upon Mr. Brooke.
  "I'm very sorry to hear of this, Miss March," he said, in the
kind, quiet tone which sounded very pleasantly to her perturbed
spirit. "I came to offer myself as escort to your mother. Mr. Laurence
has commissions for me in Washington, and it will give me real
satisfaction to be of service to her there."
  Down dropped the rubbers, and the tea was very near following, as
Meg put out her hand, with a face so full of gratitude, that Mr.
Brooke would have felt repaid for a much greater sacrifice than the
trifling one of time and comfort which he was about to make.
  "How kind you all are! Mother will accept, I'm sure; and it will
be such a relief to know that she has some one to take care of her.
Thank you very, very much!"
  Meg spoke earnestly, and forgot herself entirely till something in
the brown eyes looking down at her made her remember the cooling
tea, and lead the way into the parlor, saying she would call her
mother.
  Everything was arranged by the time Laurie returned with a note from
Aunt March, enclosing the desired sum, and a few lines repeating
what she had often said before- that she had always told them it was
absurd for March to go into the army, always predicted that no good
would come of it, and she hoped they would take her advice next
time. Mrs. March put the note in the fire, the money in her purse, and
went on with her preparations, with her lips folded tightly, in a
way which Jo would have understood if she had been there.
  The short afternoon wore away; all the other errands were done,
and Meg and her mother busy at some necessary needlework, while Beth
and Amy got tea, and Hannah finished her ironing with what she
called a "slap and a bang," but still Jo did not come. They began to
get anxious; and Laurie went off to find her, for no one ever knew
what freak Jo might take into her head. He missed her, however, and
she came walking in with a very queer expression of countenance, for
there was a mixture of fun and fear, satisfaction and regret, in it,
which puzzled the family as much as did the roll of bills she laid
before her mother, saying, with a little choke in her voice, "That's
my contribution towards making father comfortable and bringing him
home!"
  "My dear, where did you get it? Twenty-five dollars! Jo, I hope
you haven't done anything rash?"
  "No, it's mine honestly; I didn't beg, borrow, or steal it. I earned
it; and I don't think you'll blame me, for I only sold what was my
own."
  As she spoke, Jo took off her bonnet, and a general outcry arose,
for all her abundant hair was cut short.
  "Your hair! Your beautiful hair!" "O Jo, how could you? Your one
beauty." "My dear girl, there was no need of this." "She doesn't
look like my Jo any more, but I love her dearly for it!"
  As every one exclaimed, and Beth hugged the cropped head tenderly,
Jo assumed an indifferent air, which did not deceive any one a
particle, and said, rumpling up the brown bush, and trying to look
as if she liked it, "It doesn't affect the fate of the nation, so
don't wail, Beth. It will be good for my vanity; I was getting too
proud of my wig. It will do my brains good to have that mop taken off;
my head feels deliciously light and cool, and the barber said I
could soon have a curly crop, which will be boyish, becoming, and easy
to keep in order. I'm satisfied; so please take the money, and let's
have supper."
  "Tell me all about it, Jo. I am not quite satisfied, but I can't
blame you, for I know how willingly you sacrificed your vanity, as you
call it, to your love. But, my dear, it was not necessary, and I'm
afraid you will regret it, one of these days," said Mrs. March.
  "No, I won't!" returned Jo stoutly, feeling much relieved that her
prank was not entirely condemned.
  "What made you do it?" asked Amy, who would as soon have thought
of cutting off her head as her pretty hair.
  "Well, I was wild to do something for father," replied Jo, as they
gathered about the table, for healthy young people can eat even in the
midst of trouble. "I hate to borrow as much as mother does, and I knew
Aunt March would croak; she always does, if you ask for a ninepence.
Meg gave all her quarterly salary toward the rent, and I only got some
clothes with mine, so I felt wicked, and was bound to have some money,
if I sold the nose off my face to get it."
  "You needn't feel wicked, my child: you had no winter things, and
got the simplest with your own hard earnings," said Mrs. March, with a
look that warmed Jo's heart.
  "I hadn't the least idea of selling my hair at first, but as I
went along I kept thinking what I could do, and feeling as if I'd like
to dive into some of the rich stores and help myself. In a barber's
window I saw tails of hair with the prices marked; and one black tail,
not so thick as mine, was forty dollars. It came over me all of a
sudden that I had one thing to make money out of, and without stopping
to think, I walked in, asked if they bought hair, and what they
would give for mine."
  "I don't see how you dared to do it," said Beth, in a tone of awe.
  "Oh, he was a little man who looked as if he merely lived to oil his
hair. He rather stared, at first, as if he wasn't used to having girls
bounce into his shop and ask him to buy their hair. He said he
didn't care about mine, it wasn't the fashionable color, and he
never paid much for it in the first place; the work put into it made
it dear, and so on. It was getting late, and I was afraid, if it
wasn't done right away, that I shouldn't have it done at all, and
you know when I start to do a thing, I hate to give it up; so I begged
him to take it, and told him why I was in such a hurry. It was
silly, I dare say, but it changed his mind, for I got rather
excited, and told the story in my topsy-turvy way, and his wife heard,
and said so kindly-
  "'Take it, Thomas, and oblige the young lady; I'd do as much for our
Jimmy any day if I had a spire of hair worth selling.
  "Who was Jimmy?" asked Amy, who liked to have things explained as
they went along.
  "Her son, she said, who was in the army. How friendly such things
make strangers feel, don't they? She talked away all the time the
man clipped, and diverted my mind nicely."
  "Didn't you feel dreadfully when the first cut came?" asked Meg,
with a shiver.
  "I took a last look at my hair while the man got his things, and
that was the end of it. I never snivel over trifles like that; I
will confess, though, I felt queer when I saw the dear old hair laid
out on the table, and felt only the short, rough ends on my head. It
almost seemed as if I'd an arm or a leg off. The woman saw me look
at it, and picked out a long lock for me to keep. I'll give it to you,
Marmee, just to remember past glories by; for a crop is so comfortable
I don't think I shall ever have a mane again."
  Mrs. March folded the wavy chestnut lock, and laid it away with a
short gray one in her desk. She only said "Thank you, deary," but
something in her face made the girls change the subject, and talk as
cheerfully as they could about Mr. Brooke's kindness, the prospect
of a fine day tomorrow, and the happy times they would have when
father came home to be nursed.
  No one wanted to go to bed, when, at ten o'clock, Mrs. March put
by the last finished job, and said, "Come, girls." Beth went to the
piano and played the father's favorite hymn; all began bravely, but
broke down one by one, till Beth was left alone, singing with all
her heart, for to her music was always a sweet consoler.
  "Go to bed and don't talk, for we must be up early, and shall need
all the sleep we can get. Good-night, my darlings," said Mrs. March,
as the hymn ended, for no one cared to try another.
  They kissed her quietly, and went to bed as silently as if the
dear invalid lay in the next room. Beth and Amy soon fell asleep in
spite of the great trouble, but Meg lay awake, thinking the most
serious thoughts she had ever known in her short life. Jo lay
motionless, and her sister fancied that she was asleep, till a stifled
sob made her exclaim, as she touched a wet cheek-
  "Jo, dear, what is it? Are you crying about father?"
  "No, not now."
  "What then?"
  "My- my hair!" burst out poor Jo, trying vainly to smother her
emotion in the pillow.
  It did not sound at all comical to Meg, who kissed and caressed
the afflicted heroine in the tenderest manner.
  "I'm not sorry," protested Jo, with a choke. "I'd do it again
to-morrow, if I could. It's only the vain, selfish part of me that
goes and cries in this silly way. Don't tell any one, it's all over
now. I thought you were asleep, so I just made a little private moan
for my one beauty. How came you to be awake?"
  "I can't sleep, I'm so anxious," said Meg.
  "Think about something pleasant, and you'll soon drop off."
  "I tried it, but felt wider awake than ever."
  "What did you think of?"
  "Handsome faces- eyes particularly," answered Meg, smiling to
herself, in the dark.
  "What color do you like best?"
  "Brown- that is, sometimes; blue are lovely."
  Jo laughed, and Meg sharply ordered her not to talk, then amiably
promised to make her hair curl, and fell asleep to dream of living
in her castle in the air.
  The clocks were striking midnight, and the rooms were very still, as
a figure glided quietly from bed to bed, smoothing a coverlid here,
settling a pillow there, and pausing to look long and tenderly at each
unconscious face, to kiss each with lips that mutely blessed, and to
pray the fervent prayers which only mothers utter. As she lifted the
curtain to look out into the dreary night, the moon broke suddenly
from behind the clouds, and shone upon her like a bright, benignant
face, which seemed to whisper in the silence, "Be comforted, dear
soul! There is always light behind the clouds."
                             16
                           Letters

  IN the cold gray dawn the sisters lit their lamp, and read their
chapter with an earnestness never felt before; for now the shadow of a
real trouble had come, the little books were full of help and comfort;
and, as they dressed, they agreed to say good-by cheerfully and
hopefully, and send their mother on her anxious journey unsaddened
by tears or complaints from them. Everything seemed very strange
when they went down- so dim and still outside, so full of light and
bustle within. Breakfast at that early hour seemed odd, and even
Hannah's familiar face looked unnatural as she flew about her
kitchen with her night-cap on. The big trunk stood ready in the
hall, mother's cloak and bonnet lay on the sofa, and mother herself
sat trying to eat, but looking so pale and worn with sleeplessness and
anxiety that the girls found it very hard to keep their resolution.
Meg's eyes kept filling in spite of herself; Jo was obliged to hide
her face in the kitchen roller more than once; and the little girls
wore a grave, troubled expression, as if sorrow was a new experience
to them.
  Nobody talked much, but as the time drew very near, and they sat
waiting for the carriage, Mrs. March said to the girls, who were all
busied about her, one folding her shawl, another smoothing out the
strings of her bonnet, a third putting on her overshoes, and a
fourth fastening up her travelling bag-
  "Children, I leave you to Hannah's care and Mr. Laurence's
protection. Hannah is faithfulness itself, and our good neighbor
will guard you as if you were his own. I have no fears for you, yet
I am anxious that you should take this trouble rightly. Don't grieve
and fret when I am gone, or think that you can comfort yourselves by
being idle and trying to forget. Go on with your work as usual, for
work is a blessed solace. Hope and keep busy; and whatever happens,
remember that you never can be fatherless."
  "Yes, mother."
  "Meg, dear, be prudent, watch over your sisters, consult Hannah,
and, in any perplexity, go to Mr. Laurence. Be patient, Jo, don't
get despondent or do rash things; write to me often, and be my brave
girl, ready to help and cheer us all. Beth, comfort yourself with your
music, and be faithful to the little home duties; and you, Amy, help
all you can, be obedient, and keep happy safe at home."
  "We will, mother! we will!"
  The rattle of an approaching carriage made them all start and
listen. That was the hard minute, but the girls stood it well: no
one cried, no one ran away or uttered a lamentation, though their
hearts were very heavy as they sent loving messages to father,
remembering, as they spoke, that it might be too late to deliver them.
They kissed their mother quietly, clung about her tenderly, and
tried to wave their hands cheerfully when she drove away.
  Laurie and his grandfather came over to see her off, and Mr.
Brooke looked so strong and sensible and kind that the girls
christened him "Mr. Greatheart" on the spot.
  "Good-by, my darlings! God bless and keep us all!" whispered Mrs.
March, as she kissed one dear little face after the other, and hurried
into the carriage.
  As she rolled away, the sun came out, and, looking back, she saw
it shining on the group at the gate, like a good omen. They saw it
also, and smiled and waved their hands; and the last thing she beheld,
as she turned the corner, was the four bright faces, and behind
them, like a body-guard, old Mr. Laurence, faithful Hannah, and
devoted Laurie.
  "How kind every one is to us!" she said, turning to find fresh proof
of it in the respectful sympathy of the young man's face.
  "I don't see how they can help it," returned Mr. Brooke, laughing so
infectiously that Mrs. March could not help smiling; and so the long
journey began with the good omens of sunshine, smiles, and cheerful
words.
  "I feel as if there had been an earthquake," said Jo, as their
neighbors went home to breakfast, leaving them to rest and refresh
themselves.
  "It seems as if half the house was gone," added Meg forlornly.
  Beth opened her lips to say something, but could only point to the
pile of nicely-mended hose which lay on mother's table, showing that
even in her last hurried moments she had thought and worked for
them. It was a little thing, but it went straight to their hearts;
and, in spite of their brave resolutions, they all broke down, and
cried bitterly.
  Hannah wisely allowed them to relieve their feelings, and, when
the shower showed signs of clearing up, she came to the rescue,
armed with a coffee-pot.
  "Now, my dear young ladies, remember what your ma said, and don't
fret. Come and have a cup of coffee all round, and then let's fall
to work, and be a credit to the family."
  Coffee was a treat, and Hannah showed great tact in making it that
morning. No one could resist her persuasive nods, or the fragrant
invitation issuing from the nose of the coffee-pot. They drew up to
the table, exchanged their handkerchiefs for napkins, and in ten
minutes were all right again.
  "'Hope and keep busy'; that's the motto for us, so let's see who
will remember it best. I shall go to Aunt March, as usual. Oh, won't
she lecture though!" said Jo, as she sipped with returning spirit.
  "I shall go to my Kings, though I'd much rather stay at home and
attend to things here," said Meg, wishing she hadn't made her eyes
so red.
  "No need of that; Beth and I can keep house perfectly well," put
in Amy, with an important air.
  "Hannah will tell us what to do; and we'll have everything nice when
you come home," added Beth, getting out her mop and dish-tub without
delay.
  "I think anxiety is very interesting," observed Amy, eating sugar,
pensively.
  The girls couldn't help laughing, and felt better for it, though Meg
shook her head at the young lady who could find consolation in a
sugar-bowl.
  The sight of the turnovers made Jo sober again; and when the two
went out to their daily tasks, they looked sorrowfully back at the
window where they were accustomed to see their mother's face. It was
gone; but Beth had remembered the little household ceremony, and there
she was, nodding away at them like a rosy-faced mandarin.
  "That's so like my Beth!" said Jo, waving her hat, with a grateful
face. "Good-by, Meggy; I hope the Kings won't train to-day. Don't fret
about father, dear," she added, as they parted.
  "And I hope Aunt March won't croak. Your hair is becoming, and it
looks very boyish and nice," returned Meg, trying not to smile at
the curly head, which looked comically small on her tall sister's
shoulders.
  "That's my only comfort"; and, touching her hat a la Laurie, away
went Jo, feeling like a shorn sheep on a wintry day.
  News from their father comforted the girls very much; for, though
dangerously ill, the presence of the best and tenderest of nurses
had already done him good. Mr. Brooke sent a bulletin every day,
and, as the head of the family, Meg insisted on reading the
despatches, which grew more and more cheering as the week passed. At
first, every one was eager to write, and plump envelopes were
carefully poked into the letter-box by one or other of the sisters,
who felt rather important with their Washington correspondence. As one
of these packets contained characteristic notes from the party, we
will rob an imaginary mail, and read them:

  MY DEAREST MOTHER:
    It is impossible to tell you how happy your last letter made us,
for the news was so good we couldn't help laughing and crying over it.
How very kind Mr. Brooke is, and how fortunate that Mr. Laurence's
business detains him near you so long, since he is so useful to you
and father. The girls are all as good as gold. Jo helps me with the
sewing, and insists on doing all sorts of hard jobs. I should be
afraid she might overdo, if I didn't know that her "moral fit"
wouldn't last long. Beth is as regular about her tasks as a clock, and
never forgets what you told her. She grieves about father, and looks
sober except when she is at her little piano. Amy minds me nicely, and
I take great care of her. She does her own hair, and I am teaching her
to make button-holes and mend her stockings. She tries very hard,
and I know you will be pleased with her improvement when you come. Mr.
Laurence watches over us like a motherly old hen, as Jo says; and
Laurie is very kind and neighborly. He and Jo keep us merry, for we
get pretty blue sometimes, and feel like orphans with you so far away.
Hannah is a perfect saint; she does not scold at all, and always calls
me Miss "Margaret," which is quite proper, you know, and treats me
with respect. We are all well and busy; but we long, day and night, to
have you hack. Give my dearest love to father, and believe me, ever
your own
                                                            MEG.

  This note, prettily written on scented paper, was a great contrast
to the next, which was scribbled on a big sheet of thin foreign paper,
ornamented with blots and all manner of flourishes and curly-tailed
letters:

  MY PRECIOUS MARMEE:
    Three cheers for dear father! Brooke was a trump to telegraph
right off, and let us know the minute he was better. I rushed up
garret when the letter came, and tried to thank God for being so
good to us; but I could only cry, and say, "I'm glad! I'm glad!"
Didn't that do as well as a regular prayer? for I felt a great many in
my heart. We have such funny times; and now I can enjoy them, for
every one is so desperately good, it's like living in a nest of
turtle-doves. You'd laugh to see Meg head the table and try to be
motherish. She gets prettier every day, and I'm in love with her
sometimes. The children are regular archangels, and I- well, I'm Jo,
and never shall be anything else. Oh, I must tell you that I came near
having a quarrel with Laurie. I freed my mind about a silly little
thing, and he was offended. I was right, but didn't speak as I
ought, and he marched home, saying he wouldn't come again till I
begged pardon. I declared I wouldn't, and got mad. It lasted all
day; I felt bad, and wanted you very much. Laurie and I are both so
proud, it's hard to beg pardon; but I thought he'd come to it, for I
was in the right. He didn't come; and just at night I remembered
what you said when Amy fell into the river. I read my little book,
felt better, resolved not to let the sun set on my anger, and ran over
to tell Laurie I was sorry. I met him at the gate, coming for the same
thing. We both laughed, begged each other's pardon, and felt all
good and comfortable again.
  I made a "pome" yesterday, when I was helping Hannah wash; and, as
father likes my silly little things, I put it in to amuse him. Give
him the lovingest hug that ever was, and kiss yourself a dozen times
for your
                                                 TOPSY-TURVY JO.

                   A SONG FROM THE SUDS.

               Queen of my tub, I merrily sing,
                 While the white foam rises high;
               And sturdily wash and rinse and wring,
                 And fasten the clothes to dry;
               Then out in the free fresh air they swing,
                 Under the sunny sky.

               I wish we could wash from our hearts and souls
                 The stains of the week away,
               And let water and air by their magic make
                 Ourselves as pure as they;
               Then on the earth there would be indeed
                 A glorious washing-day!

               Along the path of a useful life,
                 Will heart's-ease ever bloom;
               The busy mind has no time to think
                 Of sorrow or care or gloom;
               And anxious thoughts may be swept away,
                 As we bravely wield a broom.

               I am glad a task to me is given,
                 To labor at day by day;
               For it brings me health and strength and hope,
                 And I cheerfully learn to say,
               "Head, you may think, Heart, you may feel,
                 But, Hand, you shall work alway!"

  DEAR MOTHER:
    There is only room for me to send my love, and some pressed
pansies from the root I have been keeping safe in the house for father
to see. I read every morning, try to be good all day, and sing
myself to sleep with father's tune. I can't sing "Land of the Leal"
now; it makes me cry. Every one is very kind, and we are as happy as
we can be without you. Amy wants the rest of the page, so I must stop.
I didn't forget to cover the holders, and I wind the clock and air the
rooms every day.
  Kiss dear father on the cheek he calls mine. Oh, do come soon to
your loving                                        LITTLE BETH.

  MA CHERE MAMMA:
    We are all well I do my lessons always and never corroberate the
girls- Meg says I mean contradick so I put in both words and you can
take the properest. Meg is a great comfort to me and lets me have
jelly every night at tea its so good for me Jo says because it keeps
me sweet tempered. Laurie is not as respeckful as he ought to be now I
am almost in my teens, he calls me Chick and hurts my feelings by
talking French to me very fast when I say Merci or Bon jour as
Hattie King does. The sleeves of my blue dress were all worn out,
and Meg put in new ones, but the full front came wrong and they are
more blue than the dress. I felt bad but did not fret I bear my
troubles well but I do wish Hannah would put more starch in my
aprons and have buckwheats every day. Can't she? Didn't I make that
interrigation point nice? Meg says my punchtuation and spelling are
disgraceful and I am mortyfied but dear me I have so many things to
do, I can't stop. Adieu, I send heaps of love to Papa.
                     Your affectionate daughter,
                                               AMY CURTIS MARCH.

  DEAR MIS MARCH:
    I jes drop a line to say we git on fust rate. The girls is
clever and fly round right smart. Miss Meg is going to make a proper
good housekeeper; she hes the liking for it, and gits the hang of
things surprisin quick. Jo doos beat all for goin ahead, but she don't
stop to cal'k'late fust, and you never know where she's like to
bring up. She done out a tub of clothes on Monday, but she starched em
afore they was wrenched, and blued a pink calico dress till I
thought I should a died a laughin. Beth is the best of little
creeters, and a sight of help to me, bein so forehanded and
dependable. She tries to learn everything, and really goes to market
beyond her years; likewise keeps accounts, with my help, quite
wonderful. We have got on very economical so fur; I don't let the
girls hev coffee only once a week, accordin to your wish, and keep
em on plain wholesome vittles. Amy does well about frettin, wearin her
best clothes and eatin sweet stuff. Mr. Laurie is as full of didoes as
usual, and turns the house upside down frequent; but he heartens up
the girls, and so I let em hev full swing. The old gentleman sends
heaps of things, and is rather wearin, but means wal, and it aint my
place to say nothin. My bread is riz, so no more at this time. I
send my duty to Mr. March. and hope he's seen the last of his
Pewmonia.
                                Yours Respectful,
                                                  HANNAH MULLET.

  HEAD NURSE OF WARD NO. 2:
    All serene on the Rappahannock, troops in fine condition,
commissary department well conducted, the Home Guard under Colonel
Teddy always on duty, Commander-in-chief General Laurence reviews
the army daily, Quartermaster Mullet keeps order in camp, and Major
Lion does picket duty at night. A salute of twenty-four guns was fired
on receipt of good news from Washington, and a dress parade took place
at head-quarters. Commander-in-chief sends best wishes, in which he is
heartily joined by
                                                  COLONEL TEDDY.


  DEAR MADAM:
    The little girls are all well; Beth and my boy report daily;
Hannah is a model servant, and guards pretty Meg like a dragon. Glad
the fine weather holds; pray make Brooke useful, and draw on me for
funds if expenses exceed your estimate. Don't let your husband want
anything. Thank God he is mending.
                      Your sincere friend and servant,
                                                 JAMES LAURENCE.
                             17
                       Little Faithful

  FOR a week the amount of virtue in the old house would have supplied
the neighborhood. It was really amazing, for every one seemed in a
heavenly frame of mind, and self-denial was all the fashion.
Relieved of their first anxiety about their father, the girls
insensibly relaxed their praiseworthy efforts a little, and began to
fall back into the old ways. They did not forget their motto, but
hoping and keeping busy seemed to grow easier; and after such
tremendous exertions, they felt that Endeavor deserved a holiday,
and gave it a good many.
  Jo caught a bad cold through neglect to cover the shorn head enough,
and was ordered to stay at home till she was better, for Aunt March
didn't like to hear people read with colds in their heads. Jo liked
this, and after an energetic rummage from garret to cellar, subsided
on the sofa to nurse her cold with arsenicum and books. Amy found that
housework and art did not go well together, and returned to her mud
pies. Meg went daily to her pupils, and sewed, or thought she did,
at home, but much time was spent in writing long letters to her
mother, or reading the Washington despatches over and over. Beth
kept on, with only slight relapses into idleness or grieving.
  All the little duties were faithfully done each day, and many of her
sisters' also, for they were forgetful, and the house seemed like a
clock whose pendulum was gone a-visiting. When her heart got heavy
with longings for mother or fears for father, she went away into a
certain closet, hid her face in the folds of a certain dear old
gown, and made her little moan and prayed her little prayer quietly by
herself. Nobody knew what cheered her up after a sober fit, but
every one felt how sweet and helpful Beth was, and fell into a way
of going to her for comfort or advice in their small affairs.
  All were unconscious that this experience was a test of character;
and, when the first excitement was over, felt that they had done well,
and deserved praise. So they did; but their mistake was in ceasing
to do well, and they learned this lesson through much anxiety and
regret.
  "Meg, I wish you'd go and see the Hummels; you know mother told us
not to forget them," said Beth, ten days after Mrs. March's departure.
  "I'm too tired to go this afternoon," replied Meg, rocking
comfortably as she sewed.
  "Can't you, Jo?" asked Beth.
  "Too stormy for me with my cold."
  "I thought it was almost well."
  "It's well enough for me to go out with Laurie, but not well
enough to go to the Hummels'," said Jo, laughing, but looking a little
ashamed of her inconsistency.
  "Why don't you go yourself?" asked Meg.
  "I have been every day, but the baby is sick, and I don't know
what to do for it. Mrs. Hummel goes away to work, and Lottchen takes
care of it; but it gets sicker and sicker, and I think you or Hannah
ought to go."
  Beth spoke earnestly, and Meg promised she would go to-morrow.
  "Ask Hannah for some nice little mess, and take it round, Beth;
the air will do you good," said Jo, adding apologetically, "I'd go,
but I want to finish my writing."
  "My head aches and I'm tired, so I thought maybe some of you would
go," said Beth.
  "Amy will be in presently, and she will run down for us,"
suggested Meg.
  "Well, I'll rest a little and wait for her."
  So Beth lay down on the sofa, the others returned to their work, and
the Hummels were forgotten. An hour passed: Amy did not come; Meg went
to her room to try on a new dress; Jo was absorbed in her story, and
Hannah was sound asleep before the kitchen fire, when Beth quietly put
on her hood, filled her basket with odds and ends for the poor
children, and went out into the chilly air, with a heavy head, and a
grieved look in her patient eyes. It was late when she came back,
and no one saw her creep upstairs and shut herself into her mother's
room. Half an hour after Jo went to "mother's closet" for something,
and there found Beth sitting on the medicine chest, looking very
grave, with red eyes, and a camphor-bottle in her hand.
  "Christopher Columbus! What's the matter?" cried Jo, as Beth put out
her hand as if to warn her off, and asked quickly-
  "You've had the scarlet fever, haven't you?"
  "Years ago, when Meg did. Why?"
  "Then I'll tell you. Oh, Jo, the baby's dead!"
  "What baby?"
  "Mrs. Hummel's; it died in my lap before she got home," cried
Beth, with a sob.
  "My poor dear, how dreadful for you! I ought to have gone," said Jo,
taking her sister in her arms as she sat down in her mother's big
chair, with a remorseful face.
  "It wasn't dreadful, Jo, only so sad! I saw in a minute that it
was sicker, but Lottchen said her mother had gone for a doctor, so I
took baby and let Lotty rest. It seemed asleep, but all of a sudden it
gave a little cry, and trembled, and then lay very still. I tried to
warm its feet, and Lotty gave it some milk, but it didn't stir, and
I knew it was dead."
  "Don't cry, dear! What did you do?"
  "I just sat and held it softly till Mrs. Hummel came with the
doctor. He said it was dead, and looked at Heinrich and Minna, who
have got sore throats. 'Scarlet fever, ma'am. Ought to have called
me before,' he said crossly. Mrs. Hummel told him she was poor, and
had tried to cure baby herself, but now it was too late, and she could
only ask him to help the others, and trust to charity for his pay.
He smiled then, and was kinder; but it was very sad, and I cried
with them till he turned round, all of a sudden, and told me to go
home and take belladonna right away, or I'd have the fever."
  "No, you won't!" cried Jo, hugging her close, with a frightened
look.
  "O Beth, if you should be sick I never could forgive myself! What
shall we do?"
  "Don't be frightened, I guess I shan't have it badly. I looked in
mother's book, and saw that it begins with headache, sore throat,
and queer feelings like mine, so I did take some belladonna, and I
feel better," said Beth, laying her cold hands on her hot forehead,
and trying to look well.
  "If mother was only at home!" exclaimed Jo, seizing the book, and
feeling that Washington was an immense way off. She read a page,
looked at Beth, felt her head, peeped into her throat, and then said
gravely, "You've been over the baby every day for more than a week,
and among the others who are going to have it; so I'm afraid you are
going to have it, Beth. I'll call Hannah, she knows all about
sickness."
  "Don't let Amy come; she never had it, and I should hate to give
it to her. Can't you and Meg have it over again?" asked Beth,
anxiously.
  "I guess not; don't care if I do; serve me right, selfish pig, to
let you go, and stay writing rubbish myself!" muttered Jo, as she went
to consult Hannah.
  The good soul was wide awake in a minute, and took the lead at once,
assuring Jo that there was no need to worry; every one had scarlet
fever, and, if rightly treated, nobody died- all of which Jo believed,
and felt much relieved as they went up to call Meg.
  "Now I'll tell you what we'll do," said Hannah, when she had
examined and questioned Beth; "we will have Dr. Bangs, just to take
a look at you, dear, and see that we start right; then we'll send
Amy off to Aunt March's, for a spell, to keep her out of harm's way,
and one of you girls can stay at home and amuse Beth for a day or two.
  "I shall stay, of course; I'm oldest," began Meg, looking anxious
and self-reproachful.
  "I shall, because it's my fault she is sick; I told mother I'd do
the errands, and I haven't," said Jo decidedly.
  "Which will you have, Beth? there ain't no need of but one," said
Hannah.
  "Jo, please"; and Beth leaned her head against her sister, with a
contented look, which effectually settled that point.
  "I'll go and tell Amy," said Meg, feeling a little hurt, yet
rather relieved, on the whole, for she did not like nursing, and Jo
did.
  Amy rebelled outright, and passionately declared that she had rather
have the fever than go to Aunt March. Meg reasoned, pleaded, and
commanded: all in vain. Amy protested that she would not go; and Meg
left her in despair, to ask Hannah what should be done. Before she
came back, Laurie walked into the parlor to find Amy sobbing, with her
head in the sofa-cushions. She told her story, expecting to be
consoled; but Laurie only put his hands in his pockets and walked
about the room, whistling softly, as he knit his brows in deep
thought. Presently he sat down beside her, and said, in his most
wheedlesome tone, "Now be a sensible little woman, and do as they say.
No, don't cry, but hear what a jolly plan I've got. You go to Aunt
March's, and I'll come and take you out every day, driving or walking,
and we'll have capital times. Won't that be better than moping here?"
  "I don't wish to be sent off as if I was in the way," began Amy,
in an injured voice.
  "Bless your heart, child, it's to keep you well. You don't want to
be sick, do you?"
  "No, I'm sure I don't; but I dare say I shall be, for I've been with
Beth all the time."
  "That's the very reason you ought to go away at once, so that you
may escape it. Change of air and care will keep you well, I dare
say; or, if it does not entirely, you will have the fever more
lightly. I advise you to be off as soon as you can, for scarlet
fever is no joke, miss."
  "But it's dull at Aunt March's, and she is so cross," said Amy,
looking rather frightened.
  "It won't be dull with me popping in every day to tell you how
Beth is, and take you out gallivanting. The old lady likes me, and
I'll be as sweet as possible to her, so she won't peck at us, whatever
we do."
  "Will you take me out in the trotting wagon with Puck?"
  "On my honor as a gentleman."
  "And come every single day?"
  "See if I don't."
  "And bring me back the minute Beth is well?"
  "The identical minute."
  "And go to the theater, truly?"
  "A dozen theaters, if we may."
  "Well- I guess- I will," said Amy slowly.
  "Good girl! Call Meg, and tell her you'll give in," said Laurie,
with an approving pat, which annoyed Amy more than the "giving in."
  Meg and Jo came running down to behold the miracle which had been
wrought; and Amy, feeling very precious and self-sacrificing, promised
to go, if the doctor said Beth was going to be ill.
  "How is the little dear?" asked Laurie; for Beth was his especial
pet, and he felt more anxious about her than he liked to show.
  "She is lying down on mother's bed, and feels better. The baby's
death troubled her, but I dare say she has only got cold. Hannah
says she thinks so; but she looks worried, and that makes me fidgety,"
answered Meg.
  "What a trying world it is!" said Jo, rumpling up her hair in a
fretful sort of way. "No sooner do we get out of one trouble than down
comes another. There doesn't seem to be anything to hold on to when
mother's gone; so I'm all at sea."
  "Well, don't make a porcupine of yourself, it isn't becoming. Settle
your wig, Jo, and tell me if I shall telegraph to your mother, or do
anything?" asked Laurie, who never had been reconciled to the loss
of his friend's one beauty.
  "That is what troubles me," said Meg. "I think we ought to tell
her if Beth is really ill, but Hannah says we mustn't, for mother
can't leave father, and it will only make them anxious. Beth won't
be sick long, and Hannah knows just what to do, and mother said we
were to mind her, so I suppose we must, but it doesn't seem quite
right to me."
  "Hum, well, I can't say; suppose you ask grandfather after the
doctor has been."
  "We will. Jo, go and get Dr. Bangs at once," commanded Meg; "we
can't decide anything till he has been."
  "Stay where you are, Jo; I'm errand-boy to this establishment," said
Laurie, taking up his cap.
  "I'm afraid you are busy," began Meg.
  "No, I've done my lessons for the day."
  "Do you study in vacation time?" asked Jo.
  "I follow the good example my neighbors set me," was Laurie's
answer, as he swung himself out of the room.
  "I have great hopes of my boy," observed Jo, watching him fly over
the fence with an approving smile.
  "He does very well- for a boy," was Meg's somewhat ungracious
answer, for the subject did not interest her.
  Dr. Bangs came, said Beth had symptoms of the fever, but thought she
would have it lightly, though he looked sober over the Hummel story.
Amy was ordered off at once, and provided with something to ward off
danger, she departed in great state, with Jo and Laurie as escort.
  Aunt March received them with her usual hospitality.
  "What do you want now?" she asked, looking sharply over her
spectacles, while the parrot, sitting on the back of her chair, called
out-
  "Go away. No boys allowed here."
  Laurie retired to the window, and Jo told her story.
  "No more than I expected, if you are allowed to go poking about
among poor folks. Amy can stay and make herself useful if she isn't
sick, which I've no doubt she will be- looks like it now. Don't cry,
child, it worries me to hear people sniff."
  Amy was on the point of crying, but Laurie slyly pulled the parrot's
tail, which caused Polly to utter an astonished croak, and call out-
  "Bless my boots!" in such a funny way, that she laughed instead.
  "What do you hear from your mother?" asked the old lady gruffly.
  "Father is much better," replied Jo, trying to keep sober.
  "Oh, is he? Well, that won't last long, I fancy; March never had any
stamina," was the cheerful reply.
  "Ha, ha! never say die, take a pinch of snuff, good-by, good-by!"
squalled Polly, dancing on her perch, and clawing at the old lady's
cap as Laurie tweaked him in the rear.
  "Hold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird! and, Jo, you'd better
go at once; it isn't proper to be gadding about so late with a
rattle-pated boy like-"
  "Hold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird!" cried Polly,
tumbling off the chair with a bounce, and running to peck the
"rattle-pated" boy, who was shaking with laughter at the last speech.
  "I don't think I can bear it, but I'll try," thought Amy, as she was
left alone with Aunt March.
  "Get along, you fright!" screamed Polly; and at that rude speech Amy
could not restrain a sniff.
                             18
                          Dark Days

  BETH did have the fever, and was much sicker than any one but Hannah
and the doctor suspected. The girls knew nothing about illness, and
Mr. Laurence was not allowed to see her, so Hannah had everything
all her own way, and busy Dr. Bangs did his best, but left a good deal
to the excellent nurse. Meg stayed at home, lest she should infect the
Kings, and kept house, feeling very anxious and a little guilty when
she wrote letters in which no mention was made of Beth's illness.
She could not think it right to deceive her mother, but she had been
bidden to mind Hannah, and Hannah wouldn't hear of "Mrs. March bein'
told, and worried just for sech a trifle." Jo devoted herself to
Beth day and night; not a hard task, for Beth was very patient, and
bore her pain uncomplainingly as long as she could control herself.
But there came a time when during the fever fits she began to talk
in a hoarse, broken voice, to play on the coverlet, as if on her
beloved little piano, and try to sing with a throat so swollen that
there was no music left; a time when she did not know the familiar
faces round her, but addressed them by wrong names, and called
imploringly for her mother. Then Jo grew frightened, Meg begged to
be allowed to write the truth, and even Hannah said she "would think
of it, though there was no danger yet." A letter from Washington added
to their trouble, for Mr. March had had a relapse, and could not think
of coming home for a long while.
  How dark the days seemed now, how sad and lonely the house, and
how heavy were the hearts of the sisters as they worked and waited,
while the shadow of death hovered over the once happy home! Then it
was that Margaret, sitting alone with tears dropping often on her
work, felt how rich she had been in things more precious than any
luxuries money could buy- in love, protection, peace, and health,
the real blessings of life. Then it was that Jo, living in the
darkened room, with that suffering little sister always before her
eyes, and that pathetic voice sounding in her ears, learned to see the
beauty and the sweetness of Beth's nature, to feel how deep and tender
a place she filled in all hearts, and to acknowledge the worth of
Beth's unselfish ambition to live for others, and make home happy by
the exercise of those simple virtues which all may possess, and
which all should love and value more than talent, wealth, or beauty.
And Amy, in her exile, longed eagerly to be at home, that she might
work for Beth, feeling now that no service would be hard or irksome,
and remembering, with regretful grief, how many neglected tasks
those willing hands had done for her. Laurie haunted the house like
a restless ghost, and Mr. Laurence locked the grand piano, because
he could not bear to be reminded of the young neighbor who used to
make the twilight pleasant for him. Every one missed Beth. The
milkman, baker, grocer, and butcher inquired how she did; poor Mrs.
Hummel came to beg pardon for her thoughtlessness, and to get a shroud
for Minna; the neighbors sent all sorts of comforts and good wishes,
and even those who knew her best were surprised to find how many
friends shy little Beth had made.
  Meanwhile she lay on her bed with old Joanna at her side, for even
in her wanderings she did not forget her forlorn protege. She longed
for her cats, but would not have them brought, lest they should get
sick; and, in her quiet hours, she was full of anxiety about Jo. She
sent loving messages to Amy, bade them tell her mother that she
would write soon; and often begged for pencil and paper to try to
say a word, that father might not think she had neglected him. But
soon even these intervals of consciousness ended, and she lay hour
after hour, tossing to and fro, with incoherent words on her lips,
or sank into a heavy sleep which brought her no refreshment. Dr. Bangs
came twice a day, Hannah sat up at night, Meg kept a telegram in her
desk all ready to send off at any minute, and Jo never stirred from
Beth's side.
  The first of December was a wintry day indeed to them, for a
bitter wind blew, snow fell fast, and the year seemed getting ready
for its death. When Dr. Bangs came that morning, he looked long at
Beth, held the hot hand in both his own a minute, and laid it gently
down, saying, in a low tone, to Hannah-
  "If Mrs. March can leave her husband, she'd better be sent for."
  Hannah nodded without speaking, for her lips twitched nervously; Meg
dropped down into a chair as the strength seemed to go out of her
limbs at the sound of those words; and Jo, after standing with a
pale face for a minute, ran to the parlor, snatched up the telegram,
and, throwing on her things, rushed out into the storm. She was soon
back, and, while noiselessly taking off her cloak, Laurie came in with
a letter, saying that Mr. March was mending again. Jo read it
thankfully, but the heavy weight did not seem lifted off her heart,
and her face was so full of misery that Laurie asked quickly-
  "What is it? is Beth worse?"
  "I've sent for mother," said Jo, tugging at her rubber boots with
a tragical expression.
  "Good for you, Jo! Did you do it on your own responsibility?"
asked Laurie, as he seated her in the hall chair, and took off the
rebellious boots, seeing how her hands shook.
  "No, the doctor told us to."
  "O Jo, it's not so bad as that?" cried Laurie, with a startled face.
  "Yes, it is; she doesn't know us, she doesn't even talk about the
flocks of green doves, as she calls the vineleaves on the wall; she
doesn't look like my Beth, and there's nobody to help us bear it;
mother and father both gone, and God seems so far away I can't find
Him."
  As the tears streamed fast down poor Jo's cheeks, she stretched
out her hand in a helpless sort of way, as if groping in the dark, and
Laurie took it in his, whispering, as well as he could, with a lump in
his throat-
  "I'm here. Hold on to me, Jo, dear!"
  She could not speak, but she did "hold on," and the warm grasp of
the friendly human hand comforted her sore heart, and seemed to lead
her nearer to the Divine arm which alone could uphold her in her
trouble. Laurie longed to say something tender and comfortable, but no
fitting words came to him, so he stood silent, gently stroking her
bent head as her mother used to do. It was the best thing he could
have done; far more soothing than the most eloquent words, for Jo felt
the unspoken sympathy, and, in the silence, learned the sweet solace
which affection administers to sorrow. Soon she dried the tears
which had relieved her, and looked up with a grateful face.
  "Thank you, Teddy, I'm better now; I don't feel so forlorn, and will
try to bear it if it comes."
  "Keep hoping for the best; that will help you, Jo. Soon your
mother will be here, and then everything will be right."
  "I'm so glad father is better; now she won't feel so bad about
leaving him. Oh, me! it does seem as if all the troubles came in a
heap, and I got the heaviest part on my shoulders," sighed Jo,
spreading her wet handkerchief over her knees to dry.
  "Doesn't Meg pull fair?" asked Laurie, looking indignant.
  "Oh, yes; she tries to, but she can't love Bethy as I do; and she
won't miss her as I shall. Beth is my conscience, and I can't give her
up. I can't! I can't!"
  Down went Jo's face into the wet handkerchief, and she cried
despairingly; for she had kept up bravely till now, and never shed a
tear. Laurie drew his hand across his eyes, but could not speak till
he had subdued the choky feeling in his throat and steadied his
lips. It might be unmanly, but he couldn't help it, and I am glad of
it. Presently, as Jo's sobs quieted, he said hopefully, "I don't think
she will die; she's so good, and we all love her so much, I don't
believe God will take her away yet."
  "The good and dear people always do die," groaned Jo, but she
stopped crying, for her friend's words cheered her up, in spite of her
own doubts and fears.
  "Poor girl, you're worn out. It isn't like you to be forlorn. Stop a
bit; I'll hearten you up in a jiffy."
  Laurie went off two stairs at a time, and Jo laid her wearied head
down on Beth's little brown hood, which no one had thought of moving
from the table where she left it. It must have possessed some magic,
for the submissive spirit of its gentle owner seemed to enter into Jo;
and, when Laurie came running down with a glass of wine, she took it
with a smile, and said bravely, "I drink- Health to my Beth! You are a
good doctor, Teddy, and such a comfortable friend; how can I ever
pay you?" she added, as the wine refreshed her body, as the kind words
had done her troubled mind.
  "I'll send in my bill, by and by; and to-night I'll give you
something that will warm the cockles of your heart better than
quarts of wine," said Laurie, beaming at her with a face of suppressed
satisfaction at something.
  "What is it?" cried Jo, forgetting her woes for a minute, in her
wonder.
  "I telegraphed to your mother yesterday, and Brooke answered she'd
come at once, and she'll be here to-night, and everything will be
all right. Aren't you glad I did it?"
  Laurie spoke very fast, and turned red and excited all in a
minute, for he had kept his plot a secret, for fear of disappointing
the girls or harming Beth. Jo grew quite white, flew out of her chair,
and the moment he stopped speaking she electrified him by throwing her
arms round his neck, and crying out, with a joyful cry, "O Laurie! O
mother! I am so glad!" She did not weep again, but laughed
hysterically, and trembled and clung to her friend as if she was a
little bewildered by the sudden news.
  Laurie, though decidedly amazed, behaved with great presence of
mind; he patted her back soothingly, and, finding that she was
recovering, followed it up by a bashful kiss or two, which brought
Jo round at once. Holding on to the banisters, she put him gently
away, saying breathlessly, "Oh, don't! I didn't mean to; it was
dreadful of me; but you were such a dear to go and do it in spite of
Hannah that I couldn't help flying at you. Tell me all about it, and
don't give me wine again; it makes me act so."
  "I don't mind," laughed Laurie, as he settled his tie. "Why, you see
I got fidgety, and so did grandpa. We thought Hannah was overdoing the
authority business, and your mother ought to know. She'd never forgive
us if Beth- well, if anything happened, you know. So I got grandpa
to say it was high time we did something, and off I pelted to the
office yesterday, for the doctor looked sober, and Hannah most took my
head off when I proposed a telegram. I never can bear to be 'lorded
over'; so that settled my mind, and I did it. Your mother will come, I
know, and the late train is in at two A.M. I shall go for her; and
you've only got to bottle up your rapture, and keep Beth quiet, till
that blessed lady gets here."
  "Laurie, you're an angel! How shall I ever thank you?"
  "Fly at me again; I rather like it," said Laurie, looking
mischievous- a thing he had not done for a fortnight.
  "No, thank you. I'll do it by proxy, when your grandpa comes.
Don't tease, but go home and rest, for you'll be up half the night.
Bless you, Teddy, bless you!"
  Jo had backed into a corner; and, as she finished her speech, she
vanished precipitately into the kitchen, where she sat down upon a
dresser, and told the assembled cats that she was "happy, oh so
happy!" while Laurie departed, feeling that he had made rather a
neat thing of it.
  "That's the interferingest chap I ever see; but I forgive him, and
do hope Mrs. March is coming on right away," said Hannah, with an
air of relief, when Jo told the good news.
  Meg had a quiet rapture, and then brooded over the letter, while
Jo set the sick-room in order, and Hannah "knocked up a couple of pies
in case of company unexpected." A breath of fresh air seemed to blow
through the house, and something better than sunshine brightened the
quiet rooms, Everything appeared to feel the hopeful change; Beth's
bird began to chirp again, and a half-blown rose was discovered on
Amy's bush in the window; the fires seemed to burn with unusual
cheeriness; and every time the girls met, their pale faces broke
into smiles as they hugged one another, whispering encouragingly,
"Mother's coming, dear! mother's coming!" Every one rejoiced but Beth;
she lay in that heavy stupor, alike unconscious of hope and joy, doubt
and danger. It was a piteous sight- the once rosy face so changed
and vacant, the once busy hands so weak and wasted, the once smiling
lips quite dumb, and the once pretty, well-kept hair scattered rough
and tangled on the pillow. All day she lay so, only rousing now and
then to mutter, "Water!" with lips so parched they could hardly
shape the word; all day Jo and Meg hovered over her, watching,
waiting, hoping, and trusting in God and mother; and all day the
snow fell, the bitter wind raged, and the hours dragged slowly by. But
night came at last; and every time the clock struck, the sisters,
still sitting on either side the bed, looked at each other with
brightening eyes, for each hour brought help nearer. The doctor had
been in to say that some change, for better or worse, would probably
take place about midnight, at which time he would return.
  Hannah, quite worn out, lay down on the sofa at the bed's foot,
and fell fast asleep; Mr. Laurence marched to and fro in the parlor,
feeling that he would rather face a rebel battery than Mrs. March's
anxious countenance as she entered; Laurie lay on the rug,
pretending to rest, but staring into the fire with the thoughtful look
which made his black eyes beautifully soft and clear.
  The girls never forgot that night, for no sleep came to them as they
kept their watch, with that dreadful sense of powerlessness which
comes to us in hours like those.
  "If God spares Beth I never will complain again," whispered Meg
earnestly.
  "If God spares Beth I'll try to love and serve Him all my life,"
answered Jo, with equal fervor.
  "I wish I had no heart, it aches so," sighed Meg, after a pause.
  "If life is often as hard as this, I don't see how we ever shall get
through it," added her sister despondently.
  Here the clock struck twelve, and both forgot themselves in watching
Beth, for they fancied a change passed over her wan face. The house
was still as death, and nothing but the wailing of the wind broke
the deep hush. Weary Hannah slept on, and no one but the sisters saw
the pale shadow which seemed to fall upon the little bed. An hour went
by, and nothing happened except Laurie's quiet departure for the
station. Another hour- still no one came; and anxious fears of delay
in the storm, or accidents by the way, or, worst of all, a great grief
at Washington, haunted the poor girls.
  It was past two, when Jo, who stood at the window thinking how
dreary the world looked in its winding-sheet of snow, heard a movement
by the bed, and, turning quickly, saw Meg kneeling before their
mother's easy-chair, with her face hidden. A dreadful fear passed
coldly over Jo, as she thought, "Beth is dead, and Meg is afraid to
tell me."
  She was back at her post in an instant, and to her excited eyes a
great change seemed to have taken place. The fever flush and the
look of pain were gone, and the beloved little face looked so pale and
peaceful in its utter repose, that Jo felt no desire to weep or to
lament. Leaning low over this dearest of her sisters, she kissed the
damp forehead with her heart on her lips, and softly whispered,
"Good-by, my Beth; good-by!"
  As if waked by the stir, Hannah started out of her sleep, hurried to
the bed, looked at Beth, felt her hands, listened at her lips, and
then, throwing her apron over her head, sat down to rock to and fro,
exclaiming, under her breath, "The fever's turned; she's sleepin'
nat'ral; her skin's damp, and she breathes easy. Praise be given!
Oh, my goodness me!"
  Before the girls could believe the happy truth, the doctor came to
confirm it. He was a homely man, but they thought his face quite
heavenly when he smiled, and said, with a fatherly look at them, "Yes,
my dears, I think the little girl will pull through this time. Keep
the house quiet; let her sleep, and when she wakes, give her-"
  What they were to give, neither heard; for both crept into the
dark hall, and, sitting on the stairs, held each other close,
rejoicing with hearts too full for words. When they went back to be
kissed and cuddled by faithful Hannah, they found Beth lying, as she
used to do, with her cheek pillowed on her hand, the dreadful pallor
gone, and breathing quietly, as if just fallen asleep.
  "If mother would only come now!" said Jo, as the winter night
began to wane.
  "See," said Meg, coming up with a white, half-opened rose, "I
thought this would hardly be ready to lay in Beth's hand to-morrow
if she- went away from us. But it has blossomed in the night, and
now I mean to put it in my vase here, so that when the darling
wakes, the first thing she sees will be the little rose, and
mother's face."
  Never had the sun risen so beautifully, and never had the world
seemed so lovely, as it did to the heavy eyes of Meg and Jo, as they
looked out in the early morning, when their long, sad vigil was done.
  "It looks like a fairy world," said Meg, smiling to herself, as
she stood behind the curtain, watching the dazzling sight.
  "Hark!" cried Jo, starting to her feet.
  Yes, there was a sound of bells at the door below, a cry from
Hannah, and then Laurie's voice saying, in a joyful whisper, "Girls,
she's come! she's come!"
                             19
                         Amy's Will

  WHILE these things were happening at home, Amy was having hard times
at Aunt March's. She felt her exile deeply, and, for the first time in
her life, realized how much she was beloved and petted at home. Aunt
March never petted any one; she did not approve of it; but she meant
to be kind, for the well-behaved little girl pleased her very much,
and Aunt March had a soft place in her old heart for her nephew's
children, though she didn't think proper to confess it. She really did
her best to make Amy happy, but, dear me, what mistakes she made! Some
old people keep young at heart in spite of wrinkles and gray hairs,
can sympathize with children's little cares and joys, make them feel
at home, and can hide wise lessons under pleasant plays, giving and
receiving friendship in the sweetest way. But Aunt March had not
this gift, and she worried Amy very much with her rules and orders,
her prim ways, and long, prosy talks. Finding the child more docile
and amiable than her sister, the old lady felt it her duty to try
and counteract, as far as possible, the bad effects of home freedom
and indulgence. So she took Amy in hand, and taught her as she herself
had been taught sixty years ago- a process which carried dismay to
Amy's soul, and made her feel like a fly in the web of a very strict
spider.
  She had to wash the cups every morning, and polish up the
old-fashioned spoons, the fat silver teapot, and the glasses, till
they shone. Then she must dust the room, and what a trying job that
was! Not a speck escaped Aunt March's eye, and all the furniture had
claw legs, and much carving, which was never dusted to suit. Then
Polly must be fed, the lap-dog combed, and a dozen trips upstairs
and down, to get things, or deliver orders, for the old lady was
very lame, and seldom left her big chair. After these tiresome labors,
she must do her lessons, which was a daily trial of every virtue she
possessed. Then she was allowed one hour for exercise or play, and
didn't she enjoy it? Laurie came every day, and wheedled Aunt March,
till Amy was allowed to go out with him, when they walked and rode,
and had capital times. After dinner, she had to read aloud, and sit
still while the old lady slept, which she usually did for an hour,
as she dropped off over the first page. Then patchwork or towels
appeared, and Amy sewed with outward meekness and inward rebellion
till dusk, when she was allowed to amuse herself as she liked till
tea-time. The evenings were the worst of all, for Aunt March fell to
telling long stories about her youth, which were so unutterably dull
that Amy was always ready to go to bed, intending to cry over her hard
fate, but usually going to sleep before she had squeezed out more than
a tear or two.
  If it had not been for Laurie, and old Esther the maid, she felt
that she never could have got through that dreadful time. The parrot
alone was enough to drive her distracted, for he soon felt that she
did not admire him, and revenged himself by being as mischievous as
possible. He pulled her hair whenever she came near him, upset his
bread and milk to plague her when she had newly cleaned his cage, made
Mop bark by pecking at him while Madam dozed; called her names
before company, and behaved in all respects like a reprehensible old
bird. Then she could not endure the dog- a fat, cross beast, who
snarled and yelped at her when she made his toilet, and who lay on his
back, with all his legs in the air and a most idiotic expression of
countenance when he wanted something to eat, which was about a dozen
times a day. The cook was bad-tempered, the old coachman deaf, and
Esther the only one who ever took any notice of the young lady.
  Esther was a Frenchwoman, who had lived with "Madame," as she called
her mistress, for many years, and who rather tyrannized over the old
lady, who could not get along without her. Her real name was
Estelle, but Aunt March ordered her to change it, and she obeyed, on
condition that she was never asked to change her religion. She took
a fancy to Mademoiselle, and amused her very much, with odd stories of
her life in France, when Amy sat with her while she got up Madame's
laces. She also allowed her to roam about the great house, and examine
the curious and pretty things stored, away in the big wardrobes and
the ancient chests; for Aunt March hoarded like a magpie. Amy's
chief delight was an Indian cabinet, full of queer drawers, little
pigeon-holes, and secret places, in which were kept all sorts of
ornaments, some precious, some merely curious, all more or less
antique. To examine and arrange these things gave Amy great
satisfaction, especially the jewel-cases, in which, on velvet
cushions, reposed the ornaments which had adorned a belle forty
years ago. There was the garnet set which Aunt March wore when she
came out, the pearls her father gave her on her wedding-day, her
lover's diamonds, the jet mourning rings and pins, the queer
lockets, with portraits of dead friends, and weeping willows made of
hair inside; the baby bracelets her one little daughter had worn;
Uncle March's big watch, with the red seal so many childish hands
had played with, and in a box, all by itself, lay Aunt March's
wedding-ring, too small now for her fat finger, but put carefully
away, like the most precious jewel of them all.
  "Which would Mademoiselle choose if she had her will?" asked
Esther who always sat near to watch over and lock up the valuables.
  "I like the diamonds best, but there is no necklace among them,
and I'm fond of necklaces, they are so becoming. I should choose
this if I might," replied Amy, looking with great admiration at a
string of gold and ebony beads, from which hung a heavy cross of the
same.
  "I too, covet that, but not as a necklace; ah, no! to me it is a
rosary, and as such I should use it like a good Catholic," said
Esther, eying the handsome thing wistfully.
  "Is it meant to use as you use the string of good-smelling wooden
beads hanging over your glass?" asked Amy.
  "Truly, yes, to pray with. It would be pleasing to the saints if one
used so fine a rosary as this, instead of wearing it as a vain bijou."
  "You seem to take a great deal of comfort in your prayers, Esther,
and always come down looking quiet and satisfied. I wish I could."
  "If Mademoiselle was a Catholic, she would find true comfort; but as
that is not to be, it would be well if you went apart each day, to
meditate and pray, as did the good mistress whom I served before
Madame. She had a little chapel, and in it found solacement for much
trouble."
  "Would it be right for me to do so too?" asked Amy, who, in her
loneliness, felt the need of help of some sort, and found that she was
apt to forget her little book, now that Beth was not there to remind
her of it.
  "It would be excellent and charming; and I shall gladly arrange
the little dressing-room for you if you like it. Say nothing to
Madame, but when she sleeps go you and sit alone a while to think good
thoughts, and pray the dear God to preserve your sister."
  Esther was truly pious, and quite sincere in her advice; for she had
an affectionate heart, and felt much for the sisters in their anxiety.
Amy liked the ideal and gave her leave to arrange the light closet
next her room, hoping it would do her good.
  "I wish I knew where all these pretty things would go when Aunt.
March dies," she said, as she slowly replaced the shining rosary,
and shut the jewel-cases one by one.
  "To you and your sisters. I know it: Madame confides in me; I
witnessed her will, and it is to be so," whispered Esther, smiling.
  "How nice! but I wish she'd let us have them now. Pro-cras-ti-nation
is not agreeable," observed Amy, taking a last look at the diamonds.
  "It is too soon yet for the young ladies to wear these things. The
first one who is affianced will have the pearls- Madame has said it;
and I have a fancy that the little turquoise ring will be given to you
when you go, for Madame approves your good behavior and charming
manners."
  "Do you think so? Oh, I'll be a lamb, if I can only have that lovely
ring! It's ever so much prettier than Kitty Bryant's. I do like Aunt
March, after all"; and Amy tried on the blue ring with a delighted
face, and a firm resolve to earn it.
  From that day she was a model of obedience, and the old lady
complacently admired the success of her training. Esther fitted up the
closet with a little table, placed a footstool before it, and over
it a picture taken from one of the shut-up rooms. She thought it was
of no great value, but, being appropriate, she borrowed it, well
knowing that Madame would never know it, nor care if she did. It
was, however, a very valuable copy of one of the famous pictures of
the world, and Amy's beauty-loving eyes were never tired of looking up
at the sweet face of the divine mother, while tender thoughts of her
own were busy at her heart. On the table she laid her little Testament
and hymn-book, kept a vase always full of the best flowers Laurie
brought her, and came every day to "sit alone, thinking good thoughts,
and praying the dear God to preserve her sister." Esther had given her
a rosary of black beads, with a silver cross, but Amy hung it up and
did not use it, feeling doubtful as to its fitness for Protestant
prayers.
  The little girl was very sincere in all this, for, being left
alone outside the safe home-nest, she felt the need of some kind
hand to hold by so sorely, that she instinctively turned to the strong
and tender Friend, whose fatherly love most closely surrounds his
little children. She missed her mother's help to understand and rule
herself, but having been taught where to look, she did her best to
find the way, and walk in it confidingly. But Amy was a young pilgrim,
and just now her burden seemed very heavy. She tried to forget
herself, to keep cheerful, and be satisfied with doing right, though
no one saw or praised her for it. In her first effort at being very,
very good, she decided to make her will, as Aunt March had done; so
that if she did fall ill and die, her possessions might be justly
and generously divided. It cost her a pang even to think of giving
up the little treasures which in her eyes were as precious as the
old lady's jewels.
  During one of her play-hours she wrote out the important document as
well as she could, with some help from Esther as to certain legal
terms, and, when the good-natured Frenchwoman had signed her name, Amy
felt relieved, and laid it by to show Laurie, whom she wanted as a
second witness. As it was a rainy day, she went upstairs to amuse
herself in one of the large chambers, and took Polly with her for
company. In this room there was a wardrobe full of old-fashioned
costumes, with which Esther allowed her to play, and it was her
favorite amusement to array herself in the faded brocades, and
parade up and down before the long mirror, making stately
courtesies, and sweeping her train about, with a rustle which
delighted her ears. So busy was she on this day that she did not
hear Laurie's ring, nor see his face peeping in at her, as she gravely
promenaded to and fro, flirting her fan and tossing her head, on which
she wore a great pink turban, contrasting oddly with her blue
brocade dress and yellow quilted petticoat. She was obliged to walk
carefully, for she had on high-heeled shoes, and, as Laurie told Jo
afterward, it was a comical sight to see her mince along in her gay
suit, with Polly sidling and bridling just behind her, imitating her
as well as he could, and occasionally stopping to laugh or exclaim,
"Ain't we fine? Get along, you fright! Hold your tongue! Kiss me,
dear! Ha! ha!"
  Having with difficulty restrained an explosion of merriment, lest it
should offend her majesty, Laurie tapped, and was graciously received.
  "Sit down and rest while I put these things away; then I want to
consult you about a very serious matter," said Amy, when she had shown
her splendor, and driven Polly into a corner. "That bird is the
trial of my life," she continued, removing the pink mountain from
her head, while Laurie seated himself astride of a chair.
"Yesterday, when aunt was asleep, and I was trying to be as still as a
mouse, Polly began to squall and flap about in his cage; so I went
to let him out, and found a big spider there. I poked it out, and it
ran under the bookcase; Polly marched straight after it, stooped
down and peeped under the bookcase, saying, in his funny way, with a
cock of his eye, 'Come out and take a walk, my dear.' I couldn't
help laughing, which made Poll swear, and aunt woke up and scolded
us both."
  "Did the spider accept the old fellow's invitation?" asked Laurie,
yawning.
  "Yes; out it came, and away ran Polly, frightened to death, and
scrambled up on aunt's chair, calling out, 'Catch her! catch her!
catch her!' as I chased the spider."
  "That's a lie! Oh lor!" cried the parrot, pecking at Laurie's toes.
  "I'd wring your neck if you were mine, you old torment," cried
Laurie, shaking his fist at the bird, who put his head on one side,
and gravely croaked, "Allyluyer! bless your buttons, dear!"
  "Now I'm ready," said Amy, shutting the wardrobe, and taking a paper
out of her pocket. "I want you to read that, please, and tell me if it
is legal and right. I felt that I ought to do it, for life is
uncertain and I don't want any ill-feeling over my tomb."
  Laurie bit his lips, and turning a little from the pensive
speaker, read the following document, with praiseworthy gravity,
considering the spelling:

                 MY LAST WILL AND TESTIMENT.

  I, Amy Curtis March, being in my sane mind, do give and bequeath all
my earthly property- viz. to wit:- namely
  To my father, my best pictures, sketches, maps, and works of art,
including frames. Also my $100, to do what he likes with.
  To my mother, all my clothes, except the blue apron with pockets-
also my likeness, and my medal, with much love.
  To my dear sister Margaret, I give my turkquoise ring (if I get it),
also my green box with the doves on it, also my piece of real lace for
her neck, and my sketch of her as a memorial of her "little girl."
  To Jo I leave my breast-pin, the one mended with sealing wax, also
my bronze inkstand- she lost the cover- and my most precious plaster
rabbit, because I am sorry I burnt up her Story.
  To Beth (if she lives after me) I give my dolls and the little
bureau, my fan, my linen collars and my new slippers if she can wear
them being thin when she gets well. And I herewith also leave her my
regret that I ever made fun of old Joanna.
  To my friend and neighbor Theodore Laurence I bequeethe my paper
marshay portfolio, my clay model of a horse though he did say it
hadn't any neck. Also in return for his great kindness in the hour
of affliction any one of my artistic works he likes, Noter Dame is the
best.
  To our venerable benefactor Mr. Laurence I leave my purple box
with a looking glass in the cover which will be nice for his pens
and remind him of the departed girl who thanks him for his favors to
her family, specially Beth.
  I wish my favorite playmate Kitty Bryant to have the blue silk apron
and my gold-bead ring with a kiss.
  To Hannah I the bandbox she wanted and all the patch work I leave
hoping she "will remember me, when it you see."
  And now having disposed of my most valuable property I hope all will
be satisfied and not blame the dead. I forgive every one, and trust we
may all meet when the trump shall sound. Amen.
  To this will and testiment I set my hand and seal on this 20th day
of Nov. Anni Domino 1861.
                                               AMY CURTIS MARCH.

  Witnesses: ESTELLE VALNOR,
             THEODORE LAURENCE.

  The last name was written in pencil, and Amy explained that he was
to rewrite it in ink, and seal it up for her properly.
  "What put it into your head? Did any one tell you about Beth's
giving away her things?" asked Laurie soberly, as Amy laid a bit of
red tape, with sealing-wax, a taper, and a standish before him.
  She explained; and then asked anxiously, "What about Beth?"
  "I'm sorry I spoke; but as I did, I'll tell you. She felt so ill one
day that she told Jo she wanted to give her piano to Meg, her cats
to you, and the poor old doll to Jo, who would love it for her sake.
She was sorry she had so little to give, and left locks of hair to the
rest of us, and her best love to grandpa. She never thought of a
will."
  Laurie was signing and sealing as he spoke, and did not look up till
a great tear dropped on the paper. Amy's face was full of trouble; but
she only said, "Don't people put sort of postscrips to their wills,
sometimes?"
  "Yes 'codicils,' they call them."
  "Put one in mine then- that I wish all my curls cut off, and given
round to my friends. I forgot it; but I want it done, though it will
spoil my looks."
  Laurie added it, smiling at Amy's last and greatest sacrifice.
Then he amused her for an hour, and was much interested in all her
trials. But when he came to go, Amy held him back to whisper, with
trembling lips, "Is there really any danger about Beth?"
  "I'm afraid there is; but we must hope for the best, so don't cry,
dear"; and Laurie put his arm about her with a brotherly gesture which
was very comforting.
  When he had gone, she went to her little chapel, and, sitting in the
twilight, prayed for Beth, with streaming tears and an aching heart,
feeling that a million turquoise rings would not console her for the
loss of her gentle little sister.
                             20
                        Confidential

  I DON'T think I have any words in which to tell the meeting of the
mother and daughters; such hours are beautiful to live, but very
hard to describe, so I will leave it to the imagination of my readers,
merely saying that the house was full of genuine happiness, and that
Meg's tender hope was realized; for when Beth woke from that long,
healing sleep, the first objects on which her eyes fell were the
little rose and mother's face. Too weak to wonder at anything, she
only smiled, and nestled close into the loving arms about her, feeling
that the hungry longing was satisfied at last. Then she slept again,
and the girls waited upon their mother, for she would not unclasp
the thin hand which clung to hers even in sleep.
  Hannah had "dished up" an astonishing breakfast for the traveller,
finding it impossible to vent her excitement in any other way; and Meg
and Jo fed their mother like dutiful young storks, while they listened
to her whispered account of father's state, Mr. Brooke's promise to
stay and nurse him, the delays which the storm occasioned on the
homeward journey, and the unspeakable comfort Laurie's hopeful face
had given her when she arrived, worn out with fatigue, anxiety, and
cold.
  What a strange, yet pleasant day that was! so brilliant and gay
without, for all the world seemed abroad to welcome the first snow; so
quiet and reposeful within, for every one slept, spent with
watching, and a Sabbath stillness reigned through the house, while
nodding Hannah mounted guard at the door. With a blissful sense of
burdens lifted off, Meg and Jo closed their weary eyes, and lay at
rest, like storm-beaten boats, safe at anchor in a quiet harbor.
Mrs. March would not leave Beth's side, but rested in the big chair,
waking often to look at, touch, and brood over her child, like a miser
over some recovered treasure.
  Laurie, meanwhile, posted off to comfort Amy, and told his story
so well that Aunt March actually "sniffed" herself, and never once
said, "I told you so." Amy came out so strong on this occasion that
I think the good thoughts in the little chapel really began to bear
fruit. She dried her tears quickly, restrained her impatience to see
her mother, and never even thought of the turquoise ring, when the old
lady heartily agreed in Laurie's opinion, that she behaved "like a
capital little woman." Even Polly seemed impressed, for he called
her "good girl," blessed her buttons, and begged her to "come and take
a walk, dear," in his most affable tone. She would very gladly have
gone out to enjoy the bright wintry weather; but, discovering that
Laurie was dropping with sleep in spite of manful efforts to conceal
the fact, she persuaded him to rest on the sofa, while she wrote a
note to her mother. She was a long time about it; and, when she
returned, he was stretched out, with both arms under his head, sound
asleep, while Aunt March had pulled down the curtains, and sat doing
nothing in an unusual fit of benignity.
  After a while, they began to think he was not going to wake till
night, and I'm not sure that he would, had he not been effectually
roused by Amy's cry of joy at sight of her mother. There probably were
a good many happy little girls in and about the city that day, but
it is my private opinion that Amy was the happiest of all, when she
sat in her mother's lap and told her trials, receiving consolation and
compensation in the shape of approving smiles and fond caresses.
They were alone together in the chapel, to which her mother did not
object when its purpose was explained to her.
  "On the contrary, I like it very much, dear," looking from the dusty
rosary to the well-worn little book, and the lovely picture with its
garland of evergreen. "It is an excellent plan to have some place
where we can go to be quiet, when things vex or grieve us. There are a
good many hard times in this life of ours, but we can always bear them
if we ask help in the right way. I think my little girl is learning
this?"
  "Yes, mother; and when I go home I mean to have a corner in the
big closet to put my books, and the copy of that picture which I've
tried to make. The woman's face is not good- it's too beautiful for me
to draw- but the baby is done better, and I love it very much. I
like to think He was a little child once, for then I don't seem so far
away, and that helps me."
  As Amy pointed to the smiling Christ-child on his mother's knee,
Mrs. March saw something on the lifted hand that made her smile. She
said nothing, but Amy understood the look, and, after a minute's
pause, she added gravely-
  "I wanted to speak to you about this, but I forgot it. Aunt gave
me the ring to-day; she called me to her and kissed me, and put it
on my finger, and said I was a credit to her, and she'd like to keep
me always. She gave that funny guard to keep the turquoise on, as it's
too big. I'd like to wear them, mother; can I?"
  "They are very pretty, but I think you're rather too young for
such ornaments, Amy," said Mrs. March, looking at the plump little
hand, with the band of sky-blue stones on the forefinger, and the
quaint guard, formed of two tiny, golden hands clasped together.
  "I'll try not to be vain," said Amy. "I don't think I like it only
because it's so pretty; but I want to wear it as the girl in the story
wore her bracelet, to remind me of something."
  "Do you mean Aunt March?" asked her mother, laughing.
  "No, to remind me not to be selfish." Amy looked so earnest and
sincere about it, that her mother stopped laughing, and listened
respectfully to the little plan.
  "I've thought a great deal lately about my 'bundle of naughties,'
and being selfish is the largest one in it; so I'm going to try hard
to cure it, if I can. Beth isn't selfish, and that's the reason
every one loves her and feels so bad at the thoughts of losing her.
People wouldn't feel half so bad about me if I was sick, and I don't
deserve to have them; but I'd like to be loved and missed by a great
many friends, so I'm going to try and be like Beth all I can. I'm
apt to forget my resolutions; but if I had something always about me
to remind me, I guess I should do better. May I try this way?"
  "Yes; but I have more faith in the corner of the big closet. Wear
your ring, dear, and do your best; I think you will prosper, for the
sincere wish to be good is half the battle. Now I must go back to
Beth. Keep up your heart, little daughter, and we will soon have you
home again."
  That evening, while Meg was writing to her father to report the
traveller's safe arrival, Jo slipped upstairs into Beth's room, and,
finding her mother in her usual place, stood a minute twisting her
fingers in her hair, with a worried gesture and an undecided look.
  "What is it, deary?" asked Mrs. March, holding out her hand, with
a face which invited confidence.
  "I want to tell you something, mother."
  "About Meg?"
  "How quickly you guessed! Yes, it's about her, and though it's a
little thing, it fidgets me."
  "Beth is asleep; speak low, and tell me all about it. That Moffat
hasn't been here, I hope?" asked Mrs. March rather sharply.
  "No, I should have shut the door in his face if he had," said Jo,
settling herself on the floor at her mother's feet. "Last summer Meg
left a pair of gloves over at the Laurences', and only one was
returned. We forgot all about it, till Teddy told me that Mr. Brooke
had it. He kept it in his waistcoat pocket, and once it fell out,
and Teddy joked him about it, and Mr. Brooke owned that he liked
Meg, but didn't dare say so, she was so young and he so poor. Now,
isn't it a dreadful state of things?"
  "Do you think Meg cares for him?" asked Mrs. March, with an
anxious look.
  "Mercy me! I don't know anything about love and such nonsense!"
cried Jo, with a funny mixture of interest and contempt. "In novels,
the girls show it by starting and blushing, fainting away, growing
thin, and acting like fools. Now Meg does not do anything of the sort:
she eats and drinks and sleeps, like a sensible creature; she looks
straight in my face when I talk about that man, and only blushes a
little bit when Teddy jokes about lovers. I forbid him to do it, but
he doesn't mind me as he ought."
  "Then you fancy that Meg is not interested in John?"
  "Who?" cried Jo, staring.
  "Mr. Brooke. I call him 'John' now; we fell into the way of doing so
at the hospital, and he likes it."
  "Oh, dear! I know you'll take his part: he's been good to father,
and you won't send him away, but let Meg marry him, if she wants to.
Mean thing! to go petting papa and helping you, just to wheedle you
into liking him"; and Jo pulled her hair again with a wrathful tweak.
  "My dear, don't get angry about it, and I will tell you how it
happened. John went with me at Mr. Laurence's request, and was so
devoted to poor father that we couldn't help getting fond of him. He
was perfectly open and honorable about Meg, for he told us he loved
her, but would earn a comfortable home before he asked her to marry
him. He only wanted our leave to love her and work for her, and the
right to make her love him if he could. He is a truly excellent
young man, and we could not refuse to listen to him; but I will not
consent to Meg's engaging herself so young."
  "Of course not; it would be idiotic! I know there was mischief
brewing; I felt it; and now it's worse than I imagined. I just wish
I could marry Meg myself, and keep her safe in the family."
  This odd arrangement made Mrs. March smile; but she said gravely,
"Jo, I confide in you, and don't wish you to say anything to Meg
yet, When John comes back, and I see them together, I can judge better
of her feelings toward him."
  "She'll see his in those handsome eyes that she talks about, and
then it will be all up with her. She's got such a soft heart, it
will melt like butter in the sun if any one looks sentimentally at
her. She read the short reports he sent more than she did your
letters, and pinched me when I spoke of it, and likes brown eyes,
and doesn't think John an ugly name, and she'll go and fall in love,
and there's an end of peace and fun, and cosy times together. I see it
all! they'll go lovering around the house, and we shall have to dodge;
Meg will be absorbed, and no good to me any more; Brooke will
scratch up a fortune somehow, carry her off, and make a hole in the
family; and I shall break my heart, and everything will be
abominably uncomfortable. Oh, dear me! why weren't we all boys, then
there wouldn't be any bother."
  Jo leaned her chin on her knees, in a disconsolate attitude, and
shook her fist at the reprehensible John. Mrs. March sighed, and Jo
looked up with an air of relief.
  "You don't like it, mother? I'm glad of it. Let's send him about his
business, and not tell Meg a word of it, but all be happy together
as we always have been."
  "I did wrong to sigh, Jo. It is natural and right you should all
go to homes of your own, in time; but I do want to keep my girls as
long as I can; and I am sorry that this happened so soon, for Meg is
only seventeen, and it will be some years before John can make a
home for her. Your father and I have agreed that she shall not bind
herself in any way, nor be married, before twenty. If she and John
love one another, they can wait, and test the love by doing so. She is
conscientious, and I have no fear of her treating him unkindly. My
pretty, tender-hearted girl! I hope things will go happily with her."
  "Hadn't you rather have her marry a rich man?" asked Jo, as her
mother's voice faltered a little over the last words.
  "Money is a good and useful thing, Jo; and I hope my girls will
never feel the need of it too bitterly, nor be tempted by too much.
I should like to know that John was firmly established in some good
business, which gave him an income large enough to keep free from debt
and make Meg comfortable. I'm not ambitious for a splendid fortune,
a fashionable position, or a great name for my girls. If rank and
money come with love and virtue, also, I should accept them
gratefully, and enjoy your good fortune; but I know, by experience,
how much genuine happiness can be had in a plain little house, where
the daily bread is earned, and some privations give sweetness to the
few pleasures. I am content to see Meg begin humbly, for, if I am
not mistaken, she will be rich in the possession of a good man's
heart, and that is better than a fortune."
  "I understand, mother, and quite agree; but I'm disappointed about
Meg, for I'd planned to have her marry Teddy by and by, and sit in the
lap of luxury all her days. Wouldn't it be nice?" asked Jo, looking
up, with a brighter face.
  "He is younger than she, you know," began Mrs. March; but Jo broke
in-
  "Only a little; he's old for his age, and tall; and can be quite
grown-up in his manners if he likes. Then he's rich and generous and
good, and loves us all; and I say it's a pity my plan is spoilt."
  "I'm afraid Laurie is hardly grown up enough for Meg, and altogether
too much of a weathercock, just now, for any one to depend on. Don't
make plans, Jo; but let time and their own hearts mate your friends.
We can't meddle safely in such matters, and had better not get
'romantic rubbish,' as you call it, into our heads, lest it spoil
our friendship."
  "Well, I won't; but I hate to see things going all criss-cross and
getting snarled up, when a pull here and a snip there would straighten
it out. I wish wearing flat-irons on our heads would keep us from
growing up. But buds will be roses, and kittens, cats- more's the
pity!"
  "What's that about flat-irons and cats?" asked Meg, as she crept
into the room, with the finished letter in her hand.
  "Only one of my stupid speeches. I'm going to bed; come, Peggy,"
said Jo, unfolding herself, like an animated puzzle.
  "Quite right, and beautifully written. Please add that I send my
love to John," said Mrs. March, as she glanced over the letter, and
gave it back.
  "Do you call him 'John'?" asked Meg, smiling, with her innocent eyes
looking down into her mother's.
  "Yes; he has been like a son to us, and we are very fond of him,"
replied Mrs. March, returning the look with a keen one.
  "I'm glad of that, he is so lonely. Good-night, mother, dear. It
is so inexpressibly comfortable to have you here," was Meg's quiet
answer.
  The kiss her mother gave her was a very tender one; and, as she went
away, Mrs. March said, with a mixture of satisfaction and regret, "She
does not love John yet, but will soon learn to."
                             21
           Laurie Makes Mischief, and Jo Makes Peace

  JO'S face was a study next day, for the secret rather weighed upon
her, and she found it hard not to look mysterious and important. Meg
observed it, but did not trouble herself to make inquiries, for she
had learned that the best way to manage Jo was by the law of
contraries, so she felt sure of being told everything if she did not
ask. She was rather surprised, therefore, when the silence remained
unbroken, and Jo assumed a patronizing air, which decidedly aggravated
Meg, who in her turn assumed an air of dignified reserve, and
devoted herself to her mother. This left Jo to her own devices; for
Mrs. March had taken her place as nurse, and bade her rest,
exercise, and amuse herself after her long confinement. Amy being
gone, Laurie was her only refuge; and, much as she enjoyed his
society, she rather dreaded him just then, for he was an
incorrigible tease, and she feared he would coax her secret from her.
  She was quite right; for the mischief-loving lad no sooner suspected
a mystery than he set himself to find it out, and led Jo a trying life
of it. He wheedled, bribed, ridiculed, threatened, and scolded;
affected indifference, that he might surprise the truth from her;
declared he knew, then that he didn't care; and, at last, by dint of
perseverance, he satisfied himself that it concerned Meg and Mr.
Brooke. Feeling indignant that he was not taken into his tutor's
confidence, he set his wits to work to devise some proper
retaliation for the slight.
  Meg meanwhile had apparently forgotten the matter, and was
absorbed in preparations for her father's return; but all of a
sudden a change seemed to come over her, and, for a day or two, she
was quite unlike herself. She started when spoken to, blushed when
looked at, was very quiet, and sat over her sewing, with a timid,
troubled look on her face. To her mother's inquiries she answered that
she was quite well, and Jo's she silenced by begging to be let alone.
  "She feels it in the air- love, I mean- and she's going very fast.
She's got most of the symptoms- is twittery and cross, doesn't eat,
lies awake, and mopes in corners. I caught her singing that song he
gave her, and once she said 'John,' as you do, and then turned as
red as a poppy. Whatever shall we do?" said Jo, looking ready for
any measures, however violent.
  "Nothing but wait. Let her alone, be kind and patient, and
father's coming will settle everything," replied her mother.
  "Here's a note to you, Meg, all sealed up. How odd! Teddy never
seals mine," said Jo, next day, as she distributed the contents of the
little post-office.
  Mrs. March and Jo were deep in their own affairs, when a sound
from Meg made them look up to see her staring at her note, with a
frightened face.
  "My child, what is it?" cried her mother, running to her, while Jo
tried to take the paper which had done the mischief.
  "It's all a mistake- he didn't send it. O Jo, how could you do
it?" and Meg hid her face in her hands, crying as if her heart was
quite broken.
  "Me? I've done nothing! What's she talking about?" cried Jo,
bewildered.
  Meg's mild eyes kindled with anger as she pulled a crumpled note
from her pocket, and threw it at Jo, saying reproachfully-
  "You wrote it, and that bad boy helped you. How could you be so
rude, so mean, and cruel to us both?"
  Jo hardly heard her, for she and her mother were reading the note,
which was written in a peculiar hand.

  MY DEAREST MARGARET:
    I can no longer restrain my passion, and must know my fate
before I return. I dare not tell your parents yet, but I think they
would consent if they knew that we adored one another. Mr. Laurence
will help me to some good place, and then, my sweet girl, You will
make me happy. I implore you to say nothing to your family yet, but to
send one word of hope through Laurie to
                                              Your devoted JOHN.

  "Oh, the little villain! that's the way he meant to pay me for
keeping my word to mother. I'll give him a hearty scolding, and
bring him over to beg pardon," cried Jo, burning to execute
immediate justice. But her mother held her back, saying, with a look
she seldom wore-
  "Stop, Jo, you must clear yourself first. You have played so many
pranks, that I am afraid you have had a hand in this."
  "On my word, mother, I haven't! I never saw that note before, and
don't know anything about it, as true as I live!" said Jo, so
earnestly that they believed her. "If I had taken a part in it I'd
have done it better than this, and have written a sensible note. I
should think you'd have known Mr. Brooke wouldn't write such stuff
as that," she added, scornfully tossing down the paper.
  "It's like his writing," faltered Meg, comparing it with the note in
her hand.
  "O Meg, you didn't answer it?" cried Mrs. March quickly.
  "Yes I did!" and Meg hid her face again, overcome with shame.
  "Here's a scrape! Do let me bring that wicked boy over to explain,
and be lectured. I can't rest till I get hold of him"; and Jo made for
the door again.
  "Hush! let me manage this, for it is worse than I thought. Margaret,
tell me the whole story," commanded Mrs. March, sitting down by Meg,
yet keeping hold of Jo, lest she should fly off.
  "I received the first letter from Laurie, who didn't look as if he
knew anything about it," began Meg, without looking up. "I was worried
at first, and meant to tell you; then I remembered how you liked Mr.
Brooke, so I thought you wouldn't mind if I kept my little secret
for a few days. I'm so silly that I liked to think no one knew; and,
while I was deciding what to say, I felt like the girls in books,
who have such things to do. Forgive me, mother, I'm paid for my
silliness now; I never can look him in the face again."
  "What did you say to him?" asked Mrs. March.
  "I only said I was too young to do anything about it yet; that I
didn't wish to have secrets from you, and he must speak to father. I
was very grateful for his kindness, and would be his friend, but
nothing more, for a long while."
  Mrs. March smiled, as if well pleased, and Jo clapped her hands,
exclaiming, with a laugh "You are almost equal to Caroline Percy,
who was a pattern of prudence! Tell on, Meg. What did he say to that?"
  "He writes in a different way entirely, telling me that he never
sent any love-letter at all, and is very sorry that my roguish sister,
Jo, should take such liberties with our names. It's very kind and
respectful, but think how dreadful for me!"
  Meg leaned against her mother, looking the image of despair, and
Jo tramped about the room, calling Laurie names. All of a sudden she
stopped, caught up the two notes, and, after looking at them
closely, said decidedly, "I don't believe Brooke ever saw either of
these letters. Teddy wrote both, and keeps yours to crow over me with,
because I wouldn't tell him my secret."
  "Don't have any secrets, Jo; tell it to mother, and keep out of
trouble, as I should have done," said Meg warningly.
  "Bless you, child! Mother told me."
  "That will do, Jo. I'll comfort Meg while you go and get Laurie. I
shall sift the matter to the bottom, and put a stop to such pranks
at once."
  Away ran Jo, and Mrs. March gently told Meg Mr. Brooke's real
feelings. "Now, dear, what are your own? Do you love him enough to
wait till he can make a home for you, or will you keep yourself
quite free for the present?"
  "I've been so scared and worried, I don't want to have anything to
do with lovers for a long while- perhaps never," answered Meg
petulantly. "If John doesn't know anything about this nonsense,
don't tell him, and make Jo and Laurie hold their tongues. I won't
be deceived and plagued and made a fool of- it's a shame!"
  Seeing that Meg's usually gentle temper was roused and her pride
hurt by this mischievous joke, Mrs. March soothed her by promises of
entire silence, and great discretion for the future. The instant
Laurie's step was heard in the hall, Meg flew into the study, and Mrs.
March received the culprit alone. Jo had not told him why he was
wanted, fearing he wouldn't come; but he knew the minute he saw Mrs.
March's face, and stood twirling his hat, with a guilty air which
convicted him at once. Jo was dismissed, but chose to march up and
down the hall like a sentinel, having some fear that the prisoner
might bolt. The sound of voices in the parlor rose and fell for half
an hour; but what happened during that interview the girls never knew.
  When they were called in, Laurie was standing by their mother,
with such a penitent face that Jo forgave him on the spot, but did not
think it wise to betray the fact. Meg received his humble apology, and
was much comforted by the assurance that Brooke knew nothing of the
joke.
  "I'll never tell him to my dying day- wild horses shan't drag it out
of me; so you'll forgive me, Meg, and I'll do anything to show how
out-and-out sorry I am," he added, looking very much ashamed of
himself.
  "I'll try; but it was a very ungentlemanly thing to do. I didn't
think you could be so sly and malicious, Laurie," replied Meg,
trying to hide her maidenly confusion under a gravely reproachful air.
  "It was altogether abominable, and I don't deserve to be spoken to
for a month; but you will, though, won't you?" and Laurie folded his
hands together with such an imploring gesture, as he spoke in his
irresistibly persuasive tone, that it was impossible to frown upon
him, in spite of his scandalous behavior. Meg pardoned him, and Mrs.
March's grave face relaxed, in spite of her efforts to keep sober,
when she heard him declare that he would atone for his sins by all
sorts of penances, and abase himself like a worm before the injured
damsel.
  Jo stood aloof, meanwhile, trying to harden her heart against him,
and succeeding only in primming up her face into an expression of
entire disapprobation. Laurie looked at her once or twice, but, as she
showed no sign of relenting, he felt injured, and turned his back on
her till the others were done with him, when he made her a low bow,
and walked off without a word.
  As soon as he had gone, she wished she had been more forgiving;
and when Meg and her mother went upstairs, she felt lonely, and longed
for Teddy. After resisting for some time, she yielded to the
impulse, and, armed with a book to return, went over to the big house.
  "Is Mr. Laurence in?" asked Jo, of a housemaid, who was coming
downstairs.
  "Yes, miss; but I don't believe he's seeable just yet."
  "Why not? is he ill?"
  "La, no, miss, but he's had a scene with Mr. Laurie, who is in one
of his tantrums about something, which vexes the old gentleman, so I
dursn't go nigh him."
  "Where is Laurie?"
  "Shut up in his room, and he won't answer, though I've been
a-tapping. I don't know what's to become of the dinner, for it's
ready, and there's no one to eat it."
  "I'll go and see what the matter is. I'm not afraid of either of
them."
  Up went Jo, and knocked smartly on the door of Laurie's little
study.
  "Stop that, or I'll open the door and make you!" called out the
young gentleman, in a threatening tone.
  Jo immediately knocked again; the door flew open, and in she
bounced, before Laurie could recover from his surprise. Seeing that he
really was out of temper, Jo, who knew how to manage him, assumed a
contrite expression, and going artistically down upon her knees,
said meekly, "Please forgive me for being so cross. I came to make
it up, and can't go away till I have."
  "It's all right. Get up, and don't be a goose, Jo," was the cavalier
reply to her petition.
  "Thank you; I will. Could I ask what's the matter? You don't look
exactly easy in your mind."
  "I've been shaken, and I won't bear it!" growled Laurie indignantly.
  "Who did it?" demanded Jo.
  "Grandfather; if it had been any one else I'd have-" and the injured
youth finished his sentence by an energetic gesture of the right arm.
  "That's nothing; I often shake you, and you don't mind," said Jo
soothingly.
  "Pooh! you're a girl, and it's fun; but I'll allow no man to shake
me."
  "I don't think any one would care to try it, if you looked as much
like a thunder-cloud as you do now. Why were you treated so?"
  "Just because I wouldn't say what your mother wanted me for. I'd
promised not to tell, and of course I wasn't going to break my word."
  "Couldn't you satisfy your grandpa in any other way?"
  "No; he would have the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the
truth. I'd have told my part of the scrape, if I could without
bringing Meg in. As I couldn't, I held my tongue, and bore the
scolding till the old gentleman collared me. Then I got angry, and
bolted, for fear I should forget myself."
  "It wasn't nice, but he's sorry, I know; so go down and make up.
I'll help you."
  "Hanged if I do! I'm not going to be lectured and pummelled by every
one, just for a bit of a frolic. I was sorry about Meg, and begged
pardon like a man; but I won't do it again, when I wasn't in the
wrong."
  "He didn't know that."
  "He ought to trust me, and not act as if I was a baby. It's no
use, Jo; he's got to learn that I'm able to take care of myself, and
don't need any one's apron-string to hold on by."
  "What pepper-pots you are!" sighed Jo. "How do you mean to settle
this affair?"
  "Well, he ought to beg pardon, and believe me when I say I can't
tell him what the fuss 's about."
  "Bless you! he won't do that."
  "I won't go down till he does."
  "Now, Teddy, be sensible; let it pass, and I'll explain what I
can. You can't stay here, so what's the use of being melodramatic?"
  "I don't intend to stay here long, any way. I'll slip off and take a
journey somewhere, and when grandpa misses me he'll come round fast
enough."
  "I dare say; but you ought not to go and worry him."
  "Don't preach. I'll go to Washington and see Brooke; it's gay there,
and I'll enjoy myself after the troubles."
  "What fun you'd have! I wish I could run off too," said Jo,
forgetting her part of Mentor in lively visions of martial life at the
capital.
  "Come on, then! Why not? You go and surprise your father, and I'll
stir up old Brooke. It would be a glorious joke; let's do it, Jo.
We'll leave a letter saying we are all right, and trot off at once.
I've got money enough; it will do you good, and be no harm, as you
go to your father."
  For a moment Jo looked as if she would agree; for, wild as the
plan was, it just suited her. She was tired of care and confinement,
longed for change, and thoughts of her father blended temptingly
with the novel charms of camps and hospitals, liberty and fun. Her
eyes kindled as they turned wistfully toward the window, but they fell
on the old house opposite, and she shook her head with sorrowful
decision.
  "If I was a boy, we'd run away together, and have a capital time;
but as I'm a miserable girl, I must be proper, and stop at home. Don't
tempt me, Teddy, it's a crazy plan."
  "That's the fun of it," began Laurie, who had got a wilful fit on
him, and was possessed to break out of bounds in some way.
  "Hold your tongue!" cried Jo, covering her ears. "'Prunes and
prisms' are my doom, and I may as well make up my mind to it. I came
here to moralize, not to hear about things that make me skip to
think of."
  "I know Meg would wet-blanket such a proposal, but I thought you had
more spirit," began Laurie insinuatingly.
  "Bad boy, be quiet! Sit down and think of your own sins, don't go
making me add to mine. If I get your grandpa to apologize for the
shaking, will you give up running away?" asked Jo seriously.
  "Yes, but you won't do it," answered Laurie, who wished "to make
up," but felt that his outraged dignity must be appeased first.
  "If I can manage the young one I can the old one," muttered Jo, as
she walked away, leaving Laurie bent over a railroad map, with his
head propped up on both hands.
  "Come in!" and Mr. Laurence's gruff voice sounded gruffer than ever,
as Jo tapped at his door.
  "It's only me, sir, come to return a book," she said blandly, as she
entered.
  "Want any more?" asked the old gentleman, looking grim and vexed,
but trying not to show it.
  "Yes, please. I like old Sam so well, I think I'll try the second
volume," returned Jo, hoping to propitiate him by accepting a second
dose of Boswell's "Johnson," as he had recommended that lively work.
  The shaggy eyebrows unbent a little, as he rolled the steps toward
the shelf where the Johnsonian literature was placed. Jo skipped up,
and, sitting on the top step, affected to be searching for her book,
but was really wondering how best to introduce the dangerous object of
her visit. Mr. Laurence seemed to suspect that something was brewing
in her mind; for, after taking several brisk turns about the room,
he faced round on her, speaking so abruptly that "Rasselas" tumbled
face downward on the floor.
  "What has that boy been about? Don't try to shield him. I know he
has been in mischief by the way he acted when he came home. I can't
get a word from him; and when I threatened to shake the truth out of
him he bolted upstairs, and locked himself into his room."
  "He did do wrong, but we forgave him, and all promised not to say
a word to any one," began Jo reluctantly.
  "That won't do; he shall not shelter himself behind a promise from
you soft-hearted girls. If he's done anything amiss, he shall confess,
beg pardon, and be punished. Out with it, Jo, I won't be kept in the
dark."
  Mr. Laurence looked so alarming and spoke so sharply that Jo would
have gladly run away, if she could, but she was perched aloft on the
steps, and he stood at the foot, a lion in the path, so she had to
stay and brave it out.
  "Indeed, sir, I cannot tell; mother forbade it. Laurie has
confessed, asked pardon, and been punished quite enough. We don't keep
silence to shield him, but some one else, and it will make more
trouble if you interfere. Please don't; it was partly my fault, but
it's all right now; so let's forget it, and talk about the
'Rambler,' or something pleasant."
  "Hang the 'Rambler'! Come down and give me your word that this
harum-scarum boy of mine hasn't done anything ungrateful or
impertinent. If he has, after all your kindness to him, I'll thrash
him with my own hands."
  The threat sounded awful, but did not alarm Jo, for she knew the
irascible old gentleman would never lift a finger against his
grandson, whatever he might say to the contrary. She obediently
descended, and made as light of the prank as she could without
betraying Meg or forgetting the truth.
  "Hum- ha- well, if the boy held his tongue because he promised,
and not from obstinacy, I'll forgive him. He's a stubborn fellow,
and hard to manage," said Mr. Laurence, rubbing up his hair till it
looked as if he had been out in a gale, and smoothing the frown from
his brow with an air of relief.
  "So am I; but a kind word will govern me when all the king's
horses and all the king's men couldn't," said Jo, trying to say a kind
word for her friend, who seemed to get out of one scrape only to
fall into another.
  "You think I'm not kind to him, hey?" was the sharp answer.
  "Oh, dear, no, sir; you are rather too kind sometimes, and then just
a trifle hasty when he tries your patience. Don't you think you are?"
  Jo was determined to have it out now, and tried to look quite
placid, though she quaked a little after her bold speech. To her great
relief and surprise, the old gentleman only threw his spectacles on to
the table with a rattle, and exclaimed frankly-
  "You're right, girl, I am! I love the boy, but he tries my
patience past bearing, and I don't know how it will end, if we go on
so."
  "I'll tell, he'll run away." Jo was sorry for that speech the minute
it was made; she meant to warn him that Laurie would not bear much
restraint, and hoped he would be more forbearing with the lad.
  Mr. Laurence's ruddy face changed suddenly, and he sat down, with
a troubled glance at the picture of a handsome man, which hung over
his table. It was Laurie's father, who had run away in his youth,
and married against the imperious old man's will. Jo fancied he
remembered and regretted the past, and she wished she had held her
tongue.
  "He won't do it unless he is very much worried, and only threatens
it sometimes, when he gets tired of studying. I often think I should
like to, especially since my hair was cut; so, if you ever miss us,
you may advertise for two boys, and look among the ships bound for
India."
  She laughed as she spoke, and Mr. Laurence looked relieved,
evidently taking the whole as a joke.
  "You hussy, how dare you talk in that way? Where's your respect
for me, and your proper bringing up? Bless the boys and girls! What
torments they are; yet we can't do without them," he said, pinching
her cheeks good-humoredly. "Go and bring that boy down to his
dinner, tell him it's all right, and advise him not to put on
tragedy airs with his grandfather. I won't bear it."
  "He won't come, sir; he feels badly because you didn't believe him
when he said he couldn't tell. I think the shaking hurt his feelings
very much."
  Jo tried to look pathetic, but must have failed, for Mr. Laurence
began to laugh, and she knew the day was won.
  "I'm sorry for that, and ought to thank him for not shaking me, I
suppose. What the dickens does the fellow expect?" and the old
gentleman looked a trifle ashamed of his own testiness.
  "If I were you, I'd write him an apology, sir. He says he won't come
down till he has one, and talks about Washington, and goes on in an
absurd way. A formal apology will make him see how foolish he is,
and bring him down quite amiable. Try it; he likes fun, and this way
is better than talking. I'll carry it up, and teach him his duty."
  Mr. Laurence gave her a sharp look, and put on his spectacles,
saying slowly, "You're a sly puss, but I don't mind being managed by
you and Beth. Here, give me a bit of paper, and let us have done
with this nonsense."
  The note was written in the terms which one gentleman would use to
another after offering some deep insult. Jo dropped a kiss on the
top of Mr. Laurence's bald head, and ran up to slip the apology
under Laurie's door, advising him, through the key-hole, to be
submissive, decorous, and a few other agreeable impossibilities.
Finding the door locked again, she left the note to do its work, and
was going quietly away, when the young gentleman slid down the
banisters, and waited for her at the bottom, saying, with his most
virtuous expression of countenance, "What a good fellow you are, Jo!
Did you get blown up?" he added, laughing.
  "No; he was pretty mild, on the whole."
  "Ah! I got it all round; even you cast me off over there, and I felt
just ready to go to the deuce," he began apologetically.
  "Don't talk in that way; turn over a new leaf and begin again,
Teddy, my son."
  "I keep turning over new leaves, and spoiling them, as I used to
spoil my copy-books; and I make so many beginnings there never will be
an end," he said dolefully.
  "Go and eat your dinner; you'll feel better after it. Men always
croak when they are hungry," and Jo whisked out at the front door
after that.
  "That's a 'label' on my 'sect,'" answered Laurie, quoting Amy, as he
went to partake of humble-pie dutifully with his grandfather, who
was quite saintly in temper and overwhelmingly respectful in manner
all the rest of the day.
  Every one thought the matter ended and the little cloud blown
over; but the mischief was done, for, though others forgot it, Meg
remembered. She never alluded to a certain person, but she thought
of him a good deal, dreamed dreams more than ever; and once Jo,
rummaging her sister's desk for stamps, found a bit of paper scribbled
over with the words, "Mrs. John Brooke"; whereat she groaned
tragically, and cast it into the fire, feeling that Laurie's prank had
hastened the evil day for her.
                             22
                       Pleasant Meadows

  LIKE sunshine after storm were the peaceful weeks which followed.
The invalids improved rapidly, and Mr. March began to talk of
returning early in the new year. Beth was soon able to lie on the
study sofa all day, amusing herself with the well-beloved cats, at
first, and, in time, with doll's sewing, which had fallen sadly
behindhand. Her once active limbs were so stiff and feeble that Jo
took her a daily airing about the house in her strong arms. Meg
cheerfully blackened and burnt her white hands cooking delicate messes
for "the dear"; while Amy, a loyal slave of the ring, celebrated her
return by giving away as many of her treasures as she could prevail on
her sisters to accept.
  As Christmas approached, the usual mysteries began to haunt the
house, and Jo frequently convulsed the family by proposing utterly
impossible or magnificently absurd ceremonies, in honor of this
unusually merry Christmas. Laurie was equally impracticable, and would
have had bonfires, sky-rockets, and triumphal arches, if he had had
his own way. After many skirmishes and snubbings, the ambitious pair
were considered effectually quenched, and went about with forlorn
faces, which were rather belied by explosions of laughter when the two
got together.
  Several days of unusually mild weather fitly ushered in a splendid
Christmas Day. Hannah "felt in her bones" that it was going to be an
unusually fine day, and she proved herself a true prophetess, for
everybody and everything seemed bound to produce a grand success. To
begin with, Mr. March wrote that he should soon be with them; then
Beth felt uncommonly well that morning, and, being dressed in her
mother's gift- a soft crimson merino wrapper- was borne in triumph
to the window to behold the offering of Jo and Laurie. The
Unquenchables had done their best to be worthy of the name, for,
like elves, they had worked by night, and conjured up a comical
surprise. Out in the garden stood a stately snow-maiden, crowned
with holly, bearing a basket of fruit and flowers in one hand, a great
roll of new music in the other, a perfect rainbow of an Afghan round
her chilly shoulders, and a Christmas carol issuing from her lips,
on a pink paper streamer:

                   THE JUNGFRAU TO BETH.

               God bless you, dear Queen Bess!
                 May nothing you dismay,
               But health and peace and happiness
                 Be yours, this Christmas Day.

               Here's fruit to feed our busy bee,
                 And flowers for her nose;
               Here's music for her pianee,
                 An Afghan for her toes.

               A portrait of Joanna, see,
                 By Raphael No. 2,
               Who labored with great industry
                 To make it fair and true.

               Accept a ribbon red, I beg,
                 For Madam Purrer's tail;
               And ice-cream made by lovely Peg,
                 A Mont Blanc in a pail.

               Their dearest love my makers laid
                 Within my breast of snow:
               Accept it, and the Alpine maid,
                 From Laurie and from Jo.

  How Beth laughed when she saw it, how Laurie ran up and down to
bring in the gifts, and what ridiculous speeches Jo made as she
presented them!
  "I'm so full of happiness, that, if father was only here, I couldn't
hold one drop more," said Beth, quite sighing with contentment as Jo
carried her off to the study to rest after the excitement, and to
refresh herself with some of the delicious grapes the "Jungfrau" had
sent her.
  "So am I," added Jo, slapping the pocket wherein reposed the long
desired Undine and Sintram.
  "I'm sure I am," echoed Amy, poring over the engraved copy of the
Madonna and Child, which her mother had given her, in a pretty frame.
  "Of course I am!" cried Meg, smoothing the silvery folds of her
first silk dress; for Mr. Laurence had insisted on giving it.
  "How can I be otherwise?" said Mrs. March gratefully, as her eyes
went from her husband's letter to Beth's smiling face, and her hand
caressed the brooch made of gray and golden, chestnut and dark brown
hair, which the girls had just fastened on her breast.
  Now and then, in this work-a-day world, things do happen in the
delightful story-book fashion, and what a comfort that is. Half an
hour after every one had said they were so happy they could only
hold one drop more, the drop came. Laurie opened the parlor door,
and popped his head in very quietly. He might just as well have turned
a somersault and uttered an Indian war-whoop; for his face was so full
of suppressed excitement and his voice so treacherously joyful, that
every one jumped up, though he only said, in a queer, breathless
voice, "Here's another Christmas present for the March family."
  Before the words were well out of his mouth, he was whisked away
somehow, and in his place appeared a tall man, muffled up to the eyes,
leaning on the arm of another tall man, who tried to say something and
couldn't. Of course there was a general stampede; and for several
minutes everybody seemed to lose their wits, for the strangest
things were done, and no one said a word. Mr. March became invisible
in the embrace of four pairs of loving arms; Jo disgraced herself by
nearly fainting away, and had to be doctored by Laurie in the
china-closet; Mr. Brooke kissed Meg entirely by mistake, as he
somewhat incoherently explained; and Amy, the dignified, tumbled
over a stool, and, never stopping to get up, hugged and cried over her
father's boots in the most touching manner. Mrs. March was the first
to recover herself, and held up her hand with a warning, "Hush!
remember Beth!"
  But it was too late; the study door flew open, the little red
wrapper appeared on the threshold- joy put strength into the feeble
limbs- and Beth ran straight into her father's arms. Never mind what
happened just after that; for the full hearts overflowed, washing away
the bitterness of the past, and leaving only the sweetness of the
present.
  It was not at all romantic, but a hearty laugh set everybody
straight again, for Hannah was discovered behind the door, sobbing
over the fat turkey, which she had forgotten to put down when she
rushed up from the kitchen. As the laugh subsided, Mrs. March began to
thank Mr. Brooke for his faithful care of her husband, at which Mr.
Brooke suddenly remembered that Mr. March needed rest, and, seizing
Laurie, he precipitately retired. Then the two invalids were ordered
to repose, which they did, by both sitting in one big chair, and
talking hard.
  Mr. March told how he had longed to surprise them, and how, when the
fine weather came, he had been allowed by his doctor to take advantage
of it; how devoted Brooke had been, and how he was altogether a most
estimable and upright young man. Why Mr. March paused a minute just
there, and, after a glance at Meg, who was violently poking the
fire, looked at his wife with an inquiring lift of the eyebrows, I
leave you to imagine; also why Mrs. March gently nodded her head,
and asked, rather abruptly, if he wouldn't have something to eat. Jo
saw and understood the look; and she stalked grimly away to get wine
and beef-tea, muttering to herself, as she slammed the door, "I hate
estimable young men with brown eyes!"
  There never was such a Christmas dinner as they had that day. The
fat turkey was a sight to behold, when Hannah sent him up, stuffed,
browned, and decorated; so was the plum-pudding, which quite melted in
one's mouth; likewise the jellies, in which Amy revelled like a fly in
a honey-pot. Everything turned out well, which was a mercy, Hannah
said, "For my mind was that flustered, mum, that it's a merrycle I
didn't roast the pudding, and stuff the turkey with raisins, let alone
bilin' of it in a cloth."
  Mr. Laurence and his grandson dined with them, also Mr. Brooke- at
whom Jo glowered darkly, to Laurie's infinite amusement. Two
easy-chairs stood side by side at the head of the table, in which
sat Beth and her father, feasting modestly on chicken and a little
fruit. They drank healths, told stories, sung songs, "reminisced,"
as the old folks say, and had a thoroughly good time. A sleigh-ride
had been planned, but the girls would not leave their father; so the
guests departed early, and, as twilight gathered, the happy family sat
together round the fire.
  "Just a year ago we were groaning over the dismal Christmas we
expected to have. Do you remember?" asked Jo, breaking a short pause
which had followed a long conversation about many things.
  "Rather a pleasant year on the whole!" said Meg, smiling at the
fire, and congratulating herself on having treated Mr. Brooke with
dignity.
  "I think it's been a pretty hard one," observed Amy, watching the
light shine on her ring, with thoughtful eyes.
  "I'm glad it's over, because we've got you back," whispered Beth,
who sat on her father's knee.
  "Rather a rough road for you to travel, my little pilgrims,
especially the latter part of it. But you have got on bravely; and I
think the burdens are in a fair way to tumble off very soon," said Mr.
March, looking with fatherly satisfaction at the four young faces
gathered round him.
  "How do you know? Did mother tell you?" asked Jo.
  "Not much; straws show which way the wind blows, and I've made
several discoveries to-day."
  "Oh, tell us what they are!" cried Meg, who sat beside him.
  "Here is one"; and taking up the hand which lay on the arm of his
chair, he pointed to the roughened forefinger, a burn on the back, and
two or three little hard spots on the palm. "I remember a time when
this hand was white and smooth, and your first care was to keep it so.
It was very pretty then, but to me it is much prettier now- for in
these seeming blemishes I read a little history. A burnt-offering
has been made of vanity; this hardened palm has earned something
better than blisters; and I'm sure the sewing done by these pricked
fingers will last a long time, so much good-will went into the
stitches. Meg, my dear, I value the womanly skill which keeps home
happy more than white hands or fashionable accomplishments. I'm
proud to shake this good, industrious little hand, and hope I shall
not soon be asked to give it away."
  If Meg had wanted a reward for hours of patient labor, she
received it in the hearty pressure of her father's hand and the
approving smile he gave her.
  "What about Jo? Please say something nice; for she has tried so
hard, and been so very, very good to me," said Beth, in her father's
ear.
  He laughed, and looked across at the tall girl who sat opposite,
with an unusually mild expression in her brown face.
  "In spite of the curly crop, I don't see the 'son Jo' whom I left
a year ago," said Mr. March. "I see a young lady who pins her collar
straight, laces her boots neatly, and neither whistles, talks slang,
nor lies on the rug as she used to do. Her face is rather thin and
pale, just now, with watching and anxiety; but I like to look at it,
for it has grown gentler, and her voice is lower; she doesn't
bounce, but moves quietly, and takes care of a certain little person
in a motherly way which delights me. I rather miss my wild girl; but
if I get a strong, helpful, tender-hearted woman in her place, I shall
feel quite satisfied. I don't know whether the shearing sobered our
black sheep, but I do know that in all Washington I couldn't find
anything beautiful enough to be bought with the five-and-twenty
dollars which my good girl sent me."
  Jo's keen eyes were rather dim for a minute, and her thin face
grew rosy in the firelight, as she received her father's praise,
feeling that she did deserve a portion of it.
  "Now Beth," said Amy, longing for her turn, but ready to wait.
  "There's so little of her, I'm afraid to say much, for fear she will
slip away altogether, though she is not so shy as she used to be,"
began their father cheerfully; but recollecting how nearly he had lost
her, he held her close, saying tenderly, with her cheek against his
own, "I've got you safe, my Beth, and I'll keep you so, please God."
  After a minute's silence, he looked down at Amy, who sat on the
cricket at his feet, and said, with a caress of the shining hair-
  "I observed that Amy took drumsticks at dinner, ran errands for
her mother all the afternoon, gave Meg her place to-night, and has
waited on every one with patience and good-humor. I also observe
that she does not fret much nor look in the glass, and has not even
mentioned a very pretty ring which she wears; so I conclude that she
has learned to think of other people more and of herself less, and has
decided to try and mould her character as carefully as she moulds
her little day figures. I am glad of this; for though I should be very
proud of a graceful statue made by her, I shall be infinitely
prouder of a lovable daughter, with a talent for making life beautiful
to herself and others."
  "What are you thinking of, Beth?" asked Jo, when Amy had thanked her
father and told about her ring.
  "I read in 'Pilgrim's Progress' to-day, how, after many troubles,
Christian and Hopeful came to a pleasant green meadow, where lilies
bloomed all the year round, and there they rested happily, as we do
now, before they went on to their journey's end," answered Beth;
adding, as she slipped out of her father's arms, and went slowly to
the instrument, "It's singing time now, and I want to be in my old
place. I'll try to sing the song of the shepherd-boy which the
Pilgrims heard. I made the music for father, because he likes the
verses."
  So, sitting at the dear little piano, Beth softly touched the
keys, and, in the sweet voice they had never thought to hear again,
sung to her own accompaniment the quaint hymn, which was a
singularly fitting song for her:

               He that is down need fear no fall,
                 He that is low no pride;
               He that is humble ever shall
                 Have God to be his guide.

               I am content with what I have,
                 Little be it or much;
               And, Lord! contentment still I crave,
                 Because Thou savest such.

               Fulness to them a burden is,
                 That go on pilgrimage;
               Here little, and hereafter bliss,
                 Is best from age to age!
                             23
               Aunt March Settles the Question

  LIKE bees swarming after their queen, mother and daughters hovered
about Mr. March the next day, neglecting everything to look at, wait
upon, and listen to the new invalid, who was in a fair way to be
killed by kindness. As he sat propped up in a big chair by Beth's
sofa, with the other three close by, and Hannah popping in her head
now and then, "to peek at the dear man," nothing seemed needed to
complete their happiness. But something was needed, and the elder ones
felt it, though none confessed the fact. Mr. and Mrs. March looked
at one another with an anxious expression, as their eyes followed Meg.
Jo had sudden fits of sobriety, and was seen to shake her fist at
Mr. Brooke's umbrella, which had been left in the hall; Meg was
absent-minded, shy, and silent, started when the bell rang, and
colored when John's name was mentioned; Amy said "Every one seemed
waiting for something, and couldn't settle down, which was queer,
since father was safe at home," and Beth innocently wondered why their
neighbors didn't run over as usual.
  Laurie went by in the afternoon, and, seeing Meg at the window,
seemed suddenly possessed with a melodramatic fit, for he fell down
upon one knee in the snow, beat his breast, tore his hair, and clasped
his hands imploringly, as if begging some boon; and when Meg told
him to behave himself and go away, he wrung imaginary tears out of his
handkerchief, and staggered round the corner as if in utter despair.
  "What does the goose mean?" said Meg, laughing, and trying to look
unconscious.
  "He's showing you how your John will go on by and by. Touching,
isn't it?" answered Jo scornfully.
  "Don't say my John, it isn't proper or true"; but Meg's voice
lingered over the words as if they sounded pleasant to her. "Please
don't plague me, Jo; I've told you I don't care much about him, and
there isn't to be anything said, but we are all to be friendly, and go
on as before."
  "We can't, for something has been said, and Laurie's mischief has
spoilt you for me. I see it, and so does mother; you are not like your
old self a bit, and seem ever so far away from me. I don't mean to
plague you, and will bear it like a man, but I do wish it was all
settled. I hate to wait; so if you mean ever to do it, make haste
and have it over quickly," said Jo pettishly.
  "I can't say or do anything till he speaks, and he won't, because
father said I was too young," began Meg, bending over her work, with a
queer little smile, which suggested that she did not quite agree
with her father on that point.
  "If he did speak, you wouldn't know what to say, but would cry or
blush, or let him have his own way, instead of giving a good, decided,
No."
  "I'm not so silly and weak as you think. I know just what I should
say, for I've planned it all, so I needn't be taken unawares;
there's no knowing what may happen, and I wished to be prepared."
  Jo couldn't help smiling at the important air which Meg had
unconsciously assumed, and which was as becoming as the pretty color
varying in her cheeks.
  "Would you mind telling me what you'd say?" asked Jo more
respectfully.
  "Not at all; you are sixteen now, quite old enough to be my
confidant, and my experience will be useful to you by and by, perhaps,
in your own affairs of this sort."
  "Don't mean to have any; it's fun to watch other people philander,
but I should feel like a fool doing it myself," said Jo, looking
alarmed at the thought.
  "I think not, if you liked any one very much, and he liked you." Meg
spoke as if to herself, and glanced out at the lane, where she had
often seen lovers walking together in the summer twilight.
  "I thought you were going to tell your speech to that man," said Jo,
rudely shortening her sister's little reverie.
  "Oh, I should merely say, quite calmly and decidedly, 'Thank you,
Mr. Brooke, you are very kind, but I agree with father that I am too
young to enter into any engagement at present; so please say no
more, but let us be friends as we were.'"
  "Hum! that's stiff and cool enough. I don't believe you'll ever
say it, and I know he won't be satisfied if you do. If he goes on like
the rejected lovers in books, you'll give in, rather than hurt his
feelings."
  "No, I won't. I shall tell him I've made up my mind, and shall
walk out of the room with dignity."
  Meg rose as she spoke, and was just going to rehearse the
dignified exit, when a step in the hall made her fly into her seat,
and begin to sew as if her life depended on finishing that
particular seam in a given time. Jo smothered a laugh at the sudden
change, and, when some one gave a modest tap, opened the door with a
grim aspect, which was anything but hospitable.
  "Good afternoon. I came to get my umbrella- that is, to see how your
father finds himself to-day," said Mr. Brooke, getting a trifle
confused as his eye went from one tell-tale face to the other.
  "It's very well, he's in the rack, I'll get him, and tell it you are
here," and having jumbled her father and the umbrella well together in
her reply, Jo slipped out of the room to give Meg a chance to make her
speech and air her dignity. But the instant she vanished, Meg began to
sidle towards the door, murmuring-
  "Mother will like to see you. Pray sit down, I'll call her."
  "Don't go; are you afraid of me, Margaret?" and Mr. Brooke looked so
hurt that Meg thought she must have done something very rude. She
blushed up to the little curls on her forehead, for he had never
called her Margaret before, and she was surprised to find how
natural and sweet it seemed to hear him say it. Anxious to appear
friendly and at her ease, she put out her hand with a confiding
gesture, and said gratefully-
  "How can I be afraid when you have been so kind to father? I only
wish I could thank you for it."
  "Shall I tell you how?" asked Mr. Brooke, holding the small hand
fast in both his own, and looking down at Meg with so much love in the
brown eyes, that her heart began to flutter, and she both longed to
run away and to stop and listen.
  "Oh no, please don't- I'd rather not," she said, trying to
withdraw her hand, and looking frightened in spite of her denial.
  "I won't trouble you, I only want to know if you care for me a
little, Meg. I love you so much, dear," added Mr. Brooke tenderly.
  This was the moment for the calm, proper speech, but Meg didn't make
it; she forgot every word of it, hung her head, and answered, "I don't
know," so softly, that John had to stoop down to catch the foolish
little reply.
  He seemed to think it was worth the trouble, for he smiled to
himself as if quite satisfied, pressed the plump hand gratefully,
and said, in his most persuasive tone, "Will you try and find out? I
want to know so much; for I can't go to work with any heart until I
learn whether I am to have my reward in the end or not."
  "I'm too young," faltered Meg, wondering why she was so fluttered,
yet rather enjoying it.
  "I'll wait; and in the meantime, you could be learning to like me.
Would it be a very hard lesson, dear?"
  "Not if I chose to learn it, but-"
  "Please choose to learn, Meg. I love to teach, and this is easier
than German," broke in John, getting possession of the other hand,
so that she had no way of hiding her face, as he bent to look into it.
  His tone was properly beseeching; but, stealing a shy look at him,
Meg saw that his eyes were merry as well as tender, and that he wore
the satisfied smile of one who had no doubt of his success. This
nettled her; Annie Moffat's foolish lessons in coquetry came into
her mind, and the love of power, which sleeps in the bosoms of the
best of little women, woke up all of a sudden and took possession of
her. She felt excited and strange, and, not knowing what else to do,
followed a capricious impulse, and, withdrawing her hands, said
petulantly, "I don't choose. Please go away and let me be!"
  Poor Mr. Brooke looked as if his lovely castle in the air was
tumbling about his ears, for he had never seen Meg in such a mood
before, and it rather bewildered him.
  "Do you really mean that?" he asked anxiously, following her as
she walked away.
  "Yes, I do; I don't want to be worried about such things. Father
says I needn't; it's too soon and I'd rather not."
  "Mayn't I hope you'll change your mind by and by? I'll wait, and say
nothing till you have had more time. Don't play with me, Meg. I didn't
think that of you."
  "Don't think of me at all. I'd rather you wouldn't," said Meg,
taking a naughty satisfaction in trying her lover's patience and her
own power.
  He was grave and pale now, and looked decidedly more like the
novel heroes whom she admired; but he neither slapped his forehead nor
tramped about the room, as they did; he just stood looking at her so
wistfully, so tenderly, that she found her heart relenting in spite of
her. What would have happened next I cannot say, if Aunt March had not
come hobbling in at this interesting minute.
  The old lady couldn't resist her longing to see her nephew, for
she had met Laurie as she took her airing, and, hearing of Mr. March's
arrival, drove straight out to see him. The family were all busy in
the back part of the house, and she had made her way quietly in,
hoping to surprise them. She did surprise two of them so much that Meg
started as if she had seen a ghost, and Mr. Brooke vanished into the
study.
  "Bless me, what's all this?" cried the old lady, with a rap of her
cane, as she glanced from the pale young gentleman to the scarlet
young lady.
  "It's father's friend. I'm so surprised to see you!" stammered
Meg, feeling that she was in for a lecture now.
  "That's evident," returned Aunt March, sitting down. "But what is
father's friend saying to make you look like a peony? There's mischief
going on, and I insist upon knowing what it is," with another rap.
  "We were merely talking. Mr. Brooke came for his umbrella," began
Meg, wishing that Mr. Brooke and the umbrella were safely out of the
house.
  "Brooke? That boy's tutor? Ah! I understand now. I know all about
it. Jo blundered into a wrong message in one of your father's letters,
and I made her tell me. You haven't gone and accepted him, child?"
cried Aunt March, looking scandalized.
  "Hush! he'll hear. Shan't I call mother?" said Meg, much troubled.
  "Not yet. I've something to say to you, and I must free my mind at
once. Tell me, do you mean to marry this Cook? If you do, not one
penny of my money ever goes to you. Remember that, and be a sensible
girl," said the old lady impressively.
  Now Aunt March possessed in perfection the art of rousing the spirit
of opposition in the gentlest people, and enjoyed doing it. The best
of us have a spice of perversity in us, especially when we are young
and in love. If Aunt March had begged Meg to accept John Brooke, she
would probably have declared she couldn't think of it; but as she
was peremptorily ordered not to like him, she immediately made up
her mind that she would. Inclination as well as perversity made the
decision easy, and, being already much excited, Meg opposed the old
lady with unusual spirit.
  "I shall marry whom I please, Aunt March, and you can leave your
money to any one you like," she said, nodding her head with a resolute
air.
  "Highty tighty! Is that the way you take my advice, miss? You'll
be sorry for it, by and by, when you've tried love in a cottage, and
found it a failure."
  "It can't be a worse one than some people find in big houses,"
retorted Meg.
  Aunt March put on her glasses and took a look at the girl, for she
did not know her in this new mood. Meg hardly knew herself, she felt
so brave and independent- so glad to defend John, and assert her right
to love him, if she liked. Aunt March saw that she had begun wrong,
and, after a little pause, made a fresh start, saying, as mildly as
she could, "Now, Meg, my dear, be reasonable, and take my advice. I
mean it kindly, and don't want you to spoil your whole life by
making a mistake at the beginning. You ought to marry well, and help
your family; it's your duty to make a rich match, and it ought to be
impressed upon you."
  "Father and mother don't think so; they like John, though he is
poor."
  "Your parents, my dear, have no more worldly wisdom than two
babies."
  "I'm glad of it," cried Meg stoutly.
  Aunt March took no notice, but went on with her lecture. "This
Rook is poor, and hasn't got any rich relations, has he?"
  "No; but he has many warm friends."
  "You can't live on friends; try it, and see how cool they'll grow.
He hasn't any business, has he?"
  "Not yet; Mr. Laurence is going to help him."
  "That won't last long. James Laurence is a crochety old fellow,
and not to be depended on. So you intend to marry a man without money,
position, or business, and go on working harder than you do now,
when you might be comfortable all your days by minding me and doing
better? I thought you had more sense, Meg."
  "I couldn't do better if I waited half my life! John is good and
wise; he's got heaps of talent; he's willing to work, and sure to
get on, he's so energetic and brave. Every one likes and respects him,
and I'm proud to think he cares for me, though I'm so poor and young
and silly," said Meg, looking prettier than ever in her earnestness.
  "He knows you have got rich relations, child; that's the secret of
his liking, I suspect."
  "Aunt March, how dare you say such a thing? John is above such
meanness, and I won't listen to you a minute if you talk so," cried
Meg indignantly, forgetting everything but the injustice of the old
lady's suspicions. "My John wouldn't marry for money, any more than
I would. We are willing to work, and we mean to wait. I'm not afraid
of being poor, for I've been happy so far, and I know I shall be
with him, because he loves me, and I-"
  Meg stopped there, remembering all of a sudden that she hadn't
made up her mind; that she had told "her John" to go away, and that he
might be overhearing her inconsistent remarks.
  Aunt March was very angry, for she had set her heart on having her
pretty niece make a fine match, and something in the girl's happy
young face made the lonely old woman feel both sad and sour.
  "Well, I wash my hands of the whole affair! You are a wilful
child, and you've lost more than you know by this piece of folly.
No, I won't stop; I'm disappointed in you, and haven't spirits to
see your father now. Don't expect anything from me when you are
married: your Mr. Book's friends must take care of you. I'm done
with you forever."
  And, slamming the door in Meg's face, Aunt March drove off in high
dudgeon. She seemed to take all the girl's courage with her; for, when
left alone, Meg stood a moment, undecided whether to laugh or cry.
Before she could make up her mind, she was taken possession of by
Mr. Brooke, who said, all in one breath, "I couldn't help hearing,
Meg. Thank you for defending me, and Aunt March for proving that you
do care for me a little bit."
  "I didn't know how much, till she abused you," began Meg.
  "And I needn't go away, but may stay and be happy, may I, dear?"
  Here was another fine chance to make the crushing speech and the
stately exit, but Meg never thought of doing either, and disgraced
herself forever in Jo's eyes by meekly whispering, "Yes, John," and
hiding her face on Mr. Brooke's waistcoat.
  Fifteen minutes after Aunt March's departure, Jo came softly
downstairs, paused an instant at the parlor door, and, hearing no
sound within, nodded and smiled, with a satisfied expression, saying
to herself, "She has sent him away as we planned, and that affair is
settled. I'll go and hear the fun, and have a good laugh over it."
  But poor Jo never got her laugh, for she was transfixed upon the
threshold by a spectacle which held her there, staring with her
mouth nearly as wide open as her eyes. Going in to exult over a fallen
enemy, and to praise a strong-minded sister for the banishment of an
objectionable lover, it certainly was a shock to behold the
aforesaid enemy serenely sitting on the sofa, with the strong-minded
sister enthroned upon his knee, and wearing an expression of the
most abject submission. Jo gave a sort of gasp, as if a cold
shower-bath had suddenly fallen upon her- for such an unexpected
turning of the tables actually took her breath away. At the odd sound,
the lovers turned and saw her. Meg jumped up, looking both proud and
shy; but "that man," as Jo called him, actually laughed, and said
coolly, as he kissed the astonished new-comer, "Sister Jo,
congratulate us!"
  That was adding insult to injury- it was altogether too much- and,
making some wild demonstration with her hands, Jo vanished without a
word. Rushing upstairs, she startled the invalids by exclaiming
tragically, as she burst into the room, "Oh, do somebody go down
quick; John Brooke is acting dreadfully, and Meg likes it!"
  Mr. and Mrs. March left the room with speed; and, casting herself
upon the bed, Jo cried and scolded tempestuously as she told the awful
news to Beth and Amy. The little girls, however, considered it a
most agreeable and interesting event, and Jo got little comfort from
them; so she went up to her refuge in the garret, and confided her
troubles to the rats.
  Nobody ever knew what went on in the parlor that afternoon; but a
great deal of talking was done, and quiet Mr. Brooke astonished his
friends by the eloquence and spirit with which he pleaded his suit,
told his plans, and persuaded them to arrange everything just as he
wanted it.
  The tea-bell rang before he had finished describing the paradise
which he meant to earn for Meg, and he proudly took her in to
supper, both looking so happy that Jo hadn't the heart to be jealous
or dismal. Amy was very much impressed by John's devotion and Meg's
dignity, Beth beamed at them from a distance, while Mr. and Mrs. March
surveyed the young couple with such tender satisfaction that it was
perfectly evident Aunt March was right in calling them as "unworldly
as a pair of babies." No one ate much, but every one looked very
happy, and the old room seemed to brighten up amazingly when the first
romance of the family began there.
  "You can't say nothing pleasant ever happens now, can you, Meg?"
said Amy, trying to decide how she would group the lovers in the
sketch she was planning to take.
  "No, I'm sure I can't. How much has happened since I said that! It
seems a year ago," answered Meg, who was in a blissful dream, lifted
far above such common things as bread and butter.
  "The joys come close upon the sorrows this time, and I rather
think the changes have begun," said Mrs. March. "In most families
there comes, now and then, a year full of events; this has been such
an one, but it ends well, after all."
  "Hope the next will end better," muttered Jo, who found it very hard
to see Meg absorbed in a stranger before her face; for Jo loved a
few persons very dearly, and dreaded to have their affection lost or
lessened in any way.
  "I hope the third year from this will end better; I mean it shall,
if I live to work out my plans," said Mr. Brooke, smiling at Meg, as
if everything had become possible to him now.
  "Doesn't it seem very long to wait?" asked Amy, who was in a hurry
for the wedding.
  "I've got so much to learn before I shall be ready, it seems a short
time to me," answered Meg, with a sweet gravity in her face, never
seen there before.
  "You have only to wait; I am to do the work," said John, beginning
his labors by picking up Meg's napkin, with an expression which caused
Jo to shake her head, and then say to herself, with an air of
relief, as the front door banged, "Here comes Laurie. Now we shall
have a little sensible conversation."
  But Jo was mistaken; for Laurie came prancing in, overflowing with
spirits, bearing a great bridal-looking bouquet for "Mrs. John
Brooke," and evidently laboring under the delusion that the whole
affair had been brought about by his excellent management.
  "I knew Brooke would have it all his own way, he always does; for
when he makes up his mind to accomplish anything, it's done, though
the sky falls," said Laurie, when he had presented his offering and
his congratulations.
  "Much obliged for that recommendation. I take it as a good omen
for the future, and invite you to my wedding on the spot," answered
Mr. Brooke, who felt at peace with all mankind, even his mischievous
pupil.
  "I'll come if I'm at the ends of the earth; for the sight of Jo's
face alone, on that occasion, would be worth a long journey. You don't
look festive, ma'am; what's the matter?" asked Laurie, following her
into a corner of the parlor, whither all had adjourned to greet Mr.
Laurence.
  "I don't approve of the match, but I've made up my mind to bear
it, and shall not say a word against it," said Jo solemnly. "You can't
know how hard it is for me to give up Meg," she continued, with a
little quiver in her voice.
  "You don't give her up. You only go halves," said Laurie
consolingly.
  "It never can be the same again. I've lost my dearest friend,"
sighed Jo.
  "You've got me, anyhow. I'm not good for much, I know; but I'll
stand by you, Jo, all the days of my life; upon my word I will!" and
Laurie meant what he said.
  "I know you will, and I'm ever so much obliged; you are always a
great comfort to me, Teddy," returned Jo, gratefully shaking hands.
  "Well, now, don't be dismal, there's a good fellow. It's all
right, you see. Meg is happy; Brooke will fly round and get settled
immediately; grandpa will attend to him, and it will be very jolly
to see Meg in her own little house. We'll have capital times after she
is gone, for I shall be through college before long, and then we'll go
abroad, or some nice trip or other. Wouldn't that console you?"
  "I rather think it would; but there's no knowing what may happen
in three years," said Jo thoughtfully.
  "That's true. Don't you wish you could take a look forward, and
see where we shall all be then? I do," returned Laurie.
  "I think not, for I might see something sad; and every one looks
so happy now, I don't believe they could be much improved"; and Jo's
eyes went slowly round the room, brightening as they looked, for the
prospect was a pleasant one.
  Father and mother sat together, quietly re-living the first
chapter of the romance which for them began some twenty years ago. Amy
was drawing the lovers, who sat apart in a beautiful world of their
own, the light of which touched their faces with a grace the little
artist could not copy. Beth lay on her sofa, talking cheerily with her
old friend, who held her little hand as if he felt that it possessed
the power to lead him along the peaceful way she walked. Jo lounged in
her favorite low seat, with the grave, quiet look which best became
her; and Laurie, leaning on the back of her chair, his chin on a level
with her curly head, smiled with his friendliest aspect, and nodded at
her in the long glass which reflected them both.

  So grouped, the curtain falls upon Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy. Whether
it ever rises again, depends upon the reception given to the first act
of the domestic drama called "LITTLE WOMEN."
                         PART SECOND

                             24
                           Gossip

  IN order that we may start afresh, and go to Meg's wedding with free
minds, it will be well to begin with a little gossip about the
Marches. And here let me premise, that if any of the elders think
there is too much "lovering" in the story, as I fear they may (I'm not
afraid the young folks will make that objection), I can only say
with Mrs. March, "What can you expect when I have four gay girls in
the house, and a dashing young neighbor over the way?"
  The three years that have passed have brought but few changes to the
quiet family. The war is over, and Mr. March safely at home, busy with
his books and the small parish which found in him a minister by nature
as by grace- a quiet, studious man, rich in the wisdom that is
better than learning, the charity which calls all mankind "brother,"
the piety that blossoms into character, making it august and lovely.
  These attributes, in spite of poverty and the strict integrity which
shut him out from the more worldly successes, attracted to him many
admirable persons, as naturally as sweet herbs draw bees, and as
naturally he gave them the honey into which fifty years of hard
experience had distilled no bitter drop. Earnest young men found the
gray-headed scholar as young at heart as they; thoughtful or
troubled women instinctively brought their doubts and sorrows to
him, sure of finding the gentlest sympathy, the wisest counsel;
sinners told their sins to the pure-hearted old man, and were both
rebuked and saved; gifted men found a companion in him; ambitious
men caught glimpses of nobler ambitions than their own; and even
worldlings confessed that his beliefs were beautiful and true,
although "they wouldn't pay."
  To outsiders, the five energetic women seemed to rule the house, and
so they did in many things; but the quiet scholar, sitting among his
books, was still the head of the family, the household conscience,
anchor, and comforter; for to him the busy, anxious women always
turned in troublous times, finding him, in the truest sense of those
sacred words husband and father.
  The girls gave their hearts into their mother's keeping, their souls
into their father's; and to both parents, who lived and labored so
faithfully for them, they gave a love that grew with their growth, and
bound them tenderly together by the sweetest tie which blesses life
and outlives death.
  Mrs. March is as brisk and cheery, though rather grayer, than when
we saw her last, and just now so absorbed in Meg's affairs that the
hospitals and homes, still full of wounded "boys" and soldiers'
widows, decidedly miss the motherly missionary's visits.
  John Brooke did his duty manfully for a year, got wounded, was
sent home, and not allowed to return. He received no stars or bars,
but he deserved them, for he cheerfully risked all he had; and life
and love are very precious when both are in full bloom. Perfectly
resigned to his discharge, he devoted himself to getting well,
preparing for business, and earning a home for Meg. With the good
sense and sturdy independence that characterized him, he refused Mr.
Laurence's more generous offers, and accepted the place of
book-keeper, feeling better satisfied to begin with an honestly earned
salary than by running any risks with borrowed money.
  Meg had spent the time in working as well as waiting, growing
womanly in character, wise in housewifely arts, and prettier than
ever; for love is a great beautifier. She had her girlish ambitions
and hopes, and felt some disappointment at the humble way in which the
new life must begin. Ned Moffat had just married Sallie Gardiner,
and Meg couldn't help contrasting their fine house and carriage,
many gifts, and splendid outfit, with her own, and secretly wishing
she could have the same. But somehow envy and discontent soon vanished
when she thought of all the patient love and labor John had put into
the little home awaiting her; and when they sat together in the
twilight, talking over their small plans, the future always grew so
beautiful and bright that she forgot Sallie's splendor, and felt
herself the richest, happiest girl in Christendom.
  Jo never went back to Aunt March, for the old lady took such a fancy
to Amy that she bribed her with the offer of drawing lessons from
one of the best teachers going; and for the sake of this advantage,
Amy would have served a far harder mistress. So she gave her
mornings to duty, her afternoons to pleasure, and prospered finely.
Jo, meantime, devoted herself to literature and Beth, who remained
delicate long after the fever was a thing of the past. Not an
invalid exactly, but never again the rosy, healthy creature she had
been; yet always hopeful, happy, and serene, busy with the quiet
duties she loved, every one's friend, and an angel in the house,
long before those who loved her most had learned to know it.
  As long as "The Spread Eagle" paid her a dollar a column for her
"rubbish," as she called it, Jo felt herself a woman of means, and
spun her little romances diligently. But great plans fermented in
her busy brain and ambitious mind, and the old tin kitchen in the
garret held a slowly increasing pile of blotted manuscript, which
was one day to place the name of March upon the roll of fame.
  Laurie, having dutifully gone to college to please his
grandfather, was now getting through it in the easiest possible manner
to please himself. A universal favorite, thanks to money, manners,
much talent, and the kindest heart that ever got its owner into
scrapes by trying to get other people out of them, he stood in great
danger of being spoilt, and probably would have been, like many
another promising boy, if he had not possessed a talisman against evil
in the memory of the kind old man who was bound up in his success, the
motherly friend who watched over him as if he were her son, and
last, but not least by any means, the knowledge that four innocent
girls loved, admired, and believed in him with all their hearts.
  Being only "a glorious human boy," of course he frolicked and
flirted, grew dandified, aquatic, sentimental, or gymnastic, as
college fashions ordained; hazed and was hazed, talked slang, and more
than once came perilously near suspension and expulsion. But as high
spirits and the love of fun were the causes of these pranks, he always
managed to save himself by frank confession, honorable atonement, or
the irresistible power of persuasion which he possessed in perfection.
In fact, he rather prided himself on his narrow escapes, and liked
to thrill the girls with graphic accounts of his triumphs over
wrathful tutors, dignified professors, and vanquished enemies. The
"men of my class" were heroes in the eyes of the girls, who never
wearied of the exploits of "our fellows," and were frequently
allowed to bask in the smiles of these great creatures, when Laurie
brought them home with him.
  Amy especially enjoyed this high honor, and became quite a belle
among them; for her ladyship early felt and learned to use the gift of
fascination with which she was endowed. Meg was too much absorbed in
her private and particular John to care for any other lords of
creation, and Beth too shy to do more than peep at them, and wonder
how Amy dared to order them about so; but Jo felt quite in her
element, and found it very difficult to refrain from imitating the
gentlemanly attitudes, phrases, and feats, which seemed more natural
to her than the decorums prescribed for young ladies. They all liked
Jo immensely, but never fell in love with her, though very few escaped
without paying the tribute of a sentimental sigh or two at Amy's
shrine. And speaking of sentiment brings us very naturally to the
"Dove-cote."
  That was the name of the little brown house which Mr. Brooke had
prepared for Meg's first home. Laurie had christened it, saying it was
highly appropriate to the gentle lovers, who "went on together like
a pair of turtle-doves, with first a bill and then a coo." It was a
tiny house, with a little garden behind, and a lawn about as big as
a pocket-handkerchief in front. Here Meg meant to have a fountain,
shrubbery, and a profusion of lovely flowers; though just at
present, the fountain was represented by a weather-beaten urn, very
like a dilapidated slop-bowl; the shrubbery consisted of several young
larches, undecided whether to live or die; and the profusion of
flowers was merely hinted by regiments of sticks, to show where
seeds were planted. But inside, it was altogether charming, and the
happy bride saw no fault from garret to cellar. To be sure, the hall
was so narrow, it was fortunate that they had no piano, for one
never could have been got in whole; the dining-room was so small
that six people were a tight fit; and the kitchen stairs seemed
built for the express purpose of precipitating both servants and china
pell-mell into the coal-bin. But once get used to these slight
blemishes, and nothing could be more complete, for good sense and good
taste had presided over the furnishing, and the result was highly
satisfactory. There were no marble-topped tables, long mirrors, or
lace curtains in the little parlor, but simple furniture, plenty of
books, a fine picture or two, a stand of flowers in the bay-window,
and, scattered all about, the pretty gifts which came from friendly
hands, and were the fairer for the loving messages they brought.
  I don't think the Parian Psyche Laurie gave lost any of its beauty
because John put up the bracket it stood upon; that any upholsterer
could have draped the plain muslin curtains more gracefully than Amy's
artistic hand; or that any store-room was ever better provided with
good wishes, merry words, and happy hopes, than that in which Jo and
her mother put away Meg's few boxes, barrels, and bundles; and I am
morally certain that the spandy-new kitchen never could have looked so
cosey and neat if Hannah had not arranged every pot and pan a dozen
times over, and laid the fire all ready for lighting, the minute "Mis.
Brooke came home." I also doubt if any young matron ever began life
with so rich a supply of dusters, holders, and piece-bags; for Beth
made enough to last till the silver wedding came round, and invented
three different kinds of dishclothes for the express service of the
bridal china.
  People who hire all these things done for them never know what
they lose; for the homeliest tasks get beautified if loving hands do
them, and Meg found so many proofs of this, that everything in her
small nest, from the kitchen roller to the silver vase on her parlor
table, was eloquent of home love and tender forethought.
  What happy times they had planning together, what solemn shopping
excursions; what funny mistakes they made, and what shouts of laughter
arose over Laurie's ridiculous bargains. In his love of jokes, this
young gentleman, though nearly through college, was as much of a boy
as ever. His last whim had been to bring with him, on his weekly
visits, some new, useful, and ingenious article for the young
housekeeper. Now a bag of remarkable clothes-pins; next, a wonderful
nutmeg-grater, which fell to pieces at the first trial; a
knife-cleaner that spoilt all the knives; or a sweeper that picked the
nap neatly off the carpet, and left the dirt; labor-saving soap that
took the skin off one's hands; infallible cements which stuck firmly
to nothing but the fingers of the deluded buyer; and every kind of
tin-ware, from a toy savings-bank for odd pennies, to a wonderful
boiler which would wash articles in its own steam, with every prospect
of exploding in the process.
  In vain Meg begged him to stop. John laughed at him, and Jo called
him "Mr. Toodles." He was possessed with a mania for patronizing
Yankee ingenuity, and seeing his friends fitly furnished forth. So
each week beheld some fresh absurdity.
  Everything was done at last, even to Amy's arranging different
colored soaps to match the different colored rooms, and Beth's setting
the table for the first meal.
  "Are you satisfied? Does it seem like home, and do you feel as if
you should be happy here?" asked Mrs. March, as she and her daughter
went through the new kingdom, arm-in-arm; for just then they seemed to
cling together more tenderly than ever.
  "Yes, mother, perfectly satisfied, thanks to you all, and so happy
that I can't talk about it," answered Meg with a look that was
better than words.
  "If she only had a servant or two it would be all right," said
Amy, coming out of the parlor, where she had been trying to decide
whether the bronze Mercury looked best on the whatnot or the
mantle-piece.
  "Mother and I have talked that over, and I have made up my mind to
try her way first. There will be so little to do, that, with Lotty
to run my errands and help me here and there, I shall only have enough
work to keep me from getting lazy or homesick," answered Meg
tranquilly.
  "Sallie Moffat has four," began Amy.
  "If Meg had four the house wouldn't hold them, and master and missis
would have to camp in the garden," broke in Jo, who, enveloped in a
big blue pinafore, was giving the last polish to the door-handles.
  "Sallie isn't a poor man's wife, and many maids are in keeping
with her fine establishment. Meg and John begin humbly, but I have a
feeling that there will be quite as much happiness in the little house
as in the big one. It's a great mistake for young girls like Meg to
leave themselves nothing to do but dress, give orders, and gossip.
When I was first married, I used to long for my new clothes to wear
out or get torn, so that I might have the pleasure of mending them;
for I got heartily sick of doing fancy work and tending my
pocket-handkerchief."
  "Why didn't you go into the kitchen and make messes, as Sallie
says she does, to amuse herself, though they never turn out well,
and the servants laugh at her," said Meg.
  "I did, after a while; not to 'mess,' but to learn of Hannah how
things should be done, that my servants need not laugh at me. It was
play then; but there came a time when I was truly grateful that I
not only possessed the will but the power to cook wholesome food for
my little girls, and help myself when I could no longer afford to hire
help. You begin at the other end, Meg, dear; but the lessons you learn
now will be of use to you by and by, when John is a richer man, for
the mistress of a house, however splendid, should know how work
ought to be done, if she wishes to be well and honestly served."
  "Yes, mother, I'm sure of that," said Meg, listening respectfully to
the little lecture; for the best of women will hold forth upon the
all-absorbing subject of housekeeping. "Do you know I like this room
most of all in my baby-house," added Meg, a minute after, as they went
upstairs, and she looked into her well-stored linen-closet.
  Beth was there, laying the snowy piles smoothly on the shelves,
and exulting over the goodly array. All three laughed as Meg spoke;
for that linen-closet was a joke. You see, having said that if Meg
married "that Brooke" she shouldn't have a cent of her money, Aunt
March was rather in a quandary, when time had appeased her wrath and
made her repent her vow. She never broke her word, and was much
exercised in her mind how to get round it, and at last devised a
plan whereby she could satisfy herself. Mrs. Carrol, Florence's mamma,
was ordered to buy, have made, and marked, a generous supply of
house and table linen, and send it as her present, all of which was
faithfully done; but the secret leaked out, and was greatly enjoyed by
the family; for Aunt March tried to look utterly unconscious, and
insisted that she could give nothing but the old-fashioned pearls,
long promised to the first bride.
  "That's a housewifely taste which I am glad to see. I had a young
friend who set up housekeeping with six sheets, but she had
finger-bowls for company, and that satisfied her," said Mrs. March,
patting the damask tableclothes, with a truly feminine appreciation of
their fineness.
  "I haven't a single finger-bowl, but this is a 'set out' that will
last me all my days, Hannah says"; and Meg looked quite contented,
as well she might.
  "Toodles is coming," cried Jo from below; and they all went down
to meet Laurie, whose weekly visit was an important event in their
quiet lives.
  A tall, broad-shouldered young fellow, with a cropped head, a
felt-basin of a hat, and a fly-away coat, came tramping down the
road at a great pace, walked over the low fence without stopping to
open the gate, straight up to Mrs. March, with both hands out, and a
hearty-
  "Here I am, mother! Yes, it's all right."
  The last words were in answer to the look the elder lady gave him; a
kindly questioning look, which the handsome eyes met so frankly that
the little ceremony closed, as usual, with a motherly kiss.
  "For Mrs. John Brooke, with the maker's congratulations and
compliments. Bless you, Beth! What a refreshing spectacle you are, Jo.
Amy, you are getting altogether too handsome for a single lady."
  As Laurie spoke, he delivered a brown paper parcel to Meg, pulled
Beth's hair-ribbon, stared at Jo's big pinafore, and fell into an
attitude of mock rapture before Amy, then shook hands all round, and
every one began to talk.
  "Where is John?" asked Meg anxiously.
  "Stopped to get the license for to-morrow, ma'am."
  "Which side won the last match, Teddy?" inquired Jo, who persisted
in feeling an interest in manly sports despite her nineteen years.
  "Ours, of course. Wish you'd been there to see."
  "How is the lovely Miss Randal?" asked Amy, with a significant
smile.
  "More cruel than ever; don't you see how I'm pining away?" and
Laurie gave his broad chest a sounding slap and heaved a
melodramatic sigh.
  "What's the last joke? Undo the bundle and see, Meg," said Beth,
eying the knobby parcel with curiosity.
  "It's a useful thing to have in the house in case of fire or
thieves," observed Laurie, as a watchman's rattle appeared, amid the
laughter of the girls.
  "Any time when John is away, and you get frightened, Mrs. Meg,
just swing that out of the front window, and it will rouse the
neighborhood in a jiffy. Nice thing, isn't it?" and Laurie gave them a
sample of its powers that made them cover up their ears.
  "There's gratitude for you! and speaking of gratitude reminds me
to mention that you may thank Hannah for saving your wedding-cake from
destruction. I saw it going into your house as I came by, and if she
hadn't defended it manfully I'd have had a pick at it, for it looked
like a remarkably plummy one."
  "I wonder if you will ever grow up, Laurie," said Meg, in a matronly
tone.
  "I'm doing my best, ma'am, but can't get much higher, I'm afraid, as
six feet is about all men can do in these degenerate days,"
responded the young gentleman, whose head was about level with the
little chandelier.
  "I suppose it would be profanation to eat anything in this spick and
span new bower, so, as I'm tremendously hungry, I propose an
adjournment," he added presently.
  "Mother and I are going to wait for John. There are some last things
to settle," said Meg, bustling away.
  "Beth and I are going over to Kitty Bryant's to get more flowers for
to-morrow," added Amy, tying a picturesque hat over her picturesque
curls, and enjoying the effect as much as anybody.
  "Come, Jo, don't desert a fellow. I'm in such a state of
exhaustion I can't get home without help. Don't take off your apron,
whatever you do; it's peculiarly becoming," said Laurie, as Jo
bestowed his especial aversion in her capacious pocket, and offered
him her arm to support his feeble steps.
  "Now, Teddy, I want to talk seriously to you about to-morrow," began
Jo, as they strolled away together. "You must promise to behave
well, and not cut up any pranks, and spoil our plans."
  "Not a prank."
  "And don't say funny things when we ought to be sober."
  "I never do; you are the one for that."
  "And I implore you not to look at me during the ceremony; I shall
certainly laugh if you do."
  "You won't see me; you'll be crying so hard that the thick fog round
you will obscure the prospect."
  "I never cry unless for some great affliction."
  "Such as fellows going to college, hey?" cut in Laurie, with a
suggestive laugh.
  "Don't be a peacock. I only moaned a trifle to keep the girls
company."
  "Exactly. I say, Jo, how is grandpa this week; pretty amiable?"
  "Very; why, have you got into a scrape, and want to know how he'll
take it?" asked Jo rather sharply.
  "Now, Jo, do you think I'd look your mother in the face, and say
'All right,' if it wasn't?" and Laurie stopped short, with an
injured air.
  "No, I don't."
  "Then don't go and be suspicious; I only want some money," said
Laurie, walking on again, appeased by her hearty tone.
  "You spend a great deal, Teddy."
  "Bless you, I don't spend it; it spends itself, somehow, and is gone
before I know it."
  "You are so generous and kind-hearted that you let people borrow,
and can't say 'No' to any one. We heard about Henshaw, and all you did
for him. If you always spent money in that way, no one would blame
you," said Jo warmly.
  "Oh, he made a mountain out of a mole-hill. You wouldn't have me let
that fine fellow work himself to death, just for the want of a
little help, when he is worth a dozen of us lazy chaps, would you?"
  "Of course not; but I don't see the use of your having seventeen
waistcoats, endless neckties, and a new hat every time you come
home. I thought you'd got over the dandy period; but every now and
then it breaks out in a new spot. Just now it's the fashion to be
hideous-to make your head look like a scrubbing-brush, wear a
strait-jacket, orange gloves, and clumping, square-toed boots. If it
was cheap ugliness, I'd say nothing; but it costs as much as the
other, and I don't get any satisfaction out of it."
  Laurie threw back his head, and laughed so heartily at this
attack, that the felt-basin fell off, and Jo walked on it, which
insult only afforded him an opportunity for expatiating on the
advantages of a rough-and-ready costume, as he folded up the
maltreated hat, and stuffed it into his pocket.
  "Don't lecture any more, there's a good soul! I have enough all
through the week, and like to enjoy myself when I come home. I'll
get myself up regardless of expense, to-morrow, and be a
satisfaction to my friends."
  "I'll leave you in peace if you'll only let your hair grow. I'm
not aristocratic, but I do object to being seen with a person who
looks like a young prize-fighter," observed Jo severely.
  "This unassuming style promotes study; that's why we adopt it,"
returned Laurie, who certainly could not be accused of vanity,
having voluntarily sacrificed a handsome curly crop to the demand
for quarter-of-an-inch-long stubble.
  "By the way, Jo, I think that little Parker is really getting
desperate about Amy. He talks of her constantly, writes poetry, and
moons about in a most suspicious manner. He'd better nip his little
passion in the bud, hadn't he?" added Laurie, in a confidential,
elder-brotherly tone, after a minute's silence.
  "Of course he had; we don't want any more marrying in this family
for years to come. Mercy on us, what are the children thinking of?"
and Jo looked as much scandalized as if Amy and little Parker were not
yet in their teens.
  "It's a fast age, and I don't know what we are coming to, ma'am. You
are a mere infant, but you'll go next, Jo, and we'll be left
lamenting," said Laurie, shaking his head over the degeneracy of the
times.
  "Don't be alarmed; I'm not one of the agreeable sort. Nobody will
want me, and it's a mercy, for there should always be one old maid
in a family."
  "You won't give any one a chance," said Laurie, with a sidelong
glance, and a little more color than before in his sunburnt face. "You
won't show the soft side of your character; and if a fellow gets a
peep at it by accident, and can't help showing that he likes it, you
treat him as Mrs. Gummidge did her sweetheart- throw cold water over
him- and get so thorny no one dares touch or look at you."
  "I don't like that sort of thing; I'm too busy to be worried with
nonsense, and I think it's dreadful to break up families so. Now don't
say any more about it; Meg's wedding has turned all our heads, and
we talk of nothing but lovers and such absurdities. I don't wish to
get cross, so let's change the subject"; and Jo looked quite ready
to fling cold water on the slightest provocation.
  Whatever his feelings might have been, Laurie found a vent for
them in a long low whistle, and the fearful prediction, as they parted
at the gate, "Mark my words, Jo, you'll go next."
                             25
                       The First Wedding

  THE June roses over the porch were awake bright and early on that
morning, rejoicing with all their hearts in the cloudless sunshine,
like friendly little neighbors, as they were. Quite flushed with
excitement were their ruddy faces, as they swung in the wind,
whispering to one another what they had seen; for some peeped in at
the dining-room windows, where the feast was spread, some climbed up
to nod and smile at the sisters as they dressed the bride, others
waved a welcome to those who came and went on various errands in
garden, porch, and hall, and all, from the rosiest full-blown flower
to the palest baby-bud, offered their tribute of beauty and
fragrance to the gentle mistress who had loved and tended them so
long.
  Meg looked very like a rose herself; for all that was best and
sweetest in heart and soul seemed to bloom into her face that day,
making it fair and tender, with a charm more beautiful than beauty.
Neither silk, lace, nor orange-flowers would she have. "I don't want
to look strange or fixed up to-day," she said. "I don't want a
fashionable wedding, but only those about me whom I love,, and to them
I wish to look and be my familiar self."
  So she made her wedding gown herself, sewing into it the tender
hopes and innocent romances of a girlish heart. Her sisters braided up
her pretty hair, and the only ornaments she wore were the lilies of
the valley, which "her John" liked best of all the flowers that grew.
  "You do look just like our own dear Meg, only so very sweet and
lovely that I should hug you if it wouldn't crumple your dress," cried
Amy, surveying her with delight, when all was done.
  "Then I am satisfied. But please hug and kiss me, every one, and
don't mind my dress; I want a great many crumples of this sort put
into it to-day"; and Meg opened her arms to her sisters, who clung
about her with April faces for a minute, feeling that the new love had
not changed the old.
  "Now I'm going to tie John's cravat for him, and then to stay a
few minutes with father quietly in the study"; and Meg ran down to
perform these little ceremonies, and then to follow her mother
wherever she went, conscious that, in spite of the smiles on the
motherly face, there was a secret sorrow hid in the motherly heart
at the flight of the first bird from the nest.
  As the younger girls stand together, giving the last touches to
their simple toilet, it may be a good time to tell of a few changes
which three years have brought in their appearance; for all are
looking their best just now.
  Jo's angles are much softened; she has learned to carry herself with
ease, if not grace. The curly crop has lengthened into a thick coil,
more becoming to the small head atop of the tall figure. There is a
fresh color in her brown cheeks, a soft shine in her eyes, and only
gentle words fall from her sharp tongue to-day.
  Beth has grown slender, pale, and more quiet than ever; the
beautiful, kind eyes are larger, and in them lies an expression that
saddens one, although it is not sad itself. It is the shadow of pain
which touches the young face with such pathetic patience; but Beth
seldom complains, and always speaks hopefully of "being better soon."
  Amy is with truth considered "the flower of the family"; for at
sixteen she has the air and bearing of a full-grown woman- not
beautiful, but possessed of that indescribable charm called grace. One
saw it in the lines of her figure, the make and motion of her hands,
the flow of her dress, the droop of her hair- unconscious, yet
harmonious, and as attractive to many as beauty itself. Amy's nose
still afflicted her, for it never would grow Grecian; so did her
mouth, being too wide, and having a decided chin. These offending
features gave character to her whole face, but she never could see it,
and consoled herself with her wonderfully fair complexion, keen blue
eyes, and curls, more golden and abundant than ever.
  All three wore suits of thin silver gray (their best gowns for the
summer), with blush-roses in hair and bosom; and all three looked just
what they were- fresh-faced, happy-hearted girls, pausing a moment
in their busy lives to read with wistful eyes the sweetest chapter
in the romance of womanhood.
  There were to be no ceremonious performances, everything was to be
as natural and homelike as possible; so when Aunt March arrived, she
was scandalized to see the bride come running to welcome and lead
her in, to find the bridegroom fastening up a garland that had
fallen down, and to catch a glimpse of the paternal minister
marching upstairs with a grave countenance, and a wine-bottle under
each arm.
  "Upon my word, here's a state of things!" cried the old lady, taking
the seat of honor prepared for her, and settling the folds of her
lavender moire with a great rustle. "You oughtn't to be seen till
the last minute, child."
  "I'm not a show, aunty, and no one is coming to stare at me, to
criticize my dress, or count the cost of my luncheon. I'm too happy to
care what any one says or thinks, and I'm going to have my little
wedding just as I like it. John, dear, here's your hammer"; and away
went Meg to help "that man" in his highly improper employment.
  Mr. Brooke didn't even say "Thank you," but as he stooped for the
unromantic tool, he kissed his little bride behind the folding-door,
with a look that made Aunt March whisk out her pocket-handkerchief,
with a sudden dew in her sharp old eyes.
  A crash, a cry, and a laugh from Laurie, accompanied by the
indecorous exclamation, "Jupiter Ammon! Jo's upset the cake again!"
caused a momentary flurry, which was hardly over when a flock of
cousins arrived, and "the party came in," as Beth used to say when a
child.
  "Don't let that young giant come near me; he worries me worse than
mosquitoes," whispered the old lady to Amy, as the rooms filled, and
Laurie's black head towered above the rest.
  "He has promised to be very good to-day, and he can be perfectly
elegant if he likes," returned Amy, gliding away to warn Hercules to
beware of the dragon, which warning caused him to haunt the old lady
with a devotion that nearly distracted her.
  There was no bridal procession, but a sudden silence fell upon the
room as Mr. March and the young pair took their places under the green
arch. Mother and sisters gathered close, as if loath to give Meg up;
the fatherly voice broke more than once, which only seemed to make the
service more beautiful and solemn; the bridegroom's hand trembled
visibly, and no one heard his replies; but Meg looked straight up in
her husband's eyes, and said, "I will!" with such tender trust in
her own face and voice that her mother's heart rejoiced, and Aunt
March sniffed audibly.
  Jo did not cry, though she was very near it once, and was only saved
from a demonstration by the consciousness that Laurie was staring
fixedly at her, with a comical mixture of merriment and emotion in his
wicked black eyes. Beth kept her face hidden on her mother's shoulder,
but Amy stood like a graceful statue, with a most becoming ray of
sunshine touching her white forehead and the flower in her hair.
  It wasn't at all the thing, I'm afraid, but the minute she was
fairly married, Meg cried, "The first kiss for Marmee!" and,
turning, gave it with her heart on her lips. During the next fifteen
minutes she looked more like a rose than ever, for every one availed
themselves of their privileges to the fullest extent, from Mr.
Laurence to old Hannah, who, adorned with a head-dress fearfully and
wonderfully made, fell upon her in the hall, crying, with a sob and
a chuckle, "Bless you, deary, a hundred times! The cake ain't hurt a
mite, and everything looks lovely."
  Everybody cleared up after that, and said something brilliant, or
tried to, which did just as well, for laughter is ready when hearts
are light. There was no display of gifts, for they were already in the
little house, nor was there an elaborate breakfast, but a plentiful
lunch of cake and fruit, dressed with flowers. Mr. Laurence and Aunt
March shrugged and smiled at one another when water, lemonade, and
coffee were found to be the only sorts of nectar which the three Hebes
carried round. No one said anything, however, till Laurie, who
insisted on serving the bride, appeared before her, with a loaded
salver in his hand and a puzzled expression on his face.
  "Has Jo smashed all the bottles by accident?" he whispered, "or am I
merely laboring under a delusion that I saw some lying about loose
this morning?"
  "No; your grandfather kindly offered us his best, and Aunt March
actually sent some, but father put away a little for Beth, and
despatched the rest to the Soldiers' Home. You know he thinks that
wine should be used only in illness, and mother says that neither
she nor her daughters will ever offer it to any young man under her
roof."
  Meg spoke seriously, and expected to see Laurie frown or laugh;
but he did neither, for after a quick look at her, he said, in his
impetuous way, "I like that! for I've seen enough harm done to wish
other women would think as you do."
  "You are not made wise by experience, I hope?" and there was an
anxious accent in Meg's voice.
  "No; I give you my word for it. Don't think too well of me,
either; this is not one of my temptations. Being brought up where wine
is as common as water, and almost as harmless, I don't care for it;
but when a pretty girl offers it, one doesn't like to refuse, you
see."
  "But you will, for the sake of others, if not for your own. Come,
Laurie, promise, and give me one more reason to call this the happiest
day of my life."
  A demand so sudden and so serious made the young man hesitate a
moment, for ridicule is often harder to bear than self-denial. Meg
knew that if he gave the promise he would keep it at all costs; and,
feeling her power, used it as a woman may for her friend's good. She
did not speak, but she looked up at him with a face made very eloquent
by happiness, and a smile which said, "No one can refuse me anything
to-day." Laurie certainly could not; and, with an answering smile,
he gave her his hand, saying heartily, "I promise, Mrs. Brooke!"
  "I thank you, very, very much."
  "And I drink 'long life to your resolution,' Teddy," cried Jo,
baptizing him with a splash of lemonade, as she waved her glass, and
beamed approvingly upon him.
  So the toast was drunk, the pledge made, and loyally kept, in
spite of many temptations; for, with instinctive wisdom, the girls had
seized a happy moment to do their friend a service, for which he
thanked them all his life.
  After lunch, people strolled about, by twos and threes, through
house and garden, enjoying the sunshine without and within. Meg and
John happened to be standing together in the middle of the grass-plot,
when Laurie was seized with an inspiration which put the finishing
touch to this unfashionable wedding.
  "All the married people take hands and dance round the new-made
husband and wife, as the Germans do, while we bachelors and
spinsters prance in couples outside!" cried Laurie, promenading down
the path with Amy, with such infectious spirit and skill that every
one else followed their example without a murmur. Mr. and Mrs.
March, Aunt and Uncle Carrol, began it; others rapidly joined in; even
Sallie Moffat, after a moment's hesitation, threw her train over her
arm, and whisked Ned into the ring. But the crowning joke was Mr.
Laurence and Aunt March; for when the stately old gentleman chasseed
solemnly up to the old lady, she just tucked her cane under her arm,
and hopped briskly away to join hands with the rest, and dance about
the bridal pair, while the young folks pervaded the garden, like
butterflies on a midsummer day.
  Want of breath brought the impromptu ball to a close, and then
people began to go.
  "I wish you well, my dear, I heartily wish you well; but I think
you'll be sorry for it," said Aunt March to Meg, adding to the
bridegroom, as he led her to the carriage, "You've got a treasure,
young man, see that you deserve it."
  "That is the prettiest wedding I've been to for an age, Ned, and I
don't see why, for there wasn't a bit of style about it," observed
Mrs. Moffat to her husband, as they drove away.
  "Laurie, my lad, if you ever want to indulge in this sort of
thing, get one of those little girls to help you, and I shall be
perfectly satisfied," said Mr. Laurence, settling himself in his
easy-chair to rest, after the excitement of the morning.
  "I'll do my best to gratify you, sir," was Laurie's unusually
dutiful reply, as he carefully unpinned the posy Jo had put in his
button-hole.
  The little house was not far away, and the only bridal journey Meg
had was the quiet walk with John, from the old home to the new. When
she came down, looking like a pretty Quakeress in her dove-colored
suit and straw bonnet tied with white, they all gathered about her
to say "good-by," as tenderly as if she had been going to make the
grand tour.
  "Don't feel that I am separated from you, Marmee dear, or that I
love you any the less for loving John so much," she said, clinging
to her mother, with full eyes, for a moment. "I shall come every
day, father, and expect to keep my old place in all your hearts,
though I am married. Beth is going to be with me a great deal, and the
other girls will drop in now and then to laugh at my housekeeping
struggles. Thank you all for my happy wedding-day. Good-by, good-by!"
  They stood watching her, with faces full of love and hope and tender
pride, as she walked away, leaning on her husband's arm, with her
hands full of flowers, and the June sunshine brightening her happy
face- and so Meg's married life began.
                             26
                      Artistic Attempts

  IT takes people a long time to learn the difference between talent
and genius, especially ambitious young men and women. Amy was learning
this distinction through much tribulation; for, mistaking enthusiasm
for inspiration, she attempted every branch of art with youthful
audacity. For a long time there was a lull in the "mud-pie"
business, and she devoted herself to the finest pen-and-ink drawing,
in which she showed such taste and skill that her graceful handiwork
proved both pleasant and profitable. But overstrained eyes soon caused
pen and ink to be laid aside for a bold attempt at poker-sketching.
  While this attack lasted, the family lived in constant fear of a
conflagration; for the odor of burning wood pervaded the house at
all hours; smoke issued from attic and shed with alarming frequency,
red-hot pokers lay about promiscuously, and Hannah never went to bed
without a pail of water and the dinner-bell at her door, in case of
fire. Raphael's face was found boldly executed on the under side of
the moulding-board, and Bacchus on the head of a beer-barrel; a
chanting cherub adorned the cover of the sugar-bucket, and attempts to
portray Romeo and Juliet supplied kindlings for some time.
  From fire to oil was a natural transition for burnt fingers, and Amy
fell to painting with undiminished ardor. An artist friend fitted
her out with his cast-off palettes, brushes, and colors; and she
daubed away, producing pastoral and marine views such as were never
seen on land or sea. Her monstrosities in the way of cattle would have
taken prizes at an agricultural fair; and the perilous pitching of her
vessels would have produced seasickness in the most nautical observer,
if the utter disregard to all known rules of shipbuilding and
rigging had not convulsed him with laughter at the first glance.
Swarthy boys and dark-eyed Madonnas, staring at you from one corner of
the studio, suggested Murillo; oily-brown shadows of faces, with a
lurid streak in the wrong place, meant Rembrandt; buxom ladies and
dropsical infants, Rubens; and Turner appeared in tempests of blue
thunder, orange lightning, brown rain, and purple clouds, with a
tomato-colored splash in the middle, which might be the sun or a buoy,
a sailor's shirt or a king's robe, as the spectator pleased.
  Charcoal portraits came next; and the entire family hung in a row,
looking as wild and crocky as if just evoked from a coal-bin. Softened
into crayon sketches, they did better; for the likenesses were good,
and Amy's hair, Jo's nose, Meg's mouth, and Laurie's eyes were
pronounced "wonderfully fine." A return to clay and plaster
followed, and ghostly casts of her acquaintances haunted corners of
the house, or tumbled off closet-shelves onto people's heads. Children
were enticed in as models, till their incoherent accounts of her
mysterious doings caused Miss Amy to be regarded in the light of a
young ogress. Her efforts in this line, however, were brought to an
abrupt close by an untoward accident, which quenched her ardor.
Other models failing her for a time, she undertook to cast her own
pretty foot, and the family were one day alarmed by an unearthly
bumping and screaming, and running to the rescue, found the young
enthusiast hopping wildly about the shed, with her foot held fast in a
pan-full of plaster, which had hardened with unexpected rapidity. With
much difficulty and some danger she was dug out; for Jo was so
overcome with laughter while she excavated, that her knife went too
far, cut the poor foot, and left a lasting memorial of one artistic
attempt, at least.
  After this Amy subsided, till a mania for sketching from nature
set her to haunting river, field, and wood, for picturesque studies,
and sighing for ruins to copy. She caught endless colds sitting on
damp grass to book "a delicious bit," composed of a stone, a stump,
one mushroom, and a broken mullein-stalk, or "a heavenly mass of
clouds," that looked like a choice display of feather-beds when
done. She sacrificed her complexion floating on the river in the
midsummer sun, to study light and shade, and got a wrinkle over her
nose, trying after "points of sight," or whatever the
squint-and-string performance is called.
  If "genius is eternal patience," as Michelangelo affirms, Amy
certainly had some claim to the divine attribute, for she persevered
in spite of all obstacles, failures, and discouragements, firmly
believing that in time she should do something worthy to be called
"high art."
  She was learning, doing, and enjoying other things, meanwhile, for
she had resolved to be an attractive and accomplished woman, even if
she never became a great artist. Here she succeeded better; for she
was one of those happily created beings who please without effort,
make friends everywhere, and take life so gracefully and easily that
less fortunate souls are tempted to believe that such are born under a
lucky star. Everybody liked her, for among her good gifts was tact.
She had an instinctive sense of what was pleasing and proper, always
said the right thing to the right person, did just what suited the
time and place, and was so self-possessed that her sisters used to
say, "If Amy went to court without any rehearsal beforehand, she'd
know exactly what to do."
  One of her weaknesses was a desire to move in "our best society,"
without being quite sure what the best really was. Money, position,
fashionable accomplishments, and elegant manners were most desirable
things in her eyes, and she liked to associate with those who
possessed them, often mistaking the false for the true, and admiring
what was not admirable. Never forgetting that by birth she was a
gentlewoman, she cultivated her aristocratic tastes and feelings, so
that when the opportunity came she might be ready to take the place
from which poverty now excluded her.
  "My lady," as her friends called her, sincerely desired to be a
genuine lady, and was so at heart, but had yet to learn that money
cannot buy refinement of nature, that rank does not always confer
nobility, and that true breeding makes itself felt in spite of
external drawbacks.
  "I want to ask a favor of you, mamma," Amy said, coming in, with
an important air, one day.
  "Well, little girl, what is it?" replied her mother, in whose eyes
the stately young lady still remained "the baby."
  "Our drawing class breaks up next week, and before the girls
separate for the summer, I want to ask them out here for a day. They
are wild to see the river, sketch the broken bridge, and copy some
of the things they admire in my book. They have been very kind to me
in many ways, and I am grateful, for they are all rich, and know I
am poor, yet they never made any difference."
  "Why should they?" and Mrs. March put the question with what the
girls called her "Maria Theresa air."
  "You know as well as I that it does make a difference with nearly
every one, so don't ruffle up, like a dear, motherly hen, when your
chickens get pecked by smarter birds; the ugly duckling turned out a
swan, you know"; and Amy smiled without bitterness, for she
possessed a happy temper and hopeful spirit.
  Mrs. March laughed, and smoothed down her maternal pride as she
asked-
  "Well, my swan, what is your plan?"
  "I should like to ask the girls out to lunch next week, to take them
a drive to the places they want to see, a row on the river, perhaps,
and make a little artistic fete for them."
  "That looks feasible. What do you want for lunch? Cake,
sandwiches, fruit, and coffee will be all that is necessary, I
suppose?"
  "Oh dear, no! we must have cold tongue and chicken, French chocolate
and ice-cream, besides. The girls are used to such things, and I
want my lunch to be proper and elegant, though I do work for my
living."
  "How many young ladies are there?" asked her mother, beginning to
look sober.
  "Twelve or fourteen in the class, but I dare say they won't all
come."
  "Bless me, child, you will have to charter an omnibus to carry
them about."
  "Why, mother, how can you think of such a thing? Not more than six
or eight will probably come, so I shall hire a beach-wagon, and borrow
Mr. Laurence's cherry-bounce." (Hannah's pronunciation of
char-a-banc.)
  "All this will be expensive, Amy."
  "Not very; I've calculated the cost, and I'll pay for it myself."
  "Don't you think, dear, that as these girls are used to such things,
and the best we can do will be nothing new, that some simpler plan
would be pleasanter to them, as a change, if nothing more, and much
better for us than buying or borrowing what we don't need, and
attempting a style not in keeping with our circumstances?"
  "If I can't have it as I like, I don't care to have it at all. I
know that I can carry it out perfectly well, if you and the girls will
help a little; and I don't see why I can't if I'm willing to pay for
it," said Amy, with the decision which opposition was apt to change
into obstinacy.
  Mrs. March knew that experience was an excellent teacher, and when
it was possible she left her children to learn alone the lessons which
she would gladly have made easier, if they had not objected to
taking advice as much as they did salts and senna.
  "Very well, Amy; if your heart is set upon it, and you see your
way through without too great an outlay of money, time, and temper,
I'll say no more. Talk it over with the girls, and whichever way you
decide, I'll do my best to help you."
  "Thanks, mother; you are always so kind"; and away went Amy to lay
her plan before her sisters.
  Meg agreed at once, and promised her aid, gladly offering anything
she possessed, from her little house itself to her very best
salt-spoons. But Jo frowned upon the whole project, and would have
nothing to do with it at first.
  "Why in the world should you spend your money, worry your family,
and turn the house upside down for a parcel of girls who don't care
a sixpence for you? I thought you had too much pride and sense to
truckle to any mortal woman just because she wears French boots and
rides in a coupe," said Jo, who, being called from the tragical climax
of her novel, was not in the best mood for social enterprises.
  "I don't truckle, and I hate being patronized as much as you do!"
returned Amy indignantly, for the two still jangled when such
questions arose. "The girls do care for me, and I for them, and
there's a great deal of kindness and sense and talent among them, in
spite of what you call fashionable nonsense. You don't care to make
people like you, to go into good society, and cultivate your manners
and tastes. I do, and I mean to make the most of every chance that
comes. You can go through the world with your elbows out and your nose
in the air, and call it independence, if you like. That's not my way."
  When Amy whetted her tongue and freed her mind she usually got the
best of it, for she seldom failed to have common sense on her side,
while Jo carried her love of liberty and hate of conventionalities
to such an unlimited extent that she naturally found herself worsted
in an argument. Amy's definition of Jo's idea of independence was such
a good hit that both burst out laughing, and the discussion took a
more amiable turn. Much against her will, Jo at length consented to
sacrifice a day to Mrs. Grundy, and help her sister through what she
regarded as "a nonsensical business."
  The invitations were sent, nearly all accepted, and the following
Monday was set apart for the grand event. Hannah was out of humor
because her week's work was deranged, and prophesied that "ef the
washin' and ironin' warn't done reg'lar nothin' would go well
anywheres." This hitch in the mainspring of the domestic machinery had
a bad effect upon the whole concern; but Amy's motto was "Nil
desperandum," and having made up her mind what to do, she proceeded to
do it in spite of all obstacles. To begin with, Hannah's cooking
didn't turn out well: the chicken was tough, the tongue too salt,
and the chocolate wouldn't froth properly. Then the cake and ice
cost more than Amy expected, so did the wagon; and various other
expenses, which seemed trifling at the outset, counted up rather
alarmingly afterward. Beth got cold and took to her bed, Meg had an
unusual number of callers to keep her at home, and Jo was in such a
divided state of mind that her breakages, accidents, and mistakes were
uncommonly numerous, serious, and trying.
  "If it hadn't been for mother I never should have got through," as
Amy declared afterward, and gratefully remembered when "the best
joke of the season" was entirely forgotten by everybody else.
  If it was not fair on Monday, the young ladies were to come on
Tuesday- an arrangement which aggravated Jo and Hannah to the last
degree. On Monday morning the weather was in that undecided state
which is more exasperating than a steady pour. It drizzled a little,
shone a little, blew a little, and didn't make up its mind until it
was too late for any one else to make up theirs. Amy was up at dawn,
hustling people out of their beds and through their breakfasts, that
the house might be got in order. The parlor struck her as looking
uncommonly shabby; but without stopping to sigh for what she had
not, she skillfully made the best of what she had, arranging chairs
over the worn places in the carpet, covering stains on the walls
with pictures framed in ivy, and filling up empty corners with
homemade statuary, which gave an artistic air to the room, as did
the lovely vases of flowers Jo scattered about.
  The lunch looked charmingly; and as she surveyed it, she sincerely
hoped it would taste well, and that the borrowed glass, china, and
silver would get safely home again. The carriages were promised, Meg
and mother were all ready to do the honors, Beth was able to help
Hannah behind the scenes, Jo had engaged to be as lively and amiable
as an absent mind, an aching head, and a very decided disapproval of
everybody and everything would allow, and, as she wearily dressed, Amy
cheered herself with anticipations of the happy moment, when, lunch
safely over, she should drive away with her friends for an afternoon
of artistic delights; for the "cherry-bounce" and the broken bridge
were her strong points.
  Then came two hours of suspense, during which she vibrated from
parlor to porch, while public opinion varied like the weathercock. A
smart shower at eleven had evidently quenched the enthusiasm of the
young ladies who were to arrive at twelve, for nobody came; and at two
the exhausted family sat down in a blaze of sunshine to consume the
perishable portions of the feast, that nothing might be lost.
  "No doubt about the weather to-day; they will certainly come, so
we must fly around and be ready for them," said Amy, as the sun woke
her next morning. She spoke briskly, but in her secret soul she wished
she had said nothing about Tuesday, for her interest, like her cake,
was getting a little stale.
  "I can't get any lobsters, so you will have to do without salad
to-day," said Mr. March, coming in half an hour later, with an
expression of placid despair.
  "Use the chicken, then; the toughness won't matter in a salad,"
advised his wife.
  Hannah left it on the kitchen-table a minute, and the kittens got at
it. "I'm very sorry, Amy," added Beth, who was still a patroness of
cats.
  "Then I must have a lobster, for tongue alone won't do," said Amy
decidedly.
  "Shall I rush into town and demand one?" asked Jo, with the
magnanimity of a martyr.
  "You'd come bringing it home under your arm, without any paper, just
to try me. I'll go myself," answered Amy, whose temper was beginning
to fail.
  Shrouded in a thick veil and armed with a genteel travelling-basket,
she departed, feeling that a cool drive would soothe her ruffled
spirit, and fit her for the labors of the day. After some delay, the
object of her desire was procured, likewise a bottle of dressing, to
prevent further loss of time at home, and off she drove again, well
pleased with her own forethought.
  As the omnibus contained only one other passenger, a sleepy old
lady, Amy pocketed her veil, and beguiled the tedium of the way by
trying to find out where all her money had gone to. So busy was she
with her card full of refractory figures that she did not observe a
new-comer, who entered without stopping the vehicle, till a
masculine voice said, "Good-morning, Miss March," and, looking up, she
beheld one of Laurie's most elegant college friends. Fervently
hoping that he would get out before she did, Amy utterly ignored the
basket at her feet, and, congratulating herself that she had on her
new travelling dress, returned the young man's greeting with her usual
suavity and spirit.
  They got on excellently; for Amy's chief care was soon set at rest
by learning that the gentleman would leave first, and she was chatting
away in a peculiarly lofty strain, when the old lady got out. In
stumbling to the door, she upset the basket, and- oh, horror!- the
lobster, in all its vulgar size and brilliancy, was revealed to the
high-born eyes of a Tudor.
  "By Jove, she's forgotten her dinner!" cried the unconscious
youth, poking the scarlet monster into its place with his cane, and
preparing to hand out the basket after the old lady.
  "Please don't- it's- it's mine," murmured Amy, with a face nearly as
red as her fish.
  "Oh, really, I beg pardon; it's an uncommonly fine one, isn't it?"
said Tudor, with great presence of mind, and an air of sober
interest that did credit to his breeding.
  Amy recovered herself in a breath, set her basket boldly on the
seat, and said, laughing-
  "Don't you wish you were to have some of the salad he's to make, and
to see the charming young ladies who are to eat it?"
  Now that was tact, for two of the ruling foibles of the masculine
mind were touched: the lobster was instantly surrounded by a halo of
pleasing reminiscences, and curiosity about "the charming young
ladies" diverted his mind from the comical mishap.
  "I suppose he'll laugh and joke over it with Laurie, but I shan't
see them; that's a comfort," thought Amy, as Tudor bowed and departed.
  She did not mention this meeting at home (though she discovered
that, thanks to the upset, her new dress was much damaged by the
rivulets of dressing that meandered down the skirt), but went
through with the preparations which now seemed more irksome than
before; and at twelve o'clock all was ready again. Feeling that the
neighbors were interested in her movements, she wished to efface the
memory of yesterday's failure by a grand success to-day; so she
ordered the "cherry-bounce," and drove away in state to meet and
escort her guests to the banquet.
  "There's the rumble, they're coming! I'll go into the porch to
meet them; it looks hospitable, and I want the poor child to have a
good time after all her trouble," said Mrs. March, suiting the
action to the word, But after one glance, she retired, with an
indescribable expression, for, looking quite lost in the big carriage,
sat Amy and one young lady.
  "Run, Beth, and help Hannah clear half the things off the table;
it will be too absurd to put a luncheon for twelve before a single
girl," cried Jo, hurrying away to the lower regions, too excited to
stop even for a laugh.
  In came Amy, quite calm, and delightfully cordial to the one guest
who had kept her promise; the rest of the family, being of a
dramatic turn, played their parts equally well, and Miss Eliott
found them a most hilarious set; for it was impossible to entirely
control the merriment which possessed them. The remodelled lunch being
gayly partaken of, the studio and garden visited, and art discussed
with enthusiasm, Amy ordered a buggy (alas for the elegant
cherry-bounce!) and drove her friend quietly about the neighborhood
till sunset, when "the party went out."
  As she came walking in, looking very tired, but as composed as ever,
she observed that every vestige of the unfortunate fete had
disappeared, except a suspicious pucker about the corners of Jo's
mouth.
  "You've had a lovely afternoon for your drive, dear," said her
mother, as respectfully as if the whole twelve had come.
  "Miss Eliott is a very sweet girl, and seemed to enjoy herself, I
thought," observed Beth, with unusual warmth.
  "Could you spare me some of your cake? I really need some, I have so
much company, and I can't make such delicious stuff as yours," asked
Meg soberly.
  "Take it all; I'm the only one here who likes sweet things, and it
will mould before I can dispose of it," answered Amy, thinking with
a sigh of the generous store she had laid in for such an end as this.
  "It's a pity Laurie isn't here to help us," began Jo, as they sat
down to ice-cream and salad for the second time in two days.
  A warning look from her mother checked any further remarks, and
the whole family ate in heroic silence, till Mr. March mildly
observed, "Salad was one of the favorite dishes of the ancients, and
Evelyn"- here a general explosion of laughter cut short the "history
of sallets," to the great surprise of the learned gentleman.
  "Bundle everything into a basket and send it to the Hummels: Germans
like messes. I'm sick of the sight of this; and there's no reason
you should all die of a surfeit because I've been a fool," cried
Amy, wiping her eyes.
  "I thought I should have died when I saw you two girls rattling
about in the what-you-call-it, like two little kernels in a very big
nut-shell, and mother waiting in state to receive the throng,"
sighed Jo, quite spent with laughter.
  "I'm very sorry you were disappointed, dear, but we all did our best
to satisfy you," said Mrs. March, in a tone full of motherly regret.
  "I am satisfied; I've done what I undertook, and it's not my fault
that it failed; I comfort myself with that," said Amy, with a little
quiver in her voice. "I thank you all very much for helping me, and
I'll thank you still more if you won't allude to it for a month, at
least."
  No one did for several months; but the word "fete" always produced a
general smile, and Laurie's birthday gift to Amy was a tiny coral
lobster in the shape of a charm for her watch-guard.
                             27
                      Literary Lessons

  FORTUNE suddenly smiled upon Jo, and dropped a good-luck penny in
her path. Not a golden penny, exactly, but I doubt if half a million
would have given more real happiness than did the little sum that came
to her in this wise.
  Every few weeks she would shut herself up in her room, put on her
scribbling suit, and "fall into a vortex," as she expressed it,
writing away at her novel with all her heart and soul, for till that
was finished she could find no peace. Her "scribbling suit"
consisted of a black woollen pinafore on which she could wipe her
pen at will, and a cap of the same material, adorned with a cheerful
red bow, into which she bundled her hair when the decks were cleared
for action. This cap was a beacon to the inquiring eyes of her family,
who during these periods kept their distance, merely popping in
their heads semi-occasionally, to ask, with interest, "Does genius
burn, Jo?" They did not always venture even to ask this question,
but took an observation of the cap, and judged accordingly. If this
expressive article of dress was drawn low upon the forehead, it was
a sign that hard work was going on; in exciting moments it was
pushed rakishly askew; and when despair seized the author it was
plucked wholly off, and cast upon the floor. At such times the
intruder silently withdrew; and not until the red bow was seen gayly
erect upon the gifted brow, did any one dare address Jo.
  She did not think herself a genius by any means; but when the
writing fit came on, she gave herself up to it with entire abandon,
and led a blissful life, unconscious of want, care, or bad weather,
while she sat safe and happy in an imaginary world, full of friends
almost as real and dear to her as any in the flesh. Sleep forsook
her eyes, meals stood untasted, day and night were all too short to
enjoy the happiness which blessed her only at such times, and made
these hours worth living, even if they bore no other fruit. The divine
afflatus usually lasted a week or two, and then she emerged from her
"vortex," hungry, sleepy, cross, or despondent.
  She was just recovering from one of these attacks when she was
prevailed upon to escort Miss Crocker to a lecture, and in return
for her virtue was rewarded with a new idea. It was a People's Course,
the lecture on the Pyramids, and Jo rather wondered at the choice of
such a subject for such an audience, but took it for granted that some
great social evil would be remedied or some great want supplied by
unfolding the glories of the Pharaohs to an audience whose thoughts
were busy with the price of coal and flour, and whose lives were spent
in trying to solve harder riddles than that of the Sphinx.
  They were early; and while Miss Crocker set the heel of her
stocking, Jo amused herself by examining the faces of the people who
occupied the seat with them. On her left were two matrons, with
massive foreheads, and bonnets to match, discussing Woman's Rights and
making tatting. Beyond sat a pair of humble lovers, artlessly
holding each other by the hand, a sombre spinster eating peppermints
out of a paper bag, and an old gentleman taking his preparatory nap
behind a yellow bandanna. On her right, her only neighbor was a
studious-looking lad absorbed in a newspaper.
  It was a pictorial sheet, and Jo examined the work of art nearest
her, idly wondering what unfortuitous concatenation of circumstances
needed the melodramatic illustration of an Indian in full war costume,
tumbling over a precipice with a wolf at his throat, while two
infuriated young gentlemen, with unnaturally small feet and big
eyes, were stabbing each other close by, and a dishevelled female
was flying away in the background with her mouth wide open. Pausing to
turn a page, the lad saw her looking, and, with boyish good-nature,
offered half his paper, saying bluntly, "Want to read it? That's a
first-rate story."
  Jo accepted it with a smile, for she had never outgrown her liking
for lads, and soon found herself involved in the usual labyrinth of
love, mystery, and murder, for the story belonged to that class of
light literature in which the passions have a holiday, and when the
author's invention fails, a grand catastrophe clears the stage of
one half the dramatis personae, leaving the other half to exult over
their downfall.
  "Prime, isn't it?" asked the boy, as her eye went down the last
paragraph of her portion.
  "I think you and I could do as well as that if we tried," returned
Jo, amused at his admiration of the trash.
  "I should think I was a pretty lucky chap if I could. She makes a
good living out of such stories, they say"; and he pointed to the name
of Mrs. S. L. A. N. G. Northbury, under the title of the tale.
  "Do you know her?" asked Jo, with sudden interest.
  "No; but I read all her pieces, and I know a fellow who works in the
office where this paper is printed."
  "Do you say she makes a good living out of stories like this?" and
Jo looked more respectfully at the agitated group and
thickly-sprinkled exclamation-points that adorned the page.
  "Guess she does! She knows just what folks like, and gets paid
well for writing it."
  Here the lecture began, but Jo heard very little of it, for while
Prof. Sands was prosing away about Belzoni, Cheops, scarabei, and
hieroglyphics, she was covertly taking down the address of the
paper, and boldly resolving to try for the hundred-dollar prize
offered in its columns for a sensational story. By the time the
lecture ended and the audience awoke, she had built up a splendid
fortune for herself (not the first founded upon paper), and was
already deep in the concoction of her story, being unable to decide
whether the duel should come before the elopement or after the murder.
  She said nothing of her plan at home, but fell to work next day,
much to the disquiet of her mother, who always looked a little anxious
when "genius took to burning." Jo had never tried this style before,
contenting herself with very mild romances for the "Spread Eagle." Her
theatrical experience and miscellaneous reading were of service now,
for they gave her some idea of dramatic effect, and supplied plot,
language, and costumes. Her story was as full of desperation and
despair as her limited acquaintance with those uncomfortable
emotions enabled her to make it, and, having located it in Lisbon, she
wound up with an earthquake, as a striking and appropriate denouement.
The manuscript was privately despatched, accompanied by a note,
modestly saying that if the tale didn't get the prize, which the
writer hardly dared expect, she would be very glad to receive any
sum it might be considered worth.
  Six weeks is a long time to wait, and a still longer time for a girl
to keep a secret; but Jo did both, and was just beginning to give up
all hope of ever seeing her manuscript again, when a letter arrived
which almost took her breath away; for on opening it, a check for a
hundred dollars fell into her lap. For a minute she stared at it as if
it had been a snake, then she read her letter and began to cry. If the
amiable gentleman who wrote that kindly note could have known what
intense happiness he was giving a fellow-creature, I think he would
devote his leisure hours, if he has any, to that amusement; for Jo
valued the letter more than the money, because it was encouraging; and
after years of effort it was so pleasant to find that she had
learned to do something, though it was only to write a sensation
story.
  A prouder young woman was seldom seen than she, when, having
composed herself, she electrified the family by appearing before
them with the letter in one hand, the check in the other, announcing
that she had won the prize. Of course there was a great jubilee, and
when the story came every one read and praised it; though after her
father had told her that the language was good, the romance fresh
and hearty, and the tragedy quite thrilling, he shook his head, and
said in his unworldly way-
  "You can do better than this, Jo. Aim at the highest, and never mind
the money."
  "I think the money is the best part of it. What will you do with
such a fortune?" asked Amy, regarding the magic slip of paper with a
reverential eye.
  "Send Beth and mother to the seaside for a month or two," answered
Jo promptly.
  "Oh, how splendid! No, I can't do it, dear, it would be so selfish,"
cried Beth, who had clapped her thin hands, and taken a long breath,
as if pining for fresh ocean-breezes; then stopped herself, and
motioned away the check which her sister waved before her.
  "Ah, but you shall go, I've set my heart on it; that's what I
tried for, and that's why I succeeded. I never get on when I think
of myself alone, so it will help me to work for you, don't you see?
Besides, Marmee needs the change, and she won't leave you, so you must
go. Won't it be fun to see you come home plump and rosy again?
Hurrah for Dr. Jo, who always cures her patients!"
  To the seaside they went, after much discussion; and though Beth
didn't come home as plump and rosy as could be desired, she was much
better, while Mrs. March declared she felt ten years younger; so Jo
was satisfied with the investment of her prize money, and fell to work
with a cheery spirit, bent on earning more of those delightful checks.
She did earn several that year, and began to feel herself a power in
the house; for by the magic of a pen, her "rubbish" turned into
comforts for them all. "The Duke's Daughter" paid the butcher's
bill, "A Phantom Hand" put down a new carpet, and the "Curse of the
Coventrys" proved the blessing of the Marches in the way of
groceries and gowns.
  Wealth is certainly a most desirable thing, but poverty has its
sunny side, and one of the sweet uses of adversity is the genuine
satisfaction which comes from hearty work of head or hand; and to
the inspiration of necessity, we owe half the wise, beautiful, and
useful blessings of the world. Jo enjoyed a taste of this
satisfaction, and ceased to envy richer girls, taking great comfort in
the knowledge that she could supply her own wants, and need ask no one
for a penny.
  Little notice was taken of her stories, but they found a market;
and, encouraged by this fact, she resolved to make a bold stroke for
fame and fortune. Having copied her novel for the fourth time, read it
to all her confidential friends, and submitted it with fear and
trembling to three publishers, she at last disposed of it, on
condition that she would cut it down one third, and omit all the parts
which she particularly admired.
  "Now I must either bundle it back into my tin-kitchen to mould,
pay for printing it myself, or chop it up to suit purchasers, and
get what I can for it. Fame is a very good thing to have in the house,
but cash is more convenient; so I wish to take the sense of the
meeting on this important subject," said Jo, calling a family council.
  "Don't spoil your book, my girl, for there is more in it than you
know, and the idea is well worked out. Let it wait and ripen," was her
father's advice; and he practised as he preached, having waited
patiently thirty years for fruit of his own to ripen, and being in
no haste to gather it, even now, when it was sweet and mellow.
  "It seems to me that Jo will profit more by making the trial than by
waiting," said Mrs. March. "Criticism is the best test of such work,
for it will show her both unsuspected merits and faults, and help
her to do better next time. We are too partial; but the praise and
blame of outsiders will prove useful, even if she gets but little
money."
  "Yes," said Jo, knitting her brows, "that's just it; I've been
fussing over the thing so long, I really don't know whether it's good,
bad, or indifferent. It will be a great help to have cool, impartial
persons take a look at it, and tell me what they think of it."
  "I wouldn't leave out a word of it; you'll spoil it if you do, for
the interest of the story is more in the minds than in the actions
of the people, and it will be all a muddle if you don't explain as you
go on," said Meg, who firmly believed that this book was the most
remarkable novel ever written.
  "But Mr. Allen says, 'Leave out the explanations, make it brief
and dramatic, and let the characters tell the story,'" interrupted Jo,
turning to the publisher's note.
  "Do as he tells you; he knows what will sell, and we don't. Make a
good, popular book, and get as much money as you can. By and by,
when you've got a name, you can afford to digress, and have
philosophical and metaphysical people in your novel," said Amy, who
took a strictly practical view of the subject.
  "Well," said Jo, laughing, "if my people are 'philosophical and
metaphysical,' it isn't my fault, for I know nothing about such
things, except what I hear father say, sometimes. If I've got some
of his wise ideas jumbled up with my romance, so much the better for
me. Now, Beth, what do you say?"
  "I should so like to see it printed soon," was all Beth said, and
smiled in saying it; but there was an unconscious emphasis on the last
word, and a wistful look in the eyes that never lost their childlike
candor, which chilled Jo's heart, for a minute, with a foreboding
fear, and decided her to make her little venture "soon."
  So, with Spartan firmness, the young authoress laid her first-born
on her table, and chopped it up as ruthlessly as any ogre. In the hope
of pleasing every one, she took every one's advice; and, like the
old man and his donkey in the fable, suited nobody.
  Her father liked the metaphysical streak which had unconsciously got
into it; so that was allowed to remain, though she had her doubts
about it. Her mother thought that there was a trifle too much
description; out, therefore, it nearly all came, and with it many
necessary links in the story. Meg admired the tragedy; so Jo piled
up the agony to suit her, while Amy objected to the fun, and, with the
best intentions in life, Jo quenched the sprightly scenes which
relieved the sombre character of the story. Then, to complete the
ruin, she cut it down one third, and confidingly sent the poor
little romance, like a picked robin, out into the big, busy world,
to try its fate.
  Well, it was printed, and she got three hundred dollars for it;
likewise plenty of praise and blame, both so much greater than she
expected that she was thrown into a state of bewilderment, from
which it took her some time to recover.
  "You said, mother, that criticism would help me; but how can it,
when it's so contradictory that I don't know whether I've written a
promising book or broken all the ten commandments?" cried poor Jo,
turning over a heap of notices, the perusal of which filled her with
pride and joy one minute, wrath and dire dismay the next. "This man
says, 'An exquisite book, full of truth, beauty, and earnestness;
all is sweet, pure, and healthy,'" continued the perplexed
authoress. "The next, 'The theory of the book is bad, full of morbid
fancies, spiritualistic ideas, and unnatural characters.' Now, as I
had no theory of any kind, don't believe in Spiritualism, and copied
my characters from life, I don't see how this critic can be right.
Another says, 'It's one of the best American novels which has appeared
for years' (I know better than that); and the next asserts that
'though it is original, and written with great force and feeling, it
is a dangerous book.' 'Tisn't! Some make fun of it, some
over-praise, and nearly all insist that I had a deep theory to
expound, when I only wrote it for the pleasure and the money. I wish
I'd printed it whole or not at all, for I do hate to be so misjudged."
  Her family and friends administered comfort and commendation
liberally; yet it was a hard time for sensitive, high-spirited Jo, who
meant so well, and had apparently done so ill. But it did her good,
for those whose opinion had real value gave her the criticism which is
an author's best education; and when the first soreness was over, she
could laugh at her poor little book, yet believe in it still, and feel
herself the wiser and stronger for the buffeting she had received.
  "Not being a genius, like Keats, it won't kill me," she said
stoutly; "and I've got the joke on my side, after all; for the parts
that were taken straight out of real life are denounced as
impossible and absurd, and the scenes that I made up out of my own
silly head are pronounced 'charmingly natural, tender, and true.' So
I'll comfort myself with that; and when I'm ready, I'll up again and
take another."
                             28
                     Domestic Experiences

  LIKE most other young matrons, Meg began her married life with the
determination to be a model housekeeper. John should find home a
paradise; he should always see a smiling face, should fare sumptuously
every day, and never know the loss of a button. She brought so much
love, energy, and cheerfulness to the work that she could not but
succeed, in spite of some obstacles. Her paradise was not a tranquil
one; for the little woman fussed, was over-anxious to please, and
bustled about like a true Martha, cumbered with many cares. She was
too tired, sometimes, even to smile; John grew dyspeptic after a
course of dainty dishes, and ungratefully demanded plain fare. As
for buttons, she soon learned to wonder where they went, to shake
her head over the carelessness of men, and to threaten to make him sew
them on himself, and then see if his work would stand impatient tugs
and clumsy fingers any better than hers.
  They were very happy, even after they discovered that they
couldn't live on love alone. John did not find Meg's beauty
diminished, though she beamed on him from behind the familiar
coffee-pot; nor did Meg miss any of the romance from the daily
parting, when her husband followed up his kiss with the tender
inquiry, "Shall I send home veal or mutton for dinner, darling?" The
little house ceased to be a glorified bower, but it became a home, and
the young couple soon felt that it was a change for the better. At
first they played keep-house, and frolicked over it like children;
then John took steadily to business, feeling the cares of the head
of a family upon his shoulders; and Meg laid by her cambric
wrappers, put on a big apron, and fell to work, as before said, with
more energy than discretion.
  While the cooking mania lasted she went through Mrs. Cornelius's
Receipt Book as if it were a mathematical exercise, working out the
problems with patience and care. Sometimes her family were invited
in to help eat up a too bounteous feast of successes, or Lotty would
be privately despatched with a batch of failures, which were to be
concealed from all eyes in the convenient stomachs of the little
Hummels. An evening with John over the account-books usually
produced a temporary lull in the culinary enthusiasm, and a frugal fit
would ensue, during which the poor man was put through a course of
bread-pudding, hash, and warmed-over coffee, which tried his soul,
although he bore it with praiseworthy fortitude. Before the golden
mean was found, however, Meg added to her domestic possessions what
young couples seldom get on long without- a family jar.
  Fired with a housewifely wish to see her store-room stocked with
home-made preserves, she undertook to put up her own currant jelly.
John was requested to order home a dozen or so of little pots, and
an extra quantity of sugar, for their own currants were ripe, and were
to be attended to at once. As John firmly believed that "my wife"
was equal to anything, and took a natural pride in her skill, he
resolved that she should be gratified, and their only crop of fruit
laid by in a most pleasing form for winter use. Home came four dozen
delightful little pots, half a barrel of sugar, and a small boy to
pick the currants for her. With her pretty hair tucked into a little
cap, arms bare to the elbow, and a checked apron which had a
coquettish look in spite of the bib, the young housewife fell to work,
feeling no doubts about her success; for hadn't she seen Hannah do
it hundreds of times? The array of pots rather amazed her at first,
but John was so fond of jelly, and the nice little jars would look
so well on the top shelf, that Meg resolved to fill them all, and
spent a long day picking, boiling, straining, and fussing over her
jelly. She did her best; she asked advice of Mrs. Cornelius; she
racked her brain to remember what Hannah did that she had left undone;
she reboiled, resugared, and restrained, but that dreadful stuff
wouldn't "jell."
  She longed to run home, bib and all, and ask mother to lend a
hand, but John and she had agreed that they would never annoy any
one with their private worries, experiments, or quarrels. They had
laughed over that last word as if the idea it suggested was a most
preposterous one; but they had held to their resolve, and whenever
they could get on without help they did so, and no one interfered, for
Mrs. March had advised the plan. So Meg wrestled alone with the
refractory sweetmeats all that hot summer day, and at five o'clock sat
down in her topsy-turvy kitchen, wrung her bedaubed hands, lifted up
her voice and wept.
  Now, in the first flush of the new life, she had often said-
  "My husband shall always feel free to bring a friend home whenever
he likes. I shall always be prepared; there shall be no flurry, no
scolding, no discomfort, but a neat house, a cheerful wife, and a good
dinner. John, dear, never stop to ask my leave, invite whom you
please, and be sure of a welcome from me."
  How charming that was, to be sure! John quite glowed with pride to
hear her say it, and felt what a blessed thing it was to have a
superior wife. But, although they had had company from time to time,
it never happened to be unexpected, and Meg had never had an
opportunity to distinguish herself till now. It always happens so in
this vale of tears; there is an inevitability about such things
which we can only wonder at, deplore, and bear as we best can.
  If John had not forgotten all about the jelly, it really would
have been unpardonable in him to choose that day, of all the days in
the year, to bring a friend home to dinner unexpectedly.
Congratulating himself that a handsome repast had been ordered that
morning, feeling sure that it would be ready to the minute, and
indulging in pleasant anticipations of the charming effect it would
produce, when his pretty wife came running out to meet him, he
escorted his friend to his mansion, with the irrepressible
satisfaction of a young host and husband.
  It is a world of disappointments, as John discovered when he reached
the Dove-cote. The front door usually stood hospitably open; now it
was not only shut, but locked, and yesterday's mud still adorned the
steps. The parlor-windows were closed and curtained, no picture of the
pretty wife sewing on the piazza, in white, with a distracting
little bow in her hair, or a bright-eyed hostess, smiling a shy
welcome as she greeted her guest. Nothing of the sort, for not a
soul appeared, but a sanguinary-looking boy asleep under the
currant-bushes.
  "I'm afraid something has happened. Step into the garden, Scott,
while I look up Mrs. Brooke," said John, alarmed at the silence and
solitude.
  Round the house he hurried, led by a pungent smell of burnt sugar,
and Mr. Scott strolled after him, with a queer look on his face. He
paused discreetly at a distance when Brooke disappeared; but he
could both see and hear, and, being a bachelor, enjoyed the prospect
mightily.
  In the kitchen reigned confusion and despair; one edition of jelly
was trickled from pot to pot, another lay upon the floor, and a
third was burning gayly on the stove. Lotty, with Teutonic phlegm, was
calmly eating bread and currant wine, for the jelly was still in a
hopelessly liquid state, while Mrs. Brooke, with her apron over her
head, sat sobbing dismally.
  "My dearest girl, what is the matter?" cried John, rushing in,
with awful visions of scalded hands, sudden news of affliction, and
secret consternation at the thought of the guest in the garden.
  "O John, I am so tired and hot and cross and worried! I've been at
it till I'm all worn out. Do come and help me or I shall die!" and the
exhausted housewife cast herself upon his breast, giving him a sweet
welcome in every sense of the word, for her pinafore had been baptized
at the same time as the floor.
  "What worries you, dear? Has anything dreadful happened?" asked
the anxious John, tenderly kissing the crown of the little cap,
which was all askew.
  "Yes," sobbed Meg despairingly.
  "Tell me quick then. Don't cry, I can bear anything better than
that. Out with it, love."
  "The- the jelly won't jell and I don't know what to do!"
  John Brooke laughed then as he never dared to laugh afterward; and
the derisive Scott smiled involuntarily as he heard the hearty peal,
which put the finishing stroke to poor Meg's woe.
  "Is that all? Fling it out of window, and don't bother any more
about it. I'll buy you quarts if you want it; but for heaven's sake
don't have hysterics, for I've brought Jack Scott home to dinner,
and-"
  John got no further, for Meg cast him off, and clasped her hands
with a tragic gesture as she fell into a chair, exclaiming in a tone
of mingled indignation, reproach, and dismay "A man to dinner, and
everything in a mess! John Brooke, how could you do such a thing?"
  "Hush, he's in the garden! I forgot the confounded jelly, but it
can't be helped now," said John, surveying the prospect with an
anxious eye.
  "You ought to have sent word, or told me this morning, and you ought
to have remembered how busy I was," continued Meg petulantly; for even
turtle-doves will peck when ruffled.
  "I didn't know it this morning, and there was no time to send
word, for I met him on the way out. I never thought of asking leave,
when you have always told me to do as I liked. I never tried it
before, and hang me if I ever do again!" added John, with an aggrieved
air.
  "I should hope not! Take him away at once; I can't see him, and
there isn't any dinner."
  "Well, I like that! Where's the beef and vegetables I sent home, and
the pudding you promised?" cried John, rushing to the larder.
  "I hadn't time to cook anything; I meant to dine at mother's. I'm
sorry, but I was so busy"; and Meg's tears began again.
  John was a mild man, but he was human; and after a long day's
work, to come home tired, hungry, and hopeful, to find a chaotic
house, an empty table, and a cross wife was not exactly conducive to
repose of mind or manner. He restrained himself, however, and the
little squall would have blown over, but for one unlucky word.
  "It's a scrape, I acknowledge; but if you will lend a hand, we'll
pull through, and have a good time yet. Don't cry, dear, but just
exert yourself a bit, and knock us up something to eat. We're both
as hungry as hunters, so we shan't mind what it is. Give us the cold
meat, and bread and cheese; we won't ask for jelly."
  He meant it for a good-natured joke; but that one word sealed his
fate. Meg thought it was too cruel to hint about her sad failure,
and the last atom of patience vanished as he spoke.
  "You must get yourself out of the scrape as you can; I'm too used up
to 'exert' myself for any one. It's like a man to propose a bone and
vulgar bread and cheese for company. I won't have anything of the sort
in my house. Take that Scott up to mother's, and tell him I'm away,
sick, dead- anything. I won't see him, and you two can laugh at me and
my jelly as much as you like: you won't have anything else here";
and having delivered her defiance all in one breath, Meg cast away her
pinafore, and precipitately left the field to bemoan herself in her
own room.
  What those two creatures did in her absence, she never knew; but Mr.
Scott was not taken "up to mother's," and when Meg descended, after
they had strolled away together, she found traces of a promiscuous
lunch which filled her with horror. Lotty reported that they had eaten
"a much, and greatly laughed, and the master bid her throw away all
the sweet stuff, and hide the pots."
  Meg longed to go and tell mother; but a sense of shame at her own
shortcomings, of loyalty to John, "who might be cruel, but nobody
should know it," restrained her; and after a summary clearing up,
she dressed herself prettily, and sat down to wait for John to come
and be forgiven.
  Unfortunately, John didn't come, not seeing the matter in that
light. He had carried it off as a good joke with Scott, excused his
little wife as well as he could, and played the host so hospitably
that his friend enjoyed the impromptu dinner, and promised to come
again. But John was angry, though he did not show it; he felt that Meg
had got him into a scrape, and then deserted him in his hour of
need. "It wasn't fair to tell a man to bring folks home any time, with
perfect freedom, and when he took you at your word, to flame up and
blame him, and leave him in the lurch, to be laughed at or pitied. No,
by George, it wasn't! and Meg must know it." He had fumed inwardly
during the feast, but when the flurry was over, and he strolled
home, after seeing Scott off, a milder mood came over him. "Poor
little thing! it was hard upon her when she tried so heartily to
please me. She was wrong, of course, but then she was young. I must be
patient and teach her." He hoped she had not gone home-he hated gossip
and interference. For a minute he was ruffled again at the mere
thought of it; and then the fear that Meg would cry herself sick
softened his heart, and sent him on at a quicker pace, resolving to be
calm and kind, but firm, quite firm, and show her where she had failed
in her duty to her spouse.
  Meg likewise resolved to be "calm and kind, but firm," and show
him his duty. She longed to run to meet him, and beg pardon, and be
kissed and comforted, as she was sure of being; but, of course, she
did nothing of the sort, and when she saw John coming, began to hum
quite naturally, as she rocked and sewed, like a lady of leisure in
her best parlor.
  John was a little disappointed not to find a tender Niobe; but,
feeling that his dignity demanded the first apology, he made none,
only came leisurely in, and laid himself upon the sofa, with the
singularly relevant remark-
  "We are going to have a new moon, my dear."
  "I've no objection," was Meg's equally soothing remark.
  A few other topics of general interest were introduced by Mr.
Brooke, and wet-blanketed by Mrs. Brooke, and conversation languished.
John went to one window, unfolded his paper, and wrapped himself in
it, figuratively speaking. Meg went to the other window, and sewed
as if new rosettes for her slippers were among the necessaries of
life. Neither spoke; both looked quite "calm and firm," and both
felt desperately uncomfortable.
  "Oh dear," thought Meg, "married life is very trying, and does
need infinite patience, as well as love, as mother says." The word
"mother" suggested other maternal counsels, given long ago, and
received with unbelieving protests.
  "John is a good man, but he has his faults, and you must learn to
see and bear with them, remembering your own. He is very decided,
but never will be obstinate, if you reason kindly, not oppose
impatiently. He is very accurate, and particular about the truth- a
good trait, though you call him 'fussy.' Never deceive him by look
or word, Meg, and he will give you the confidence you deserve, the
support you need. He has a temper, not like ours- one flash, and
then all over- but the white, still anger, that is seldom stirred, but
once kindled, is hard to quench. Be careful, very careful, not to wake
this anger against yourself, for peace and happiness depend on keeping
his respect. Watch yourself, be the first to ask pardon if you both
err, and guard against the little piques, misunderstandings, and hasty
words that often pave the way for bitter sorrow and regret."
  These words came back to Meg, as she sat sewing in the sunset,
especially the last. This was the first serious disagreement; her
own hasty speeches sounded both silly and unkind, as she recalled
them, her own anger looked childish now, and thoughts of poor John
coming home to such a scene quite melted her heart. She glanced at him
with tears in her eyes, but he did not see them; she put down her work
and got up, thinking, "I will be the first to say, 'Forgive me,'"
but he did not seem to hear her; she went very slowly across the room,
for pride was hard to swallow, and stood by him, but he did not turn
his head. For a minute she felt as if she really couldn't do it;
then came the thought, "This is the beginning, I'll do my part, and
have nothing to reproach myself with," and stooping down, she softly
kissed her husband on the forehead. Of course that settled it; the
penitent kiss was better than a world of words, and John had her on
his knee in a minute, saying tenderly "It was too bad to laugh at
the poor little jelly-pots. Forgive me, dear, I never will again!"
  But he did, oh bless you, yes, hundreds of times, and so did Meg,
both declaring that it was the sweetest jelly they ever made; for
family peace was preserved in that little family jar.
  After this Meg had Mr. Scott to dinner by special invitation, and
served him up a pleasant feast without a cooked wife for the first
course; on which occasion she was so gay and gracious, and made
everything go off so charmingly, that Mr. Scott told John he was a
happy fellow, and shook his head over the hardships of bachelorhood
all the way home.
  In the autumn, new trials and experiences came to Meg. Sallie Moffat
renewed her friendship, was always running out for a dish of gossip at
the little house, or inviting "that poor dear" to come in and spend
the day at the big house. It was pleasant, for in dull weather Meg
often felt lonely; all were busy at home, John absent till night,
and nothing to do but sew, or read, or potter about. So it naturally
fell out that Meg got into the way of gadding and gossiping with her
friend. Seeing Sallie's pretty things made her long for such, and pity
herself because she had not got them. Sallie was very kind, and
often offered her the coveted trifles; but Meg declined them,
knowing John wouldn't like it; and then this foolish little woman went
and did what John disliked infinitely worse.
  She knew her husband's income, and she loved to feel that he trusted
her, not only with his happiness, but what some men seem to value
more- his money. She knew where it was, was free to take what she
liked, and all he asked was that she should keep account of every
penny, pay bills once a month, and remember that she was a poor
man's wife. Till now, she had done well, been prudent and exact,
kept her little account-books neatly, and showed them to him monthly
without fear. But that autumn the serpent got into Meg's paradise, and
tempted her, like many a modern Eve, not with apples, but with
dress. Meg didn't like to be pitied and made to feel poor; it
irritated her, but she was ashamed to confess it, and now and then she
tried to console herself by buying something pretty, so that Sallie
needn't think she had to economize. She always felt wicked after it,
for the pretty things were seldom necessaries; but then they cost so
little, it wasn't worth worrying about; so the trifles increased
unconsciously, and in the shopping excursions she was no longer a
passive looker-on.
  But the trifles cost more than one would imagine; and when she
cast up her accounts at the end of the month, the sum total rather
scared her. John was busy that month, and left the bills to her; the
next month he was absent; but the third he had a grand quarterly
settling up, and Meg never forgot it. A few days before she had done a
dreadful thing, and it weighed upon her conscience. Sallie had been
buying silks, and Meg longed for a new one- just a handsome light
one for parties, her black silk was so common, and thin things for
evening wear were only proper for girls. Aunt March usually gave the
sisters a present of twenty-five dollars apiece at New Year; that
was only a month to wait, and here was a lovely violet silk going at a
bargain, and she had the money, if she only dared to take it. John
always said what was his was hers; but would he think it right to
spend not only the prospective five-and-twenty, but another
five-and-twenty out of the household fund? That was the question.
Sallie had urged her to do it, had offered to loan the money, and with
the best intentions in life, had tempted Meg beyond her strength. In
an evil moment the shopman held up the lovely, shimmering folds, and
said, "A bargain, I assure you, ma'am." She answered, "I'll take
it"; and it was cut off and paid for, and Sallie had exulted, and
she had laughed as if it were a thing of no consequence, and driven
away, feeling as if she had stolen something, and the police were
after her.
  When she got home, she tried to assuage the pangs of remorse by
spreading forth the lovely silk; but it looked less silvery now,
didn't become her, after all, and the words "fifty dollars" seemed
stamped like a pattern down each breadth. She put it away; but it
haunted her, not delightfully, as a new dress should, but
dreadfully, like the ghost of a folly that was not easily laid. When
John got out his books that night, Meg's heart sank, and, for the
first time in her married life, she was afraid of her husband. The
kind, brown eyes looked as if they could be stern; and though he was
unusually merry, she fancied he had found her out, but didn't mean
to let her know it. The house-bills were all paid, the books all in
order. John had praised her, and was undoing the old pocketbook
which they called the "bank," when Meg, knowing that it was quite
empty, stopped his hand, saying nervously, "You haven't seen my
private expense book yet."
  John never asked to see it; but she always insisted on his doing so,
and used to enjoy his masculine amazement at the queer things women
wanted, and made him guess what "piping" was, demand fiercely the
meaning of a "hug-me-tight," or wonder how a little thing composed
of three rosebuds, a bit of velvet, and a pair of strings, could
possibly be a bonnet, and cost five or six dollars. That night he
looked as if he would like the fun of quizzing her figures and
pretending to be horrified at her extravagance, as he often did, being
particularly proud of his prudent wife.
  The little book was brought slowly out, and laid down before him.
Meg got behind his chair under pretence of smoothing the wrinkles
out of his tired forehead, and standing there, she said, with her
panic increasing with every word-
  "John, dear, I'm ashamed to show you my book, for I've really been
dreadfully extravagant lately. I go about so much I must have
things, you know, and Sallie advised my getting it, so I did; and my
New-Year's money will partly pay for it: but I was sorry after I'd
done it, for I knew you'd think it wrong in me."
  John laughed, and drew her round beside him, saying
good-humoredly, "Don't go and hide. I won't beat you if you have got a
pair of killing boots; I'm rather proud of my wife's feet, and don't
mind if she does pay eight or nine dollars for her boots, if they
are good ones."
  That had been one of her last "trifles," and John's eye had fallen
on it as he spoke. "Oh, what will he say when he comes to that awful
fifty dollars!" thought Meg, with a shiver.
  "It's worse than boots, it's a silk dress," she said, with the
calmness of desperation, for she wanted the worst over.
  "Well, dear, what is the 'dem'd total,' as Mr. Mantalini says?"
  That didn't sound like John, and she knew he was looking up at her
with the straightforward look that she had always been ready to meet
and answer with one as frank till now. She turned the page and her
head at the same time, pointing to the sum which would have been bad
enough without the fifty, but which was appalling to her with that
added. For a minute the room was very still; then John said slowly-
but she could feel it cost him an effort to express no displeasure-
  "Well, I don't know that fifty is much for a dress, with all the
fur-belows and notions you have to have to finish it off these days."
  "It isn't made or trimmed," sighed Meg faintly, for a sudden
recollection of the cost still to be incurred quite overwhelmed her.
  "Twenty-five yards of silk seems a good deal to cover one small
woman, but I've no doubt my wife will look as fine as Ned Moffat's
when she gets it on," said John dryly.
  "I know you are angry, John, but I can't help it. I don't mean to
waste your money, and I didn't think those little things would count
up so. I can't resist them when I see Sallie buying all she wants, and
pitying me because I don't. I try to be contented, but it is hard, and
I'm tired of being poor."
  The last words were spoken so low she thought he did not hear
them, but he did, and they wounded him deeply, for he had denied
himself many pleasures for Meg's sake. She could have bitten her
tongue out the minute she had said it, but John pushed the books away,
and got up, saying, with a little quiver in his voice, "I was afraid
of this; I do my best, Meg." If he had scolded her, or even shaken
her, it would not have broken her heart like those few words. She
ran to him and held him close, crying, with repentant tears, "O
John, my dear, kind, hard-working boy, I didn't mean it! It was so
wicked, so untrue and ungrateful, how could I say it! Oh, how could
I say it!"
  He was very kind, forgave her readily, and did not utter one
reproach; but Meg knew that she had done and said a thing which
would not be forgotten soon, although he might never allude to it
again. She had promised to love him for better for worse; and then
she, his wife, had reproached him with his poverty, after spending his
earnings recklessly. It was dreadful; and the worst of it was John
went on so quietly afterward, just as if nothing had happened,
except that he stayed in town later, and worked at night when she
had gone to cry herself to sleep. A week of remorse nearly made Meg
sick; and the discovery that John had countermanded the order for
his new great-coat reduced her to a state of despair which was
pathetic to behold. He had simply said, in answer to her surprised
inquiries as to the change, "I can't afford it, my dear."
  Meg said no more, but a few minutes after he found her in the
hall, with her face buried in the old great-coat, crying as if her
heart would break.
  They had a long talk that night, and Meg learned to love her husband
better for his poverty, because it seemed to have made a man of him,
given him the strength and courage to fight his own way, and taught
him a tender patience with which to bear and comfort the natural
longings and failures of those he loved.
  Next day she put her pride in her pocket, went to Sallie, told the
truth, and asked her to buy the silk as a favor. The good-natured Mrs.
Moffat willingly did so, and had the delicacy not to make her a
present of it immediately afterward. Then Meg ordered home the
great-coat, and, when John arrived, she put it on, and asked him how
he liked her new silk gown. One can imagine what answer he made, how
he received his present, and what a blissful state of things ensued.
John came home early, Meg gadded no more; and that great-coat was
put on in the morning by a very happy husband, and taken off at
night by a most devoted little wife. So the year rolled round, and
at midsummer there came to Meg a new experience- the deepest and
tenderest of a woman's life.
  Laurie came sneaking into the kitchen of the Dove-cote, one
Saturday, with an excited face, and was received with the clash of
cymbals; for Hannah clapped her hands with a saucepan in one and the
cover in the other.
  "How's the little mamma? Where is everybody? Why didn't you tell
me before I came home?" began Laurie, in a loud whisper.
  "Happy as a queen, the dear! Every soul of 'em is upstairs a
worshipin'; we didn't want no hurrycanes round. Now you go into the
parlor, and I'll send 'em down to you," with which somewhat involved
reply Hannah vanished, chuckling ecstatically.
  Presently Jo appeared, proudly bearing a flannel bundle laid forth
upon a large pillow. Jo's face was very sober, but her eyes
twinkled, and there was an odd sound in her voice of repressed emotion
of some sort.
  "Shut your eyes and hold out your arms," she said invitingly.
  Laurie backed precipitately into a corner, and put his hands
behind him with an imploring gesture: "No, thank you, I'd rather
not. I shall drop it or smash it, as sure as fate."
  "Then you shan't see your nevvy," said Jo decidedly, turning as if
to go.
  "I will, I will! only you must be responsible for damages"; and,
obeying orders, Laurie heroically shut his eyes and something was
put into his arms. A peal of laughter from Jo, Amy, Mrs. March,
Hannah, and John caused him to open them the next minute, to find
himself invested with two babies instead of one.
  No wonder they laughed, for the expression of his face was droll
enough to convulse a Quaker, as he stood and stared wildly from the
unconscious innocents to the hilarious spectators, with such dismay
that Jo sat down on the floor and screamed.
  "Twins, by Jupiter!" was all he said for a minute; then, turning
to the women with an appealing look that was comically piteous, he
added, "Take 'em quick, somebody! I'm going to laugh, and I shall drop
'em."
  John rescued his babies, and marched up and down, with one on each
arm, as if already initiated into the mysteries of baby-tending, while
Laurie laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.
  "It's the best joke of the season, isn't it? I wouldn't have you
told, for I set my heart on surprising you, and I flatter myself, I've
done it," said Jo, when she got her breath.
  "I never was more staggered in my life. Isn't it fun? Are they boys?
What are you going to name them? Let's have another look. Hold me
up, Jo; for upon my life it's one too many for me," returned Laurie,
regarding the infants with the air of a big, benevolent Newfoundland
looking at a pair of infantile kittens.
  "Boy and girl. Aren't they beauties?" said the proud papa, beaming
upon the little red squirmers as if they were unfledged angels.
  "Most remarkable children I ever saw. Which is which?" and Laurie
bent like a well-sweep to examine the prodigies.
  "Amy put a blue ribbon on the boy and a pink on the girl, French
fashion, so you can always tell. Besides, one has blue eyes and one
brown. Kiss them, Uncle Teddy," said wicked Jo.
  "I'm afraid they mightn't like it," began Laurie, with unusual
timidity in such matters.
  "Of course they will; they are used to it now. Do it this minute,
sir!" commanded Jo, fearing he might propose a proxy.
  Laurie screwed up his face, and obeyed with a gingerly peck at
each little cheek that produced another laugh, and made the babies
squeal.
  "There, I knew they didn't like it! That's the boy; see him kick; he
hits out with his fists like a good one. Now then, young Brooke, pitch
into a man of your own size, will you?" cried Laurie, delighted with a
poke in the face from a tiny fist, flapping aimlessly about.
  "He's to be named John Laurence, and the girl Margaret, after mother
and grandmother. We shall call her Daisy, so as not to have two
Megs, and I suppose the mannie will be Jack, unless we find a better
name," said Amy, with aunt-like interest.
  "Name him Demijohn, and call him 'Demi' for short," said Laurie.
  "Daisy and Demi- just the thing! I knew Teddy would do it," cried
Jo, clapping her hands.
  Teddy certainly had done it that time, for the babies were "Daisy"
and "Demi" to the end of the chapter.
                             29
                            Calls

  "COME, Jo, it's time."
  "For what?"
  "You don't mean to say you have forgotten that you promised to
make half a dozen calls with me to-day?"
  "I've done a good many rash and foolish things in my life, but I
don't think I ever was mad enough to say I'd make six calls in one
day, when a single one upsets me for a week."
  "Yes, you did; it was a bargain between us. I was to finish the
crayon of Beth for you, and you were to go properly with me, and
return our neighbors' visits."
  "If it was fair- that was in the bond; and I stand to the letter
of my bond, Shylock. There is a pile of clouds in the east; it's not
fair, and I don't go."
  "Now, that's shirking. It's a lovely day, no prospect of rain, and
you pride yourself on keeping promises; so be honorable; come and do
your duty, and then be at peace for another six months."
  At that minute Jo was particularly absorbed in dressmaking; for
she was mantua-maker general to the family, and took especial credit
to herself because she could use a needle as well as a pen. It was
very provoking to be arrested in the act of a first trying-on, and
ordered out to make calls in her best array, on a warm July day. She
hated calls of the formal sort, and never made any till Amy
compelled her with a bargain, bribe, or promise. In the present
instance, there was no escape; and having clashed her scissors
rebelliously, while protesting that she smelt thunder, she gave in,
put away her work, and taking up her hat and gloves with an air of
resignation, told Amy the victim was ready.
  "Jo March, you are perverse enough to provoke a saint! You don't
intend to make calls in that state, I hope," cried Amy, surveying
her with amazement.
  "Why not? I'm neat and cool and comfortable; quite proper for a
dusty walk on a warm day. If people care more for my clothes than they
do for me, I don't wish to see them. You can dress for both, and be as
elegant as you please: it pays for you to be fine; it doesn't for
me, and furbelows only worry me."
  "Oh dear!" sighed Amy; "now she's in a contrary fit, and will
drive me distracted before I can get her properly ready. I'm sure it's
no pleasure to me to go to-day, but it's a debt we owe society, and
there's no one to pay it but you and me. I'll do anything for you, Jo,
if you'll only dress yourself nicely, and come and help me do the
civil. You can talk so well, look so aristocratic in your best things,
and behave so beautifully, if you try, that I'm proud of you. I'm
afraid to go alone; do come and take care of me."
  "You're an artful little puss to flatter and wheedle your cross
old sister in that way. The idea of my being aristocratic and
well-bred, and your being afraid to go anywhere alone! I don't know
which is the most absurd. Well, I'll go if I must, and do my best. You
shall be commander of the expedition, and I'll obey blindly; will that
satisfy you?" said Jo, with a sudden change from perversity to
lamb-like submission.
  "You're a perfect cherub! Now put on all your best things, and
I'll tell you how to behave at each place, so that you will make a
good impression. I want people to like you, and they would if you'd
only try to be a little more agreeable. Do your hair the pretty way,
and put the pink rose in your bonnet; it's becoming, and you look
too sober in your plain suit. Take your light gloves and the
embroidered handkerchief. We'll stop at Meg's, and borrow her white
sunshade, and then you can have my dove-colored one."
  While Amy dressed, she issued her orders, and Jo obeyed them; not
without entering her protest, however, for she sighed as she rustled
into her new organdie, frowned darkly at herself as she tied her
bonnet strings in an irreproachable bow, wrestled viciously with
pins as she put on her collar, wrinkled up her features generally as
she shook out the handkerchief, whose embroidery was as irritating
to her nose as the present mission was to her feelings; and when she
had squeezed her hands into tight gloves with three buttons and a
tassel, as the last touch of elegance, she turned to Amy with an
imbecile expression of countenance, saying meekly-
  "I'm perfectly miserable; but if you consider me presentable, I
die happy."
  "You are highly satisfactory; turn slowly round, and let me get a
careful view." Jo revolved, and Amy gave a touch here and there,
then fell back, with her head on one side, observing graciously, "Yes,
you'll do; your head is all I could ask, for that white bonnet with
the rose is quite ravishing. Hold back your shoulders, and carry
your hands easily, no matter if your gloves do pinch. There's one
thing you can do well, Jo, that is, wear a shawl- I can't; but it's
very nice to see you, and I'm so glad Aunt March gave you that
lovely one; it's simple, but handsome, and those folds over the arm
are really artistic. Is the point of my mantle in the middle, and have
I looped my dress evenly? I like to show my boots, for my feet are
pretty, though my nose isn't."
  "You are a thing of beauty and a joy forever," said Jo, looking
through her hand with the air of a connoisseur at the blue feather
against the gold hair. "Am I to drag my best dress through the dust,
or loop it up, please, ma'am?"
  "Hold it up when you walk, but drop it in the house; the sweeping
style suits you best, and you must learn to trail your skirts
gracefully. You haven't half buttoned one cuff; do it at once.
You'll never look finished if you are not careful about the little
details, for they make up the pleasing whole."
  Jo sighed, and proceeded to burst the buttons off her glove, in
doing up her cuff; but at last both were ready, and sailed away,
looking as "pretty as picters," Hannah said, as she hung out of the
upper window to watch them.
  "Now, Jo dear, the Chesters consider themselves very elegant people,
so I want you to put on your best deportment. Don't make any of your
abrupt remarks, or do anything odd, will you? Just be calm, cool,
and quiet- that's safe and ladylike; and you can easily do it for
fifteen minutes," said Amy, as they approached the first place, having
borrowed the white parasol and been inspected by Meg, with a baby on
each arm.
  "Let me see. 'Calm, cool, and quiet'- yes, I think I can promise
that. I've played the part of a prim young lady on the stage, and I'll
try it off. My powers are great, as you shall see; so be easy in
your mind, my child."
  Amy looked relieved, but naughty Jo took her at her word; for,
during the first call, she sat with every limb gracefully composed,
every fold correctly draped, calm as a summer sea, cool as a
snow-bank, and as silent as a sphinx. In vain Mrs. Chester alluded
to her "charming novel," and the Misses Chester introduced parties,
picnics, the opera, and the fashions; each and all were answered by
a smile, a bow, and a demure "Yes" or "No," with the chill on. In vain
Amy telegraphed the word "Talk," tried to draw her out, and
administered covert pokes with her foot. Jo sat as if blandly
unconscious of it all, with deportment like Maud's face, "icily
regular, splendidly null."
  "What a haughty, uninteresting creature that oldest Miss March
is!" was the unfortunately audible remark of one of the ladies, as the
door closed upon their guests. Jo laughed noiselessly all through
the hall, but Amy looked disgusted at the failure of her instructions,
and very naturally laid the blame upon Jo.
  "How could you mistake me so? I merely meant you to be properly
dignified and composed, and you made yourself a perfect stock and
stone. Try to be sociable at the Lambs', gossip as other girls do, and
be interested in dress and flirtations and whatever nonsense comes up.
They move in the best society, are valuable persons for us to know,
and I wouldn't fail to make a good impression there for anything."
  "I'll be agreeable; I'll gossip and giggle, and have horrors and
raptures over any trifle you like. I rather enjoy this, and now I'll
imitate what is called 'a charming girl'; I can do it, for I have
May Chester as a model, and I'll improve upon her. See if the Lambs
don't say, 'What a lively, nice creature that Jo March is!'"
  Amy felt anxious, as well she might, for when Jo turned freakish
there was no knowing where she would stop. Amy's face was a study when
she saw her sister skim into the next drawing-room, kiss all the young
ladies with effusion, beam graciously upon the young gentlemen, and
join in the chat with a spirit which amazed the beholder. Amy was
taken possession of by Mrs. Lamb, with whom she was a favorite, and
forced to hear a long account of Lucretia's last attack, while three
delightful young gentlemen hovered near, waiting for a pause when they
might rush in and rescue her. So situated, she was powerless to
check Jo, who seemed possessed by a spirit of mischief, and talked
away as volubly as the old lady. A knot of heads gathered about her,
and Amy strained her ears to hear what was going on; for broken
sentences filled her with alarm, round eyes and uplifted hands
tormented her with curiosity, and frequent peals of laughter made
her wild to share the fun. One may imagine her suffering on
overhearing fragments of this sort of conversation:
  "She rides splendidly- who taught her?"
  "No one; she used to practise mounting, holding the reins, and
sitting straight on an old saddle in a tree. Now she rides anything,
for she doesn't know what fear is, and the stable-man lets her have
horses cheap, because she trains them to carry ladies so well. She has
such a passion for it, I often tell her if everything else fails she
can be a horse-breaker, and get her living so."
  At this awful speech Amy contained herself with difficulty, for
the impression was being given that she was rather a fast young
lady, which was her especial aversion. But what could she do? for
the old lady was in the middle of her story, and long before it was
done Jo was off again, making more droll revelations, and committing
still more fearful blunders.
  "Yes, Amy was in despair that day, for all the good beasts were
gone, and of three left, one was lame, one blind, and the other so
balky that you had to put dirt in his mouth before he would start.
Nice animal for a pleasure party, wasn't it?"
  "Which did she choose?" asked one of the laughing gentlemen, who
enjoyed the subject.
  "None of them; she heard of a young horse at the farmhouse over
the river, and, though a lady had never ridden him, she resolved to
try, because he was handsome and spirited. Her struggles were really
pathetic; there was no one to bring the horse to the saddle, so she
took the saddle to the horse. My dear creature, she actually rowed
it over the river, put it on her head, and marched up to the barn to
the utter amazement of the old man!"
  "Did she ride the horse?"
  "Of course she did, and had a capital time. I expected to see her
brought home in fragments, but she managed him perfectly, and was
the life of the party."
  "Well, I call that plucky!" and young Mr. Lamb turned an approving
glance upon Amy, wondering what his mother could be saying to make the
girl look so red and uncomfortable.
  She was still redder and more uncomfortable a moment after, when a
sudden turn in the conversation introduced the subject of dress. One
of the young ladies asked Jo where she got the pretty drab hat she
wore to the picnic; and stupid Jo, instead of mentioning the place
where it was bought two years ago, must needs answer, with unnecessary
frankness, "Oh, Amy painted it; you can't buy those soft shades, so we
paint ours any color we like. It's a great comfort to have an artistic
sister."
  "Isn't that an original idea?" cried Miss Lamb, who found Jo great
fun.
  "That's nothing compared to some of her brilliant performances.
There's nothing the child can't do. Why, she wanted a pair of blue
boots for Sallie's party, so she just painted her soiled white ones
the loveliest shade of sky-blue you ever saw, and they looked
exactly like satin," added Jo, with an air of pride in her sister's
accomplishments that exasperated Amy till she felt that it would be
a relief to throw her card-case at her.
  "We read a story of yours the other day, and enjoyed it very
much," observed the elder Miss Lamb, wishing to compliment the
literary lady, who did not look the character just then, it must be
confessed.
  Any mention of her "works" always had a bad effect upon Jo, who
either grew rigid and looked offended, or changed the subject with a
brusque remark, as now. "Sorry you could find nothing better to
read. I write that rubbish because it sells, and ordinary people
like it. Are you going to New York this winter?"
  As Miss Lamb had "enjoyed" the story, this speech was not exactly
grateful or complimentary. The minute it was made Jo saw her
mistake; but, fearing to make the matter worse, suddenly remembered
that it was for her to make the first move toward departure, and did
so with an abruptness that left three people with half-finished
sentences in their mouths.
  "Amy, we must go. Good-by, dear; do come and see us; we are pining
for a visit. I don't dare to ask you, Mr. Lamb; but if you should
come, I don't think I shall have the heart to send you away."
  Jo said this with such a droll imitation of May Chester's gushing
style that Amy got out of the room as rapidly as possible, feeling a
strong desire to laugh and cry at the same time.
  "Didn't I do that well?" asked Jo, with a satisfied air, as they
walked away.
  "Nothing could have been worse," was Amy's crushing reply. "What
possessed you to tell those stories about my saddle, and the hats
and boots, and all the rest of it?"
  "Why, it's funny, and amuses people. They know we are poor, so
it's no use pretending that we have grooms, buy three or four hats a
season, and have things as easy and fine as they do."
  "You needn't go and tell them all our little shifts, and expose
our poverty in that perfectly unnecessary way. You haven't a bit of
proper pride, and never will learn when to hold your tongue and when
to speak," said Amy despairingly.
  Poor Jo looked abashed, and silently chafed the end of her nose with
the stiff handkerchief, as if performing a penance for her
misdemeanors.
  "How shall I behave here?" she asked, as they approached the third
mansion.
  "Just as you please; I wash my hands of you," was Amy's short
answer.
  "Then I'll enjoy myself. The boys are at home, and we'll have a
comfortable time. Goodness knows I need a little change, for
elegance has a bad effect upon my constitution," returned Jo
gruffly, being disturbed by her failures to suit.
  An enthusiastic welcome from three big boys and several pretty
children speedily soothed her ruffled feelings; and, leaving Amy to
entertain the hostess and Mr. Tudor, who happened to be calling
likewise, Jo devoted herself to the young folks, and found the
change refreshing. She listened to college stories with deep interest,
caressed pointers and poodles without a murmur, agreed heartily that
"Tom Brown was a brick," regardless of the improper form of praise;
and when one lad proposed a visit to his turtle-tank, she went with an
alacrity which caused mamma to smile upon her, as that motherly lady
settled the cap which was left in a ruinous condition by filial
hugs, bearlike but affectionate, and dearer to her than the most
faultless coiffure from the hands of an inspired Frenchwoman.
  Leaving her sister to her own devices, Amy proceeded to enjoy
herself to her heart's content. Mr. Tudor's uncle had married an
English lady who was third cousin to a living lord, and Amy regarded
the whole family with great respect; for, in spite of her American
birth and breeding, she possessed that reverence for titles which
haunts the best of us- that unacknowledged loyalty to the early
faith in kings which set the most democratic nation under the sun in a
ferment at the coming of a royal yellow-haired laddie, some years ago,
and which still has something to do with the love the young country
bears the old, like that of a big son for an imperious little
mother, who held him while she could, and let him go with a farewell
scolding when he rebelled. But even the satisfaction of talking with a
distant connection of the British nobility did not render Amy
forgetful of time; and when the proper number of minutes had passed,
she reluctantly tore herself from this aristocratic society, and
looked about for Jo, fervently hoping that her incorrigible sister
would not be found in any position which should bring disgrace upon
the name of March.
  It might have been worse, but Amy considered it bad; for Jo sat on
the grass, with an encampment of boys about her, and a dirty-footed
dog reposing on the skirt of her state and festival dress, as she
related one of Laurie's pranks to her admiring audience. One small
child was poking turtles with Amy's cherished parasol, a second was
eating gingerbread over Jo's best bonnet, and a third playing ball
with her gloves. But all were enjoying themselves; and when Jo
collected her damaged property to go, her escort accompanied her,
begging her to come again, "it was such fun to hear about Laurie's
larks."
  "Capital boys, aren't they? I feel quite young and brisk again after
that," said Jo, strolling along with her hands behind her, partly from
habit, partly to conceal the bespattered parasol.
  "Why do you always avoid Mr. Tudor?" asked Amy, wisely refraining
from any comment upon Jo's dilapidated appearance.
  "Don't like him; he puts on airs, snubs his sisters, worries his
father and doesn't speak respectfully of his mother. Laurie says he is
fast, and I don't consider him a desirable acquaintance; so I let
him alone."
  "You might treat him civilly, at least. You gave him a cool nod; and
just now you bowed and smiled in the politest way to Tommy
Chamberlain, whose father keeps a grocery store. If you had just
reversed the nod and the bow, it would have been right," said Amy
reprovingly.
  "No, it wouldn't," returned perverse Jo; "I neither like, respect,
nor admire Tudor, though his grandfather's uncle's nephew's niece
was third cousin to a lord. Tommy is poor and bashful and good and
very clever; I think well of him, and like to show that I do, for he
is a gentleman in spite of the brown-paper parcels."
  "It's no use trying to argue with you," began Amy.
  "Not the least, my dear," interrupted Jo; "so let us look amiable,
and drop a card here, as the Kings are evidently out, for which I'm
deeply grateful."
  The family card-case having done its duty, the girls walked on,
and Jo uttered another thanksgiving on reaching the fifth house, and
being told that the young ladies were engaged.
  "Now let us go home, and never mind Aunt March to-day. We can run
down there any time, and it's really a pity to trail through the
dust in our best bibs and tuckers, when we are tired and cross."
  "Speak for yourself, if you please. Aunt likes to have us pay her
the compliment of coming in style, and making a formal call; it's a
little thing to do, but it gives her pleasure, and I don't believe
it will hurt your things half so much as letting dirty dogs and
clumping boys spoil them. Stoop down, and let me take the crumbs off
of your bonnet."
  "What a good girl you are, Amy!" said Jo, with a repentant glance
from her own damaged costume to that of her sister, which was fresh
and spotless still. "I wish it was easy for me to do little things
to please people as it is for you. I think of them, but it takes too
much time to do them; so I wait for a chance to confer a great
favor, and let the small ones slip; but they tell best in the end, I
fancy."
  Amy smiled, and was mollified at once, saying with a maternal air-
  "Women should learn to be agreeable, particularly poor ones; for
they have no other way of repaying the kindnesses they receive. If
you'd remember that, and practise it, you'd be better liked than I am,
because there is more of you."
  "I'm a crotchety old thing, and always shall be, but I'm willing
to own that you are right; only it's easier for me to risk my life for
a person than to be pleasant to him when I don't feel like it. It's
a great misfortune to have such strong likes and dislikes, isn't it?"
  "It's a greater not to be able to hide them. I don't mind saying
that I don't approve of Tudor any more than you do; but I'm not called
upon to tell him so; neither are you, and there is no use in making
yourself disagreeable because he is."
  "But I think girls ought to show when they disapprove of young
men; and how can they do it except by their manners? Preaching does
not do any good, as I know to my sorrow, since I've had Teddy to
manage; but there are many little ways in which I can influence him
without a word, and I say we ought to do it to others if we can."
  "Teddy is a remarkable boy, and can't be taken as a sample of
other boys," said Amy, in a tone of solemn conviction, which would
have convulsed the "remarkable boy," if he had heard it. "If we were
belles, or women of wealth and position, we might do something,
perhaps; but for us to frown at one set of young gentlemen because
we don't approve of them, and smile upon another set because we do,
wouldn't have a particle of effect, and we should only be considered
odd and puritanical."
  "So we are to countenance things and people which we detest,
merely because we are not belles and millionaires, are we? That's a
nice sort of morality."
  "I can't argue about it, I only know that it's the way of the world;
and people who set themselves against it only get laughed at for their
pains. I don't like reformers, and I hope you will never try to be
one."
  "I do like them, and I shall be one if I can; for, in spite of the
laughing, the world would never get on without them. We can't agree
about that, for you belong to the old set, and I to the new: you
will get on the best, but I shall have the liveliest time of it. I
should rather enjoy the brickbats and hooting, I think."
  "Well, compose yourself now, and don't worry aunt with your new
ideas."
  "I'll try not to, but I'm always possessed to burst out with some
particularly blunt speech or revolutionary sentiment before her;
it's my doom, and I can't help it."
  They found Aunt Carrol with the old lady, both absorbed in some very
interesting subject; but they dropped it as the girls came in, with
a conscious look which betrayed that they had been talking about their
nieces. Jo was not in a good humor, and the perverse fit returned; but
Amy, who had virtuously done her duty, kept her temper, and pleased
everybody, was in a most angelic frame of mind. This amiable spirit
was felt at once, and both the aunts "my deared" her affectionately,
looking what they afterwards said emphatically- "That child improves
every day."
  "Are you going to help about the fair, dear?" asked Mrs. Carrol,
as Amy sat down beside her with the confiding air elderly people
like so well in the young.
  "Yes, aunt. Mrs. Chester asked me if I would, and I offered to
tend a table, as I have nothing but my time to give."
  "I'm not," put in Jo decidedly. "I hate to be patronized, and the
Chesters think it's a great favor to allow us to help with their
highly connected fair. I wonder you consented, Amy: they only want you
to work."
  "I am willing to work: it's for the freedmen as well as the
Chesters, and I think it very kind of them to let me share the labor
and the fun. Patronage does not trouble me when it is well meant."
  "Quite right and proper. I like your grateful spirit, my dear;
it's a pleasure to help people who appreciate our efforts: some do
not, and that is trying," observed Aunt March, looking over her
spectacles at Jo, who sat apart, rocking herself, with a somewhat
morose expression.
  If Jo had only known what a great happiness was wavering in the
balance for one of them, she would have turned dovelike in a minute;
but, unfortunately, we don't have windows in our breasts, and cannot
see what goes on in the minds of our friends; better for us that we
cannot as a general thing, but now and then it would be such a
comfort, such a saving of time and temper. By her next speech, Jo
deprived herself of several years of pleasure, and received a timely
lesson in the art of holding her tongue.
  "I don't like favors; they oppress and make me feel like a slave.
I'd rather do everything for myself, and be perfectly independent."
  "Ahem!" coughed Aunt Carrol softly, with a look at Aunt March.
  "I told you so," said Aunt March, with a decided nod to Aunt Carrol.
  Mercifully unconscious of what she had done, Jo sat with her nose in
the air, and a revolutionary aspect which was anything but inviting.
  "Do you speak French, dear?" asked Mrs. Carrol, laying her hand on
Amy's.
  "Pretty well, thanks to Aunt March, who lets Esther talk to me as
often as I like," replied Amy, with a grateful look, which caused
the old lady to smile affably.
  "How are you about languages?" asked Mrs. Carrol of Jo.
  "Don't know a word; I'm very stupid about studying anything; can't
bear French, it's such a slippery, silly sort of language," was the
brusque reply.
  Another look passed between the ladies, and Aunt March said to
Amy, "You are quite strong and well, now, dear, I believe? Eyes
don't trouble you any more, do they?"
  "Not at all, thank you, ma'am. I'm very well, and mean to do great
things next winter, so that I may be ready for Rome, whenever that
joyful time arrives."
  "Good girl! You deserve to go, and I'm sure you will some day," said
Aunt March, with an approving pat on the head, as Amy picked up her
ball for her.

                 "Cross-patch, draw the latch,
                  Sit by the fire and spin,"

squalled Polly, bending down from his perch on the back of her chair
to peep into Jo's face, with such a comical air of impertinent inquiry
that it was impossible to help laughing.
  "Most observing bird," said the old lady.
  "Come and take a walk, my dear?" cried Polly, hopping toward the
china-closet, with a look suggestive of lump-sugar.
  "Thank you, I will. Come, Amy"; and Jo brought the visit to an
end, feeling more strongly than ever that calls did have a bad
effect upon her constitution. She shook hands in a gentlemanly manner,
but Amy kissed both the aunts, and the girls departed, leaving
behind them the impression of shadow and sunshine; which impression
caused Aunt March to say, as they vanished "You'd better do it,
Mary; I'll supply the money," and Aunt Carrol to reply decidedly, "I
certainly will, if her father and mother consent."
                             30
                         Consequences

  MRS. CHESTER'S fair was so very elegant and select that it was
considered a great honor by the young ladies of the neighborhood to be
invited to take a table, and every one was much interested in the
matter. Amy was asked, but Jo was not, which was fortunate for all
parties, as her elbows were decidedly akimbo at this period of her
life, and it took a good many hard knocks to teach her how to get on
easily. The "haughty, uninteresting creature" was let severely
alone; but Amy's talent and taste were duly complimented by the
offer of the art-table, and she exerted herself to prepare and
secure appropriate and valuable contributions to it.
  Everything went on smoothly till the day before the fair opened;
then there occurred one of the little skirmishes which it is almost
impossible to avoid, when some five and twenty women, old and young,
with all their private piques and prejudices, try to work together.
  May Chester was rather jealous of Amy because the latter was a
greater favorite than herself; and, just at this time, several
trifling circumstances occurred to increase the feeling. Amy's
dainty pen-and-ink work entirely eclipsed May's painted vases- that
was one thorn; then the all-conquering Tudor had danced four times
with Amy, at a late party, and only once with May- that was thorn
number two; but the chief grievance that rankled in her soul, and gave
her an excuse for her unfriendly conduct, was a rumor which some
obliging gossip had whispered to her, that the March girls had made
fun of her at the Lambs'. All the blame of this should have fallen
upon Jo, for her naughty imitation had been too lifelike to escape
detection, and the frolicsome Lambs had permitted the joke to
escape. No hint of this had reached the culprits, however, and Amy's
dismay can be imagined, when, the very evening before the fair, as she
was putting the last touches to her pretty table, Mrs. Chester, who,
of course, resented the supposed ridicule of her daughter, said, in
a bland tone, but with a cold look-
  "I find, dear, that there is some feeling among the young ladies
about my giving this table to any one but my girls. As this is the
most prominent, and some say the most attractive table of all, and
they are the chief getters-up of the fair, it is thought best for them
to take this place. I'm sorry, but I know you are too sincerely
interested in the cause to mind a little personal disappointment,
and you shall have another table if you like."
  Mrs. Chester had fancied beforehand that it would be easy to deliver
this little speech; but when the time came, she found it rather
difficult to utter it naturally, with Amy's unsuspicious eyes
looking straight at her, full of surprise and trouble.
  Amy felt that there was something behind this, but could not guess
what, and said quietly, feeling hurt, and showing that she did-
  "Perhaps you had rather I took no table at all?"
  "Now, my dear, don't have any ill feeling, I beg; it's merely a
matter of expediency, you see; my girls will naturally take the
lead, and this table is considered their proper place. I think it very
appropriate to you, and feel very grateful for your efforts to make it
so pretty; but we must give up our private wishes, of course, and I
will see that you have a good place elsewhere. Wouldn't you like the
flower-table? The little girls undertook it, but they are discouraged.
You could make a charming thing of it, and the flower-table is
always attractive, you know."
  "Especially to gentlemen," added May, with a look which
enlightened Amy as to one cause of her sudden fall from favor. She
colored angrily, but took no other notice of that girlish sarcasm, and
answered, with unexpected amiability-
  "It shall be as you please, Mrs. Chester. I'll give up my place here
at once, and attend to the flowers, if you like."
  "You can put your own things on your own table, if you prefer,"
began May, feeling a little conscience-stricken, as she looked at
the pretty racks, the painted shells, and quaint illuminations Amy had
so carefully made and so gracefully arranged. She meant it kindly, but
Amy mistook her meaning, and said quickly-
  "Oh, certainly, if they are in your way"; and sweeping her
contributions into her apron, pell-mell, she walked off, feeling
that herself and her works of art had been insulted past forgiveness.
  "Now she's mad. Oh, dear, I wish I hadn't asked you to speak,
mamma," said May, looking disconsolately at the empty spaces on her
table.
  "Girls' quarrels are soon over," returned her mother, feeling a
trifle ashamed of her own part in this one, as well she might.
  The little girls hailed Amy and her treasures with delight, which
cordial reception somewhat soothed her perturbed spirit, and she
fell to work, determined to succeed florally, if she could not
artistically. But everything seemed against her: it was late, and she
was tired; every one was too busy with their own affairs to help
her; and the little girls were only hindrances, for the dears fussed
and chattered like so many magpies, making a great deal of confusion
in their artless efforts to preserve the most perfect order. The
evergreen arch wouldn't stay firm after she got it up, but wiggled and
threatened to tumble down on her head when the hanging baskets were
filled; her best tile got a splash of water, which left a sepia tear
on the Cupid's cheek; she bruised her hands with hammering, and got
cold working in a draught, which last affliction filled her with
apprehensions for the morrow. Any girl-reader who has suffered like
afflictions will sympathize with poor Amy, and wish her well through
with her task.
  There was great indignation at home when she told her story that
evening. Her mother said it was a shame, but told her she had done
right; Beth declared she wouldn't go to the fair at all; and Jo
demanded why she didn't take all her pretty things and leave those
mean people to get on without her.
  "Because they are mean is no reason why I should be. I hate such
things, and though I think I've a right to be hurt, I don't intend
to show it. They will feel that more than angry speeches or huffy
actions, won't they, Marmee?"
  "That's the right spirit, my dear; a kiss for a blow is always best,
though it's not very easy to give it sometimes," said her mother, with
the air of one who had learned the difference between preaching and
practising.
  In spite of various very natural temptations to resent and
retaliate, Amy adhered to her resolution all the next day, bent on
conquering her enemy by kindness. She began well, thanks to a silent
reminder that came to her unexpectedly, but most opportunely. As she
arranged her table that morning, while the little girls were in an
ante-room filling the baskets, she took up her pet production- a
little book, the antique cover of which her father had found among his
treasures, and in which, on leaves of vellum, she had beautifully
illuminated different texts. As she turned the pages, rich in dainty
devices, with very pardonable pride, her eye fell upon one verse
that made her stop and think. Framed in a brilliant scroll-work of
scarlet, blue, and gold, with little spirits of good-will helping
one another up and down among the thorns and flowers, were the
words, "Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself."
  "I ought, but I don't," thought Amy, as her eye went from the bright
page to May's discontented face behind the big vases, that could not
hide the vacancies her pretty work had once filled. Amy stood a
minute, turning the leaves in her hand, reading on each some sweet
rebuke for all heart-burnings and uncharitableness of spirit. Many
wise and true sermons are preached us every day by unconscious
ministers in street, school, office, or home; even a fair-table may
become a pulpit, if it can offer the good and helpful words which
are never out of season. Amy's conscience preached her a little sermon
from that text, then and there; and she did what many of us do not
always do- took the sermon to heart, and straightway put it in
practice.
  A group of girls were standing about May's table, admiring the
pretty things, and talking over the change of saleswomen. They dropped
their voices, but Amy knew they were speaking of her, hearing one side
of the story, and judging accordingly. It was not pleasant, but a
better spirit had come over her, and presently a chance offered for
proving it. She heard May say sorrowfully-
  "It's too bad, for there is no time to make other things, and I
don't want to fill up with odds and ends. The table was just
complete then: now it's spoilt."
  "I dare say she'd put them back if you asked her," suggested some
one.
  "How could I after all the fuss?" began May, but she did not finish,
for Amy's voice came across the hall, saying pleasantly-
  "You may have them, and welcome, without asking, if you want them. I
was just thinking I'd offer to put them back, for they belong to
your table rather than mine. Here they are; please take them, and
forgive me if I was hasty in carrying them away last night."
  As she spoke, Amy returned her contribution, with a nod and a smile,
and hurried away again, feeling that it was easier to do a friendly
thing than it was to stay and be thanked for it.
  "Now, I call that lovely of her, don't you?" cried one girl.
  May's answer was inaudible; but another young lady, whose temper was
evidently a little soured by making lemonade, added, with a
disagreeable laugh, "Very lovely; for she knew she wouldn't sell
them at her own table."
  Now, that was hard; when we make little sacrifices we like to have
them appreciated, at least; and for a minute Amy was sorry she had
done it, feeling that virtue was not always its own reward. But it is-
as she presently discovered; for her spirits began to rise, and her
table to blossom under her skillful hands; the girls were very kind,
and that one little act seemed to have cleared the atmosphere
amazingly.
  It was a very long day, and a hard one to Amy, as she sat behind her
table, often quite alone, for the little girls deserted very soon: few
cared to buy flowers in summer, and her bouquets began to droop long
before night.
  The art-table was the most attractive in the room; there was a crowd
about it all day long, and the tenders were constantly flying to and
fro with important faces and rattling money-boxes. Amy often looked
wistfully across, longing to be there, where she felt at home and
happy, instead of in a corner with nothing to do. It might seem no
hardship to some of us; but to a pretty, blithe young girl, it was not
only tedious, but very trying; and the thought of being found there in
the evening by her family, and Laurie and his friends, made it a
real martyrdom.
  She did not go home till night, and then she looked so pale and
quiet that they knew the day had been a hard one, though she made no
complaint, and did not even tell what she had done. Her mother gave
her an extra cordial cup of tea, Beth helped her dress, and made a
charming little wreath for her hair, while Jo astonished her family by
getting herself up with unusual care, and hinting darkly that the
tables were about to be turned.
  "Don't do anything rude, pray, Jo. I won't have any fuss made, so
let it all pass, and behave yourself," begged Amy, as she departed
early, hoping to find a reinforcement of flowers to refresh her poor
little table.
  "I merely intend to make myself entrancingly agreeable to every
one I know, and to keep them in your corner as long as possible. Teddy
and his boys will lend a hand, and we'll have a good time yet,"
returned Jo, leaning over the gate to watch for Laurie. Presently
the familiar tramp was heard in the dusk, and she ran out to meet him.
  "Is that my boy?"
  "As sure as this is my girl!" and Laurie tucked her hand under his
arm, with the air of a man whose every wish was gratified.
  "O Teddy, such doings!" and Jo told Amy's wrongs with sisterly zeal.
  "A flock of our fellows are going to drive over by and by, and
I'll be hanged if I don't make them buy every flower she's got, and
camp down before her table afterward," said Laurie, espousing her
cause with warmth.
  "The flowers are not at all nice, Amy says, and the fresh ones may
not arrive in time. I don't wish to be unjust or suspicious, but I
shouldn't wonder if they never came at all. When people do one mean
thing they are very likely to do another," observed Jo, in a disgusted
tone.
  "Didn't Hayes give you the best out of our gardens? I told him to."
  "I didn't know that; he forgot, I suppose; and, as your grandpa
was poorly, I didn't like to worry him by asking, though I did want
some."
  "Now, Jo, how could you think there was any need of asking! They are
just as much yours as mine. Don't we always go halves in
everything?" began Laurie, in the tone that always made Jo turn
thorny.
  "Gracious, I hope not! half of some of your things wouldn't suit
me at all. But we mustn't stand philandering here; I've got to help
Amy, so you go and make yourself splendid; and if you'll be so very
kind as to let Hayes take a few nice flowers up to the Hall, I'll
bless you forever."
  "Couldn't you do it now?" asked Laurie, so suggestively that Jo shut
the gate in his face with inhospitable haste, and called through the
bars, "Go away, Teddy; I'm busy."
  Thanks to the conspirators, the tables were turned that night; for
Hayes sent up a wilderness of flowers, with a lovely basket,
arranged in his best manner, for a centre-piece; then the March family
turned out en masse, and Jo exerted herself to some purpose, for
people not only came, but stayed, laughing at her nonsense, admiring
Amy's taste, and apparently enjoying themselves very much. Laurie
and his friends gallantly threw themselves into the breach, bought
up the bouquets, encamped before the table, and made that corner the
liveliest spot in the room. Amy was in her element now, and, out of
gratitude, if nothing more, was as sprightly and gracious as possible-
coming to the conclusion, about that time, that virtue was its own
reward, after all.
  Jo behaved herself with exemplary propriety; and when Amy was
happily surrounded by her guard of honor, Jo circulated about the
hall, picking up various bits of gossip, which enlightened her upon
the subject of the Chester change of base. She reproached herself
for her share of the ill-feeling, and resolved to exonerate Amy as
soon as possible; she also discovered what Amy had done about the
things in the morning, and considered her a model of magnanimity. As
she passed the art-table, she glanced over it for her sister's things,
but saw no signs of them. "Tucked away out of sight, I dare say,"
thought Jo, who could forgive her own wrongs, but hotly resented any
insult offered to her family.
  "Good evening, Miss Jo. How does Amy get on?" asked May, with a
conciliatory air, for she wanted to show that she also could be
generous.
  "She has sold everything she had that was worth selling, and now she
is enjoying herself. The flower-table is always attractive, you
know, 'especially to gentlemen.'"
  Jo couldn't resist giving that little slap, but May took it so
meekly she regretted it a minute after, and fell to praising the great
vases, which still remained unsold.
  "Is Amy's illumination anywhere about? I took a fancy to buy that
for father," said Jo, very anxious to learn the fate of her sister's
work.
  "Everything of Amy's sold long ago; I took care that the right
people saw them, and they made a nice little sum of money for us,"
returned May, who had overcome sundry small temptations, as well as
Amy, that day.
  Much gratified, Jo rushed back to tell the good news; and Amy looked
both touched and surprised by the report of May's words and manner.
  "Now, gentlemen, I want you to go and do your duty by the other
tables as generously as you have by mine- especially the art-table,"
she said, ordering out "Teddy's Own," as the girls called the
college friends.
  "'Charge, Chester, charge!' is the motto for that table; but do your
duty like men, and you'll get your money's worth of art in every sense
of the word," said the irrepressible Jo, as the devoted phalanx
prepared to take the field.
  "To hear is to obey, but March is fairer far than May," said
little Parker, making a frantic effort to be both witty and tender,
and getting promptly quenched by Laurie, who said, "Very well, my son,
for a small boy!" and walked him off, with a paternal pat on the head.
  "Buy the vases," whispered Amy to Laurie, as a final heaping of
coals of fire on her enemy's head.
  To May's great delight, Mr. Laurence not only bought the vases,
but pervaded the hall with one under each arm. The other gentlemen
speculated with equal rashness in all sorts of frail trifles, and
wandered helplessly about afterward, burdened with wax flowers,
painted fans, filigree portfolios, and other useful and appropriate
purchases.
  Aunt Carrol was there, heard the story, looked pleased, and said
something to Mrs. March in a corner, which made the latter lady beam
with satisfaction, and watch Amy with a face full of mingled pride and
anxiety, though she did not betray the cause of her pleasure till
several days later.
  The fair was pronounced a success; and when May bade Amy good-night,
she did not "gush" as usual, but gave her an affectionate kiss, and
a look which said, "Forgive and forget." That satisfied Amy; and
when she got home she found the vases paraded on the parlor
chimney-piece, with a great bouquet in each. "The reward of merit
for a magnanimous March," as Laurie announced with a flourish.
  "You've a deal more principle and generosity and nobleness of
character than I ever gave you credit for, Amy. You've behaved
sweetly, and I respect you with all my heart," said Jo warmly, as they
brushed their hair together late that night.
  "Yes, we all do, and love her for being so ready to forgive. It must
have been dreadfully hard, after working so long, and setting your
heart on selling your own pretty things. I don't believe I could
have done it as kindly as you did," added Beth from her pillow.
  "Why, girls, you needn't praise me so; I only did as I'd be done by.
You laugh at me when I say I want to be a lady, but I mean a true
gentlewoman in mind and manners, and I try to do it as far as I know
how. I can't explain exactly, but I want to be above the little
meannesses and follies and faults that spoil so many women. I'm far
from it now, but I do my best, and hope in time to be what mother is."
  Amy spoke earnestly, and Jo said, with a cordial hug-
  "I understand now what you mean, and I'll never laugh at you
again. You are getting on faster than you think, and I'll take lessons
of you in true politeness, for you've learned the secret, I believe.
Try away, deary; you'll get your reward some day, and no one will be
more delighted than I shall."
  A week later Amy did get her reward, and poor Jo found it hard to be
delighted. A letter came from Aunt Carrol, and Mrs. March's face was
illuminated to such a degree, when she read it, that Jo and Beth,
who were with her, demanded what the glad tidings were.
  "Aunt Carrol is going abroad next month, and wants-"
  "Me to go with her!" burst in Jo, flying out of her chair in an
uncontrollable rapture.
  "No, dear, not you; it's Amy."
  "O mother! she's too young; it's my turn first. I've wanted it so
long- it would do me so much good, and be so altogether splendid- I
must go."
  "I'm afraid it's impossible, Jo. Aunt says Amy, decidedly, and it is
not for us to dictate when she offers such a favor."
  "It's always so. Amy has all the fun and I have all the work. It
isn't fair, oh, it isn't fair!" cried Jo passionately.
  "I'm afraid it is partly your own fault, dear. When Aunt spoke to me
the other day, she regretted your blunt manners and too independent
spirit; and here she writes, as if quoting something you had said-
'I planned at first to ask Jo;' but as "favors burden her," and she
"hates French," I think I won't venture to invite her. Amy is more
docile, will make a good companion for Flo, and receive gratefully any
help the trip may give her."
  "Oh, my tongue, my abominable tongue! why can't I learn to keep it
quiet?" groaned Jo, remembering words which had been her undoing. When
she had heard the explanation of the quoted phrases, Mrs. March said
sorrowfully-
  "I wish you could have gone, but there is no hope of it this time;
so try to bear it cheerfully, and don't sadden Amy's pleasure by
reproaches or regrets."
  "I'll try," said Jo, winking hard, as she knelt down to pick up
the basket she had joyfully upset. "I'll take a leaf out of her
book, and try not only to seem glad, but to be so, and not grudge
her one minute of happiness; but it won't be easy, for it is a
dreadful disappointment"; and poor Jo bedewed the little fat
pincushion she held with several very bitter tears.
  "Jo, dear, I'm very selfish, but I couldn't spare you, and I'm
glad you are not going quite yet," whispered Beth, embracing her,
basket and all, with such a clinging touch and loving face, that Jo
felt comforted in spite of the sharp regret that made her want to
box her own ears, and humbly beg Aunt Carrol to burden her with this
favor, and see how gratefully she would bear it.
  By the time Amy came in, Jo was able to take her part in the
family jubilation; not quite as heartily as usual, perhaps, but
without repinings at Amy's good fortune. The young lady herself
received the news as tidings of great joy, went about in a solemn sort
of rapture, and began to sort her colors and pack her pencils that
evening, leaving such trifles as clothes, money, and passports to
those less absorbed in visions of art than herself.
  "It isn't a mere pleasure trip to me, girls," she said impressively,
as she scraped her best palette. "It will decide my career; for if I
have any genius, I shall find it out in Rome, and will do something to
prove it."
  "Suppose you haven't?" said Jo, sewing away, with red eyes, at the
new collars which were to be handed over to Amy.
  "Then I shall come home and teach drawing for my living," replied
the aspirant for fame, with philosophic composure; but she made a
wry face at the prospect, and scratched away at her palette as if bent
on vigorous measures before she gave up her hopes.
  "No, you won't; you hate hard work, and you'll marry some rich
man, and come home to sit in the lap of luxury all your days," said
Jo.
  "Your predictions sometimes come to pass, but I don't believe that
one will. I'm sure I wish it would, for if I can't be an artist
myself, I should like to be able to help those who are," said Amy,
smiling, as if the part of Lady Bountiful would suit her better than
that of a poor drawing-teacher.
  "Hum!" said Jo, with a sigh; "if you wish it you'll have it, for
your wishes are always granted- mine never."
  "Would you like to go?" asked Amy, thoughtfully patting her nose
with her knife.
  "Rather!"
  "Well, in a year or two I'll send for you, and we'll dig in the
Forum for relics, and carry out all the plans we've made so many
times."
  "Thank you; I'll remind you of your promise when that joyful day
comes, if it ever does," returned Jo, accepting the vague but
magnificent offer as gratefully as she could.
  There was not much time for preparation, and the house was in a
ferment till Amy was off. Jo bore up very well till the last flutter
of blue ribbon vanished, when she retired to her refuge, the garret,
and cried till she couldn't cry any more. Amy likewise bore up stoutly
till the steamer sailed; then, just as the gangway was about to be
withdrawn, it suddenly came over her that a whole ocean was soon to
roll between her and those who loved her best, and she clung to
Laurie, the last lingerer, saying with a sob-
  "Oh, take care of them for me; and if anything should happen-"
  "I Will, dear, I will; and if anything happens, I'll come and
comfort you," whispered Laurie, little dreaming that he would be
called upon to keep his word.
  So Amy sailed away to find the old world, which is always new and
beautiful to young eyes, while her father and friend watched her
from the shore, fervently hoping that none but gentle fortunes would
befall the happy-hearted girl, who waved her hand to them till they
could see nothing but the summer sunshine dazzling on the sea.
                             31
                   Our Foreign Correspondent

                                                         LONDON.
  DEAREST PEOPLE:
    Here I really sit at a front window of the Bath Hotel, Piccadilly.
It's not a fashionable place, but uncle stopped here years ago, and
won't go anywhere else; however, we don't mean to stay long, so it's
no great matter. Oh, I can't begin to tell you how I enjoy it all! I
never can, so I'll only give you bits out of my note-book, for I've
done nothing but sketch and scribble since I started.
  I sent a line from Halifax, when I felt pretty miserable, but
after that I got on delightfully, seldom ill, on deck all day, with
plenty of pleasant people to amuse me. Every one was very kind to
me, especially the officers. Don't laugh, Jo; gentlemen really are
necessary aboard ship, to hold on to, or to wait aboard ship, to
hold on to, or to wait upon one; and as they have nothing to do,
it's a mercy to make them useful, otherwise they would smoke
themselves to death, I'm afraid.
  Aunt and Flo were poorly all the way, and liked to be let alone,
so when I had done what I could for them, I went and enjoyed myself.
Such walks on deck, such sunsets, such splendid air and waves! I was
almost as exciting as riding a fast horse, when we went rushing on
so grandly. I wish Beth could have come, it would have done her so
much good; as for Jo, she would have gone up and sat on the main-top
jib, or whatever the high thing is called, made friends with the
engineers, and tooted on the captain's speaking-trumpet, she'd have
been in such a state of rapture.
  It was all heavenly, but I was glad to see the Irish coast, and
found it very lovely, so green and sunny, with brown cabins here and
there, ruins on some of the hills, and gentlemen's country-seats in
the valleys, with deer feeding in the parks. It was early in the
morning, but I didn't regret getting up to see it, for the bay was
full of little boats, the shore so picturesque, and a rosy sky
overhead. I never shall forget it.
  At Queenstown one of my new acquaintances left us- Mr. Lennox- and
when I said something about the Lakes of Killarney, he sighed and
sung, with a look at me-

          "Oh, have you e'er heard of Kate Kearney?
           She lives on the banks of Killarney;
           From the glance of her eye,
           Shun danger and fly,
           For fatal's the glance of Kate Kearney."

Wasn't that nonsensical?
  We only stopped at Liverpool a few hours. It's a dirty, noisy place,
and I was glad to leave it. Uncle rushed out and bought a pair of
dog-skin gloves, some ugly, thick shoes, and an umbrella, and got
shaved a la mutton-chop, the first thing. Then he flattered himself
that he looked like a true Briton; but the first time he had the mud
cleaned off his shoes, the little bootblack knew that an American
stood in them, and said, with a grin, "There yer har, sir. I've give
'em the latest Yankee shine." It amused uncle immensely. Oh, I must
tell you what that absurd Lennox did! He got his friend Ward, who came
on with us, to order a bouquet for me, and the first thing I saw in my
room was a lovely one, with "Robert Lennox's compliments," on the
card. Wasn't that fun, girls? I like travelling.
  I never shall get to London if I don't hurry. The trip was like
riding through a long picture-gallery, full of lovely landscapes.
The farmhouses were my delight; with thatched roofs, ivy up to the
eaves, latticed windows, and stout women with rosy children at the
doors. The very cattle looked more tranquil than ours, as they stood
knee-deep in clover, and the hens had a contented cluck, as if they
never got nervous, like Yankee biddies. Such perfect color I never
saw- the grass so green, sky so blue, grain so yellow, woods so
dark- I was in a rapture all the way. So was Flo; and we kept bouncing
from one side to the other, trying to see everything while we were
whisking along at the rate of sixty miles an hour. Aunt was tired
and went to sleep, but uncle read his guide-book and wouldn't be
astonished at anything. This is the way we went on, Amy flying up-
"Oh, that must he Kenilworth, that gray place among the trees!" Flo,
darting to my window- "How sweet! We must go there some time, won't
we, papa?" Uncle, calmly admiring his boots- "No, my dear, not
unless you want beer; that's a brewery."
  A pause- then Flo cried out, "Bless me, there's a gallows and a
man going up." "Where, where?" shrieks Amy, staring out at two tall
posts with a cross-beam and some dangling chains. "A colliery,"
remarks uncle, with a twinkle of the eye. "Here's a lovely flock of
lambs all lying down," says Amy. "See, papa, aren't they pretty!"
added Flo sentimentally. "Geese, young ladies," returns uncle, in a
tone that keeps us quiet till Flo settles down to enjoy "The
Flirtations of Capt. Cavendish," and I have the scenery all to myself.
  Of course it rained when we got to London, and there was nothing
to be seen but fog and umbrellas. We rested, unpacked, and shopped a
little between the showers. Aunt Mary got me some new things, for I
came off in such a hurry I wasn't half ready. A white hat and blue
feather, a muslin dress to match, and the loveliest mantle you ever
saw. Shopping in Regent Street is perfectly splendid; things seem so
cheap- nice ribbons only sixpence a yard. I laid in a stock, but shall
get my gloves in Paris. Doesn't that sound sort of elegant and rich?
  Flo and I, for the fun of it, ordered a hansom cab, while aunt and
uncle were out, and went for a drive, though we learned afterward that
it wasn't the thing for young ladies to ride in them alone. It was
so droll! for when we were shut in by the wooden apron, the man
drove so fast that Flo was frightened, and told me to stop him. But he
was up outside behind somewhere, and I couldn't get at him. He
didn't hear me call, nor see me flap my parasol in front, and there we
were, quite helpless, rattling away, and whirling around corners at
a break-neck pace. At last, in my despair, I saw a little door in
the roof, and on poking it open, a red eye appeared, and a beery voice
said-
  "Now then, mum?"
  I gave my order as soberly as I could, and slamming down the door,
with an, "Aye, aye, mum," the man made his horse walk, as if going
to a funeral. I poked again, and said, "A little faster"; then off
he went, helter-skelter, as before, and we resigned ourselves to our
fate.
  To-day was fair, and we went to Hyde Park, close by for we are
more aristocratic than we look. The Duke of Devonshire lives near. I
often see his footmen lounging at the back gate; and the Duke of
Wellington's house is not far off. Such sights as I saw, my dear! It
was as good as Punch, for there were fat dowagers rolling about in
their red and yellow coaches, with gorgeous Jeameses in silk stockings
and velvet coats, up behind, and powdered coachmen in front. Smart
maids, with the rosiest children I ever saw; handsome girls, looking
half asleep; dandies, in queer English hats and lavender kids,
lounging about, and tall soldiers, in short red jackets and muffin
caps stuck on one side, looking so funny I longed to sketch them.
  Rotten Row means "Route de Roi," or the king's way; but now it's
more like a riding-school than anything else. The horses are splendid,
and the men, especially the grooms, ride well; but the women are
stiff, and bounce, which isn't according to our rules. I longed to
show them a tearing American gallop, for they trotted solemnly up
and down, in their scant habits and high hats, looking like the
women in a toy Noah's Ark. Every one rides- old men, stout ladies,
little children- and the young folks do a deal of flirting here; I saw
a pair exchange rosebuds, for it's the thing to wear in the
button-hole, and I thought it rather a nice little idea.
  In the p.m. to Westminster Abbey; but don't expect me to describe
it, that's impossible- so I'll only say it was sublime! This evening
we are going to see Fechter, which will be an appropriate end to the
happiest day of my life.

                                                       MIDNIGHT.

  It's very late, but I can't let my letter go in the morning
without telling you what happened last evening. Who do you think
came in, as we were at tea? Laurie's English friends, Fred and Frank
Vaughn! I was so surprised, for I shouldn't have known them but for
the cards. Both are tall fellows, with whiskers; Fred handsome in
the English style, and Frank much better, for he only limps
slightly, and uses no crutches. They had heard from Laurie where we
were to be, and came to ask us to their house; but uncle won't go,
so we shall return the call, and see them as we can. They went to
the theatre with us, and we did have such a good time, for Frank
devoted himself to Flo, and Fred and I talked over past, present,
and future fun as if we had known each other all our days. Tell Beth
Frank asked for her, and was sorry to hear of her ill health. Fred
laughed when I spoke of Jo, and sent his "respectful compliments to
the big hat." Neither of them had forgotten Camp Laurence, or the
fun we had there. What ages ago it seems, doesn't it?
  Aunt is tapping on the wall for the third time, so I must stop. I
really feel like a dissipated London fine lady, writing here so
late, with my room full of pretty things, and my head a jumble of
parks, theatres, new gowns, and gallant creatures who say "Ah!" and
twirl their blond mustaches with the true English lordliness. I long
to see you all, and in spite of my nonsense am, as ever, your loving
                                                            AMY.

                                                          PARIS.
  DEAR GIRLS:
    In my last I told you about our London visit- how kind the Vaughns
were, and what pleasant parties they made for us. I enjoyed the
trips to Hampton Court and the Kensington Museum more than anything
else- for at Hampton I saw Raphael's cartoons, and, at the Museum,
rooms full of pictures by Turner, Lawrence, Reynolds, Hogarth, and the
other great creatures. The day in Richmond Park was charming, for we
had a regular English picnic, and I had more splendid oaks and
groups of deer than I could copy; also heard a nightingale, and saw
larks go up. We "did" London to our hearts' content, thanks to Fred
and Frank, and were sorry to go away; for, though English people are
slow to take you in, when they once make up their minds to do it
they cannot be outdone in hospitality, I think. The Vaughns hope to
meet us in Rome next winter, and I shall be dreadfully disappointed if
they don't, for Grace and I are great friends, and the boys very
nice fellows- especially Fred.
  Well, we were hardly settled here, when he turned up again, saying
he had come for a holiday, and was going to Switzerland. Aunt looked
sober at first, but he was so cool about it she couldn't say a word;
and now we get on nicely, and are very glad he came, for he speaks
French like a native, and I don't know what we should do without
him. Uncle doesn't know ten words, and insists on talking English very
loud, as if that would make people understand him. Aunt's
pronunciation is old-fashioned, and Flo and I, though we flattered
ourselves that we knew a good deal, find we don't, and are very
grateful to have Fred do the "parley vooing," as uncle calls it.
  Such delightful times as we are having! sight-seeing from morning
till night, stopping for nice lunches in the gay cafes, and meeting
with all sorts of droll adventures. Rainy days I spend in the
Louvre, revelling in pictures. Jo would turn up her naughty nose at
some of the finest, because she has no soul for art; but I have, and
I'm cultivating eye and taste as fast as I can. She would like the
relics of great people better, for I've seen her Napoleon's cocked hat
and gray coat, his baby's cradle and his old toothbrush; also Marie
Antoinette's little shoe, the ring of Saint Denis, Charlemagne's
sword, and many other interesting things. I'll talk for hours about
them when I come, but haven't time to write.
  The Palais Royal is a heavenly place- so full of bijouterie and
lovely things that I'm nearly distracted because I can't buy them.
Fred wanted to get me some, but of course I didn't allow it. Then
the Bois and the Champs Elysees are tres magnifique. I've seen the
imperial family several times- the emperor an ugly, hard-looking
man, the empress pale and pretty, but dressed in bad taste, I thought-
purple dress, green hat, and yellow gloves. Little Nap. is a
handsome boy, who sits chatting to his tutor, and kisses his hand to
the people as he passes in his four-horse barouche, with postilions in
red satin jackets, and a mounted guard before and behind.
  We often walk in the Tuileries Gardens, for they are lovely,
though the antique Luxembourg Gardens suit me better. Pere la Chaise
is very curious, for many of the tombs are like small rooms, and,
looking in, one sees a table, with image, or pictures of the dead, and
chairs for the mourners to sit in when they come to lament. That is so
Frenchy.
  Our rooms are on the Rue de Rivoli, and, sitting in the balcony,
we look up and down the long, brilliant street. It is so pleasant that
we spend our evenings talking there, when too tired with our day's
work to go out. Fred is very entertaining, and is altogether the
most agreeable young man I ever knew- except Laurie, whose manners are
more charming. I wish Fred was dark, for I don't fancy light men;
however, the Vaughns are very rich, and come of an excellent family,
so I won't find fault with their yellow hair, as my own is yellower.
  Next week we are off to Germany and Switzerland; and, as we shall
travel fast, I shall only be able to give you hasty letters. I keep my
diary, and try to "remember correctly and describe clearly all that
I see and admire," as father advised. It is good practice for me, and,
with my sketchbook, will give you a better idea of my tour than
these scribbles.
  Adieu; I embrace you tenderly.
                                                     VOTRE AMIE.

                                                     HEIDELBERG.
  MY DEAR MAMMA:
    Having a quiet hour before we leave for Berne, I'll try to tell
you what has happened, for some of it is very important, as you will
see.
  The sail up the Rhine was perfect, and I just sat and enjoyed it
with all my might. Get father's old guide-books, and read about it;
I haven't words beautiful enough to describe it. At Coblentz we had
a lovely time, for some students from Bonn, with whom Fred got
acquainted on the boat, gave us a serenade. It was a moonlight
night, and, about one o'clock, Flo and I were waked by the most
delicious music under our windows. We flew up, and hid behind the
curtains; but sly peeps showed us Fred and the students singing away
down below. It was the most romantic thing I ever saw- the river,
the bridge of boats, the great fortress opposite, moonlight,
everywhere, and music fit to melt a heart of stone.
  When they were done we threw down some flowers, and saw them
scramble for them, kiss their hands to the invisible ladies, and go
laughing away- to smoke and drink beer, I suppose. Next morning Fred
showed me one of the crumpled flowers in his vest-pocket, and looked
very sentimental. I laughed at him, and said I didn't throw it, but
Flo, which seemed to disgust him, for he tossed it out of the
window, and turned sensible again. I'm afraid I'm going to have
trouble with that boy, it begins to look like it.
  The baths at Nassau were very gay, so was Baden-Baden, where Fred
lost some money, and I scolded him. He needs some one to look after
him when Frank is not with him. Kate said once she hoped he'd marry
soon, and I quite agree with her that it would be well for him.
Frankfort was delightful; I saw Goethe's house, Schiller's statue, and
Dannecker's famous "Ariadne." It was very lovely, but I should have
enjoyed it more if I had known the story better. I didn't like to ask,
as every one knew it or pretended they did. I wish Jo would tell me
all about it; I ought to have read more, for I find I don't know
anything, and it mortifies me.
  Now comes the serious part- for it happened here, and Fred is just
gone. He has been so kind and jolly that we all got quite fond of him;
I never thought of anything but a travelling friendship, till the
serenade night. Since then I've begun to feel that the moonlight walk,
balcony talks, and daily adventures were something more to him than
fun. I haven't flirted, mother, truly, but remember what you said to
me, and have done my very best. I can't help it if people like me; I
don't try to make them, and it worries me if I don't care for them,
though Jo says I haven't got any heart. Now I know mother will shake
her head, and the girls say, "Oh, the mercenary little wretch!" but
I've made up my mind, and, if Fred asks me, I shall accept him, though
I'm not madly in love. I like him, and we get on comfortably together.
He is handsome, young, clever enough, and very rich- ever so much
richer than the Laurences. I don't think his family would object,
and I should be very happy, for they are all kind, well-bred, generous
people, and they like me. Fred, as the eldest twin, will have the
estate, I suppose, and such a splendid one as it is! A city house in a
fashionable street, not so showy as our big houses, but twice as
comfortable, and full of solid luxury, such as English people
believe in. I like it, for it's genuine. I've seen the plate, the
family jewels, the old servants, and pictures of the country place,
with its park, great house, lovely grounds, and fine horses. Oh, it
would be all I should ask! and I'd rather have it than any title
such as girls snap up so readily, and find nothing behind. I may be
mercenary, but I hate poverty, and don't mean to bear it a minute
longer than I can help. One of us must marry well; Meg didn't, Jo
won't, Beth can't yet, so I shall, and make everything cosy all
around. I wouldn't marry a man I hated or despised. You may be sure of
that; and, though Fred is not my model hero, he does very well, and,
in time, I should get fond enough of him if he was very fond of me,
and let me do just as I liked. So I've been turning the matter over in
my mind the last week, for it was impossible to help seeing that
Fred liked me. He said nothing, but little things showed it; he
never goes with Flo, always gets on my side of the carriage, table, or
promenade, looks sentimental when we are alone, and frowns at any
one else who ventures to speak to me. Yesterday, at dinner, when an
Austrian officer stared at us, and then said something to his
friend- a rakish-looking baron- about "ein wunderschones Blondchen,"
Fred looked as fierce as a lion, and cut his meat so savagely, it
nearly flew off his plate. He isn't one of the cool, stiff Englishmen,
but is rather peppery, for he has Scotch blood in him, as one might
guess from his bonnie blue eyes.
  Well, last evening we went up to the castle about sunset- at least
all of us but Fred, who was to meet us there, after going to the Poste
Restante for letters. We had a charming time poking about the ruins,
the vaults where the monster tun is, and the beautiful gardens made by
the elector, long ago, for his English wife. I liked the great terrace
best, for the view was divine; so, while the rest went to see the
rooms inside, I sat there trying to sketch the gray stone lion's
head on the wall, with scarlet woodbine sprays hanging round it. I
felt as if I'd got into a romance, sitting there, watching the
Neckar rolling through the valley, listening to the music of the
Austrian hand below, and waiting for my lover, like a real
story-book girl. I had a feeling that something was going to happen,
and I was ready for it. I didn't feel blushy or quakey, but quite
cool, and only a little excited.
  By and by I heard Fred's voice, and then he came hurrying through
the great arch to find me. He looked so troubled that I forgot all
about myself, and asked what the matter was. He said he'd just got a
letter begging him to come home, for Frank was very ill; so he was
going at once, in the night train, and only had time to say good-by. I
was very sorry for him, and disappointed for myself, but only for a
minute, because he said, as he shook hands- and said it in a way
that I could not mistake- "I shall soon come back; you won't forget
me, Amy?"
  I didn't promise him anything, but I looked at him, and he seemed
satisfied, and there was no time for anything but messages and
good-byes, for he was off in an hour, and we all miss him very much. I
knew he wanted to speak, but I think, from something he once hinted,
that he had promised his father not to do anything of the sort yet
awhile, for he is a rash boy, and the old gentleman dreads a foreign
daughter-in-law. We shall soon meet in Rome; and then, if I don't
change my mind, I'll say "Yes, thank you," when he says "Will you,
please?"
  Of course this is all very private, but I wish you to know what
was going on. Don't be anxious about me; remember I am your "prudent
Amy," and be sure I will do nothing rashly. Send me as much advice
as you like; I'll use it if I can. I wish I could see you for a good
talk, Marmee. Love and trust me.
  Ever your                                    AMY.
                             32
                       Tender Troubles

  "JO, I'm anxious about Beth."
  "Why, mother, she has seemed unusually well since the babies came."
  "It's not her health that troubles me now; it's her spirits. I'm
sure there is something on her mind, and I want you to discover what
it is."
  "What makes you think so, mother?"
  "She sits alone a good deal, and doesn't talk to her father as
much as she used. I found her crying over the babies the other day.
When she sings, the songs are always sad ones, and now and then I
see a look in her face that I don't understand. This isn't like
Beth, and it worries me."
  "Have you asked her about it?"
  "I have tried once or twice; but she either evaded my questions,
or looked so distressed that I stopped. I never force my children's
confidence, and I seldom have to wait for it long."
  Mrs. March glanced at Jo as she spoke, but the face opposite
seemed quite unconscious of any secret disquietude but Beth's; and,
after sewing thoughtfully for a minute, Jo said-
  "I think she is growing up, and so begins to dream dreams, and
have hopes and fears and fidgets, without knowing why, or being able
to explain them. Why, mother, Beth's eighteen, but we don't realize
it, and treat her like a child, forgetting she's a woman."
  "So she is. Dear heart, how fast you do grow up," returned her
mother, with a sigh and a smile.
  "Can't be helped, Marmee, so you must resign yourself to all sorts
of worries, and let your birds hop out of the nest, one by one. I
promise never to hop very far, if that is any comfort to you."
  "It is a great comfort, Jo; I always feel strong when you are at
home, now Meg is gone. Beth is too feeble and Amy too young to
depend upon; but when the tug comes, you are always ready."
  "Why, you know I don't mind hard jobs much, and there must always be
one scrub in a family. Amy is splendid in fine works, and I'm not; but
I feel in my element when all the carpets are to be taken up, or
half the family fall sick at once. Amy is distinguishing herself
abroad; but if anything is amiss at home, I'm your man."
  "I leave Beth to your hands, then, for she will open her tender
little heart to her Jo sooner than to any one else. Be very kind,
and don't let her think any one watches or talks about her. If she
only would get quite strong and cheerful again, I shouldn't have a
wish in the world."
  "Happy woman! I've got heaps."
  "My dear, what are they?"
  "I'll settle Bethy's troubles, and then I'll tell you mine. They are
not very wearing, so they'll keep"; and Jo stitched away, with a
wise nod which set her mother's heart at rest about her, for the
present at least.
  While apparently absorbed in her own affairs, Jo watched Beth;
and, after many conflicting conjectures, finally settled upon one
which seemed to explain the change in her. A slight incident gave Jo
the clue to the mystery, she thought, and lively fancy, loving heart
did the rest. She was affecting to write busily one Saturday
afternoon, when she and Beth were alone together; yet as she
scribbled, she kept her eye on her sister, who seemed unusually quiet.
Sitting at the window, Beth's work often dropped into her lap, and she
leaned her head upon her hand, in a dejected attitude, while her
eyes rested on the dull, autumnal landscape. Suddenly some one
passed below, whistling like an operatic blackbird, and a voice called
out-
  "All serene! Coming in to-night."
  Beth started, leaned forward, smiled and nodded, watched the
passer-by till his quick tramp died away, then said softly, as if to
herself-
  "How strong and well and happy that dear boy looks."
  "Hum!" said Jo, still intent upon her sister's face; for the
bright color faded as quickly as it came, the smile vanished, and
presently a tear lay shining on the window-ledge. Beth whisked it off,
and glanced apprehensively at Jo; but she was scratching away at a
tremendous rate, apparently engrossed in "Olympia's Oath." The instant
Beth turned, Jo began her watch again, saw Beth's hand go quietly to
her eyes more than once, and, in her half-averted face, read a
tender sorrow that made her own eyes fill. Fearing to betray
herself, she slipped away, murmuring something about needing more
paper.
  "Mercy on me, Beth loves Laurie!" she said, sitting down in her
own room, pale with the shock of the discovery which she believed
she had just made. "I never dreamt of such a thing. What will mother
say? I wonder if he-" there Jo stopped, and turned scarlet with a
sudden thought. "If he shouldn't love back again, how dreadful it
would be. He must; I'll make him!" and she shook her head
threateningly at the picture of the mischievous-looking boy laughing
at her from the wall. "Oh dear, we are growing up with a vengeance.
Here's Meg married and a mamma, Amy flourishing away at Paris, and
Beth in love. I'm the only one that has sense enough to keep out of
mischief." Jo thought intently for a minute, with her eyes fixed on
the picture; then she smoothed out her wrinkled forehead, and said,
with a decided nod at the face opposite, "No, thank you, sir; you're
very charming, but you've no more stability than a weather-cock; so
you needn't write touching notes, and smile in that insinuating way,
for it won't do a bit of good, and I won't have it."
  Then she sighed, and fell into a reverie, from which she did not
wake till the early twilight sent her down to take new observations,
which only confirmed her suspicion. Though Laurie flirted with Amy and
joked with Jo, his manner to Beth had always been peculiarly kind
and gentle, but so was everybody's; therefore, no one thought of
imagining that he cared more for her than for the others. Indeed, a
general impression had prevailed in the family, of late, that "our
boy" was getting fonder than ever of Jo, who, however, wouldn't hear a
word upon the subject, and scolded violently if any one dared to
suggest it. If they had known the various tender passages of the
past year, or rather attempts at tender passages which had been nipped
in the bud, they would have had the immense satisfaction of saying, "I
told you so." But Jo hated "philandering," and wouldn't allow it,
always having a joke or a smile ready at the least sign of impending
danger.
  When Laurie first went to college, he fell in love about once a
month; but these small flames were as brief as ardent, did no
damage, and much amused Jo, who took great interest in the
alternations of hope, despair, and resignation, which were confided to
her in their weekly conferences. But there came a time when Laurie
ceased to worship at many shrines, hinted darkly at one
all-absorbing passion, and indulged occasionally in Byronic fits of
gloom. Then he avoided the tender subject altogether, wrote
philosophical notes to Jo, turned studious, and gave out that he was
going to "dig," intending to graduate in a blaze of glory. This suited
the young lady better than twilight confidences, tender pressures of
the hand, and eloquent glances of the eye; for with Jo, brain
developed earlier than heart, and she preferred imaginary heroes to
real ones, because, when tired of them, the former could be shut up in
the tin-kitchen till called for, and the latter were less manageable.
  Things were in this state when the grand discovery was made, and
Jo watched Laurie that night as she had never done before. If she
had not got the new idea into her head, she would have seen nothing
unusual in the fact that Beth was very quiet, and Laurie very kind
to her. But having given the rein to her lively fancy, it galloped
away with her at a great pace; and common sense, being rather weakened
by a long course of romance writing, did not come to the rescue. As
usual, Beth lay on the sofa, and Laurie sat in a low chair close by,
amusing her with all sorts of gossip; for she depended on her weekly
"spin," and he never disappointed her. But that evening, Jo fancied
that Beth's eyes rested on the lively, dark face beside her with
peculiar pleasure, and that she listened with intense interest to an
account of some exciting cricket-match, though the phrases, "caught
off a tice," "stumped off his ground," and "the leg hit for three,"
were as intelligible to her as Sanscrit. She also fancied, having
set her heart upon seeing it, that she saw a certain increase of
gentleness in Laurie's manner, that he dropped his voice now and then,
laughed less than usual, was a little absent-minded, and settled the
afghan over Beth's feet with an assiduity that was really almost
tender.
  "Who knows? stranger things have happened," thought Jo, as she
fussed about the room. "She will make quite an angel of him, and he
will make life delightfully easy and pleasant for the dear, if they
only love each other. I don't see how he can help it; and I do believe
he would if the rest of us were out of the way."
  As every one was out of the way but herself, Jo began to feel that
she ought to dispose of herself with all speed. But where should she
go? and burning to lay herself upon the shrine of sisterly devotion,
she sat down to settle that point.
  Now, the old sofa was a regular patriarch of a sofa- long, broad,
well-cushioned, and low; a trifle shabby, as well it might be, for the
girls had slept and sprawled on it as babies, fished over the back,
rode on the arms, and had menageries under it as children, and
rested tired heads, dreamed dreams, and listened to tender talk on
it as young women. They all loved it, for it was a family refuge,
and one corner had always been Jo's favorite lounging-place. Among the
many pillows that adorned the venerable couch was one, hard, round,
covered with prickly horsehair, and furnished with a knobby button
at each end; this repulsive pillow was her especial property, being
used as a weapon of defence, a barricade, or a stern preventive of too
much slumber.
  Laurie knew this pillow well, and had cause to regard it with deep
aversion, having been unmercifully pummelled with it in former days
when romping was allowed, and now frequently debarred by it from
taking the seat he most coveted, next to Jo in the sofa corner. If
"the sausage" as they called it, stood on end, it was a sign that he
might approach and repose; but if it lay flat across the sofa, woe
to the man, woman, or child who dared disturb it! That evening Jo
forgot to barricade her corner, and had not been in her seat five
minutes, before a massive form appeared beside her, and, with both
arms spread over the sofa-back, both long legs stretched out before
him, Laurie exclaimed, with a sigh of satisfaction-
  "Now, this is filling at the price."
  "No slang," snapped Jo, slamming down the pillow. But it was too
late, there was no room for it; and, coasting onto the floor, it
disappeared in a most mysterious manner.
  "Come, Jo, don't be thorny. After studying himself to a skeleton all
the week, a fellow deserves petting, and ought to get it."
  "Beth will pet you; I'm busy."
  "No, she's not to be bothered with me; but you like that sort of
thing, unless you suddenly lost your taste for it. Have you? Do you
hate your boy, and want to fire pillows at him?"
  Anything more wheedlesome than that touching appeal was seldom
heard, but Jo quenched "her boy" by turning on him with the stern
query, "How many bouquets have you sent Miss Randal this week?"
  "Not one, upon my word. She's engaged. Now then."
  "I'm glad of it; that's one of your foolish extravagances- sending
flowers and things to girls for whom you don't care two pins,"
continued Jo reprovingly.
  "Sensible girls, for whom I do care whole papers of pins, won't
let me send them 'flowers and things,' so what can I do? My feelings
must have a went."
  "Mother doesn't approve of flirting, even in fun; and you do flirt
desperately, Teddy."
  "I'd give anything if I could answer, 'So do you.' As I can't,
I'll merely say that I don't see any harm in that pleasant little
game, if all parties understand that it's only play."
  "Well, it does look pleasant, but I can't learn how it's done,
I've tried, because one feels awkward in company, not to do as
everybody else is doing; but I don't seem to get on," said Jo,
forgetting to play Mentor.
  "Take lessons of Amy; she has a regular talent for it."
  "Yes, she does it very prettily, and never seems to go too far. I
suppose it's natural to some people to please without trying, and
others to always say and do the wrong thing in the wrong place."
  "I'm glad you can't flirt; it's really refreshing to see a sensible,
straight-forward girl, who can be jolly and kind without making a fool
of herself Between ourselves, Jo, some of the girls I know really do
go on at such a rate I'm ashamed of them. They don't mean any harm,
I'm sure; but if they knew how we fellows talked about them afterward,
they'd mend their ways, I fancy."
  "They do the same; and, as their tongues are the sharpest, you
fellows get the worst of it, for you are as silly as they, every
bit. If you behaved properly, they would; but, knowing you like
their nonsense, they kept it up, and then you blame them."
  "Much you know about it, ma'am," said Laurie, in a superior tone.
"We don't like romps and flirts, though we may act as if we did
sometimes. The pretty, modest girls are never talked about, except
respectfully, among gentlemen. Bless your innocent soul! If you
could be in my place for a month you'd see things that would
astonish you a trifle. Upon my word, when I see one of those
harum-scarum girls, I always want to say with our friend Cock Robin-

                  "'Out upon you, fie upon you,
                    Bold-faced jig!'"

  It was impossible to help laughing at the funny conflict between
Laurie's chivalrous reluctance to speak ill of womankind, and his very
natural dislike of the unfeminine folly of which fashionable society
showed him many samples. Jo knew that "young Laurence" was regarded as
a most eligible parti by worldly mammas, was much smiled upon by their
daughters, and flattered enough by ladies of all ages to make a
coxcomb of him; so she watched him rather jealously, fearing he
would be spoilt, and rejoiced more than she confessed to find that
he still believed in modest girls. Returning suddenly to her
admonitory tone, she said, dropping her voice, "If you must have a
'went,' Teddy, go and devote yourself to one of the 'pretty, modest
girls' whom you do respect, and not waste your time with the silly
ones."
  "You really advise it?" and Laurie looked at her with an odd mixture
of anxiety and merriment in his face.
  "Yes, I do; but you'd better wait till you are through college, on
the whole, and be fitting yourself for the place meantime. You're
not half good enough for- well, whoever the modest girl may be," and
Jo looked a little queer likewise, for a name had almost escaped her.
  "That I'm not!" acquiesced Laurie, with an expression of humility
quite new to him, as he dropped his eyes, and absently wound Jo's
apron-tassel round his finger.
  "Mercy on us, this will never do," thought Jo; adding aloud, "Go and
sing to me. I'm dying for some music, and always like yours."
  "I'd rather stay here, thank you."
  "Well, you can't; there isn't room. Go and make yourself useful,
since you are too big to be ornamental. I thought you hated to be tied
to a woman's apron-string?" retorted Jo, quoting certain rebellious
words of his own.
  "Ah, that depends on who wears the apron!" and Laurie gave an
audacious tweak at the tassel.
  "Are you going?" demanded Jo, diving for the Pillow.
  He fled at once, and the minute it was well "Up with the bonnets
of bonnie Dundee," she slipped away, to return no more till the
young gentleman had departed in high dudgeon.
  Jo lay long awake that night, and was just dropping off when the
sound of a stifled sob made her fly to Beth's bedside, with the
anxious inquiry, "Why is it, dear?"
  "I thought you were asleep," sobbed Beth.
  "Is it the old pain, my precious?"
  "No; it's a new one; but I can bear it," and Beth tried to check her
tears.
  "Tell me all about it, and let me cure it as I often did the other."
  "You can't; there is no cure." There Beth's voice gave away, and,
clinging to her sister, she cried so despairingly that Jo was
frightened.
  "Where is it? Shall I call mother?"
  Beth did not answer the first question; but in the dark one hand
went involuntarily to her heart, as if the pain were there; with the
other she held Jo fast, whispering eagerly, "No, no, don't call her,
don't tell her. I shall be better soon. Lie down here and 'poor' my
head. I'll be quiet, and go to sleep; indeed I will."
  Jo obeyed; but as her hand went softly to and fro across Beth's
hot forehead and wet eyelids, her heart was very full, and she
longed to speak. But young as she was, Jo had learned that hearts,
like flowers, cannot be rudely handled, but must open naturally; so,
though she believed she knew the cause of Beth's new pain, she only
said, in her tenderest tone, "Does anything trouble you, deary?"
  "Yes, Jo," after a long pause.
  "Wouldn't it comfort you to tell me what it is?"
  "Not now, not yet."
  "Then I won't ask; but remember, Bethy, that mother and Jo are
always glad to hear and help you, if they can."
  "I know it. I'll tell you by and by."
  "Is the pain better now?"
  "Oh, yes, much better; you are so comfortable, Jo!"
  "Go to sleep, dear; I'll stay with you."
  So cheek to cheek they fell asleep, and on the morrow Beth seemed
quite herself again; for at eighteen, neither heads nor hearts ache
long, and a loving word can medicine most ills.
  But Jo had made up her mind, and, after pondering over a project for
some days, she confided it to her mother.
  "You asked me the other day what my wishes were. I'll tell you one
of them, Marmee," she began, as they sat alone together. "I want to go
away somewhere this winter for a change."
  "Why, Jo?" and her mother looked up quickly, as if the words
suggested a double meaning.
  With her eyes on her work, Jo answered soberly, "I want something
new; I feel restless, and anxious to be seeing, doing, and learning
more than I am. I brood too much over my own small affairs, and need
stirring up, so, as I can be spared this winter, I'd like to hop a
little way, and try my wings."
  "Where will you hop?"
  "To New York. I had a bright idea yesterday, and this is it. You
know Mrs. Kirke wrote to you for some respectable young person to
teach her children and sew. It's rather hard to find just the thing,
but I think I should suit if I tried."
  "My dear, go out to service in that great boarding-house!" and
Mrs. March looked surprised, but not displeased.
  "It's not exactly going out to service; for Mrs. Kirke is your
friend- the kindest soul that ever lived- and would make things
pleasant for me, I know. Her family is separate from the rest, and
no one knows me there. I don't care if they do; it's honest work,
and I'm not ashamed of it."
  "Nor I; but your writing?"
  "All the better for the change. I shall see and hear new things, get
new ideas, and, even if I haven't much time there, I shall bring
home quantities of material for my rubbish."
  "I have no doubt of it; but are these your only reasons for this
sudden fancy?"
  "No, mother."
  "May I know the others?"
  Jo looked up and Jo looked down, then said slowly, with sudden color
in her cheeks, "It may be vain and wrong to say it, but- I'm afraid-
Laurie is getting too fond of me."
  "Then you don't care for him in the way it is evident he begins to
care for you?" and Mrs. March looked anxious as she put the question.
  "Mercy no! I love the dear boy, as I always have, and am immensely
proud of him; but as for anything more, it's out of the question."
  "I'm glad of that, Jo."
  "Why, please?"
  "Because, dear, I don't think you suited to one another. As
friends you are very happy, and your frequent quarrels soon blow over;
but I fear you would both rebel if you were mated for life. You are
too much alike. and too fond of freedom, not to mention hot tempers
and strong wills, to get on happily together, in a relation which
needs infinite patience and forbearance, as well as love."
  "That's just the feeling I had, though I couldn't express it. I'm
glad you think he is only beginning to care for me. It would trouble
me sadly to make him unhappy; for I couldn't fall in love with the
dear old fellow merely out of gratitude, could I?"
  "You are sure of his feeling for you?"
  The color deepened in Jo's cheeks, as she answered, with the look of
mingled pleasure, pride, and pain which young girls wear when speaking
of first lovers-
  "I'm afraid it is so, mother; he hasn't said anything, but he
looks a great deal. I think I had better go away before it comes to
anything."
  "I agree with you, and if it can be managed you shall go."
  Jo looked relieved, and, after a pause, said, smiling, "How Mrs.
Moffat would wonder at your want of management, if she knew; and how
she will rejoice that Annie still may hope."
  "Ah, Jo, mothers may differ in their management, but the hope is the
same in all- the desire to see their children happy. Meg is so, and
I am content with her success. You I leave to enjoy your liberty
till you tire of it; for only then will you find that there is
something sweeter. Amy is my chief care now, but her good sense will
help her. For Beth, I indulge no hopes except that she may be well. By
the way, she seems brighter this last day or two. Have you spoken to
her?"
  "Yes; she owned she had a trouble, and promised to tell me by and
by. I said no more, for I think I know it"; and Jo told her little
story.
  Mrs. March shook her head, and did not take so romantic a view of
the case, but looked grave, and repeated her opinion that, for
Laurie's sake, Jo should go away for a time.
  "Let us say nothing about it to him till the plan is settled; then
I'll run away before he can collect his wits and be tragical. Beth
must think I'm going to please myself, as I am, for I can't talk about
Laurie to her; but she can pet and comfort him after I'm gone, and
so cure him of this romantic notion. He's been through so many
little trials of the sort, he's used to it, and will soon get over his
love-lornity."
  Jo spoke hopefully, but could not rid herself of the foreboding fear
that this "little trial" would be harder than the others, and that
Laurie would not get over his "love-lornity" as easily as heretofore.
  The plan was talked over in a family council, and agreed upon; for
Mrs. Kirke gladly accepted Jo, and promised to make a pleasant home
for her. The teaching would render her independent; and such leisure
as she got might be made profitable by writing, while the new scenes
and society would be both useful and agreeable. Jo liked the
prospect and was eager to be gone, for the home-nest was growing too
narrow for her restless nature and adventurous spirit. When all was
settled, with fear and trembling she told Laurie; but to her
surprise he took it very quietly. He had been graver than usual of
late, but very pleasant; and, when jokingly accused of turning over
a new leaf, he answered soberly, "So I am; and I mean this one shall
stay turned."
  Jo was very much relieved that one of his virtuous fits should
come on just then, and made her preparations with a lightened heart-
for Beth seemed more cheerful- and hoped she was doing the best for
all.
  "One thing I leave to your especial care," she said, the night
before she left.
  "You mean your papers?" asked Beth.
  "No, my boy. Be very good to him, won't you?"
  "Of course I will; but I can't fill your place, and he'll miss you
sadly."
  "It won't hurt him; so remember, I leave him in your charge, to
plague, pet, and keep in order."
  "I'll do my best, for your sake," promised Beth, wondering why Jo
looked at her so queerly.
  When Laurie said "Good-by," he whispered significantly, "It won't do
a bit of good, Jo. My eye is on you; so mind what you do, or I'll come
and bring you home."
                             33
                        Jo's Journal

                                             NEW YORK, NOVEMBER.
  DEAR MARMEE AND BETH:
    I'm going to write you a regular volume, for I've got heaps to
tell, though I'm not a fine young lady travelling on the continent.
When I lost sight of father's dear old face, I felt a trifle blue, and
might have shed a briny drop or two, if an Irish lady with four
small children, all crying more or less, hadn't diverted my mind;
for I amused myself by dropping gingerbread nuts over the seat every
time they opened their mouths to roar.
  Soon the sun came out, and taking it as a good omen, I cleared up
likewise, and enjoyed my journey with all my heart.
  Mrs. Kirke welcomed me so kindly I felt at home at once, even in
that big house full of strangers. She gave me a funny little
sky-parlor- all she had; but there is a stove in it, and a nice
table in a sunny window, so I can sit here and write whenever I
like. A fine view and a church-tower opposite atone for the many
stairs, and I took a fancy to my den on the spot. The nursery, where I
am to teach and sew, is a pleasant room next Mrs. Kirke's private
parlor, and the two little girls are pretty children- rather spoilt, I
fancy, but they took to me after telling them "The Seven Bad Pigs";
and I've no doubt I shall make a model governess.
  I am to have my meals with the children, if I prefer it to the great
table, and for the present I do, for I am bashful, though no one
will believe it.
  "Now, my dear, make yourself at home," said Mrs. K. in her
motherly way; "I'm on the drive from morning to night, as you may
suppose with such a family; but a great anxiety will be off my mind if
I know the children are safe with you. My rooms are always open to
you, and your own shall be as comfortable as I can make it. There
are some pleasant people in the house if you feel sociable, and your
evenings are always free. Come to me if anything goes wrong, and be as
happy as you can. There's the tea-bell; I must run and change my cap";
and off she bustled, leaving me to settle myself in my new nest.
  As I went downstairs, soon after, I saw something I liked. The
flights are very long in this tall house, and as I stood waiting at
the head of the third one for a little servant-girl to lumber up, I
saw a gentleman come along behind her, take the heavy hod of coal
out of her hand, carry it all the way up, put it down at a door near
by, and walk away, saying, with a kind nod and a foreign accent-
  "It goes better so. The little back is too young to haf such
heaviness."
  Wasn't it good of him? I like such things, for, as father says,
trifles show character. When I mentioned it to Mrs. K., that
evening, she laughed, and said, "That must have been Professor
Bhaer; he's always doing things of that sort."
  Mrs. K. told me he was from Berlin; very learned and good, but
poor as a church-mouse, and gives lessons to support himself and two
little orphan nephews whom he is educating here, according to the
wishes of his sister, who married an American. Not a very romantic
story, but it interested me; and I was glad to hear that Mrs. K. lends
him her parlor for some of his scholars. There is a glass door between
it and the nursery, and I mean to peep at him, and then I'll tell
you how he looks. He's almost forty, so it's no harm, Marmee.
  After tea and a go-to-bed romp with the little girls, I attacked the
big work-basket, and had a quiet evening chatting with my new
friend. I shall keep a journal-letter, and send it once a week; so
good-night, and more to-morrow.

                                                    TUESDAY EVE.

  Had a lively time in my seminary, this morning, for the children
acted like Sancho; and at one time I really thought I should shake
them all round. Some good angel inspired me to try gymnastics, and I
kept it up till they were glad to sit down and keep still. After
luncheon, the girl took them out for a walk, and I went to my
needlework, like little Mabel, "with a willing mind." I was thanking
my stars that I'd learned to make nice button-holes, when the
parlor-door opened and shut, and some one began to hum-

                  "Kennst du das Land,"

like a big bumble-bee. It was dreadfully improper, I know, but I
couldn't resist the temptation; and lifting one end of the curtain
before the glass door, I peeped in. Professor Bhaer was there; and
while he arranged his books, I a good look at him. A regular German-
rather stout, with brown hair tumbled all over his head, a bushy
beard, good nose, the kindest eyes I ever saw, and a splendid big
voice that does one's ears good, after our sharp or slipshod
American gabble. His clothes were rusty, his hands were large, and
he hadn't a really handsome feature in his face, except his
beautiful teeth; yet I liked him, for he had a fine head; his linen
was very nice, and he looked like a gentleman, though two buttons were
off his coat, and there was a patch on one shoe. He looked sober in
spite of his humming, till he went to the window to turn the
hyacinth bulbs toward the sun, and stroke the cat, who received him
like an old friend. Then he smiled; and when a tap came at the door,
called out in a loud, brisk tone-
  "Herein!"
  I was just going to run, when I caught sight of a morsel of a
child carrying a big book, and stopped to see what was going on.
  "Me wants my Bhaer," said the mite, slamming down her book, and
running to meet him.
  "Thou shalt haf thy Bhaer; come, then, and take a goot hug from him,
my Tina," said the Professor, catching her up, with a laugh, and
holding her so high over his head that she had to stoop her little
face to kiss him.
  "Now me mus tuddy my lessin," went on the funny little thing; so
he put her up at the table, opened the great dictionary she had
brought, and gave her a paper and pencil, and she scribbled away,
turning a leaf now and then, and passing her little fat finger down
the page, as if finding a word, so soberly that I nearly betrayed
myself by a laugh, while Mr. Bhaer stood stroking her pretty hair,
with a fatherly look, that made me think she must be his own, though
she looked more French than German.
  Another knock and the appearance of two young ladies sent me back to
my work, and there I virtuously remained through all the noise and
gabbling that went on next door. One of the girls kept laughing
affectedly, and saying "Now Professor," in a coquettish tone, and
the other pronounced her German with an accent that must have made
it hard for him to keep sober.
  Both seemed to try his patience sorely; for more than once I heard
him say emphatically, "No, no, it is not so; you haf not attend to
what I say"; and once there was a loud rap, as if he struck the
table with his book, followed by the despairing exclamation, "Prut! it
all goes bad this day."
  Poor man, I pitied him; and when the girls were gone, took just
one more peep, to see if he survived it. He seemed to have thrown
himself back in his chair, tired out, and sat there with his eyes shut
till the clock struck two, when he jumped up, put his books in his
pocket, as if ready for another lesson, and, taking little Tina, who
had fallen asleep on the sofa, in his arms, he carried her quietly
away. I fancy he has a hard life of it.
  Mrs. Kirke asked me if I wouldn't go down to the five o'clock
dinner; and, feeling a little bit homesick, I thought I would, just to
see what sort of people are under the same roof with me. So I made
myself respectable, and tried to slip in behind Mrs. Kirke; but as she
is short, and I'm tall, my efforts at concealment were rather a
failure. She gave me a seat by her, and after my face cooled off, I
plucked up courage, and looked about me. The long table was full,
and every one intent on getting their dinner- the gentlemen
especially, who seemed to be eating on time, for they bolted in
every sense of the word, vanishing as soon as they were done. There
was the usual assortment of young men absorbed in themselves; young
couples absorbed in each other; married ladies in their babies, and
old gentlemen in politics. I don't think I shall care to have much
to do with any of them, except one sweet-faced maiden lady, who
looks as if she had something in her.
  Cast away at the very bottom of the table was the Professor,
shouting answers to the questions of a very inquisitive, deaf old
gentleman on one side, and talking philosophy with a Frenchman on
the other. If Amy had been here, she'd have turned her back on him
forever, because, sad to relate, he had a great appetite, and
shovelled in his dinner in a manner which would have horrified "her
ladyship." I didn't mind, for I like "to see folks eat with a relish,"
as Hannah says, and the poor man must have needed a deal of food after
teaching idiots all day.
  As I went upstairs after dinner, two of the young men were
settling their hats before the hall-mirror, and I heard one say low to
the other, "Who's the new party?"
  "Governess, or something of that sort."
  "What the deuce is she at our table for?"
  "Friend of the old lady's."
  "Handsome head, but no style."
  "Not a bit of it. Give us a light and come on."
  I felt angry at first, and then I didn't care, for a governess is as
good as a clerk, and I've got sense, if I haven't style, which is more
than some people have, judging from the remarks of the elegant
beings who clattered away, smoking like bad chimneys. I hate
ordinary people!

                                                       THURSDAY.

  Yesterday was a quiet day, spent in teaching, sewing, and writing in
my little room, which is very cosy, with a light and fire. I picked up
a few bits of news, and was introduced to the Professor. It seems that
Tina is the child of the Frenchwoman who does the fine ironing in
the laundry here. The little thing has lost her heart to Mr. Bhaer,
and follows him about the house like a dog whenever he is at home,
which delights him, as he is very fond of children, though a
"bacheldore." Kitty and Minnie Kirke likewise regard him with
affection, and tell all sorts of stories about the plays he invents,
the presents he brings, and the splendid tales he tells. The young men
quiz him, it seems, call him Old Fritz, Lager Beer, Ursa Major, and
make all manner of jokes on his name. But he enjoys it like a boy,
Mrs. K. says, and takes it so good-naturedly that they all like him,
in spite of his foreign ways.
  The maiden lady is a Miss Norton- rich, cultivated, and kind. She
spoke to me at dinner to-day (for I went to table again, it's such fun
to watch people), and asked me to come and see her at her room. She
has fine books and pictures, knows interesting persons, and seems
friendly; so I shall make myself agreeable, for I do want to get
into good society, only it isn't the same sort that Amy likes.
  I was in our parlor last evening, when Mr. Bhaer came in with some
newspapers for Mrs. Kirke. She wasn't there, but Minnie, who is a
little old woman, introduced me very prettily: "This is mamma's
friend, Miss March."
  "Yes; and she's jolly and we like her lots," added Kitty, who is
an enfant terrible.
  We both bowed, and then we laughed, for the prim introduction and
the blunt addition were rather a comical contrast.
  "Ah, yes, I heard these naughty ones go to vex you, Mees Marsch.
If so again, call at me and I come," he said, with a threatening frown
that delighted the little wretches.
  I promised I would, and he departed; but it seems as if I was doomed
to see a good deal of him, for to-day, as I passed his door on my
way out, by accident I knocked against it with my umbrella. It flew
open, and there he stood in his dressing gown, with a big blue sock on
one hand, and a darning-needle in the other; he didn't seem at all
ashamed of it, for when I explained and hurried on, he waved his hand,
sock and all, saying in his loud, cheerful way-
  "You haf a fine day to make your walk. Bon voyage, mademoiselle."
  I laughed all the way downstairs; but it was a little pathetic,
also, to think of the poor man having to mend his own clothes. The
German gentlemen embroider, I know; but darning hose is another thing,
and not so pretty.

                                                       SATURDAY.

  Nothing has happened to write about, except a call on Miss Norton,
who has a room full of lovely things, and who was very charming, for
she showed me all her treasures, and asked me if I would sometimes
go with her to lectures and concerts, as her escort- if I enjoyed
them. She put it as a favor, but I'm sure Mrs. Kirke has told her
about us, and she does it out of kindness to me. I'm proud as Lucifer,
but such favors from such people don't burden me, and I accepted
gratefully.
  When I got back to the nursery there was such an uproar in the
parlor that I looked in; and there was Mr. Bhaer down on his hands and
knees, with Tina on his hack, Kitty leading him with a jump-rope,
and Minnie feeding two small boys with seed-cakes, as they roared
and ramped in cages built of chairs.
  "We are playing nargerie," explained Kitty.
  "Dis is mine effalunt!" added Tina, holding on by the Professor's
hair.
  "Mamma always allows us to do what we like Saturday afternoon,
when Franz and Emil come, doesn't she, Mr. Bhaer?" said Minnie.
  The "effalunt" sat up, looking as much in earnest as any of them,
and said soberly to me-
  "I gif you my wort it is so. If we make too large a noise you
shall say 'Hush!' to us, and we go more softly."
  I promised to do so, but left the door open, and enjoyed the fun
as much as they did- for a more glorious frolic I never witnessed.
They played tag and soldiers, danced and sung, and when it began to
grow dark they all piled on to the sofa about the Professor, while
he told charming fairy stories of the storks on the chimney-tops,
and the little "kobolds," who ride the snowflakes as they fall. I wish
Americans were as simple and natural as Germans, don't you?
  I'm so fond of writing, I should go spinning on forever if motives
of economy didn't stop me; for though I've used thin paper and written
fine, I tremble to think of the stamps this long letter will need.
Pray forward Amy's as soon as you can spare them. My small news will
sound very flat after her splendors, but you will like them, I know.
Is Teddy studying so hard that he can't find time to write to his
friends? Take good care of him for me, Beth, and tell me all about the
babies, and give heaps of love to every one.
                    From your faithful
                                                             JO.

  P.S. On reading over my letter it strikes me as rather Bhaery; but I
am always interested in odd people, and I really had nothing else to
write about. Bless you!

                                                       DECEMBER.

  MY PRECIOUS BETSY:
    As this is to be a scribble-scrabble letter, I direct it to you,
for it may amuse you, and give you some idea of my goings on; for,
though quiet, they are rather amusing, for which, oh, be joyful! After
what Amy would call Herculaneum efforts, in the way of mental and
moral agriculture, my young ideas begin to shoot and my little twigs
to bend as I could wish. They are not so interesting to me as Tina and
the boys, but I do my duty by them, and they are fond of me. Franz and
Emil are jolly little lads, quite after my own heart; for the
mixture of German and American spirit in them produces a constant
state of effervescence. Saturday afternoons are riotous times, whether
spent in the house or out; for on pleasant days they all go to walk,
like a seminary, with the Professor and myself to keep order; and then
such fun!
  We are very good friends now, and I've begun to take lessons. I
really couldn't help it, and it all came about in such a droll way
that I must tell you. To begin at the beginning, Mrs. Kirke called
to me, one day, as I passed Mr. Bhaer's room, where she was rummaging.
  "Did you ever see such a den, my dear? Just come and help me put
these books to rights, for I've turned everything upside down,
trying to discover what he has done with the six new handkerchiefs I
gave him not long ago."
  I went in, and while we worked I looked about me, for it was "a
den," to be sure. Books and papers everywhere; a broken meerschaum,
and an old flute over the mantel-piece as if done with; a ragged bird,
without any tail, chirped on one window-seat, and a box of white
mice adorned the other; half-finished boats and bits of string lay
among the manuscripts; dirty little boots stood drying before the
fire; and traces of the dearly beloved boys, for whom he makes a slave
of himself, were to be seen all over the room. After a great rummage
three of the missing articles were found- one over the bird-cage,
one covered with ink, and a third burnt brown, having been used as a
holder.
  "Such a man!" laughed good-natured Mrs. K., as she put the relics in
the rag-bag. "I suppose the others are torn up to rig ships, bandage
cut fingers, or make kite-tails. It's dreadful, but I can't scold him;
he's so absent-minded and good-natured, he lets those boys ride over
him rough-shod. I agreed to do his washing and mending, but he forgets
to give out his things and I forget to look them over, so he comes
to a sad pass sometimes."
  "Let me mend them," said I. "I don't mind it, and he needn't know.
I'd like to- he's so kind to me about bringing my letters and
lending books."
  So I have got his things in order, and knit heels into two pairs
of the socks- for they were boggled out of shape with his queer darns.
Nothing was said and I hoped he wouldn't find it out, but one day last
week he caught me at it. Hearing the lessons he gives to others has
interested and amused me so much that I took a fancy to learn; for
Tina runs in and out, leaving the door open, and I can hear. I had
been sitting near this door, finishing off the last sock, and trying
to understand what he said to a new scholar, who is as stupid as I am.
The girl had gone, and I thought he had also, it was so still, and I
was busily gabbling over a verb, and rocking to and fro in a most
absurd way, when a little crow made me look up, and there was Mr.
Bhaer looking and laughing quietly, while he made signs to Tina not to
betray him.
  "So!" he said, as I stopped and stared like a goose, "You Peep at
me, I peep at you, and that is not bad; but see, I am not
pleasanting when I say, haf you a wish for German?"
  "Yes; but you are too busy. I am too stupid to learn," I blundered
out, as red as a peony.
  "Prut! we will make the time, and we fail not to find the sense.
At efening I shall gif a little lesson with much gladness; for, look
you, Mees Marsch I haf this debt to pay," and he pointed to my work.
"'Yes,' they say to one another, these so kind ladies, 'he is a stupid
old fellow; he will see not what we do; he will never opserve that his
sock-heels go not in holes any more, he will think his buttons grow
out new when they fall, and believe that strings make theirselves.'
Ah! but I haf an eye, and I see much. I haf a heart, and I feel the
thanks for this. Come, a little lesson then and now, or no more good
fairy works for me and mine."
  Of course I couldn't say anything after that, and as it really is
a splendid opportunity, I made the bargain, and we began. I took
four lessons, and then I stuck fast in a grammatical bog. The
Professor was very patient with me, but it must have been torment to
him, and now and then he'd look at me with such an expression of
mild despair that it was a toss-up with me whether to laugh or cry.
I tried both ways; and when it came to a sniff of utter
mortification and woe, he just threw the grammar on to the floor,
and marched out of the room. I felt myself disgraced and deserted
forever, but didn't blame him a particle, and was scrambling my papers
together, meaning to rush upstairs and shake myself hard, when in he
came, as brisk and beaming as if I'd covered myself with glory.
  "Now we shall try a new way. You and I will read these pleasant
little Marchen together, and dig no more in that dry book, that goes
in the corner for making us trouble."
  He spoke so kindly, and opened Hans Andersen's fairy tales so
invitingly before me, that I was more ashamed than ever, and went at
my lesson in a neck-or-nothing style that seemed to amuse him
immensely. I forgot my bashfulness, and pegged away (no other word
will express it) with all my might, tumbling over long words,
pronouncing according to the inspiration of the minute, and doing my
very best. When I finished reading my first page, and stopped for
breath, he clapped his hands and cried out, in his hearty way, "Das
ist gut! Now we go well! My turn. I do him in German; gif me your
ear." And away he went, rumbling out the words with his strong
voice, and a relish which was good to see as well as hear. Fortunately
the story was the "Constant Tin Soldier," which is droll, you know, so
I could laugh- and I did- though I didn't understand half he read, for
I couldn't help it, he was so earnest, I so excited, and the whole
thing so comical.
  After that we got on better, and now I read my lessons pretty
well; for this way of studying suits me, and I can see that the
grammar gets tucked into the tales and poetry as one gives pills in
jelly. I like it very much, and he doesn't seem tired of it yet- which
is very good of him, isn't it? I mean to give him something on
Christmas, for I dare not offer money. Tell me something nice, Marmee.
  I'm glad Laurie seems so happy and busy that he has given up
smoking, and lets his hair grow. You see Beth manages him better
than I did. I'm not jealous, dear; do your best, only don't make a
saint of him. I'm afraid I couldn't like him without a spice of
human naughtiness. Read him bits of my letters. I haven't time to
write much, and that will do just as well. Thank Heaven Beth continues
so comfortable.

                                                        JANUARY.

  A Happy New Year to you all, my dearest family, which of course
includes Mr. L. and a young man by the name of Teddy. I can't tell you
how much I enjoyed your Christmas bundle, for I didn't get it till
night, and had given up hoping. Your letter came in the morning, but
you said nothing about a parcel, meaning it for a surprise; so I was
disappointed, for I'd had a "kind of a feeling" that you wouldn't
forget me. I felt a little low in my mind, as I sat up in my room,
after tea; and when the big, muddy, battered-looking bundle was
brought to me, I just hugged it, and pranced. It was so homey and
refreshing, that I sat down on the floor and read and looked and ate
and laughed and cried, in my usual absurd way. The things were just
what I wanted, and all the better for being made instead of bought.
Beth's new "ink-bib" was capital; and Hannah's box of hard gingerbread
will be a treasure. I'll be sure and wear the nice flannels you
sent, Marmee, and read carefully the books father has marked. Thank
you all, heaps and heaps!
  Speaking of books reminds me that I'm getting rich in that line,
for, on New Year's Day, Mr. Bhaer gave me a fine Shakespeare. It is
one he values much, and I've often admired it, set up in the place
of honor with his German Bible, Plato, Homer, and Milton; so you may
imagine how I felt when he brought it down, without its cover, and
showed me my name in it, "from my friend Friedrich Bhaer."
  "You say often you wish a library: here I gif you one; for between
these lids (he meant covers), is many books in one. Read him well, and
he will help you much; for the study of character in this book will
help you to read it in the world and paint it with your pen."
  I thanked him as well as I could, and talk now about "my library,"
as if I had a hundred books. I never knew how much there was in
Shakespeare before; but then I never had a Bhaer to explain it to
me. Now don't laugh at his horrid name; it isn't pronounced either
Bear or Beer, as people will say it, but something between the two, as
only Germans can give it. I'm glad you both like what I tell you about
him, and hope you will know him some day. Mother would admire his warm
heart, father his wise head. I admire both, and feel rich in my new
"friend Friedrich Bhaer."
  Not having much money, or knowing what he'd like, I got several
little things, and put them about the room, where he would find them
unexpectedly. They were useful, pretty, or funny- a new standish on
his table, a little vase for his flower- he always has one, or a bit
of green in a glass, to keep him fresh, he says- and a holder for
his blower, so that he needn't burn up what Amy calls "mouchoirs." I
made it like those Beth invented- a big butterfly with a fat body, and
black and yellow wings, worsted feelers, and bead eyes. It took his
fancy immensely, and he put it on his mantel-piece as an article of
vertu; so it was rather a failure after all. Poor as he is, he
didn't forget a servant or a child in the house; and not a soul
here, from the French laundry-woman to Miss Norton, forgot him. I
was so glad of that.
  They got up a masquerade, and had a gay time New Year's Eve. I
didn't mean to go down, having no dress; but at the last minute,
Mrs. Kirke remembered some old brocades, and Miss Norton lent me
lace and feathers; so I dressed up as Mrs. Malaprop, and sailed in
with a mask on. No one knew me, for I disguised my voice, and no one
dreamed the silent, haughty Miss March (for they think I am very stiff
and cool, most of them; and so I am to whipper-snappers) could dance
and dress, and burst out into a "nice derangement of epitaphs, like an
allegory on the banks of the Nile." I enjoyed it very much; and when
we unmasked, it was fun to see them stare at me. I heard one of the
young men tell another that he knew I'd been an actress; in fact, he
thought he remembered seeing me at one of the minor theatres. Meg will
relish that joke. Mr. Bhaer was Nick Bottom, and Tina was Titania- a
perfect little fairy in his arms. To see them dance was "quite a
landscape," to use a Teddyism.
  I had a very happy New Year, after all; and when I thought it over
in my room, I felt as if I was getting on a little in spite of my many
failures; for I'm cheerful all the time now, work with a will, and
take more interest in other people than I used to, which is
satisfactory. Bless you all! Ever your loving
                                                             JO.
                             34
                          A Friend

  THOUGH very happy in the social atmosphere about her, and very
busy with the daily work that earned her bread, and made it sweeter
for the effort, Jo still found time for literary labors. The purpose
which now took possession of her was a natural one to a poor and
ambitious girl; but the means she took to gain her end were not the
best. She saw that money conferred power: money and power,
therefore, she resolved to have; not to be used for herself alone, but
for those whom she loved more than self.
  The dream of filling home with comforts, giving Beth everything
she wanted, from strawberries in winter to an organ in her bedroom;
going abroad herself, and always having more than enough, so that
she might indulge in the luxury of charity, had been for years Jo's
most cherished castle in the air.
  The prize-story experience had seemed to open a way which might,
after long travelling and much up-hill work lead to this delightful
chateau en Espagne. But the novel disaster quenched her courage for
a time, for public opinion is a giant which has frightened
stouter-hearted Jacks on bigger bean-stalks than hers. Like that
immortal hero, she reposed awhile after the first attempt, which
resulted in a tumble, and the least lovely of the giant's treasures,
if I remember rightly. But the "up again and take another" spirit
was as strong in Jo as in Jack; so she scrambled up, on the shady side
this time, and got more booty, but nearly left behind her what was far
more precious than the money-bags.
  She took to writing sensation stories; for in those dark ages,
even all-perfect America read rubbish. She told no one, but
concocted a "thrilling tale," and boldly carried it herself to Mr.
Dashwood, editor of the "Weekly Volcano." She had never read "Sartor
Resartus," but she had a womanly instinct that clothes possess an
influence more powerful over many than the worth of character or the
magic of manners. So she dressed herself in her best, and, trying to
persuade herself that she was neither excited nor nervous, bravely
climbed two pairs of dark and dirty stairs to find herself in a
disorderly room, a cloud of cigar-smoke, and the presence of three
gentlemen, sitting with their heels rather higher than their hats,
which articles of dress none of them took the trouble to remove on her
appearance. Somewhat daunted by this reception, Jo hesitated on the
threshold, murmuring in much embarrassment-
  "Excuse me, I was looking for the 'Weekly Volcano' office; I
wished to see Mr. Dashwood."
  Down went the highest pair of heels, up rose the smokiest gentleman,
and, carefully cherishing his cigar between his fingers, he
advanced, with a nod, and a countenance expressive of nothing but
sleep. Feeling that she must get through the matter somehow, Jo
produced her manuscript, and, blushing redder and redder with each
sentence, blundered out fragments of the little speech carefully
prepared for the occasion.
  "A friend of mine desired me to offer- a story- just as an
experiment- would like your opinion- be glad to write more if this
suits."
  While she blushed and blundered, Mr. Dashwood had taken the
manuscript, and was turning over the leaves with a pair of rather
dirty fingers, and casting critical glances up and down the neat
pages.
  "Not a first attempt, I take it?" observing that the pages were
numbered, covered only on one side, and not tied up with a ribbon-
sure sign of a novice.
  "No, sir; she has had some experience, and got a prize for a tale in
the 'Blarneystone Banner.'"
  "Oh, did she?" and Mr. Dashwood gave Jo a quick look, which seemed
to take note of everything she had on, from the bow in her bonnet to
the buttons on her boots. "Well, you can leave it, if you like.
We've more of this sort of thing on hand than we know what to do
with at present; but I'll run my eye over it, and give you an answer
next week."
  Now, Jo did not like to leave it, for Mr. Dashwood didn't suit her
at all; but, under the circumstances, there was nothing for her to
do but bow and walk away, looking particularly tall and dignified,
as she was apt to do when nettled or abashed. Just then she was
both; for it was perfectly evident, from the knowing glances exchanged
among the gentlemen, that her little fiction of "my friend" was
considered a good joke; and a laugh, produced by some inaudible remark
of the editor, as he closed the door, completed her discomfiture. Half
resolving never to return, she went home, and worked off her
irritation by stitching pinafores vigorously; and in an hour or two
was cool enough to laugh over the scene, and long for next week.
  When she went again, Mr. Dashwood was alone, whereat she rejoiced;
Mr. Dashwood was much wider awake than before, which was agreeable;
and Mr. Dashwood was not too deeply absorbed in a cigar to remember
his manners: so the second interview was much more comfortable than
the first.
  "We'll take this" (editors never say I), "if you don't object to a
few alterations. It's too long, but omitting the passages I've
marked will make it just the right length," he said, in a
business-like tone.
  Jo hardly knew her own MS. again, so crumpled and underscored were
its pages and paragraphs; but, feeling as a tender parent might on
being asked to cut off her baby's legs in order that it might fit into
a new cradle, she looked at the marked passages, and was surprised
to find that all the moral reflections- which she had carefully put in
as ballast for much romance- had been stricken out.
  "But, sir, I thought every story should have some sort of a moral,
so I took care to have a few of my sinners repent."
  Mr. Dashwood's editorial gravity relaxed into a smile, for Jo had
forgotten her "friend," and spoken as only an author could.
  "People want to be amused, not preached at, you know. Morals don't
sell nowadays" which was not quite a correct statement, by the way.
  "You think it would do with these alterations, then?"
  "Yes; it's a new plot, and pretty well worked up- language good, and
so on," was Mr. Dashwood's affable reply.
  "What do you- that is, what compensation-" began Jo, not exactly
knowing how to express herself.
  "Oh, yes, well, we give from twenty-five to thirty for things of
this sort. Pay when it comes out," returned Mr. Dashwood, as if that
point had escaped him; such trifles often do escape the editorial
mind, it is said.
  "Very well; you can have it," said Jo, handing back the story,
with a satisfied air; for, after the dollar-a-column work, even
twenty-five seemed good pay.
  "Shall I tell my friend you will take another if she has one
better than this?" asked Jo, unconscious of her little slip of the
tongue, and emboldened by her success.
  "Well, we'll look at it; can't promise to take it. Tell her to
make it short and spicy, and never mind the moral. What name would
your friend like to put to it?" in a careless tone.
  "None at all, if you please; she doesn't wish her name to appear,
and has no nom de plume," said Jo, blushing in spite of herself.
  "Just as she likes, of course. The tale will be out next week;
will you call for the money, or shall I send it?" asked Mr.
Dashwood, who felt a natural desire to know who his new contributor
might be.
  "I'll call. Good morning, sir."
  As she departed, Mr. Dashwood put up his feet, with the graceful
remark, "Poor and proud, as usual, but she'll do."
  Following Mr. Dashwood's directions, and making Mrs. Northbury her
model, Jo rashly took a plunge into the frothy sea of sensational
literature; but, thanks to the life-preserver thrown her by a
friend, she came up again, not much the worse for her ducking.
  Like most young scribblers, she went abroad for her characters and
scenery; and banditti, counts, gypsies, nuns, and duchesses appeared
upon her stage, and played their parts with as much accuracy and
spirit as could be expected. Her readers were not particular about
such trifles as grammar, punctuation, and probability, and Mr.
Dashwood graciously permitted her to fill his columns at the lowest
prices, not thinking it necessary to tell her that the real cause of
his hospitality was the fact that one of his hacks, on being offered
higher wages, had basely left him in the lurch.
  She soon became interested in her work, for her emaciated purse grew
stout, and the little board she was making to take Beth to the
mountains next summer grew slowly but surely as the weeks passed.
One thing disturbed her satisfaction, and that was that she did not
tell them at home. She had a feeling that father and mother would
not approve, and preferred to have her own way first, and beg pardon
afterward. It was easy to keep her secret, for no name appeared with
her stories; Mr. Dashwood had, of course, found it out very soon,
but promised to be dumb; and, for a wonder, kept his word.
  She thought it would do her no harm, for she sincerely meant to
write nothing of which she should be ashamed, and quieted all pricks
of conscience by anticipations of the happy minute when she should
show her earnings and laugh over her well-kept secret.
  But Mr. Dashwood rejected any but thrilling tales; and, as thrills
could not be produced except by harrowing up the souls of the readers,
history and romance, land and sea, science and art, police records and
lunatic asylums, had to be ransacked for the purpose. Jo soon found
that her innocent experience had given her but few glimpses of the
tragic world which underlies society; so, regarding it in a business
light, she set about supplying her deficiencies with characteristic
energy. Eager to find material for stories, and bent on making them
original in plot, if not masterly in execution, she searched
newspapers for accidents, incidents, and crimes; she excited the
suspicions of public librarians by asking for works on poisons; she
studied faces in the street, and characters, good, bad, and
indifferent, all about her; she delved in the dust of ancient times
for facts or fictions so old that they were as good as new, and
introduced herself to folly, sin, and misery, as well as her limited
opportunities allowed. She thought she was prospering finely; but,
unconsciously, she was beginning to desecrate some of the womanliest
attributes of a woman's character. She was living in bad society; and,
imaginary though it was, its influence affected her, for she was
feeding heart and fancy on dangerous and unsubstantial food, and was
fast brushing the innocent bloom from her nature by a premature
acquaintance with the darker side of life, which comes soon enough
to all of us.
  She was beginning to feel rather than see this, for much
describing of other people's passions and feelings set her to studying
and speculating about her own- a morbid amusement, in which healthy
young minds do not voluntarily indulge. Wrong-doing always brings
its own punishment; and, when Jo most needed hers, she got it.
  I don't know whether the study of Shakespeare helped her to read
character, or the natural instinct of a woman for what was honest,
brave, and strong; but while endowing her imaginary heroes with
every perfection under the sun, Jo was discovering a live hero, who
interested her in spite of many human imperfections. Mr. Bhaer, in one
of their conversations, had advised her to study simple, true, and
lovely characters, wherever she found them, as good training for a
writer. Jo took him at his word, for she coolly turned round and
studied him- a proceeding which would have much surprised him, had
he known it, for the worthy Professor was very humble in his own
conceit.
  Why everybody liked him was what puzzled Jo, at first. He was
neither rich nor great, young nor handsome; in no respect what is
called fascinating, imposing, or brilliant; and yet he was as
attractive as a genial fire, and people seemed to gather about him
as naturally as about a warm hearth. He was poor, yet always
appeared to be giving something away; a stranger, yet every one was
his friend; no longer young, but as happy-hearted as a boy; plain
and peculiar, yet his face looked beautiful to many, and his
oddities were freely forgiven for his sake. Jo often watched him,
trying to discover the charm, and, at last, decided that it was
benevolence which worked the miracle. If he had any sorrow, "it sat
with its head under its wing," and he turned only his sunny side to
the world. There were lines upon his forehead, but Time seemed to have
touched him gently, remembering how kind he was to others. The
pleasant curves about his mouth were the memorials of many friendly
words and cheery laughs; his eyes were never cold or hard, and his big
hand had a warm, strong grasp that was more expressive than words.
  His very clothes seemed to partake of the hospitable nature of the
wearer. They looked as if they were at ease, and liked to make him
comfortable; his capacious waistcoat was suggestive of a large heart
underneath; his rusty coat had a social air, and the baggy pockets
plainly proved that little hands often went in empty and came out
full; his very boots were benevolent, and his collars never stiff
and raspy like other people's.
  "That's it!" said Jo to herself, when she at length discovered
that genuine good-will towards one's fellow-men could beautify and
dignify even a stout German teacher, who shovelled in his dinner,
darned his own socks, and was burdened with the name of Bhaer.
  Jo valued goodness highly, but she also possessed a most feminine
respect for intellect, and a little discovery which she made about the
Professor added much to her regard for him. He never spoke of himself,
and no one ever knew that in his native city he had been a man much
honored and esteemed for learning and integrity, till a countryman
came to see him, and, in a conversation with Miss Norton, divulged the
pleasing fact. From her Jo learned it, and liked it all the better
because Mr. Bhaer had never told it. She felt proud to know that he
was an honored Professor in Berlin, though only a poor language-master
in America; and his homely, hard-working life was much beautified by
the spice of romance which this discovery gave it.
  Another and a better gift than intellect was shown her in a most
unexpected manner. Miss Norton had the entree into literary society,
which Jo would have had no chance of seeing but for her. The
solitary woman felt an interest in the ambitious girl, and kindly
conferred many favors of this sort both on Jo and the Professor. She
took them with her, one night, to a select symposium, held in honor of
several celebrities.
  Jo went prepared to bow down and adore the mighty ones whom she
had worshipped with youthful enthusiasm afar off. But her reverence
for genius received a severe shock that night, and it took her some
time to recover from the discovery that the great creatures were
only men and women after all. Imagine her dismay, on stealing a glance
of timid admiration at the poet whose lines suggested an ethereal
being fed on "spirit, fire, and dew," to behold him devouring his
supper with an ardor which flushed his intellectual countenance.
Turning as from a fallen idol, she made other discoveries which
rapidly dispelled her romantic illusions. The great novelist
vibrated between two decanters with the regularity of a pendulum;
the famous divine flirted openly with one of the Madame de Staels of
the age, who looked daggers at another Corinne, who was amiably
satirizing her, after out-manoeuvring her in efforts to absorb the
profound philosopher, who imbibed tea Johnsonianly and appeared to
slumber, the loquacity of the lady rendering speech impossible. The
scientific celebrities, forgetting their mollusks and glacial periods,
gossiped about art, while devoting themselves to oysters and ices with
characteristic energy; the young musician, who was charming the city
like a second Orpheus, talked horses; and the specimen of the
British nobility present happened to be the most ordinary man of the
party.
  Before the evening was half over, Jo felt so completely
desillusionnee, that she sat down in a corner to recover herself.
Mr. Bhaer soon joined her, looking rather out of his element, and
presently several of the philosophers, each mounted on his hobby, came
ambling up to hold an intellectual tournament in the recess. The
conversation was miles beyond Jo's comprehension, but she enjoyed
it, though Kant and Hegel were unknown gods, the Subjective and
Objective unintelligible terms; and the only thing "evolved from her
inner consciousness," was a bad headache after it was all over. It
dawned upon her gradually that the world was being picked to pieces,
and put together on new, and, according to the talkers, on
infinitely better principles than before; that religion was in a
fair way to be reasoned into nothingness, and intellect was to be
the only God. Jo knew nothing about philosophy or metaphysics of any
sort, but a curious excitement, half pleasurable, half painful, came
over her; as she listened with a sense of being turned adrift into
time and space, like a young balloon out on a holiday.
  She looked round to see how the Professor liked it, and found him
looking at her with the grimmest expression she had ever seen him
wear. He shook his head, and beckoned her to come away; but she was
fascinated, just then, by the freedom of Speculative Philosophy, and
kept her seat, trying to find out what the wise gentlemen intended
to rely upon after they had annihilated all the old beliefs.
  Now, Mr. Bhaer was a diffident man, and slow to offer his own
opinions, not because they were unsettled, but too sincere and earnest
to be lightly spoken. As he glanced from Jo to several other young
people, attracted by the brilliancy of the philosophic pyrotechnics,
he knit his brows, and longed to speak, fearing that some
inflammable young soul would be led astray by the rockets, to find,
when the display was over, that they had only an empty stick or a
scorched hand.
  He bore it as long as he could; but when he was appealed to for an
opinion, he blazed up with honest indignation, and defended religion
with all the eloquence of truth- an eloquence which made his broken
English musical, and his plain face beautiful. He had a hard fight,
for the wise men argued well; but he didn't know when he was beaten,
and stood to his colors like a man. Somehow, as he talked, the world
got right again to Jo; the old beliefs, that had lasted so long,
seemed better than the new; God was not a blind force, and immortality
was not a pretty fable, but a blessed fact. She felt as if she had
solid ground under her feet again; and when Mr. Bhaer paused,
out-talked, but not one whit convinced, Jo wanted to clap her hands
and thank him.
  She did neither; but she remembered this scene, and gave the
Professor her heartiest respect, for she knew it cost him an effort to
speak out then and there, because his conscience would not let him
be silent. She began to see that character is a better possession than
money rank, intellect, or beauty; and to feel that if greatness is
what a wise man has defined it to be, "truth, reverence, and
good-will," then her friend Friedrich Bhaer was not only good, but
great.
  This belief strengthened daily. She valued his esteem, she coveted
his respect, she wanted to be worthy of his friendship; and, just when
the wish was sincerest, she came near losing everything. It all grew
out of a cocked hat; for one evening the Professor came in to give
Jo her lesson, with a paper soldier-cap on his head, which Tina had
put there, and he had forgotten to take off.
  "It's evident he doesn't look in his glass before coming down,"
thought Jo, with a smile, as he said "Goot efening," and sat soberly
down, quite unconscious of the ludicrous contrast between his
subject and his headgear, for he was going to read her the "Death of
Wallenstein."
  She said nothing at first, for she liked to hear him laugh out his
big, hearty laugh, when anything funny happened, so she left him to
discover it for himself, and presently forgot all about it; for to
hear a German read Schiller is rather an absorbing occupation. After
the reading came the lesson, which was a lively one, for Jo was in a
gay mood that night, and the cocked-hat kept her eyes dancing with
merriment. The Professor didn't know what to make of her, and
stopped at last, to ask, with an air of mild surprise that was
irresistible-
  "Mees Marsch, for what do you laugh in your master's face? Haf you
no respect for me, that you go on so bad?"
  "How can I be respectful, sir, when you forget to take your hat
off?" said Jo.
  Lifting his hand to his head, the absent-minded Professor gravely
felt and removed the little cocked-hat, looked at it a minute, and
then threw back his head, and laughed like a merry bass-viol.
  "Ah! I see him now; it is that imp Tina who makes me a fool with
my cap. Well, it is nothing; but see you, if this lesson goes not
well, you too shall wear him."
  But the lesson did not go at all for a few minutes, because Mr.
Bhaer caught sight of a picture on the hat, and, unfolding it, said,
with an air of great disgust, "I wish these papers did not come in the
house; they are not for children to see, nor young people to read.
It is not well, and I haf no patience with those who make this harm."
  Jo glanced at the sheet, and saw a pleasing illustration composed of
a lunatic, a corpse, a villain, and a viper. She did not like it;
but the impulse that made her turn it over was not one of displeasure,
but fear, because, for a minute, she fancied the paper was the
"Volcano." It was not, however, and her panic subsided as she
remembered that, even if it had been, and one of her own tales in
it, there would have been no name to betray her. She had betrayed
herself, however, by a look and a blush; for, though an absent man,
the Professor saw a good deal more than people fancied. He knew that
Jo wrote, and had met her down among the newspaper offices more than
once; but as she never spoke of it, he asked no questions, in spite of
a strong desire to see her work. Now it occurred to him that she was
doing what she was ashamed to own, and it troubled him. He did not say
to himself, "It is none of my business; I've no right to say
anything," as many people would have done; he only remembered that she
was young and poor, a girl far away from mother's love and father's
care; and he was moved to help her with an impulse as quick and
natural as that which would prompt him to put out his hand to save a
baby from a puddle. All this flashed through his mind in a minute, but
not a trace of it appeared in his face; and by the time the paper
was turned, and Jo's needle threaded, he was ready to say quite
naturally, but very gravely-
  "Yes, you are right to put it from you. I do not like to think
that good girls should see such things. They are made pleasant to
some, but I would more rather give my boys gunpowder to play with than
this bad trash."
  "All may not be bad, only silly, you know; and if there is a
demand for it, I don't see any harm in supplying it. Many very
respectable people make an honest living out of what are called
sensation stories," said Jo, scratching gathers so energetically
that a row of little slits followed her pin.
  "There is a demand for whiskey, but I think you and I do not care to
sell it. If the respectable people knew what harm they did, they would
not feel that the living was honest. They haf no right to put poison
in the sugar-plum, and let the small ones eat it. No; they should
think a little, and sweep mud in the street before they do this
thing."
  Mr. Bhaer spoke warmly, and walked to the fire, crumpling the
paper in his hands. Jo sat still, looking as if the fire had come to
her; for her cheeks burned long after the cocked-hat had turned to
smoke and gone harmlessly up the chimney.
  "I should like much to send all the rest after him," muttered the
Professor, coming back with a relieved air.
  Jo thought what a blaze her pile of papers upstairs would make,
and her hard-earned money lay rather heavily on her conscience at that
minute. Then she thought consolingly to herself, "Mine are not like
that; they are only silly, never bad, so I won't be worried"; and
taking up her book, she said, with a studious face-
  "Shall we go on, sir? I'll be very good and proper now."
  "I shall hope so," was all he said, but he meant more than she
imagined; and the grave, kind look he gave her made her feel as if the
words "Weekly Volcano" were printed in large type on her forehead.
  As soon as she went to her room, she got out her papers, and
carefully re-read every one of her stories. Being a little
short-sighted, Mr. Bhaer sometimes used eye-glasses, and Jo had
tried them once, smiling to see how they magnified the fine print of
her book; now she seemed to have got on the Professor's mental or
moral spectacles also; for the faults of these poor stories glared
at her dreadfully, and filled her with dismay.
  "They are trash, and will soon be worse than trash if I go on; for
each is more sensational than the last. I've gone blindly on,
hurting myself and other people, for the sake of money; I know it's
so, for I can't read this stuff in sober earnest without being
horribly ashamed of it; and what should I do if they were seen at
home, or Mr. Bhaer got hold of them?"
  Jo turned hot at the bare idea, and stuffed the whole bundle into
her stove, nearly setting the chimney afire with the blaze.
  "Yes, that's the best place for such inflammable nonsense; I'd
better burn the house down, I suppose, than let other people blow
themselves up with my gunpowder," she thought, as she watched the
"Demon of the Jura" whisk away, a little black cinder with fiery eyes.
  But when nothing remained of all her three months' work except a
heap of ashes, and the money in her lap, Jo looked sober, as she sat
on the floor, wondering what she ought to do about her wages.
  "I think I haven't done much harm yet, and may keep this to pay
for my time," she said, after a long meditation, adding impatiently,
"I almost wish I hadn't any conscience, it's so inconvenient. If I
didn't care about doing right, and didn't feel uncomfortable when
doing wrong, I should get on capitally. I can't help wishing
sometimes, that father and mother hadn't been so particular about such
things."
  Ah, Jo, instead of wishing that, thank God that "father and mother
were particular," and pity from your heart those who have no such
guardians to hedge them round with principles which may seem like
prison-walls to impatient youth, but which will prove sure foundations
to build character upon in womanhood.
  Jo wrote no more sensational stories, deciding that the money did
not pay for her share of the sensation; but, going to the other
extreme, as is the way with people of her stamp, she took a course
of Mrs. Sherwood, Miss Edgeworth, and Hannah More; and then produced a
tale which might have been more properly called an essay or a
sermon, so intensely moral was it. She had her doubts about it from
the beginning; for her lively fancy and girlish romance felt as ill at
ease in the new style as she would have done masquerading in the stiff
and cumbrous costume of the last century. She sent this didactic gem
to several markets, but it found no purchaser; and she was inclined to
agree with Mr. Dashwood, that morals didn't sell.
  Then she tried a child's story, which she could easily have disposed
of if she had not been mercenary enough to demand filthy lucre for it.
The only person who offered enough to make it worth her while to try
juvenile literature was a worthy gentleman who felt it his mission
to convert all the world to his particular belief. But much as she
liked to write for children, Jo could not consent to depict all her
naughty boys as being eaten by bears or tossed by mad bulls, because
they did not go to a particular Sabbath-school, nor all the good
infants, who did go, as rewarded by every kind of bliss, from gilded
gingerbread to escorts of angels, when they departed this life with
psalms or sermons on their lisping tongues. So nothing came of these
trials; and Jo corked up her inkstand, and said, in a fit of very
wholesome humility-
  "I don't know anything; I'll wait till I do before I try again, and,
meantime, 'sweep mud in the street,' if I can't do better; that's
honest, at least"; which decision proved that her second tumble down
the bean-stalk had done her some good.
  While these internal revolutions were going on, her external life
had been as busy and uneventful as usual; and if she sometimes
looked serious or a little sad no one observed it but Professor Bhaer.
He did it so quietly that Jo never knew he was watching to see if
she would accept and profit by his reproof; but she stood the test,
and he was satisfied; for, though no words passed between them, he
knew that she had given up writing. Not only did he guess it by the
fact that the second finger of her right hand was no longer inky,
but she spent her evenings downstairs now, was met no more among
newspaper offices, and studied with a dogged patience, which assured
him that she was bent on occupying her mind with something useful,
if not pleasant.
  He helped her in many ways, proving himself a true friend, and Jo
was happy; for, while her pen lay idle, she was learning other lessons
besides German, and laying a foundation for the sensation story of her
own life.
  It was a pleasant winter and a long one, for she did not leave
Mrs. Kirke till June. Every one seemed sorry when the time came; the
children were inconsolable, and Mr. Bhaer's hair stuck straight up all
over his head, for he always rumpled it wildly when disturbed in mind.
  "Going home? Ah, you are happy that you haf a home to go in," he
said, when she told him, and sat silently pulling his beard, in the
corner, while she held a little levee on that last evening.
  She was going early, so she bade them all good-by over night; and
when his turn came, she said warmly-
  "Now, sir, you won't forget to come and see us, if you ever travel
our way, will you? I'll never forgive you if you do, for I want them
all to know my friend."
  "Do you? Shall I come?" he asked, looking down at her with an
eager expression which she did not see.
  "Yes, come next month; Laurie graduates then, and you'd enjoy
Commencement as something new."
  "That is your best friend, of whom you speak?" he said, in an
altered tone.
  "Yes, my boy Teddy; I'm very proud of him, and should like you to
see him."
  Jo looked up then, quite unconscious of anything but her own
pleasure in the prospect of showing them to one another. Something
in Mr. Bhaer's face suddenly recalled the fact that she might find
Laurie more than a "best friend," and, simply because she particularly
wished not to look as if anything was the matter, she involuntarily
began to blush; and the more she tried not to, the redder she grew. If
it had not been for Tina on her knee, she didn't know what would
have become of her. Fortunately, the child was moved to hug her; so
she managed to hide her face an instant, hoping the Professor did
not see it. But he did, and his own changed again from that
momentary anxiety to its usual expression, as he said cordially-
  "I fear I shall not make the time for that, but I wish the friend
much success, and you all happiness. Gott bless you!" and with that,
he shook hands warmly, shouldered Tina, and went away.
  But after the boys were abed, he sat long before his fire, with
the tired look on his face, and the "heimweh," or homesickness,
lying heavy at his heart. Once, when he remembered Jo, as she sat with
the little child in her lap and that new softness in her face, he
leaned his head on his hands a minute, and then roamed about the room,
as if in search of something that he could not find.
  "It is not for me; I must not hope it now," he said to himself, with
a sigh that was almost a groan; then, as if reproaching himself for
the longing that he could not repress, he went and kissed the two
towzled heads upon the pillow, took down his seldom-used meerschaum,
and opened his Plato.
  He did his best, and did it manfully; but I don't think he found
that a pair of rampant boys, a pipe, or even the divine Plato, were
very satisfactory substitutes for wife and child and home.
  Early as it was, he was at the station, next morning, to see Jo off;
and, thanks to him, she began her solitary journey with the pleasant
memory of a familiar face smiling its farewell, a bunch of violets
to keep her company, and, best of all, the happy thought-
  "Well, the winter's gone, and I've written no books, earned no
fortune; but I've made a friend worth having, and I'll try to keep him
all my life."
                             35
                          Heartache

  WHATEVER his motive might have been, Laurie studied to some
purpose that year, for he graduated with honor, and gave the Latin
oration with the grace of a Phillips and the eloquence of a
Demosthenes, so his friends said. They were all there, his
grandfather- oh, so proud!- Mr. and Mrs. March, John and Meg, Jo and
Beth, and all exulted over him with the sincere admiration which
boys make light of at the time, but fail to win from the world by
any after-triumphs.
  "I've got to stay for this confounded supper, but I shall be home
early to-morrow; you'll come and meet me as usual, girls?" Laurie
said, as he put the sisters into the carriage after the joys of the
day were over. He said "girls," but he meant Jo, for she was the
only one who kept up the old custom; she had not the heart to refuse
the splendid, successful boy anything, and answered warmly-
  "I'll come, Teddy, rain or shine, and march before you, playing
'Hail the conquering hero comes,' on a jews-harp."
  Laurie thanked her with a look that made her think, in a sudden
panic, "Oh, deary me! I know he'll say something, and then what
shall I do?"
  Evening meditation and morning work somewhat allayed her fears,
and having decided that she wouldn't be vain enough to think people
were going to propose when she had given them every reason to know
what her answer would be, she set forth at the appointed time,
hoping Teddy wouldn't do anything to make her hurt his poor little
feelings. A call at Meg's, and a refreshing sniff and sip at the Daisy
and Demijohn, still further fortified her for the tete-a-tete, but
when she saw a stalwart figure looming in the distance, she had a
strong desire to turn about and run away.
  "Where's the jews-harp, Jo?" cried Laurie, as soon as he was
within speaking distance.
  "I forgot it"; and Jo took heart again, for that salutation could
not be called lover-like.
  She always used to take his arm on these occasions; now she did not,
and he made no complaint, which was a bad sign, but talked on
rapidly about all sorts of far-away subjects, till they turned from
the road into the little path that led homeward through the grove.
Then he walked more slowly, suddenly lost his fine flow of language,
and, now and then, a dreadful pause occurred. To rescue the
conversation from one of the wells of silence into which it kept
falling, Jo said hastily-
  "Now you must have a good long holiday!"
  "I intend to."
  Something in his resolute tone made Jo look up quickly to find him
looking down at her with an expression that assured her the dreaded
moment had come, and made her put out her hand with an imploring-
  "No, Teddy, please don't!"
  "I will, and you must hear me. It's no use, Jo; we've got to have it
out, and the sooner the better for both of us," he answered, getting
flushed and excited all at once.
  "Say what you like, then; I'll listen," said Jo, with a desperate
sort of patience'
  Laurie was a young lover, but he was in earnest, and meant to
"have it out," if he died in the attempt; so he plunged into the
subject with characteristic impetuosity, saying in a voice that
would get choky now and then, in spite of manful efforts to keep it
steady-
  "I've loved you ever since I've known you, Jo; couldn't help it,
you've been so good to me. I've tried to show it, but you wouldn't let
me; now I'm going to make you hear, and give me an answer, for I can't
go on so any longer."
  "I wanted to save you this; I thought you'd understand-" began Jo,
finding it a great deal harder than she expected.
  "I know you did; but girls are so queer you never know what they
mean. They say No when they mean Yes, and drive a man out of his
wits just for the fun of it," returned Laurie, entrenching himself
behind an undeniable fact.
  "I don't. I never wanted to make you care for me so, and I went away
to keep you from it if I could."
  "I thought so; it was like you, but it was no use. I only loved
you all the more, and I worked hard to please you, and I gave up
billiards and everything you didn't like, and waited and never
complained, for I hoped you'd love me, though I'm not half good
enough-" here there was a choke that couldn't be controlled, so he
decapitated buttercups while he cleared his "confounded throat."
  "Yes, you are; you're a great deal too good for me, and I'm so
grateful to you, and so proud and fond of you, I don't see why I can't
love you as you want me to. I've tried, but I can't change the
feeling, and it would be a lie to say I do when I don't."
  "Really, truly, Jo?"
  He stopped short, and caught both her hands as he put his question
with a look that she did not soon forget.
  "Really, truly, dear."
  They were in the grove now, close by the stile; and when the last
words fell reluctantly from Jo's lips, Laurie dropped her hands and
turned as if to go on, but for once in his life that fence was too
much for him; so he just laid his head down on the mossy post, and
stood so still that Jo was frightened.
  "O Teddy, I'm so sorry, so desperately sorry, I could kill myself if
it would do any good! I wish you wouldn't take it so hard. I can't
help it; you know it's impossible for people to make themselves love
other people if they don't," cried Jo inelegantly but remorsefully, as
she softly patted his shoulder, remembering the time when he had
comforted her so long ago.
  "They do sometimes," said a muffled voice from the post.
  "I don't believe it's the right sort of love, and I'd rather not try
it," was the decided answer.
  There was a long pause, while a blackbird sung blithely on the
willow by the river, and the tall grass rustled in the wind. Presently
Jo said very soberly, as she sat down on the step of the stile-
  "Laurie, I want to tell you something."
  He started as if he had been shot, threw up his head, and cried out,
in a fierce tone-
  "Don't tell me that, Jo; I can't bear it now!"
  "Tell what?" she asked, wondering at his violence.
  "That you love that old man."
  "What old man?" demanded Jo, thinking he must mean his grandfather.
  "That devilish Professor you were always writing about. If you say
you love him, I know I shall do something desperate"; and he looked as
if he would keep his word, as he clenched his hands, with a wrathful
spark in his eyes.
  Jo wanted to laugh, but restrained herself, and said warmly, for
she, too, was getting excited with all this-
  "Don't swear, Teddy! He isn't old, nor anything bad, but good and
kind, and the best friend I've got, next to you. Pray, don't fly
into a passion; I want to be kind, but I know I shall get angry if you
abuse my Professor. I haven't the least idea of loving him or
anybody else."
  "But you will after a while, and then what will become of me?"
  "You'll love some one else too, like a sensible boy, and forget
all this trouble."
  "I can't love any one else; and I'll never forget you, Jo, never!
never!" with a stamp to emphasize his passionate words.
  "What shall I do with him?" sighed Jo, finding that emotions were
more unmanageable than she expected. "You haven't heard what I
wanted to tell you. Sit down and listen; for indeed I want to do right
and make you happy," she said, hoping to soothe him with a little
reason, which proved that she knew nothing about love.
  Seeing a ray of hope in that last speech, Laurie threw himself
down on the grass at her feet, leaned his arm on the lower step of the
stile, and looked up at her with an expectant face. Now that
arrangement was not conducive to calm speech or clear thought on
Jo's part; for how could she say hard things to her boy while he
watched her with eyes full of love and longing, and lashes still wet
with the bitter drop or two her hardness of heart had wrung from
him? She gently turned his head away, saying, as she stroked the
wavy hair which had been allowed to grow for her sake- how touching
that was, to be sure!-
  "I agree with mother that you and I are not suited to each other,
because our quick tempers and strong wills would probably make us very
miserable, if we were so foolish as to-" Jo paused a little over the
last word, but Laurie uttered it with a rapturous expression-
  "Marry- no, we shouldn't! If you loved me, Jo, I should be a perfect
saint, for you could make me anything you like."
  "No, I can't. I've tried it and failed, and I won't risk our
happiness by such a serious experiment. We don't agree and we never
shall; so we'll be good friends all our lives, but we won't go and
do anything rash."
  "Yes, we will if we get the chance," muttered Laurie rebelliously.
  "Now do be reasonable, and take a sensible view of the case,"
implored Jo, almost at her wit's end.
  "I won't be reasonable; I don't want to take what you call 'a
sensible view'; it won't help me, and it only makes you harder. I
don't believe you've got any heart."
  "I wish I hadn't!"
  There was a little quiver in Jo's voice, and, thinking it a good
omen, Laurie turned round, bringing all his persuasive powers to
bear as he said, in the wheedlesome tone that had never been so
dangerously wheedlesome before-
  "Don't disappoint us, dear! Every one expects it. Grandpa has set
his heart upon it, your people like it and I can't get on without you.
Say you will, and let's be happy. Do, do!"
  Not until months afterward did Jo understand how she had the
strength of mind to hold fast to the resolution she had made when
she decided that she did not love her boy, and never could. It was
very hard to do, but she did it, knowing that delay was both useless
and cruel.
  "I can't say 'Yes' truly, so I won't say it at all. You'll see
that I'm right, by and by, and thank me for it"- she began solemnly.
  "I'll be hanged if I do!" and Laurie bounced up off the grass,
burning with indignation at the bare idea.
  "Yes, you will!" persisted Jo; "you'll get over this after a
while, and find some lovely, accomplished girl, who will adore you,
and make a fine mistress for your fine house. I shouldn't. I'm
homely and awkward and odd and old, and you'd be ashamed of me, and we
should quarrel- we can't help it even now, you see- and I shouldn't
like elegant society and you would, and you'd hate my scribbling,
and I couldn't get on without it, and we should be unhappy, and wish
we hadn't done it, and everything would be horrid!"
  "Anything more?" asked Laurie, finding it hard to listen patiently
to this prophetic burst.
  "Nothing more, except that I don't believe I shall ever marry. I'm
happy as I am, and love my liberty too well to be in any hurry to give
it up for any mortal man."
  "I know better!" broke in Laurie. "You think so now; but there'll
come a time when you will care for somebody, and you'll love him
tremendously, and live and die for him. I know you will, it's your
way, and I shall have to stand by and see it"; and the despairing
lover cast his hat upon the ground with a gesture that would have
seemed comical, if his face had not been so tragical.
  "Yes, I will live and die for him, if he ever comes and makes me
love him in spite of myself, and you must do the best you can!"
cried Jo, losing patience with poor Teddy. "I've done my best, but you
won't be reasonable, and it's selfish of you to keep teasing for
what I can't give. I shall always be fond of you, very fond indeed, as
a friend, but I'll never marry you; and the sooner you believe it
the better for both of us- so now!"
  That speech was like fire to gunpowder. Laurie looked at her a
minute as if he did not quite know what to do with himself, then
turned sharply away, saying, in a desperate sort of tone-
  "You'll be sorry some day, Jo."
  "Oh, where are you going?" she cried, for his face frightened her.
  "To the devil!" was the consoling answer.
  For a minute Jo's heart stood still, as he swung himself down the
bank, toward the river; but it takes much folly, sin, or misery to
send a young man to a violent death, and Laurie was not one of the
weak sort who are conquered by a single failure. He had no thought
of a melodramatic plunge, but some blind instinct led him to fling hat
and coat into his boat, and row away with all his might, making better
time up the river than he had done in many a race. Jo drew a long
breath and unclasped her hands as she watched the poor fellow trying
to outstrip the trouble which he carried in his heart.
  "That will do him good, and he'll come home in such a tender,
penitent state of mind, that I shan't dare to see him, she said;
adding, as she went slowly home, feeling as if she had murdered some
innocent thing, and buried it under the leaves-
  "Now I must go and prepare Mr. Laurence to be very kind to my poor
boy. I wish he'd love Beth; perhaps he may, in time, but I begin to
think I was mistaken about her. Oh dear! how can girls like to have
lovers and refuse them. I think it's dreadful."
  Being sure that no one could do it so well as herself, she went
straight to Mr. Laurence, told the hard story bravely through, and
then broke down, crying so dismally over her own insensibility that
the kind old gentleman, though sorely disappointed, did not utter a
reproach. He found it difficult to understand how any girl could
help loving Laurie, and hoped she would change her mind, but he knew
even better than Jo that love cannot be forced, so he shook his head
sadly, and resolved to carry his boy out of harm's way; for Young
Impetuosity's parting words to Jo disturbed him more than he would
confess.
  When Laurie came home, dead tired, but quite composed, his
grandfather met him as if he knew nothing, and kept up the delusion
very successfully for an hour or two. But when they sat together in
the twilight, the time they used to enjoy so much, it was hard work
for the old man to ramble on as usual, and harder still for the
young one to listen to praises of the last year's success, which to
him now seemed love's labor lost. He bore it as long as he could, then
went to his piano, and began to play. The windows were open; and Jo,
walking in the garden with Beth, for once understood music better than
her sister, for he played the "Sonata Pathetique," and played it as he
never did before.
  "That's very fine, I dare say, but it's sad enough to make one
cry; give us something gayer, lad," said Mr. Laurence, whose kind
old heart was full of sympathy, which he longed to show, but knew
not how.
  Laurie dashed into a livelier strain, played stormily for several
minutes, and would have got through bravely, if, in a momentary
lull, Mrs. March's voice had not been heard calling-
  "Jo, dear, come in; I want you."
  Just what Laurie longed to say, with a different meaning! As he
listened, he lost his place; the music ended with a broken chord,
and the musician sat silent in the dark.
  "I can't stand this," muttered the old gentleman. Up he got,
groped his way to the piano, laid a kind hand on either of the broad
shoulders, and said, as gently as a woman, "I know, my boy, I know."
  No answer for an instant; then Laurie asked sharply-
  "Who told you?"
  "Jo herself."
  "Then there's an end of it!" and he shook off his grandfather's
hands with an impatient motion; for, though grateful for the sympathy,
his man's pride could not bear a man's pity.
  "Not quite! I want to say one thing, and then there shall be an
end of it," returned Mr. Laurence, with unusual mildness. "You won't
care to stay at home just now, perhaps?"
  "I don't intend to run away from a girl. Jo can't prevent my
seeing her, and I shall stay and do it as long as I like," interrupted
Laurie, in a defiant tone.
  "Not if you are the gentleman I think you. I'm disappointed, but the
girl can't help it; and the only thing left for you to do is to go
away for a time. Where will you go?"
  "Anywhere. I don't care what becomes of me" and Laurie got up,
with a reckless laugh, that grated on his grandfather's ear.
  "Take it like a man, and don't do anything rash, for God's sake. Why
not go abroad, as you planned, and forget it?"
  "I can't."
  "But you've been wild to go, and I promised you should when you
got through college."
  "Ah, but I didn't mean to go alone!" and Laurie walked fast
through the room, with an expression which it was well his grandfather
did not see.
  "I don't ask you to go alone; there's some one ready and glad to
go with you, anywhere in the world."
  "Who, sir?" stopping to listen.
  "Myself."
  Laurie came back as quickly as he went, and put out his hand, saying
huskily-
  "I'm a selfish brute; but- you know- grandfather-"
  "Lord help me, yes, I do know, for I've been through it all
before, once in my own young days, and then with your father. Now,
my dear boy, just sit quietly down, and hear my plan. It's all
settled, and can be carried out at once," said Mr. Laurence, keeping
hold of the young man, as if fearful that he would break away, as
his father had done before him.
  "Well, sir, what is it?" and Laurie sat down, without a sign of
interest in face or voice.
  "There is business in London that needs looking after; I meant you
should attend to it; but I can do it better myself, and things here
will get on very well with Brooke to manage them. My partners do
almost everything; I'm merely holding on till you take my place, and
can be off at any time."
  "But you hate travelling, sir; I can't ask it of you at your age,"
began Laurie, who was grateful for the sacrifice, but much preferred
to go alone, if he went at all.
  The old gentleman knew that perfectly well, and particularly desired
to prevent it; for the mood in which he found his grandson assured him
that it would not be wise to leave him to his own devices. So,
stiffing a natural regret at the thought of the home comforts he would
leave behind him, he said stoutly-
  "Bless your soul, I'm not superannuated yet. I quite enjoy the idea;
it will do me good, and my old bones won't suffer, for travelling
nowadays is almost as easy as sitting in a chair."
  A restless movement from Laurie suggested that his chair was not
easy, or that he did not like the plan, and made the old man add
hastily-
  "I don't mean to be a marplot or a burden; I go because I think
you'd feel happier than if I was left behind. I don't intend to gad
about with you, but leave you free to go where you like, while I amuse
myself in my own way. I've friends in London and Paris, and should
like to visit them; meantime you can go to Italy, Germany,
Switzerland, where you will, and enjoy pictures, music, scenery, and
adventures to your heart's content."
  Now, Laurie felt just then that his heart was entirely broken, and
the world a howling wilderness; but at the sound of certain words
which the old gentleman artfully introduced into his closing sentence,
the broken heart gave an unexpected leap, and a green oasis or two
suddenly appeared in the howling wilderness. He sighed, and then said,
in a spiritless tone-
  "Just as you like, sir; it doesn't matter where I go or what I do."
  "It does to me, remember that, my lad; I give you entire liberty,
but I trust you to make an honest use of it. Promise me that, Laurie."
  "Anything you like, sir."
  "Good," thought the old gentleman. "You don't care now, but there'll
come a time when that promise will keep you out of mischief, or I'm
much mistaken."
  Being an energetic individual, Mr. Laurence struck while the iron
was hot; and before the blighted being recovered spirit enough to
rebel, they were off. During the time necessary for preparation,
Laurie bore himself as young gentlemen usually do in such cases. He
was moody, irritable, and pensive by turns; lost his appetite,
neglected his dress, and devoted much time to playing tempestuously on
his piano; avoided Jo, but consoled himself by staring at her from his
window, with a tragical face that haunted her dreams by night, and
oppressed her with a heavy sense of guilt by day. Unlike some
sufferers, he never spoke of his unrequited passion, and would allow
no one, not even Mrs. March, to attempt consolation or offer sympathy.
On some accounts, this was a relief to his friends; but the weeks
before his departure were very uncomfortable, and every one rejoiced
that the "poor, dear fellow was going away to forget his trouble,
and come home happy." Of course, he smiled darkly at their delusion,
but passed it by, with the sad superiority of one who knew that his
fidelity, like his love, was unalterable.
  When the parting came he affected high spirits, to conceal certain
inconvenient emotions which seemed inclined to assert themselves. This
gayety did not impose upon anybody, but they tried to look as if it
did, for his sake, and he got on very well till Mrs. March kissed him,
with a whisper full of motherly solicitude; then, feeling that he
was going very fast, he hastily embraced them all round, not
forgetting the afflicted Hannah, and ran downstairs as if for his
life. Jo followed a minute after to wave her hand to him if he
looked round. He did look round, came back, put his arms about her, as
she stood on the step above him, and looked up at her with a face that
made his short appeal both eloquent and pathetic.
  "O Jo, can't you?"
  "Teddy, dear, I wish I could!"
  That was all, except a little pause; then Laurie straightened
himself up, said, "It's all right, never mind," and went away
without another word. Ah, but it wasn't all right, and Jo did mind;
for while the curly head lay on her arm a minute after her hard
answer, she felt as if she had stabbed her dearest friend; and when he
left her without a look behind him, she knew that the boy Laurie never
would come again.
                             36
                        Beth's Secret

  WHEN Jo came home that spring, she had been struck with the change
in Beth. No one spoke of it or seemed aware of it, for it had come too
gradually to startle those who saw her daily; but to eyes sharpened by
absence, it was very plain; and a heavy weight fell on Jo's heart as
she saw her sister's face. It was no paler and but little thinner than
in the autumn; yet there was a strange, transparent look about it,
as if the mortal was being slowly refined away, and the immortal
shining through the frail flesh with an indescribably pathetic beauty.
Jo saw and felt it, but said nothing at the time, and soon the first
impression lost much of its power; for Beth seemed happy, no one
appeared to doubt that she was better; and, presently, in other cares,
Jo for a time forgot her fear.
  But when Laurie was gone, and peace prevailed again, the vague
anxiety returned and haunted her. She had confessed her sins and
been forgiven; but when she showed her savings and proposed the
mountain trip, Beth had thanked her heartily, but begged not to go
so far away from home. Another little visit to the seashore would suit
her better, and, as grandma could not be prevailed upon to leave the
babies, Jo took Beth down to the quiet place, where she could live
much in the open air, and let the fresh sea-breezes blow a little
color into her pale cheeks.
  It was not a fashionable place, but, even among the pleasant
people there, the girls made few friends, preferring to live for one
another. Beth was too shy to enjoy society, and Jo too wrapped up in
her to care for any one else; so they were all in all to each other,
and came and went, quite unconscious of the interest they excited in
those about them, who watched with sympathetic eyes the strong
sister and the feeble one, always together, as if they felt
instinctively that a long separation was not far away.
  They did feel it, yet neither spoke of it; for often between
ourselves and those nearest and dearest to us there exists a reserve
which it is very hard to overcome. Jo felt as if a veil had fallen
between her heart and Beth's; but when she put out her hand to lift it
up, there seemed something sacred in the silence, and she waited for
Beth to speak. She wondered, and was thankful also, that her parents
did not seem to see what she saw; and, during the quiet weeks, when
the shadow grew so plain to her, she said nothing of it to those at
home, believing that it would tell itself when Beth came back no
better. She wondered still more if her sister really guessed the
hard truth, and what thoughts were passing through her mind during the
long hours when she lay on the warm rocks, with her head in Jo's
lap, while the winds blew healthfully over her, and the sea made music
at her feet.
  One day Beth told her. Jo thought she was asleep, she lay so
still; and, putting down her book, sat looking at her with wistful
eyes, trying to see signs of hope in the faint color on Beth's cheeks.
But she could not find enough to satisfy her, for the cheeks were very
thin, and the hands seemed too feeble to hold even the rosy little
shells they had been gathering. It came to her then more bitterly than
ever that Beth was slowly drifting away from her, and her arms
instinctively tightened their hold upon the dearest treasure she
possessed. For a minute her eyes were too dim for seeing, and, when
they cleared, Beth was looking up at her so tenderly that there was
hardly any need for her to say-
  "Jo, dear, I'm glad you know it. I've tried to tell you, but I
couldn't."
  There was no answer except her sister's cheek against her own, not
even tears; for when most deeply moved, Jo did not cry. She was the
weaker, then, and Beth tried to comfort and sustain her, with her arms
about her, and the soothing words she whispered in her ear.
  "I've known it for a good while, dear, and, now I'm used to it, it
isn't hard to think of or to bear. Try to see it so, and don't be
troubled about me, because it's best; indeed it is."
  "Is this what made you so unhappy in the autumn, Beth? You did not
feel it then, and keep it to yourself so long, did you?" asked Jo,
refusing to see or say that it was best, but glad to know that
Laurie had no part in Beth's trouble.
  "Yes, I gave up hoping then, but I didn't like to own it. I tried to
think it was a sick fancy, and would not let it trouble any one. But
when I saw you all so well and strong, and full of happy plans, it was
hard to feel that I could never be like you, and then I was miserable,
Jo."
  "O Beth, and you didn't tell me, didn't let me comfort and help you!
How could you shut me out, and bear it all alone?"
  Jo's voice was full of tender reproach, and her heart ached to think
of the solitary struggle that must have gone on while Beth learned
to say good-by to health, love, and life, and take up her cross so
cheerfully.
  "Perhaps it was wrong, but I tried to do right; I wasn't sure, no
one said anything, and I hoped I was mistaken. It would have been
selfish to frighten you all when Marmee was so anxious about Meg,
and Amy away, and you so happy with Laurie- at least, I thought so
then."
  "And I thought that you loved him, Beth, and I went away because I
couldn't," cried Jo, glad to say all the truth.
  Beth looked so amazed at the idea that Jo smiled in spite of her
pain, and added softly-
  "Then you didn't, deary? I was afraid it was so, and imagined your
poor little heart full of love-lornity all that while."
  "Why, Jo, how could I, when he was so fond of you?" asked Beth, as
innocently as a child. "I do love him dearly; he is so good to me, how
can I help it? But he never could be anything to me but my brother.
I hope he truly will be, sometime."
  "Not through me," said Jo decidedly. "Amy is left for him, and
they would suit excellently; but I have no heart for such things, now.
I don't care what becomes of anybody but you, Beth. You must get
well."
  "I want to, oh, so much! I try, but every day I lose a little, and
feel more sure that I shall never gain it back. It's like the tide,
Jo, when it turns, it goes slowly, but it can't be stopped."
  "It shall be stopped, your tide must not turn so soon, nineteen is
too young. Beth, I can't let you go. I'll work and pray and fight
against it. I'll keep you in spite of everything; there must be
ways, it can't be too late. God won't be so cruel as to take you
from me," cried poor Jo rebelliously, for her spirit was far less
piously submissive than Beth's.
  Simple, sincere people seldom speak much of their piety; it shows
itself in acts, rather than in words, and has more influence than
homilies or protestations. Beth could not reason upon or explain the
faith that gave her courage and patience to give up life, and
cheerfully wait for death. Like a confiding child, she asked no
questions, but left everything to God and nature, Father and mother of
us all, feeling sure that they, and they only, could teach and
strengthen heart and spirit for this life and the life to come. She
did not rebuke Jo with saintly speeches, only loved her better for her
passionate affection, and clung more closely to the dear human love,
from which our Father never means us to be weaned, but through which
He draws us closer to Himself. She could not say, "I'm glad to go,"
for life was very sweet to her; she could only sob out, "I try to be
willing," while she held fast to Jo, as the first bitter wave of
this great sorrow broke over them together.
  By and by Beth said, with recovered serenity-
  "You'll tell them this when we go home?"
  "I think they will see it without words," sighed Jo; for now it
seemed to her that Beth changed every day.
  "Perhaps not; I've heard that the people who love best are often
blindest to such things. If they don't see it, you will tell them
for me. I don't want any secrets, and it's kinder to prepare them. Meg
has John and the babies to comfort her, but you must stand by father
and mother, won't you, Jo?"
  "If I can; but Beth, I don't give up yet; I'm going to believe
that it is a sick fancy, and not let you think it's true," said Jo,
trying to speak cheerfully.
  Beth lay a minute thinking, and then said in her quiet way-
  "I don't know how to express myself, and shouldn't try to any one
but you, because I can't speak out, except to my Jo. I only mean to
say that I have a feeling that it never was intended I should live
long. I'm not like the rest of you; I never made any plans about
what I'd do when I grew up; I never thought of being married, as you
all did. I couldn't seem to imagine myself anything but stupid
little Beth, trotting about at home, of no use anywhere but there. I
never wanted to go away, and the hard part now is the leaving you all.
I'm not afraid, but it seems as if I should be homesick for you even
in heaven."
  Jo could not speak; and for several minutes there was no sound but
the sigh of the wind and the lapping of the tide. A white-winged
gull flew by, with the flash of sunshine on its silvery breast; Beth
watched it till it vanished, and her eyes were full of sadness. A
little gray-coated sand-bird came tripping over the beach, "peeping"
softly to itself, as if enjoying the sun and sea; it came quite
close to Beth, looked at her with a friendly eye, and sat upon a
warm stone, dressing its wet feathers, quite at home. Beth smiled, and
felt comforted, for the tiny thing seemed to offer its small
friendship, and remind her that a pleasant world was still to be
enjoyed.
  "Dear little bird! See, Jo, how tame it is. I like peeps better than
the gulls: they are not so wild and handsome, but they seem happy,
confiding little things. I used to call them my birds, last summer;
and mother said they reminded her of me- busy, quaker-colored
creatures, always near the shore, and always chirping that contented
little song of theirs. You are the gull, Jo, strong and wild, fond
of the storm and the wind, flying far out to sea, and happy all alone.
Meg is the turtle-dove, and Amy is like the lark she writes about,
trying to get up among the clouds, but always dropping down into its
nest again. Dear little girl! she's so ambitious, but her heart is
good and tender; and no matter how high she flies, she never will
forget home. I hope I shall see her again, but she seems so far away."
  "She is coming in the spring, and I mean that you shall be all ready
to see and enjoy her. I'm going to have you well and rosy by that
time," began Jo, feeling that of all the changes in Beth, the
talking change was the greatest, for it seemed to cost no effort
now, and she thought aloud in a way quite unlike bashful Beth.
  "Jo, dear, don't hope any more; it won't do any good, I'm sure of
that. We won't be miserable, but enjoy being together while we wait.
We'll have happy times, for I don't suffer much, and I think the
tide will go out easily, if you help me."
  Jo leaned down to kiss the tranquil face; and with that silent kiss,
she dedicated herself soul and body to Beth.
  She was right: there was no need of any words when they got home,
for father and mother saw plainly, now, what they had prayed to be
saved from seeing. Tired with her short journey, Beth went at once
to bed, saying how glad she was to be at home; and when Jo went
down, she found that she would be spared the hard task of telling
Beth's secret. Her father stood leaning his head on the
mantel-piece, and did not turn as she came in; but her mother
stretched out her arms as if for help, and Jo went to comfort her
without a word.
                             37
                       New Impressions

  AT three o'clock in the afternoon, all the fashionable world at Nice
may be seen on the Promenade des Anglais- a charming place; for the
wide walk, bordered with palms, flowers, and tropical shrubs, is
bounded on one side by the sea, on the other by the grand drive, lined
with hotels and villas, while beyond he orange-orchards and the hills.
Many nations are represented, many languages spoken, many costumes
worn; and, on a sunny day, the spectacle is as gay and brilliant as
a carnival. Haughty English, lively French, sober Germans, handsome
Spaniards, ugly Russians, meek Jews, free-and-easy Americans, all
drive, sit, or saunter here, chatting over the news, and criticizing
the latest celebrity who has arrived- Ristori or Dickens, Victor
Emmanuel or the Queen of the Sandwich Islands. The equipages are as
varied as the company, and attract as much attention, especially the
low basket-barouches in which ladies drive themselves, with a pair
of dashing ponies, gay nets to keep their voluminous flounces from
overflowing the diminutive vehicles, and little grooms on the perch
behind.
  Along this walk, on Christmas Day, a tall young man walked slowly,
with his hands behind him, and a somewhat absent expression of
countenance. He looked like an Italian, was dressed like an
Englishman, and had the independent air of an American- a
combination which caused sundry pairs of feminine eyes to look
approvingly after him, and sundry dandies in black velvet suits,
with rose-colored neckties, buff gloves, and orange-flowers in their
button-holes, to shrug their shoulders, and then envy him his
inches. There were plenty of pretty faces to admire, but the young man
took little notice of them, except to glance, now and then, at some
blonde girl, or lady in blue. Presently he strolled out of the
promenade, and stood a moment at the crossing, as if undecided whether
to go and listen to the band in the Jardin Publique, or to wander
along the beach toward Castle Hill. The quick trot of ponies' feet
made him look up, as one of the little carriages, containing a
single lady, came rapidly down the street. The lady was young, blonde,
and dressed in blue. He stared a minute, then his whole face woke
up, and, waving his hat like a boy, he hurried forward to meet her.
  "O Laurie, is it really you? I thought you'd never come!" cried Amy,
dropping the reins, and holding out both hands, to the great
scandalization of a French mamma, who hastened her daughter's steps,
lest she should be demoralized by beholding the free manners of
these "mad English."
  "I was detained by the way, but I promised to spend Christmas with
you, and here I am."
  "How is your grandfather? When did you come? Where are you staying?"
  "Very well- last night- at the Chauvain. I called at your hotel, but
you were all out."
  "I have so much to say, I don't know where to begin! Get in, and
we can talk at our ease; I was going for a drive, and longing for
company. Flo's saving up for to-night."
  "What happens then, a ball?"
  "A Christmas party at our hotel. There are many Americans there, and
they give it in honor of the day. You'll go with us, of course? Aunt
will be charmed."
  "Thank you. Where now?" asked Laurie, leaning back and folding his
arms, a proceeding which suited Amy, who preferred to drive; for her
parasol-whip and blue reins over the white ponies' backs, afforded her
infinite satisfaction.
  "I'm going to the banker's first, for letters, and then to Castle
Hill; the view is so lovely, and I like to feed the peacocks. Have you
ever been there?"
  "Often, years ago; but I don't mind having a look at it."
  "Now tell me all about yourself. The last I heard of you, your
grandfather wrote that he expected you from Berlin."
  "Yes, I spent a month there, and then joined him in Paris, where
he has settled for the winter. He has friends there, and finds
plenty to amuse him; so I go and come, and we get on capitally."
  "That's a sociable arrangement," said Amy, missing something in
Laurie's manner, though she couldn't tell what.
  "Why, you see he hates to travel, and I hate to keep still; so we
each suit ourselves, and there is no trouble. I am often with him, and
he enjoys my adventures, while I like to feel that some one is glad to
see me when I get back from my wanderings. Dirty old hole, isn't
it?" he added, with a look of disgust, as they drove along the
boulevard to the Place Napoleon, in the old city.
  "The dirt is picturesque, so I don't mind. The river and the hills
are delicious, and these glimpses of the narrow cross-streets are my
delight. Now we shall have to wait for that procession to pass; it's
going to the Church of St. John."
  While Laurie listlessly watched the procession of priests under
their canopies, white-veiled nuns bearing lighted tapers, and some
brotherhood in blue, chanting as they walked, Amy watched him, and
felt a new sort of shyness steal over her; for he was changed, and she
could not find the merry-faced boy she left in the moody-looking man
beside her. He was handsomer than ever, and greatly improved, she
thought; but now that the flush of pleasure at meeting her was over,
he looked tired and spiritless- not sick, nor exactly unhappy, but
older and graver than a year or two of prosperous life should have
made him. She couldn't understand it, and did not venture to ask
questions; so she shook her head, and touched up her ponies, as the
procession wound away across the arches of the Paglioni bridge, and
vanished in the church.
  "Que pensez-vous?" she said, airing her French, which had improved
in quantity, if not in quality, since she came abroad.
  "That mademoiselle has made good use of her time, and the result
is charming," replied Laurie, bowing, with his hand on his heart,
and an admiring look.
  She blushed with pleasure, but somehow the compliment did not
satisfy her like the blunt praises he used to give her at home, when
he promenaded round her on festival occasions, and told her she was
"altogether jolly," with a hearty smile and an approving pat on the
head. She didn't like the new tone; for, though not blase, it
sounded indifferent in spite of the look.
  "If that's the way he's going to grow up, I wish he'd stay a boy,"
she thought, with a curious sense of disappointment and discomfort,
trying meantime to seem quite easy and gay.
  At Avigdor's she found the precious home-letters, and, giving the
reins to Laurie, read them luxuriously as they wound up the shady road
between green hedges, where tea-roses bloomed as freshly as in June.
  "Beth is very poorly, mother says. I often think I ought to go home,
but they all say 'stay'; so I do, for I shall never have another
chance like this," said Amy, looking sober over one page.
  "I think you are right, there; you could do nothing at home, and
it is a great comfort to them to know that you are well and happy, and
enjoying so much, my dear."
  He drew a little nearer, and looked more like his old self, as he
said that; and the fear that sometimes weighed on Amy's heart was
lightened, for the look, the act, the brotherly "my dear," seemed to
assure her that if any trouble did come, she would not be alone in a
strange land. Presently she laughed, and showed him a small sketch
of Jo in her scribbling-suit, with the bow rampantly erect upon her
cap, and issuing from her mouth the words, "Genius burns!"
  Laurie smiled, took it, put it in his vest-pocket, "to keep it
from blowing away," and listened with interest to the lively letter
Amy read him.
  "This will be a regularly merry Christmas to me, with presents in
the morning, you and letters in the afternoon, and a party at
night," said Amy, as they alighted among the ruins of the old fort,
and a flock of splendid peacocks came trooping about them, tamely
waiting to be fed. While Amy stood laughing on the bank above him as
she scattered crumbs to the brilliant birds, Laurie looked at her as
she had looked at him, with a natural curiosity to see what changes
time and absence had wrought. He found nothing to perplex or
disappoint, much to admire and approve; for, overlooking a few
little affectations of speech and manner, she was as sprightly and
graceful as ever, with the addition of that indescribable something in
dress and bearing which we call elegance. Always mature for her age,
she had gained a certain aplomb in both carriage and conversation,
which made her seem more of a woman of the world than she was; but her
old petulance now and then showed itself, her strong will held its
own, and her native frankness was unspoiled by foreign polish.
  Laurie did not read all this while he watched her feed the peacocks,
but he saw enough to satisfy and interest him, and carried away a
pretty little picture of a bright-faced girl standing in the sunshine,
which brought out the soft hue of her dress, the fresh color of her
cheeks, the golden gloss of her hair, and made her a prominent
figure in the pleasant scene.
  As they came up on to the stone plateau that crowns the hill, Amy
waved her hand as if welcoming him to her favorite haunt, and said,
pointing here and there-
  "Do you remember the Cathedral and the Corso, the fishermen dragging
their nets in the bay, and the lovely road to Villa Franca, Schubert's
Tower, just below, and, best of all, that speck far out to sea which
they say is Corsica?"
  "I remember; it's not much changed," he answered, without
enthusiasm.
  "What Jo would give for a sight of that famous speck!" said Amy,
feeling in good spirits, and anxious to see him so also.
  "Yes," was all he said, but he turned and strained his eyes to see
the island which a greater usurper than even Napoleon now made
interesting in his sight.
  "Take a good look at it for her sake, and then come and tell me what
you have been doing with yourself all this while," said Amy, seating
herself, ready for a good talk.
  But she did not get it; for, though he joined her, and answered
all her questions freely, she could only learn that he had roved about
the continent and been to Greece. So, after idling away an hour,
they drove home again; and, having paid his respects to Mrs. Carrol,
Laurie left them, promising to return in the evening.
  It must be recorded of Amy that she deliberately "prinked" that
night. Time and absence had done its work on both the young people;
she had seen her old friend in a new light, not as "our boy," but as a
handsome and agreeable man, and she was conscious of a very natural
desire to find favor in his sight. Amy knew her good points, and
made the most of them, with the taste and skill which is a fortune
to a poor and pretty woman.
  Tarlatan and tulle were cheap at Nice, so she enveloped herself in
them on such occasions, and, following the sensible English fashion of
simple dress for young girls, got up charming little toilettes with
fresh flowers, a few trinkets, and all manner of dainty devices, which
were both inexpensive and effective. It must be confessed that the
artist sometimes got possession of the woman, and indulged in
antique coiffures, statuesque attitudes, and classic draperies. But,
dear heart, we all have our little weaknesses, and find it easy to
pardon such in the young, who satisfy our eyes with their
comeliness, and keep our hearts merry with their artless vanities.
  "I do want him to think I look well, and tell them so at home," said
Amy to herself, as she put on Flo's old white silk ball-dress, and
covered it with a cloud of fresh illusion, out of which her white
shoulders and golden head emerged with a most artistic effect. Her
hair she had the sense to let alone, after gathering up the thick
waves and curls into a Hebe-like knot at the back of her head.
  "It's not the fashion, but it's becoming, and I can't afford to make
a fright of myself," she used to say, when advised to frizzle, puff,
or braid, as the latest style commanded.
  Having no ornaments fine enough for this important occasion, Amy
looped her fleecy skirts with rosy clusters of azalea, and framed
the white shoulders in delicate green vines. Remembering the painted
boots, she surveyed her white satin slippers with girlish
satisfaction, and chasseed down the room, admiring her aristocratic
feet all by herself.
  "My new fan just matches my flowers, my gloves fit to a charm, and
the real lace on aunt's mouchoir gives an air to my whole dress. If
I only had a classical nose and mouth I should be perfectly happy,"
she said, surveying herself with a critical eye, and a candle in
each hand.
  In spite of this affliction, she looked unusually gay and graceful
as she glided away; she seldom ran- it did not suit her style, she
thought, for, being tall, the stately and Junoesque was more
appropriate than the sportive or piquante. She walked up and down
the long saloon while waiting for Laurie, and once arranged herself
under the chandelier, which had a good effect upon her hair; then
she thought better of it, and went away to the other end of the
room, as if ashamed of the girlish desire to have the first view a
propitious one. It so happened that she could not have done a better
thing, for Laurie came in so quietly she did not hear him; and, as she
stood at the distant window, with her head half turned, and one hand
gathering up her dress, the slender, white figure against the red
curtains was as effective as a well-placed statue.
  "Good evening, Diana!" said Laurie, with the look of satisfaction
she liked to see in his eyes when they rested on her.
  "Good evening, Apollo!" she answered, smiling back at him, for he,
too, looked unusually debonnaire, and the thought of entering the
ballroom on the arm of such a personable man caused Amy to pity the
four plain Misses Davis from the bottom of her heart.
  "Here are your flowers; I arranged them myself, remembering that you
didn't like what Hannah calls a 'sot-bookay,'" said Laurie, handing
her a delicate nosegay, in a holder that she had long coveted as she
daily passed it in Cardiglia's window.
  "How kind you are!" she exclaimed gratefully. "If I'd known you were
coming I'd have had something ready for you to-day, though not as
pretty as this, I'm afraid."
  "Thank you; it isn't what it should be, but you have improved it,"
he added, as she snapped the silver bracelet on her wrist.
  "Please don't."
  "I thought you liked that sort of thing?"
  "Not from you; it doesn't sound natural, and I like your old
bluntness better."
  "I'm glad of it," he answered, with a look of relief; then
buttoned her gloves for her, and asked if his tie was straight, just
as he used to do when they went to parties together, at home.
  The company assembled in the long salle a manger, that evening,
was such as one sees nowhere but on the Continent. The hospitable
Americans had invited every acquaintance they had in Nice, and, having
no prejudice against titles, secured a few to add lustre to their
Christmas ball.
  A Russian prince condescended to sit in a corner for an hour, and
talk with a massive lady, dressed like Hamlet's mother, in black
velvet, with a pearl bridle under her chin. A Polish count, aged
eighteen, devoted himself to the ladies, who pronounced him "a
fascinating dear," and a German Serene Something, having come for
the supper alone, roamed vaguely about, seeking what he might
devour. Baron Rothschild's private secretary, a large-nosed Jew, in
tight boots, affably beamed upon the world, as if his master's name
crowned him with a golden halo; a stout Frenchman, who knew the
Emperor, came to indulge his mania for dancing, and Lady de Jones, a
British matron, adorned the scene with her little family of eight.
Of course, there were many light-footed, shrill-voiced American girls,
handsome, lifeless-looking English ditto, and a few plain but piquante
French demoiselles; likewise the usual set of travelling young
gentlemen, who disported themselves gayly, while mammas of all nations
lined the walls, and smiled upon them benignly when they danced with
their daughters.
  Any young girl can imagine Amy's state of mind when she "took the
stage" that night, leaning on Laurie's arm. She knew she looked
well, she loved to dance, she felt that her foot was on her native
heath in a ballroom, and enjoyed the delightful sense of power which
comes when young girls first discover the new and lovely kingdom
they are born to rule by virtue of beauty, youth, and womanhood. She
did pity the Davis girls, who were awkward, plain, and destitute of
escort, except a grim papa and three grimmer maiden aunts, and she
bowed to them in her friendliest manner as she passed; which was
good of her, as it permitted them to see her dress, and burn with
curiosity to know who her distinguished-looking friend might be.
With the first burst of the band, Amy's color rose, her eyes began
to sparkle, and her feet to tap the floor impatiently; for she
danced well, and wanted Laurie to know it: therefore the shock she
received can better be imagined than described, when he said, in a
perfectly tranquil tone-
  "Do you care to dance?"
  "One usually does at a ball."
  Her amazed look and quick answer caused Laurie to repair his error
as fast as possible.
  "I meant the first dance. May I have the honor?"
  "I can give you one if I put off the Count. He dances divinely;
but he will excuse me, as you are an old friend," said Amy, hoping
that the name would have a good effect, and show Laurie that she was
not to be trifled with.
  "Nice little boy, but rather a short Pole to support

                "'A daughter of the gods,
                  Divinely tall, and most divinely fair,'"

was all the satisfaction she got, however.
  The set in which they found themselves was composed of English,
and Amy was compelled to walk decorously through a cotillion,
feeling all the while as if she could dance the Tarantula with a
relish. Laurie resigned her to the "nice little boy," and went to do
his duty to Flo, without securing Amy for the joys to come, which
reprehensible want of forethought was properly punished, for she
immediately engaged herself till supper, meaning to relent if he
then gave any signs of penitence. She showed him her ball-book with
demure satisfaction when he strolled, instead of rushing, up to
claim her for the next, a glorious polka-redowa; but his polite
regrets didn't impose upon her, and when she gallopaded away with
the Count, she saw Laurie sit down by her aunt with an actual
expression of relief.
  That was unpardonable; and Amy took no more notice of him for a long
while, except a word now and then, when she came to her chaperon,
between the dances, for a necessary pin or a moment's rest. Her
anger had a good effect, however, for she hid it under a smiling face,
and seemed unusually blithe and brilliant. Laurie's eyes followed
her with pleasure for she neither romped nor sauntered, but danced
with spirit and grace, making the delightsome pastime what it should
be. He very naturally fell to studying her from this new point of
view; and, before the evening was half over, had decided that
"little Amy was going to make a very charming woman."
  It was a lively scene, for soon the spirit of the social season took
possession of every one, and Christmas merriment made all faces shine,
hearts happy, and heels light. The musicians fiddled, tooted, and
banged as if they enjoyed it; everybody danced who could, and those
who couldn't admired their neighbors with uncommon warmth. The air was
dark with Davises, and many Joneses gambolled like a flock of young
giraffes. The golden secretary darted through the room like a
meteor, with a dashing Frenchwoman, who carpeted the floor with her
pink satin train. The Serene Teuton found the supper-table, and was
happy, eating steadily through the bill of fare, and dismayed the
garcons by the ravages he committed. But the Emperor's friend
covered himself with glory, for he danced everything, whether he
knew it or not, and introduced impromptu pirouettes when the figures
bewildered him. The boyish abandon of that stout man was charming to
behold; for, though he "carried weight," he danced like an
india-rubber ball. He ran, he flew, he pranced; his face glowed, his
bald head shone; his coat-tails waved wildly, his pumps actually
twinkled in the air, and when the music stopped, he wiped the drops
from his brow, and beamed upon his fellow-men like a French Pickwick
without glasses.
  Amy and her Pole distinguished themselves by equal enthusiasm, but
more graceful agility; and Laurie found himself involuntarily
keeping time to the rhythmic rise and fall of the white slippers as
they flew by as indefatigably as if winged. When little Vladimir
finally relinquished her with assurances that he was "desolated to
leave so early," she was ready to rest, and see how her recreant
knight had borne his punishment.
  It had been successful; for, at three-and-twenty, blighted
affections find a balm in friendly society, and young nerves will
thrill, young blood dance, and healthy young spirits rise, when
subjected to the enchantment of beauty, light, music, and motion.
Laurie had a waked-up look as he rose to give her his seat; and when
he hurried away to bring her some supper, she said to herself, with
a satisfied smile-
  "Ah, I thought that would do him good!"
  "You look like Balzac's 'Femme peinte par elle-meme,'" he said, as
he fanned her with one hand and held her coffee-cup in the other.
  "My rouge won't come off"; and Amy rubbed her brilliant cheek, and
showed him her white glove with a sober simplicity that made him laugh
outright.
  "What do you call this stuff?" he asked, touching a fold of her
dress that had blown over his knee.
  "Illusion."
  "Good name for it; it's very pretty- new thing, isn't it?"
  "It's as old as the hills; you have seen it on dozens of girls,
and you never found out that it was pretty till now- stupide!"
  "I never saw it on you before, which accounts for the mistake, you
see."
  "None of that, it is forbidden; I'd rather take coffee than
compliments just now. No, don't lounge, it makes me nervous."
  Laurie sat bolt upright, and meekly took her empty plate, feeling an
odd sort of pleasure in having "little Amy" order him about; for she
had lost her shyness now, and felt an irresistible desire to trample
on him, as girls have a delightful way of doing when lords of creation
show any signs of subjection.
  "Where did you learn all this sort of thing?" he asked, with a
quizzical look.
  "As 'this sort of thing' is rather a vague expression, would you
kindly explain?" returned Amy, knowing perfectly well what he meant,
but wickedly leaving him to describe what is indescribable.
  "Well- the general air, the style, the self-possession, the- the-
illusion- you know," laughed Laurie, breaking down, and helping
himself out of his quandary with the new word.
  Amy was gratified, but, of course, didn't show it, and demurely
answered, "Foreign life polishes one in spite of one's self; I study
as well as play; and as for this"- with a little gesture toward her
dress- "why, tulle is cheap, posies to be had for nothing, and I am
used to making the most of my poor little things."
  Amy rather regretted that last sentence, fearing it wasn't in good
taste; but Laurie liked her the better for it, and found himself
both admiring and respecting the brave patience that made the most
of opportunity, and the cheerful spirit that covered poverty with
flowers. Amy did not know why he looked at her so kindly, nor why he
filled up her book with his own name, and devoted himself to her for
the rest of the evening, in the most delightful manner; but the
impulse that wrought this agreeable change was the result of one of
the new impressions which both of them were unconsciously giving and
receiving.
                             38
                         On the Shelf

  IN France the young girls have a dull time of it till they are
married, when "Vive la liberte" becomes their motto. In America, as
every one knows, girls early sign the declaration of independence, and
enjoy their freedom with republican zest; but the young matrons
usually abdicate with the first heir to the throne, and go into a
seclusion almost as close as a French nunnery, though by no means as
quiet. Whether they like it or not, they are virtually put upon the
shelf as soon as the wedding excitement is over, and most of them
might exclaim, as did a very pretty woman the other day, "I am as
handsome as ever, but no one takes any notice of me because I'm
married."
  Not being a belle or even a fashionable lady, Meg did not experience
this affliction till her babies were a year old, for in her little
world primitive customs prevailed, and she found herself more
admired and beloved than ever.
  As she was a womanly little woman, the maternal instinct was very
strong, and she was entirely absorbed in her children, to the utter
exclusion of everything and everybody else. Day and night she
brooded over them with tireless devotion and anxiety, leaving John
to the tender mercies of the help, for an Irish lady now presided over
the kitchen department. Being a domestic man, John decidedly missed
the wifely attentions he had been accustomed to receive; but, as he
adored his babies, he cheerfully relinquished his comfort for a
time, supposing, with masculine ignorance, that peace would soon be
restored. But three months passed, and there was no return of
repose; Meg looked worn and nervous, the babies absorbed every
minute of her time, the house was neglected, and Kitty, the cook,
who took life "aisy," kept him on short commons. When he went out in
the morning he was bewildered by small commissions for the captive
mamma; if he came gayly in at night, eager to embrace his family, he
was quenched by a "Hush! they are just asleep after worrying all day."
If he proposed a little amusement at home, "No, it would disturb the
babies." If he hinted at a lecture or concert, he was answered with
a reproachful look, and a decided "Leave my children for pleasure,
never!" His sleep was broken by infant wails and visions of a
phantom figure pacing noiselessly to and fro in the watches of the
night; his meals were interrupted by the frequent flight of the
presiding genius, who deserted him, half-helped, if a muffled chirp
sounded from the nest above; and when he read his paper of an evening,
Demi's colic got into the shipping-list, and Daisy's fall affected the
price of stocks, for Mrs. Brooke was only interested in domestic news.
  The poor man was very uncomfortable, for the children had bereft him
of his wife; home was merely a nursery, and the perpetual "hushing"
made him feel like a brutal intruder whenever he entered the sacred
precincts of Babyland. He bore it very patiently for six months,
and, when no signs of amendment appeared, he did what other paternal
exiles do- tried to get a little comfort elsewhere. Scott had
married and gone to housekeeping not far off, and John fell into the
way of running over for an hour or two of an evening, when his own
parlor was empty, and his own wife singing lullabies that seemed to
have no end. Mrs. Scott was a lively, pretty girl, with nothing to
do but be agreeable, and she performed her mission most
successfully. The parlor was always bright and attractive, the
chessboard ready, the piano in tune, plenty of gay gossip, and a
nice little supper set forth in tempting style.
  John would have preferred his own fireside if it had not been so
lonely; but as it was, he gratefully took the next best thing, and
enjoyed his neighbor's society.
  Meg rather approved of the new arrangement at first, and found it
a relief to know that John was having a good time instead of dozing in
the parlor, or tramping about the house and waking the children. But
by and by, when the teething worry was over, and the idols went to
sleep at proper hours, leaving mamma time to rest, she began to miss
John, and find her work basket dull company, when he was not sitting
opposite in his old dressing gown, comfortably scorching his
slippers on the fender. She would not ask him to stay at home, but
felt injured because he did not know that she wanted him without being
told, entirely forgetting the many evenings he had waited for her in
vain. She was nervous and worn out with watching and worry, and in
that unreasonable frame of mind which the best of mothers occasionally
experience when domestic cares oppress them. Want of exercise robs
them of cheerfulness, and too much devotion to that idol of American
women, the teapot, makes them feel as if they were all nerve and no
muscle.
  "Yes," she would say, looking in the glass, "I'm getting old and
ugly; John doesn't find me interesting any longer, so he leaves his
faded wife and goes to see his pretty neighbor, who has no
incumbrances. Well, the babies love me; they don't care if I am thin
and pale, and haven't time to crimp my hair; they are my comfort,
and some day John will see what I've gladly sacrificed for them, won't
he, my precious?"
  To which pathetic appeal Daisy would answer with a coo, or Demi with
a crow, and Meg would put by her lamentations for a maternal revel,
which soothed her solitude for the time being. But the pain
increased as politics absorbed John, who was always running over to
discuss interesting points with Scott, quite unconscious that Meg
missed him. Not a word did she say, however, till her mother found her
in tears one day, and insisted on knowing what the matter was, for
Meg's drooping spirits had not escaped her observation.
  "I wouldn't tell any one except you, mother; but I really do need
advice, for, if John goes on so much longer I might as well be
widowed," replied Mrs. Brooke, drying her tears on Daisy's bib, with
an injured air.
  "Goes on how, my dear?" asked her mother anxiously.
  "He's away all day, and at night, when I want to see him, he is
continually going over to the Scotts'. It isn't fair that I should
have the hardest work, and never any amusement. Men are very
selfish, even the best of them."
  "So are women; don't blame John till you see where you are wrong
yourself."
  "But it can't be right for him to neglect me."
  "Don't you neglect him?"
  "Why, mother, I thought you'd take my part!"
  "So I do, as far as sympathizing goes; but I think the fault is
yours, Meg."
  "I don't see how."
  "Let me show you. Did John ever neglect you, as you call it, while
you made it a point to give him your society of an evening, his only
leisure time?"
  "No; but I can't do it now, with two babies to tend."
  "I think you could, dear; and I think you ought. May I speak quite
freely, and will you remember that it's mother who blames as well as
mother who sympathizes?"
  "Indeed I will! Speak to me as if I were little Meg again. I often
feel as if I needed teaching more than ever since these babies look to
me for everything."
  Meg drew her low chair beside her mother's, and, with a little
interruption in either lap, the two women rocked and talked lovingly
together, feeling that the tie of motherhood made them more one than
ever.
  "You have only made the mistake that most young wives make-
forgotten your duty to your husband in your love for your children.
A very natural and forgivable mistake, Meg, but one that had better be
remedied before you take to different ways; for children should draw
you nearer than ever, not separate you, as if they were all yours, and
John had nothing to do but support them. I've seen it for some
weeks, but have not spoken, feeling sure it would come right in time."
  "I'm afraid it won't. If I ask him to stay, he'll think I'm jealous;
and I wouldn't insult him by such an idea. He doesn't see that I
want him, and I don't know how to tell him without words."
  "Make it so pleasant he won't want to go away. My dear, he's longing
for his little home; but it isn't home without you, and you are always
in the nursery."
  "Oughtn't I to be there?"
  "Not all the time; too much confinement makes you nervous, and
then you are unfitted for everything. Besides, you owe something to
John as well as to the babies; don't neglect husband for children,
don't shut him out of the nursery, but teach him how to help in it.
His place is there as well as yours, and the children need him; let
him feel that he has his part to do, and he will do it gladly and
faithfully, and it will be better for you all."
  "You really think so, mother?"
  "I know it, Meg, for I've tried it; and I seldom give advice
unless I've proved its practicability. When you and Jo were little,
I went on just as you are, feeling as if I didn't do my duty unless
I devoted myself wholly to you. Poor father took to his books, after I
had refused all offers of help, and left me to try my experiment
alone. I struggled along as well as I could, but Jo was too much for
me. I nearly spoilt her by indulgence. You were poorly, and I
worried about you till I fell sick myself. Then father came to the
rescue, quietly managed everything, and made himself so helpful that I
saw my mistake, and never have been able to get on without him
since. That is the secret of our home happiness: he does not let
business wean him from the little cares and duties that affect us all,
and I try not to let domestic worries destroy my interest in his
pursuits. Each do our part alone in many things, but at home we work
together, always."
  "It is so, mother; and my great wish is to be to my husband and
children what you have been to yours. Show me how; I'll do anything.
you say."
  "You always were my docile daughter. Well, dear, if I were you,
I'd let John have more to do with the management of Demi, for the
boy needs training, and it's none too soon to begin. Then I'd do
what I have often proposed, let Hannah come and help you; she is a
capital nurse, and you may trust the precious babies to her while
you do more housework. You need the exercise, Hannah would enjoy the
rest, and John would find his wife again. Go out more; keep cheerful
as well as busy, for you are the sunshine-maker of the family, and
if you get dismal there is no fair weather. Then I'd try to take an
interest in whatever John likes- talk with him, let him read to you,
exchange ideas, and help each other in that way. Don't shut yourself
up in a bandbox because you are a woman, but understand what is
going on, and educate yourself to take your part in the world's
work, for it all affects you and yours."
  "John is so sensible, I'm afraid he will think I'm stupid if I ask
questions about politics and things."
  "I don't believe he would; love covers a multitude of sins, and of
whom could you ask more freely than of him? Try it, and see if he
doesn't find your society far more agreeable than Mrs. Scott's
suppers."
  "I will. Poor John! I'm afraid I have neglected him sadly, but I
thought I was right, and he never said anything."
  "He tried not to be selfish, but he has felt rather forlorn, I
fancy. This is just the time, Meg, when young married people are apt
to grow apart, and the very time when they ought to be most
together; for the first tenderness soon wears off, unless care is
taken to preserve it; and no time is so beautiful and precious to
parents as the first years of the little lives given them to train.
Don't let John be a stranger to the babies, for they will do more to
keep him safe and happy in this world of trial and temptation than
anything else, and through them you will learn to know and love one
another as you should. Now, dear, good-by; think over mother's
preachment, act upon it if it seems good, and God bless you all!"
  Meg did think it over, found it good, and acted upon it, though
the first attempt was not made exactly as she planned to have it. Of
course the children tyrannized over her, and ruled the house as soon
as they found out that kicking and squalling brought them whatever
they wanted. Mamma was an abject slave to their caprices, but papa was
not so easily subjugated, and occasionally afflicted his tender spouse
by an attempt at paternal discipline with his obstreperous son. For
Demi inherited a trifle of his sire's firmness of character- we
won't call it obstinacy- and when he made up his little mind to have
or to do anything, all the king's horses and all the king's men
could not change that pertinacious little mind. Mamma thought the dear
too young to be taught to conquer his prejudices, but papa believed
that it never was too soon to learn obedience; so Master Demi early
discovered that when he undertook to "wrastle" with "parpar," he
always got the worst of it; yet, like the Englishman, Baby respected
the man who conquered him, and loved the father whose grave "No,
no," was more impressive than all mamma's love-pats.
  A few days after the talk with her mother, Meg resolved to try a
social evening with John; so she ordered a nice supper, set the parlor
in order, dressed herself prettily, and put the children to bed early,
that nothing should interfere with her experiment. But, unfortunately,
Demi's most unconquerable prejudice was against going to bed, and that
night he decided to go on a rampage; so poor Meg sung and rocked, told
stories and tried every sleep-provoking wile she could devise, but all
in vain, the big eyes wouldn't shut; and long after Daisy had gone
to byelow, like the chubby little bunch of good-nature she was,
naughty Demi lay staring at the light, with the most discouragingly
wide-awake expression of countenance.
  "Will Demi lie still like a good boy, while mamma runs down and
gives poor papa his tea?" asked Meg, as the hall-door softly closed,
and the well-known step went tiptoeing into the dining-room.
  "Me has tea!" said Demi, preparing to join in the revel.
  "No; but I'll save you some little cakies for breakfast, if you'll
go bye-by like Daisy. Will you, lovey?"
  "Iss!" and Demi shut his eyes tight, as if to catch sleep and
hurry the desired day.
  Taking advantage of the propitious moment, Meg slipped away, and ran
down to greet her husband with a smiling face, and the little blue bow
in her hair which was his especial admiration. He saw it at once,
and said, with pleased surprise-
  "Why, little mother, how gay we are to-night. Do you expect
company?"
  "Only you, dear."
  "Is it a birthday, anniversary, or anything?"
  "No; I'm tired of being a dowdy, so I dressed up as a change. You
always make yourself nice for table, no matter how tired you are; so
why shouldn't I when I have the time?"
  "I do it out of respect to you, my dear," said old-fashioned John.
  "Ditto, ditto, Mr. Brooke," laughed Meg, looking young and pretty
again, as she nodded to him over the teapot.
  "Well, it's altogether delightful, and like old times. This tastes
right. I drink your health, dear." And John sipped his tea with an air
of reposeful rapture, which was of very short duration, however;
for, as he put down his cup, the door-handle rattled mysteriously, and
a little voice was heard, saying impatiently-
  "Opy doy; me's tummin!"
  "It's that naughty boy. I told him to go to sleep alone, and here he
is, downstairs, getting his death a-cold pattering over that
canvas," said Meg, answering the call.
  "Mornin' now," announced Demi, in a joyful tone, as he entered, with
his long night-gown gracefully festooned over his arm, and every
curl bobbing gayly as he pranced about the table, eying the "cakies"
with loving glances.
  "No, it isn't morning yet. You must go to bed, and not trouble
poor mamma; then you can have the little cake with sugar on it."
  "Me loves parpar," said the artful one, preparing to climb the
paternal knee, and revel in forbidding joys. But John shook his
head, and said to Meg-
  "If you told him to stay up there, and go to sleep alone, make him
do it, or he will never learn to mind you."
  "Yes, of course. Come, Demi"; and Meg led her son away, feeling a
strong desire to spank the little marplot who hopped beside her,
laboring under the delusion that the bribe was to be administered as
soon as they reached the nursery.
  Nor was he disappointed; for that short-sighted woman actually
gave him a lump of sugar, tucked him into his bed, and forbade any
more promenades till morning.
  "Iss!" said Demi the perjured, blissfully sucking his sugar, and
regarding his first attempt as eminently successful.
  Meg returned to her place, and supper was progressing pleasantly,
when the little ghost walked again, and exposed the maternal
delinquencies by boldly demanding-
  "More sudar, marmar."
  "Now this won't do," said John, hardening his heart against the
engaging little sinner. "We shall never know any peace till that child
learns to go to bed properly. You have made a slave of yourself long
enough; give him one lesson, and then there will be an end of it.
Put him in his bed and leave him, Meg."
  "He won't stay there; he never does, unless I sit by him."
  "I'll manage him. Demi, go upstairs, and get into your bed, as mamma
bids you."
  "S'ant!" replied the young rebel, helping himself to the coveted
"cakie," and beginning to eat the same with calm audacity.
  "You must never say that to papa; I shall carry you if you don't
go yourself."
  "Go 'way; me don't love parpar"; and Demi retired to his mother's
skirts for protection.
  But even that refuge proved unavailing, for he was delivered over to
the enemy, with a "Be gentle with him, John," which struck the culprit
with dismay; for when mamma deserted him, then the judgment-day was at
hand. Bereft of his cake, defrauded of his frolic, and borne away by a
strong hand to that detested bed, poor Demi could not restrain his
wrath, but openly defied papa, and kicked and screamed lustily all the
way upstairs. The minute he was put into bed on one side, he rolled
out on the other, and made for the door, only to be ignominiously
caught up the tail of his little toga, and put back again, which
lively performance kept up till the young man's strength gave out,
when he devoted himself to roaring at the top of his voice. This vocal
exercise usually conquered Meg; but John sat as unmoved as the post
which is popularly believed to be deaf. No coaxing, no sugar, no
lullaby, no story; even the light was put out, and only the red glow
of the fire enlivened the "big dark" which Demi regarded with
curiosity rather than fear. This new order of things disgusted him,
and he howled dismally for "marmar," as his angry passions subsided,
and recollections of his tender bondwoman returned to the captive
autocrat. The plaintive wail which succeeded the passionate roar
went to Meg's heart, and she ran up to say beseechingly-
  "Let me stay with him; he'll be good, now, John."
  "No, my dear, I've told him he must go to sleep, as you bid him; and
he must, if I stay here all night."
  "But he'll cry himself sick," pleaded Meg, reproaching herself for
deserting her boy.
  "No, he won't, he's so tired he will soon drop off, and then the
matter is settled; for he will understand that he has got to mind.
Don't interfere; I'll manage him."
  "He's my child, and I can't have his spirit broken by harshness."
  "He's my child, and I won't have his temper spoilt by indulgence. Go
down, my dear, and leave the boy to me."
  When John spoke in that masterful tone, Meg always obeyed, and never
regretted her docility.
  "Please let me kiss him once, John?"
  "Certainly. Demi, say 'good-night' to mamma, and let her go and
rest, for she is very tired with taking care of you all day."
  Meg always insisted upon it that the kiss won the victory; for after
it was given, Demi sobbed more quietly, and lay quite still at the
bottom of the bed, whither he had wriggled in his anguish of mind.
  "Poor little man, he's worn out with sleep and crying. I'll cover
him up, and then go and set Meg's heart at rest," thought John,
creeping to the bedside, hoping to find his rebellious heir asleep.
  But he wasn't; for the moment his father peeped at him, Demi's
eyes opened, his little chin began to quiver, and he put up his
arms, saying, with a penitent hiccough, "Me's dood, now."
  Sitting on the stairs, outside, Meg wondered at the long silence
which followed the uproar; and, after imagining all sorts of
impossible accidents, she slipped into the room, to set her fears at
rest. Demi lay fast asleep; not in his usual spread-eagle attitude,
but in a subdued bunch, cuddled close in the circle of his father's
arm and holding his father's finger, as if he felt that justice was
tempered with mercy, and had gone to sleep a sadder and a wiser
baby. So held, John had waited with womanly patience till the little
hand relaxed its hold; and, while waiting, had fallen asleep, more
tired by that tussle with his son than with his whole day's work.
  As Meg stood watching the two faces on the pillow, she smiled to
herself, and then slipped away again, saying, in a satisfied tone-
  "I never need fear that John will be too harsh with my babies: he
does know how to manage them, and will be a great help, for Demi is
getting too much for me."
  When John came down at last, expecting to find a pensive or
reproachful wife, he was agreeably surprised to find Meg placidly
trimming a bonnet, and to be greeted with the request to read
something about the election, if he was not too tired. John saw in a
minute that a revolution of some kind was going on, but wisely asked
no questions, knowing that Meg was such a transparent little person,
she couldn't keep a secret to save her life, and therefore the clew
would soon appear. He read a long debate with the most amiable
readiness and then explained it in his most lucid manner, while Meg
tried to look deeply interested, to ask intelligent questions, and
keep her thoughts from wandering from the state of the nation to the
state of her bonnet. In her secret soul, however, she decided that
politics were as bad as mathematics, and that the mission of
politicians seemed to be calling each other names; but she kept
these feminine ideas to herself, and when John paused, shook her head,
and said with what she thought diplomatic ambiguity, "Well, I really
don't see what we are coming to."
  John laughed, and watched her for a minute, as she poised a pretty
little preparation of lace and flowers on her hand, and regarded it
with the genuine interest which his harangue had failed to waken.
  "She is trying to like politics for my sake, so I'll try and like
millinery for hers, that's only fair," thought John the Just, adding
aloud-
  "That's very pretty; is it what you call a breakfast-cap?"
  "My dear man, it's a bonnet! My very best
go-to-concert-and-theatre bonnet."
  "I beg your pardon; it was so small, I naturally mistook it for
one of the fly-away things you sometimes wear. How do you keep it on?"
  "These bits of lace are fastened under the chin with a rosebud,
so" and Meg illustrated by putting on the bonnet, and regarding him
with an air of calm satisfaction that was irresistible.
  "It's a love of a bonnet, but I prefer the face inside, for it looks
young and happy again"; and John kissed the smiling face, to the great
detriment of the rosebud under the chin.
  "I'm glad you like it, for I want you to take me to one of the new
concerts some night; I really need some music to put me in tune.
Will you, please?"
  "Of course I will, with all my heart, or anywhere else you like. You
have been shut up so long, it will do you no end of good, and I
shall enjoy it, of all things. What put it into your head little
mother?"
  "Well, I had a talk with Marmee the other day, and told her how
nervous and cross and out of sorts I felt, and she said I needed
change and less care; so Hannah is to help me with the children, and
I'm to see to things about the house more, and now and then have a
little fun, just to keep me from getting to be a fidgety,
broken-down old woman before my time. It's only an experiment, John,
and I want to try it for your sake as much as for mine, because I've
neglected you shamefully lately, and I'm going to make home what it
used to be, if I can. You don't object, I hope?"
  Never mind what John said, or what a very narrow escape the little
bonnet had from utter ruin; all that we have any business to know is
that John did not appear to object, judging from the changes which
gradually took place in the house and its inmates. It was not all
Paradise by any means, but every one was better for the division of
labor system; the children throve under the paternal rule, for
accurate, steadfast John brought order and obedience into Babydom,
while Meg recovered her spirits and composed her nerves by plenty of
wholesome exercise, a little pleasure, and much confidential
conversation with her sensible husband. Home grew home-like again, and
John had no wish to leave it, unless he took Meg with him. The
Scotts came to the Brookes' now, and every one found the little
house a cheerful place, full of happiness, content, and family love.
Even gay Sallie Moffat liked to go there. "It is always so quiet and
pleasant here; it does me good, Meg," she used to say, looking about
her with wistful eyes, as if trying to discover the charm, that she
might use it in her great house, full of splendid loneliness; for
there were no riotous, sunny-faced babies there, and Ned lived in a
world of his own, where there was no place for her.
  This household happiness did not come all at once, but John and
Meg had found the key to it, and each year of married life taught them
how to use it, unlocking the treasuries of real home-love and mutual
helpfulness, which the poorest may possess, and the richest cannot
buy. This is the sort of shelf on which young wives and mothers may
consent to be laid, safe from the restless fret and fever of the
world, finding loyal lovers in the little sons and daughters who cling
to them, undaunted by sorrow, poverty, or age; walking side by side,
through fair and stormy weather, with a faithful friend, who is, in
the true sense of the good old Saxon word, the "house-band," and
learning, as Meg learned, that a woman's happiest kingdom is home, her
highest honor the art of ruling it, not as a queen, but a wise wife
and mother.
                             39
                        Lazy Laurence

  LAURIE went to Nice intending to stay a week, and remained a
month. He was tired of wandering about alone, and Amy's familiar
presence seemed to give a home-like charm to the foreign scenes in
which she bore a part. He rather missed the "petting" he used to
receive, and enjoyed a taste of it again; for no attentions, however
flattering, from strangers, were half so pleasant as the sisterly
adoration of the girls at home. Amy never would pet him like the
others, but she was very glad to see him now, and quite clung to
him, feeling that he was the representative of the dear family for
whom she longed more than she would confess. They naturally took
comfort in each other's society, and were much together, riding,
walking, dancing, or dawdling, for, at Nice no one can be very
industrious during the gay season. But, while apparently amusing
themselves in the most careless fashion, they were half-consciously
making discoveries and forming opinions about each other. Amy rose
daily in the estimation of her friend, but he sunk in hers, and each
felt the truth before a word was spoken. Amy tried to please, and
succeeded, for she was grateful for the many pleasures he gave her,
and repaid him with the little services to which womanly women know
how to lend an indescribable charm. Laurie made no effort of any kind,
but just let himself drift along as comfortably as possible, trying to
forget, and feeling that all women owed him a kind word because one
had been cold to him. It cost him no effort to be generous, and he
would have given Amy all the trinkets in Nice if she would have
taken them; but, at the same time, he felt that he could not change
the opinion she was forming of him, and he rather dreaded the keen
blue eyes that seemed to watch him with such half-sorrowful,
half-scornful surprise.
  "All the rest have gone to Monaco for the day; I preferred to stay
at home and write letters. They are done now, and I am going to
Valrosa to sketch; will you come?" said Amy, as she joined Laurie
one lovely day when he lounged in as usual, about noon.
  "Well, yes; but isn't it rather warm for such a long walk?" he
answered slowly, for the shaded salon looked inviting, after the glare
without.
  "I'm going to have the little carriage, and Baptiste can drive, so
you'll have nothing to do but hold your umbrella and keep your
gloves nice," returned Amy, with a sarcastic glance at the
immaculate kids, which were a weak point with Laurie.
  "Then I'll go with pleasure"; and he put out his hand for her
sketchbook. But she tucked it under her arm with a sharp-
  "Don't trouble yourself; it's no exertion to me, but you don't
look equal to it."
  Laurie lifted his eyebrows, and followed at a leisurely pace as
she ran downstairs; but when they got into the carriage he took the
reins himself, and left little Baptiste nothing to do but fold his
arms and fall asleep on his perch.
  The two never quarrelled- Amy was too well-bred, and just now Laurie
was too lazy; so, in a minute he peeped under her hat-brim with an
inquiring air; she answered with a smile, and they went on together in
the most amicable manner.
  It was a lovely drive, along winding roads rich in the picturesque
scenes that delight beauty-loving eyes. Here an ancient monastery,
whence the solemn chanting of the monks came down to them. There a
bare-legged shepherd, in wooden shoes, pointed hat, and rough jacket
over one shoulder, sat piping on a stone, while his goats skipped
among the rocks or lay at his feet. Meek, mouse-colored donkeys, laden
with panniers of freshly cut grass, passed by, with a pretty girl in a
capaline sitting between the green piles, or an old woman spinning
with a distaff as she went. Brown, soft-eyed children ran out from the
quaint stone hovels to offer nosegays, or bunches of oranges still
on the bough. Gnarled olive-trees covered the hills with their dusky
foliage, fruit hung golden in the orchard, and great scarlet
anemones fringed the roadside; while beyond green slopes and craggy
heights, the Maritime Alps rose sharp and white against the blue
Italian sky.
  Valrosa well deserved its name, for, in that climate of perpetual
summer, roses blossomed everywhere. They overhung the archway,
thrust themselves between the bars of the great gate with a sweet
welcome to passers-by, and lined the avenue, winding through
lemon-trees and feathery palms up to the villa on the hill. Every
shadowy nook, where seats invited one to stop and rest, was a mass
of bloom; every cool grotto had its marble nymph smiling from a veil
of flowers, and every fountain reflected crimson, white, or pale
pink roses, leaning down to smile at their own beauty. Roses covered
the walls of the house, draped the cornices, climbed the pillars,
and ran riot over the balustrade of the wide terrace, whence one
looked down on the sunny Mediterranean, and the white-walled city on
its shore.
  "This is a regular honeymoon Paradise, isn't it? Did you ever see
such roses?" asked Amy, pausing on the terrace to enjoy the view,
and a luxurious whiff of perfume that came wandering by.
  "No, nor felt such thorns," returned Laurie, with his thumb in his
mouth, after a vain attempt to capture a solitary scarlet flower
that grew just beyond his reach.
  "Try lower down, and pick those that have no thorns," said Amy,
gathering three of the tiny cream-colored ones that starred the wall
behind her. She put them in his button-hole, as a peace-offering,
and he stood a minute looking down at them with a curious
expression, for in the Italian part of his nature there was a touch of
superstition, and he was just then in that state of half-sweet,
half-bitter melancholy, when imaginative young men find significance
in trifles, and food for romance everywhere. He had thought of Jo in
reaching after the thorny red rose, for vivid flowers became her,
and she had often worn ones like that from the greenhouse at home. The
pale roses Amy gave him were the sort that the Italians lay in dead
hands, never in bridal wreaths, and, for a moment, he wondered if
the omen was for Jo or for himself; but the next instant his
American common sense got the better of sentimentality, and he laughed
a heartier laugh than Amy had heard since he came.
  "It's good advice; you'd better take it and save your fingers,"
she said, thinking her speech amused him.
  "Thank you, I will," he answered in jest, and a few months later
he did it in earnest.
  "Laurie, when are you going to your grandfather?" she asked
presently, as she settled herself on a rustic seat.
  "Very soon."
  "You have said that a dozen times within the last three weeks."
  "I dare say; short answers save trouble."
  "He expects you, and you really ought to go."
  "Hospitable creature! I know it."
  "Then why don't you do it?"
  "Natural depravity, I suppose."
  "Natural indolence, you mean. It's really dreadful!" and Amy
looked severe.
  "Not so bad as it seems, for I should only plague him if I went,
so I might as well stay, and plague you a little longer, you can
bear it better; in fact, I think it agrees with you excellently";
and Laurie composed himself for a lounge on the broad ledge of the
balustrade.
  Amy shook her head, and opened her sketch-book with an air of
resignation; but she had made up her mind to lecture "that boy," and
in a minute she began.
  "What are you doing just now?"
  "Watching lizards."
  "No, no; I mean what do you intend and wish to do?"
  "Smoke a cigarette, if you'll allow me."
  "How provoking you are! I don't approve of cigars, and I will only
allow it on condition that you let me put you into my sketch; I need a
figure."
  "With all the pleasure in life. How will you have me-full-length
or three-quarters, on my head or my heels? I should respectfully
suggest a recumbent posture, then put yourself in also, and call it
'Dolce far niente.'"
  "Stay as you are, and go to sleep if you like. I intend to work
hard," said Amy, in her most energetic tone.
  "What delightful enthusiasm!" and he leaned against a tall urn
with an air of entire satisfaction.
  "What would Jo say if she saw you now?" asked Amy impatiently,
hoping to stir him up by the mention of her still more energetic
sister's name.
  "As usual, 'Go away, Teddy, I'm busy!'" He laughed as he spoke,
but the laugh was not natural, and a shade passed over his face, for
the utterance of the familiar name touched the wound that was not
healed yet. Both tone and shadow struck Amy, for she had seen and
heard them before, and now she looked up in time to catch a new
expression on Laurie's face- a hard, bitter look, full of pain,
dissatisfaction, and regret. It was gone before she could study it,
and the listless expression back again. She watched him for a moment
with artistic pleasure, thinking how like an Italian he looked, as
he lay basking in the sun with uncovered head, and eyes full of
southern dreaminess; for he seemed to have forgotten her, and fallen
into a reverie.
  "You look like the effigy of a young knight asleep on his tomb," she
said, carefully tracing the well-cut profile defined against the
dark stone.
  "Wish I was!"
  "That's a foolish wish, unless you have spoilt your life. You are so
changed, I sometimes think-" there Amy stopped, with a half-timid,
half-wistful look, more significant than her unfinished speech.
  Laurie saw and understood the affectionate anxiety which she
hesitated to express, and looking straight into her eyes, said, just
as he used to say it to her mother-
  "It's all right, ma'am."
  That satisfied her and set at rest the doubts that had begun to
worry her lately. It also touched her, and she showed that it did,
by the cordial tone in which she said-
  "I'm glad of that! I didn't think you'd been a very bad boy, but I
fancied you might have wasted money at that wicked Baden-Baden, lost
your heart to some charming Frenchwoman with a husband, or got into
some of the scrapes that young men seem to consider a necessary part
of a foreign tour. Don't stay out there in the sun; come and lie on
the grass here, and 'let us be friendly,' as Jo used to say when we
got in the sofa-corner and told secrets."
  Laurie obediently threw himself down on the turf, and began to amuse
himself by sticking daisies into the ribbons of Amy's hat, that lay
there.
  "I'm all ready for the secrets"; and he glanced up with a decided
expression of interest in his eyes.
  "I've none to tell; you may begin."
  "Haven't one to bless myself with. I thought perhaps you'd had
some news from home."
  "You have heard all that has come lately. Don't you hear often? I
fancied Jo would send you volumes."
  "She's very busy; I'm roving about so, it's impossible to be
regular, you know. When do you begin your great work of art,
Raphaella?" he asked, changing the subject abruptly after another
pause, in which he had been wondering if Amy knew his secret, and
wanted to talk about it.
  "Never," she answered, with a despondent but decided air. "Rome took
all the vanity out of me; for after seeing the wonders there, I felt
too insignificant to live, and gave up all my foolish hopes in
despair."
  "Why should you, with so much energy and talent?"
  "That's just why- because talent isn't genius, and no amount of
energy can make it so. I want to be great, or nothing. I won't be a
common-place dauber, so I don't intend to try any more."
  "And what are you going to do with yourself now, if I may ask?"
  "Polish up my other talents, and be an ornament to society, if I get
the chance."
  It was a characteristic speech, and sounded daring; but audacity
becomes young people, and Amy's ambition had a good foundation. Laurie
smiled, but he liked the spirit with which she took up a new purpose
when a long-cherished one died, and spent no time lamenting.
  "Good! and here is where Fred Vaughn comes in, I fancy."
  Amy preserved a discreet silence, but there was a conscious look
in her downcast face, that made Laurie sit up and say gravely-
  "Now I'm going to play brother, and ask questions. May I?"
  "I don't promise to answer."
  "Your face will, if your tongue won't. You aren't woman of the world
enough yet to hide your feelings, my dear. I heard rumors about Fred
and you last year, and it's my private opinion that, if he had not
been called home so suddenly and detained so long, something would
have come of it- hey?"
  "That's not for me to say," was Amy's prim reply; but her lips would
smile, and there was a traitorous sparkle of the eye, which betrayed
that she knew her power and enjoyed the knowledge.
  "You are not engaged, I hope?" and Laurie looked very
elder-brotherly and grave all of a sudden.
  "No."
  "But you will be, if he comes back and goes properly down upon his
knees, won't you?"
  "Very likely."
  "Then you are fond of old Fred?"
  "I could be, if I tried."
  "But you don't intend to try till the proper moment? Bless my
soul, what unearthly prudence! He's a good fellow, Amy, but not the
man I fancied you'd like."
  "He is rich, a gentleman, and has delightful manners," began Amy,
trying to be quite cool and dignified, but feeling a little ashamed of
herself, in spite of the sincerity of her intentions.
  "I understand; queens of society can't get on without money, so
you mean to make a good match, and start in that way? Quite right
and proper, as the world goes, but it sounds odd from the lips of
one of your mother's girls."
  "True, nevertheless."
  A short speech, but the quiet decision with which it was uttered
contrasted curiously with the young speaker. Laurie felt this
instinctively, and laid himself down again, with a sense of
disappointment which he could not explain. His look and silence, as
well as a certain inward self-disapproval, ruffled Amy, and made her
resolve to deliver her lecture without delay.
  "I wish you'd do me the favor to rouse yourself a little," she
said sharply.
  "Do it for me, there's a dear girl."
  "I could, if I tried"; and she looked as if she would like doing
it in the most summary style.
  "Try, then; I give you leave," returned Laurie, who enjoyed having
some one to tease, after his long abstinence from his favorite
pastime.
  "You'd be angry in five minutes."
  "I'm never angry with you. It takes two flints to make a fire: you
are as cool and soft as snow."
  "You don't know what I can do; snow produces a glow and a tingle, if
applied rightly. Your indifference is half affectation, and a good
stirring up would prove it."
  "Stir away; it won't hurt me and it may amuse you, as the big man
said when his little wife beat him. Regard me in the light of a
husband or a carpet, and beat till you are tired, if that sort of
exercise agrees with you."
  Being decidedly nettled herself, and longing to see him shake off
the apathy that so altered him, Amy sharpened both tongue and
pencil, and began:
  "Flo and I have got a new name for you; it's 'Lazy Laurence.' How do
you like it?"
  She thought it would annoy him; but he only folded his arms under
his head, with an imperturbable "That's not bad. Thank you, ladies."
  "Do you want to know what I honestly think of you?"
  "Pining to be told."
  "Well, I despise you."
  If she had even said "I hate you," in a petulant or coquettish tone,
he would have laughed, and rather liked it; but the grave, almost sad,
accent of her voice made him open his eyes, and ask quickly-
  "Why, if you please?"
  "Because, with every chance for being good, useful, and happy, you
are faulty, lazy, and miserable."
  "Strong language, mademoiselle."
  "If you like it, I'll go on."
  "Pray, do; it's quite interesting."
  "I thought you'd find it so; selfish people always like to talk
about themselves."
  "Am I selfish?" The question slipped out involuntarily and in a tone
of surprise, for the one virtue on which he prided himself was
generosity.
  "Yes, very selfish," continued Amy, in a calm, cool voice, twice
as effective, just then, as an angry one. "I'll show you how, for I've
studied you while we have been frolicking, and I'm not at all
satisfied with you. Here you have been abroad nearly six months, and
done nothing but waste time and money and disappoint your friends."
  "Isn't a fellow to have any pleasure after a four-year's grind?"
  "You don't look as if you'd had much; at any rate, you are none
the better for it, as far as I can see. I said, when we first met,
that you had improved. Now I take it all back, for I don't think you
half so nice as when I left you at home. You have grown abominably
lazy; you like gossip, and waste time on frivolous things; you are
contented to be petted and admired by silly people, instead of being
loved and respected by wise ones. With money, talent, position,
health, and beauty- ah, you like that, Old Vanity! but it's the truth,
so I can't help saying it- with all these splendid things to use and
enjoy, you can find nothing to do but dawdle; and, instead of being
the man you might and ought to be, you are only-" There she stopped,
with a look that had both pain and pity in it.
  "Saint Laurence on a gridiron," added Laurie, blandly finishing
the sentence. But the lecture began to take effect, for there was a
wide-awake sparkle in his eyes now, and a half-angry, half-injured
expression replaced the former indifference.
  "I supposed you'd take it so. You men tell us we are angels, and say
we can make you what we will; but the instant we honestly try to do
you good, you laugh at us, and won't listen, which proves how much
your flattery is worth." Amy spoke bitterly, and turned her back on
the exasperating martyr at her feet.
  In a minute a hand came down over the page, so that she could not
draw, and Laurie's voice said, with a droll imitation of a penitent
child-
  "I will be good, oh, I will be good!"
  But Amy did not laugh, for she was in earnest; and, tapping on the
outspread hand with her pencil, said soberly-
  "Aren't you ashamed of a hand like that? It's as soft and white as a
woman's, and looks as if it never did anything but wear Jouvin's
best gloves, and pick flowers for ladies. You are not a dandy, thank
Heaven! so I'm glad to see there are no diamonds or big seal-rings
on it, only the little old one Jo gave you so long ago. Dear soul, I
wish she was here to help me!"
  "So do I!"
  The hand vanished as suddenly as it came, and there was energy
enough in the echo of her wish to suit even Amy. She glanced down at
him with a new thought in her mind; but he was lying with his hat half
over his face, as if for shade, and his mustache hid his mouth. She
only saw his chest rise and fall, with a long breath that might have
been a sigh, and the hand that wore the ring nestled down into the
grass, as if to hide something too precious or too tender to be spoken
of. All in a minute various hints and trifles assumed shape and
significance in Amy's mind, and told her what her sister never had
confided to her. She remembered that Laurie never spoke voluntarily of
Jo; she recalled the shadow on his face just now, the change in his
character, and the wearing of the little old ring, which was no
ornament to a handsome hand. Girls are quick to read such signs and
feel their eloquence. Amy had fancied that perhaps a love trouble
was at the bottom of the alteration, and now she was sure of it. Her
keen eyes filled, and, when she spoke again, it was in a voice that
could be beautifully soft and kind when she chose to make it so.
  "I know I have no right to talk so to you, Laurie; and if you
weren't the sweetest-tempered fellow in the world, you'd be very angry
with me. But we are all so fond and proud of you, I couldn't bear to
think they should be disappointed in you at home as I have been,
though, perhaps, they would understand the change better than I do."
  "I think they would," came from under the hat, in a grim tone, quite
as touching as a broken one.
  "They ought to have told me, and not let me go blundering and
scolding, when I should have been more kind and patient than ever. I
never did like that Miss Randal, and now I hate her!" said artful Amy,
wishing to be sure of her facts this time.
  "Hang Miss Randal!" and Laurie knocked the hat off his face with a
look that left no doubt of his sentiments toward that young lady.
  "I beg pardon; I thought-" and there she paused diplomatically.
  "No, you didn't; you knew perfectly well I never cared for any one
but Jo." Laurie said that in his old, impetuous tone, and turned his
face away as he spoke.
  "I did think so; but as they never said anything about it, and you
came away, I supposed I was mistaken. And Jo wouldn't be kind to
you? Why, I was sure she loved you dearly."
  "She was kind, but not in the right way; and it's lucky for her
she didn't love me, if I'm the good-for-nothing fellow you think me.
It's her fault, though, and you may tell her so."
  The hard, bitter look came back again as he said that, and it
troubled Amy, for she did not know what balm to apply.
  "I was wrong, I didn't know. I'm very sorry I was so cross, but I
can't help wishing you'd bear it better, Teddy, dear."
  "Don't, that's her name for me!" and Laurie put up his hand with a
quick gesture to stop the words spoken in Jo's half-kind,
half-reproachful tone. "Wait till you've tried it yourself," he added,
in a low voice, as he pulled up the grass by the handful.
  "I'd take it manfully, and be respected if I couldn't be loved,"
said Amy, with the decision of one who knew nothing about it.
  Now, Laurie flattered himself that he had borne it remarkably
well, making no moan, asking no sympathy, and taking his trouble
away to live it down alone. Amy's lecture put the matter in a new
light, and for the first time it did look weak and selfish to lose
heart at the first failure, and shut himself up in moody indifference.
He felt as if suddenly shaken out of a pensive dream, and found it
impossible to go to sleep again. Presently he sat up, and asked
slowly-
  "Do you think Jo would despise me as you do?"
  "Yes, if she saw you now. She hates lazy people. Why don't you do
something splendid, and make her love you?"
  "I did my best, but it was no use."
  "Graduating well, you mean? That was no more than you ought to
have done, for your grandfather's sake. It would have been shameful to
fail after spending so much time and money, when every one knew you
could do well."
  "I did fail, say what you will, for Jo wouldn't love me," began
Laurie, leaning his head on his hand in a despondent attitude.
  "No, you didn't, and you'll say so in the end, for it did you
good, and proved that you could do something if you tried. If you'd
only set about another task of some sort, you'd soon be your hearty,
happy self again, and forget your trouble."
  "That's impossible."
  "Try it and see. You needn't shrug your shoulders, and think,
'Much she knows about such things.' I don't pretend to be wise, but
I am observing, and I see a great deal more than you'd imagine. I'm.
interested in other people's experiences and inconsistencies; and,
though I can't explain, I remember and use them for my own benefit.
Love Jo all your days, if you choose, but don't let it spoil you,
for it's wicked to throw away so many good gifts because you can't
have the one you want. There, I won't lecture any more, for I know
you'll wake up and be a man in spite of that hardhearted girl."
  Neither spoke for several minutes. Laurie sat turning the little
ring on his finger, and Amy put the last touches to the hasty sketch
she had been working at while she talked. Presently she put it on
his knee, merely saying-
  "How do you like that?"
  He looked and then he smiled, as he could not well help doing, for
it was capitally done- the long, lazy figure on the grass, with
listless face, half-shut eyes, and one hand holding a cigar, from
which came the little wreath of smoke that encircled the dreamer's
head.
  "How well you draw!" he said, with genuine surprise and pleasure
at her skill, adding, with a half-laugh-
  "Yes, that's me."
  "As you are: this is as you were"; and Amy laid another sketch
beside the one he held.
  It was not nearly so well done, but there was a life and spirit in
it which atoned for many faults, and it recalled the past so vividly
that a sudden change swept over the young man's face as he looked.
Only a rough sketch of Laurie taming a horse; hat and coat were off,
and every line of the active figure, resolute face, and commanding
attitude, was full of energy and meaning. The handsome brute, just
subdued, stood arching his neck under the tightly drawn rein, with one
foot impatiently pawing the ground, and ears pricked up as if
listening for the voice that had mastered him. In the ruffled mane,
the rider's breezy hair and erect attitude, there was a suggestion
of suddenly arrested motion, of strength, courage, and youthful
buoyancy, that contrasted sharply with the supine grace of the
"Dolce far niente" sketch. Laurie said nothing; but, as his eye went
from one to the other, Amy saw him flush up and fold his lips together
as if he read and accepted the little lesson she had given him. That
satisfied her; and, without waiting for him to speak, she said in
her sprightly way-
  "Don't you remember the day you played Rarey with Puck, and we all
looked on? Meg and Beth were frightened, but Jo clapped and pranced,
and I sat on the fence and drew you. I found that sketch in my
portfolio the other day, touched it up, and kept it to show you."
  "Much obliged. You've improved immensely since then, and I
congratulate you. May I venture to suggest in 'a honeymoon Paradise'
that five o'clock is the dinner hour at your hotel?"
  Laurie rose as he spoke, returned the pictures with a smile and a
bow, and looked at his watch, as if to remind her that even moral
lectures should have an end. He tried to resume his former easy,
indifferent air, but it was an affectation now, for the rousing had
been more efficacious than he would confess. Amy felt the shade of
coldness in his manner, and said to herself-
  "Now I've offended him. Well, if it does him good, I'm glad; if it
makes him hate me, I'm sorry; but it's true, and I can't take back a
word of it."
  They laughed and chatted all the way home; and little Baptiste, up
behind, thought that monsieur and mademoiselle were in charming
spirits. But both felt ill at ease; the friendly frankness was
disturbed, the sunshine had a shadow over it, and, despite their
apparent gayety, there was a secret discontent in the heart of each.
  "Shall we see you this evening, mon frere?" asked Amy, as they
parted at her aunt's door.
  "Unfortunately I have an engagement. Au revoir, mademoiselle," and
Laurie bent as if to kiss her hand, in the foreign fashion, which
became him better than many men. Something in his face made Amy say
quickly and warmly-
  "No; be yourself with me, Laurie, and part in the good old way.
I'd rather have a hearty English hand-shake than all the sentimental
salutations in France."
  "Good-by, dear," and with these words, uttered in the tone she
liked, Laurie left her, after a hand-shake almost painful in its
heartiness.
  Next morning, instead of the usual call, Amy received a note which
made her smile at the beginning and sigh at the end:

  MY DEAR MENTOR:
    Please make my adieux to your aunt, and exult within yourself, for
"Lazy Laurence" has gone to his grandpa, like the best of boys. A
pleasant winter to you, and may the gods grant you a blissful
honeymoon at Valrosa! I think Fred would be benefited by a rouser.
Tell him so, with my congratulations.
  Yours gratefully,                             TELEMACHUS.

  "Good boy! I'm glad he's gone," said Amy, with an approving smile;
the next minute her face fell as she glanced about the empty room,
adding, with an involuntary sigh-
  "Yes, I am glad, but how I shall miss him!"
                             40
                   The Valley of the Shadow

  WHEN the first bitterness was over, the family accepted the
inevitable, and tried to bear it cheerfully, helping one another by
the increased affection which comes to bind households tenderly
together in times of trouble. They put away their grief, and each
did his or her part toward making that last year a happy one.
  The pleasantest room in the house was set apart for Beth, and in
it was gathered everything that she most loved- flowers, pictures, her
piano, the little work-table, and the beloved pussies. Father's best
books found their way there, mother's easy-chair, Jo's desk, Amy's
finest sketches; and every day Meg brought her babies on a loving
pilgrimage, to make sunshine for Aunty Beth. John quietly set apart
a little sum, that he might enjoy the pleasure of keeping the
invalid supplied with the fruit she loved and longed for; old Hannah
never wearied of concocting dainty dishes to tempt a capricious
appetite, dropping tears as she worked; and from across the sea came
little gifts and cheerful letters, seeming to bring breaths of
warmth and fragrance from lands that know no winter.
  Here, cherished like a household saint in its shrine, sat Beth,
tranquil and busy as ever; for nothing could change the sweet,
unselfish nature, and even while preparing to leave life, she tried to
make it happier for those who should remain behind. The feeble fingers
were never idle, and one of her pleasures was to make little things
for the school-children daily passing to and fro- to drop a pair of
mittens from her window for a pair of purple hands, a needle-book
for some small mother of many dolls, pen-wipers for young penmen
toiling through forests of pot-hooks, scrap-books for picture-loving
eyes, and all manner of pleasant devices, till the reluctant
climbers up the ladder of learning found their way strewn with
flowers, as it were, and came to regard the gentle giver as a sort
of fairy godmother, who sat above there, and showered down gifts
miraculously suited to their tastes and needs. If Beth had wanted
any reward, she found it in the bright little faces always turned up
to her window, with nods and smiles, and the droll little letters
which came to her, full of blots and gratitude.
  The first few months were very happy ones, and Beth often used to
look round, and say "How beautiful this is!" as they all sat
together in her sunny room, the babies kicking and crowing on the
floor, mother and sisters working near, and father reading, in his
pleasant voice, from the wise old books which seemed rich in good
and comfortable words, as applicable now as when written centuries
ago; a little chapel, where a paternal priest taught his flock the
hard lessons all must learn, trying to show them that hope can comfort
love, and faith make resignation possible. Simple sermons, that went
straight to the souls of those who listened; for the father's heart
was in the minister's religion, and the frequent falter in the voice
gave a double eloquence to the words he spoke or read.
  It was well for all that this peaceful time was given them as
preparation for the sad hours to come; for, by and by, Beth said the
needle was "so heavy," and put it down forever; talking wearied her,
faces troubled her, pain claimed her for its own, and her tranquil
spirit was sorrowfully perturbed by the ills that vexed her feeble
flesh. Ah me! such heavy days, such long, long nights, such aching
hearts and imploring prayers, when those who loved her best were
forced to see the thin hands stretched out to them beseechingly, to
hear the bitter cry, "Help me, help me!" and to feel that there was no
help. A sad eclipse of the serene soul, a sharp struggle of the
young life with death; but both were mercifully brief, and then, the
natural rebellion over, the old peace returned more beautiful than
ever. With the wreck of her frail body, Beth's soul grew strong;
and, though she said little, those about her felt she was ready, saw
that the first pilgrim called was likewise the fittest, and waited
with her on the shore, trying to see the Shining Ones coming to
receive her when she crossed the river.
  Jo never left her for an hour since Beth had said, "I feel
stronger when you are here." She slept on a couch in the room,
waking often to renew the fire, to feed, lift, or wait upon the
patient creature who seldom asked for anything, and "tried not to be a
trouble." All day she haunted the room, jealous of any other nurse,
and prouder of being chosen then than of any honor her life ever
brought her. Precious and helpful hours to Jo, for now her heart
received the teaching that it needed; lessons in patience were so
sweetly taught her that she could not fail to learn them; charity
for all, the lovely spirit that can forgive and truly forget
unkindness, the loyalty to duty that makes the hardest easy, and the
sincere faith that fears nothing, but trusts undoubtingly.
  Often, when she woke, Jo found Beth reading in her well-worn
little book, heard her singing softly, to beguile the sleepless night,
or saw her lean her face upon her hands, while slow tears dropped
through the transparent fingers; and Jo would lie watching her, with
thoughts too deep for tears, feeling that Beth, in her simple,
unselfish way, was trying to wean herself from the dear old life,
and fit herself for the life to come, by sacred words of comfort,
quiet prayers, and the music she loved so well.
  Seeing this did more for Jo than the wisest sermons, the
saintliest hymns, the most fervent prayers that any voice could utter;
for, with eyes made clear by many tears, and a heart softened by the
tenderest sorrow, she recognized the beauty of her sister's life-
uneventful, unambitious, yet full of the genuine virtues which
"smell sweet, and blossom in the dust," the self-forgetfulness that
makes the humblest on earth remembered soonest in heaven, the true
success which is possible to all.
  One night, when Beth looked among the books upon her table, to
find something to make her forget the mortal weariness that was almost
as hard to bear as pain, as she turned the leaves of her old
favorite "Pilgrim's Progress," she found a little paper, scribbled
over in Jo's hand. The name caught her eye, and the blurred look of
the lines made her sure that tears had fallen on it.
  "Poor Jo! she's fast asleep, so I won't wake her to ask leave; she
shows me all her things, and I don't think she'll mind if I look at
this," thought Beth, with a glance at her sister, who lay on the
rug, with the tongs beside her, ready to wake up the minute the log
fell apart.

                         MY BETH.

               Sitting patient in the shadow
                 Till the blessed light shall come,
               A serene and saintly presence
                 Sanctifies our troubled home.
               Earthly joys and hopes and sorrows
                 Break like ripples on the strand
               Of the deep and solemn river
                 Where her willing feet now stand.

               O my sister, passing from me,
                 Out of human care and strife,
               Leave me, as a gift, those virtues
                 Which have beautified your life.
               Dear, bequeath me that great patience,
                 Which has power to sustain
               A cheerful, uncomplaining spirit
                 In its prison-house of pain.

               Give me, for I need it sorely,
                 Of that courage, wise and sweet,
               Which has made the path of duty
                 Green beneath your willing feet.
               Give me that unselfish nature,
                 That with charity divine
               Can pardon wrong for love's dear sake-
                 Meek heart, forgive me mine!

               Thus our parting daily loseth
                 Something of its bitter pain,
               And while learning this hard lesson,
                 My great loss becomes my gain.
               For the touch of grief will render
                 My wild nature more serene,
               Give to life new aspirations,
                 A new trust in the unseen.

               Henceforth, safe across the river,
                 I shall see forevermore
               A beloved, household spirit
                 Waiting for me on the shore.
               Hope and faith, born of my sorrow,
                 Guardian angels shall become,
               And the sister gone before me
                 By their hands shall lead me home.

  Blurred and blotted, faulty and feeble, as the lines were, they
brought a look of inexpressible comfort to Beth's face, for her one
regret had been that she had done so little; and this seemed to assure
her that her life had not been useless, that her death would not bring
the despair she feared. As she sat with the paper folded between her
hands, the charred log fell asunder. Jo started up, revived the blaze,
and crept to the bedside, hoping Beth slept.
  "Not asleep, but so happy, dear. See, I found this and read it; I
knew you wouldn't care. Have I been all that to you, Jo?" she asked,
with wistful, humble earnestness.
  "O Beth, so much, so much!" and Jo's head went down upon the pillow,
beside her sister's.
  "Then I don't feel as if I'd wasted my life. I'm not so good as
you make me, but I have tried to do right; and now, when it's too late
to begin even to do better, it's such a comfort to know that some
one loves me so much, and feels as if I'd helped them."
  "More than any one in the world, Beth. I used to think I couldn't
let you go; but I'm learning to feel that I don't lose you; that
you'll be more to me than ever, and death can't part us, though it
seems to."
  "I know it cannot, and I don't fear it any longer, for I'm sure I
shall be your Beth still, to love and help you more than ever. You
must take my place, Jo, and be everything to father and mother when
I'm gone. They will turn to you, don't fail them; and if it's hard
to work alone, remember that I don't forget you, and that you'll be
happier in doing that than writing splendid books or seeing all the
world; for love is the only thing that we can carry with us when we
go, and it makes the end so easy."
  "I'll try, Beth"; and then and there Jo renounced her old
ambition, pledged herself to a new and better one, acknowledging the
poverty of other desires, and feeling the blessed solace of a belief
in the immortality of love.
  So the spring days came and went, the sky grew clearer, the earth
greener, the flowers were up fair and early, and the birds came back
in time to say good-by to Beth, who, like a tired but trustful
child, clung to the hands that had led her all her life, as father and
mother guided her tenderly through the Valley of the Shadow, and
gave her up to God.
  Seldom, except in books, do the dying utter memorable words, see
visions, or depart with beatified countenances; and those who have
sped many parting souls know that to most the end comes as naturally
and simply as sleep. As Beth had hoped, the "tide went out easily";
and in the dark hour before the dawn, on the bosom where she had drawn
her first breath, she quietly drew her last, with no farewell but
one loving look, one little sigh.
  With tears and prayers and tender hands, mother and sisters made her
ready for the long sleep that pain would never mar again, seeing
with grateful eyes the beautiful serenity that soon replaced the
pathetic patience that had wrung their hearts so long, and feeling,
with reverent joy, that to their darling death was a benignant
angel, not a phantom full of dread.
  When morning came, for the first time in many months the fire was
out, Jo's place was empty, and the room was very still. But a bird
sang blithely on a budding bough, close by, the snow-drops blossomed
freshly at the window, and the spring sunshine streamed in like a
benediction over the placid face upon the pillow-a face so full of
painless peace that those who loved it best smiled through their
tears, and thanked God that Beth was well at last.
                             41
                      Learning to Forget

  AMY'S lecture did Laurie good, though, of course, he did not own
it till long afterward; men seldom do, for when women are the
advisers, the lords of creation don't take the advice till they have
persuaded themselves that it is just what they intended to do; then
they act upon it, and, if it succeeds, they give the weaker vessel
half the credit of it; if it fails, they generously give her the
whole. Laurie went back to his grandfather, and was so dutifully
devoted for several weeks that the old gentleman declared the
climate of Nice had improved him wonderfully, and he had better try it
again. There was nothing the young gentleman would have liked
better, but elephants could not have dragged him back after the
scolding he had received; pride forbid, and whenever the longing
grew very strong, he fortified his resolution by repeating the words
that had made the deepest impression, "I despise you"; "Go and do
something splendid that will make her love you."
  Laurie turned the matter over in his mind so often that he soon
brought himself to confess that he had been selfish and lazy; but then
when a man has a great sorrow, he should be indulged in all sorts of
vagaries till he has lived it down. He felt that his blighted
affections were quite dead now; and, though he should never cease to
be a faithful mourner, there was no occasion to wear his weeds
ostentatiously. Jo wouldn't love him, but he might make her respect
and admire him by doing something which should prove that a girl's
"No" had not spoilt his life. He had always meant to do something, and
Amy's advice was quite unnecessary. He had only been waiting till
the aforesaid blighted affections were decently interred; that being
done, he felt that he was ready to "hide his stricken heart, and still
toil on."
  As Goethe, when he had a joy or a grief, put it into a song, so
Laurie resolved to embalm his love-sorrow in music, and compose a
Requiem which should harrow up Jo's soul and melt the heart of every
hearer. Therefore the next time the old gentleman found him getting
restless and moody, and ordered him off, he went to Vienna, where he
had musical friends, and fell to work with the firm determination to
distinguish himself. But, whether the sorrow was too vast to be
embodied in music, or music too ethereal to uplift a mortal woe, he
soon discovered that the Requiem was beyond him, just at present. It
was evident that his mind was not in working order yet, and his
ideas needed clarifying; for often in the middle of a plaintive
strain, he would find himself humming a dancing tune that vividly
recalled the Christmas ball at Nice, especially the stout Frenchman,
and put an effectual stop to tragic composition for the time being.
  Then he tried an Opera, for nothing seemed impossible in the
beginning; but here, again, unforeseen difficulties beset him. He
wanted Jo for his heroine, and called upon his memory to supply him
with tender recollections and romantic visions of his love. But memory
turned traitor; and, as if possessed by the perverse spirit of the
girl, would only recall Jo's oddities, faults, and freaks, would
only show her in the most unsentimental aspects- beating mats with her
head tied up in a bandanna, barricading herself with the
sofa-pillow, or throwing cold water over his passion a la Gummidge-
and an irresistible laugh spoilt the pensive picture he was
endeavoring to paint. Jo wouldn't be put into the Opera at any
price, and he had to give her up with a "Bless that girl, what a
torment she is!" and a clutch at his hair, as became a distracted
composer.
  When he looked about him for another and a less intractable damsel
to immortalize in melody, memory produced one with the most obliging
readiness. This phantom wore many faces, but it always had golden
hair, was enveloped in a diaphanous cloud, and floated airily before
his mind's eye in a pleasing chaos of roses, peacocks, white ponies,
and blue ribbons. He did not give the complacent wraith any name,
but he took her for his heroine, and grew quite fond of her, as well
he might; for he gifted her with every gift and grace under the sun,
and escorted her, unscathed, through trials which would have
annihilated any mortal woman.
  Thanks to this inspiration, he got on swimmingly for a time, but
gradually the work lost its charm, and he forgot to compose, while
he sat musing, pen in hand, or roamed about the gay city to get new
ideas and refresh his mind, which seemed to be in a somewhat unsettled
state that winter. He did not do much, but he thought a great deal and
was conscious of a change of some sort going on in spite of himself
"It's genius simmering, perhaps. I'll let it simmer, and see what
comes of it," he said, with a secret suspicion, all the while, that it
wasn't genius, but something far more common. Whatever it was, it
simmered to some purpose, for he grew more and more discontented
with his desultory life, began to long for some real and earnest
work to go at, soul and body, and finally came to the wise
conclusion that every one who loved music was not a composer.
Returning from one of Mozart's grand operas, splendidly performed at
the Royal Theatre, he looked over his own, played a few of the best
parts, sat staring up at the busts of Mendelssohn, Beethoven, and
Bach, who stared benignly back again; then suddenly he tore up his
music-sheets, one by one, and, as the last fluttered out of his
hand, he said soberly to himself-
  "She is right! Talent isn't genius, and you can't make it so. That
music has taken the vanity out of me as Rome took it out of her, and I
won't be a humbug any longer. Now what shall I do?"
  That seemed a hard question to answer, and Laurie began to wish he
had to work for his daily bread. Now, if ever, occurred an eligible
opportunity for "going to the devil," as he once forcibly expressed
it, for he had plenty of money and nothing to do, and Satan is
proverbially fond of providing employment for full and idle hands. The
poor fellow had temptations enough from without and from within, but
he withstood them pretty well; for, much as he valued liberty, he
valued good faith and confidence more, so his promise to his
grandfather, and his desire to be able to look honestly into the
eyes of the women who loved him, and say "All's well," kept him safe
and steady.
  Very likely some Mrs. Grundy will observe, "I don't believe it; boys
will be boys, young men must sow their wild oats, and women must not
expect miracles." I dare say you don't, Mrs. Grundy, but it's true
nevertheless. Women work a good many miracles, and I have a persuasion
that they may perform even that of raising the standard of manhood
by refusing to echo such sayings. Let the boys be boys, the longer the
better, and let the young men sow their wild oats if they must; but
mothers, sisters, and friends may help to make the crop a small one,
and keep many tares from spoiling the harvest, by believing, and
showing that they believe, in the possibility of loyalty to the
virtues which make men manliest in good women's eyes. If it is a
feminine delusion, leave us to enjoy it while we may, for without it
half the beauty and the romance of life is lost, and sorrowful
forebodings would embitter all our hopes of the brave,
tender-hearted little lads, who still love their mothers better than
themselves, and are not ashamed to own it.
  Laurie thought that the task of forgetting his love for Jo would
absorb all his powers for years; but, to his great surprise, he
discovered it grew easier every day. He refused to believe it at
first, got angry with himself, and couldn't understand it; but these
hearts of ours are curious and contrary things, and time and nature
work their will in spite of us. Laurie's heart wouldn't ache; the
wound persisted in healing with a rapidity that astonished him, and,
instead of trying to forget, he found himself trying to remember. He
had not foreseen this turn of affairs, and was not prepared for it. He
was disgusted with himself, surprised at his own fickleness, and
full of a queer mixture of disappointment and relief that he could
recover from such a tremendous blow so soon. He carefully stirred up
the embers of his lost love, but they refused to burst into a blaze:
there was only a comfortable glow that warmed and did him good without
putting him into a fever, and he was reluctantly obliged to confess
that the boyish passion was slowly subsiding into a more tranquil
sentiment, very tender, a little sad and resentful still, but that was
sure to pass away in time, leaving a brotherly affection which would
last unbroken to the end.
  As the word "brotherly" passed through his mind in one of these
reveries, he smiled, and glanced up at the picture of Mozart that
was before him:
  "Well, he was a great man; and when he couldn't have one sister he
took the other, and was happy."
  Laurie did not utter the words, but he thought them; and the next
instant kissed the little old ring, saying to himself-
  "No, I won't! I haven't forgotten, I never can. I'll try again,
and if that fails, why, then-"
  Leaving his sentence unfinished, he seized pen and paper and wrote
to Jo, telling her that he could not settle to anything while there
was the least hope of her changing her mind. Couldn't she, wouldn't
she, and let him come home and be happy? While waiting for an answer
he did nothing, but he did it energetically, for he was in a fever
of impatience. It came at last, and settled his mind effectually on
one point, for Jo decidedly couldn't and wouldn't. She was wrapped
up in Beth, and never wished to hear the word "love" again. Then she
begged him to be happy with somebody else, but always to keep a little
corner of his heart for his loving sister Jo. In a postscript she
desired him not to tell Amy that Beth was worse; she was coming home
in the spring, and there was no need of saddening the remainder of her
stay. That would be time enough, please God, but Laurie must write
to her often, and not let her feel lonely, homesick, or anxious.
  "So I will, at once. Poor little girl; it will be a sad going home
for her, I'm afraid"; and Laurie opened his desk, as if writing to Amy
had been the proper conclusion of the sentence left unfinished some
weeks before.
  But he did not write the letter that day; for, as he rummaged out
his best paper, he came across something which changed his purpose.
Tumbling about in one part of the desk, among bills, passports, and
business documents of various kinds were several of Jo's letters,
and in another compartment were three notes from Amy, carefully tied
up with one of her blue ribbons, and sweetly suggestive of the
little dead roses put away inside. With a half-repentant,
half-amused expression, Laurie gathered up all Jo's letters, smoothed,
folded, and put them neatly into a small drawer of the desk, stood a
minute turning the ring thoughtfully, on his finger, then slowly
drew it off, laid it with the letters, locked the drawer, and went out
to hear High Mass at Saint Stefan's, feeling as if there had been a
funeral; and, though not overwhelmed with affliction, this seemed a
more proper way to spend the rest of the day than in writing letters
to charming young ladies.
  The letter went very soon, however, and was promptly answered, for
Amy was homesick, and confessed it in the most delightfully
confiding manner. The correspondence flourished famously, and
letters flew to and fro, with unfailing regularity, all through the
early spring. Laurie sold his busts, made allumettes of his opera, and
went back to Paris, hoping somebody would arrive before long. He
wanted desperately to go to Nice, but would not till he was asked; and
Amy would not ask him, for just then she was having little experiences
of her own, which made her rather wish to avoid the quizzical eyes
of "our boy."
  Fred Vaughn had returned, and put the question to which she had once
decided to answer, "Yes, thank you" but now she said, "No, thank you,"
kindly but steadily; for, when the time came, her courage failed
her, and she found that something more than money and position was
needed to satisfy the new longing that filled her heart so full of
tender hopes and fears. The words, "Fred is a good fellow, but not
at all the man I fancied you would ever like," and Laurie's face
when he uttered them, kept returning to her as pertinaciously as her
own did when she said in look, if not in words, "I shall marry for
money." It troubled her to remember that now, she wished she could
take it back, it sounded so unwomanly. She didn't want Laurie to think
her a heartless, worldly creature; she didn't care to be a queen of
society now half so much as she did to be a lovable woman; she was
so glad he didn't hate her for the dreadful things she said, but
took them so beautifully, and was kinder than ever. His letters were
such a comfort, for the home letters were very irregular, and were not
half so satisfactory as his when they did come. It was not only a
pleasure, but a duty to answer them, for the poor fellow was
forlorn, and needed petting, since Jo persisted in being
stony-hearted. She ought to have made an effort, and tried to love
him; it couldn't be very hard, many people would be proud and glad
to have such a dear boy care for them; but Jo never would act like
other girls, so there was nothing to do but be very kind, and treat
him like a brother.
  If all brothers were treated as well as Laurie was at this period,
they would be a much happier race of beings than they are. Amy never
lectured now; she asked his opinion on all subjects; she was
interested in everything he did, made charming little presents for
him, and sent him two letters a week, full of lively gossip,
sisterly confidences, and captivating sketches of the lovely scenes
about her. As few brothers are complimented by having their letters
carried about in their sisters' pockets, read and reread diligently,
cried over when short, kissed when long, and treasured carefully, we
will not hint that Amy did any of these fond and foolish things. But
she certainly did grow a little pale and pensive that spring, lost
much of her relish for society, and went out sketching alone a good
deal. She never had much to show when she came home, but was
studying nature, I dare say, while she sat for hours, with her hands
folded, on the terrace at Valrosa, or absently sketched any fancy that
occurred to her- a stalwart knight carved on a tomb, a young man
asleep in the grass, with his hat over his eyes, or a curly-haired
girl in gorgeous array, promenading down a ball-room on the arm of a
tall gentleman, both faces being left a blur according to the last
fashion in art, which was safe, but not altogether satisfactory.
  Her aunt thought that she regretted her answer to Fred; and, finding
denials useless and explanations impossible, Amy left her to think
what she liked, taking care that Laurie should know that Fred had gone
to Egypt. That was all, but he understood it, and looked relieved,
as he said to himself, with a venerable air-
  "I was sure she would think better of it. Poor old fellow! I've been
through it all, and I can sympathize."
  With that he heaved a great sigh, and then, as if he had
discharged his duty to the past, put his feet up on the sofa, and
enjoyed Amy's letter luxuriously.
  While these changes were going on abroad, trouble had come at
home; but the letter telling that Beth was failing never reached
Amy, and when the next found her, the grass was green above her
sister. The sad news met her at Vevey, for the heat had driven them
from Nice in May, and they had travelled slowly to Switzerland, by way
of Genoa and the Italian lakes. She bore it very well, and quietly
submitted to the family decree that she should not shorten her
visit, for, since it was too late to say good-by to Beth, she had
better stay, and let absence soften her sorrow. But her heart was very
heavy; she longed to be at home, and every day looked wistfully across
the lake, waiting for Laurie to come and comfort her.
  He did come very soon; for the same mail brought letters to them
both, but he was in Germany, and it took some days to reach him. The
moment he read it, he packed his knapsack, bade adieu to his
fellow-pedestrians, and was off to keep his promise, with a heart full
of joy and sorrow, hope and suspense.
  He knew Vevey well; and as soon as the boat touched the little quay,
he hurried along the shore to La Tour, where the Carrols were living
en pension. The garcon was in despair that the whole family had gone
to take a promenade on the lake; but no, the blonde mademoiselle might
be in the chateau garden. If monsieur would give himself the pain of
sitting down, a flash of time should present her. But monsieur could
not wait even "a flash of time," and, in the middle of the speech,
departed to find mademoiselle himself.
  A pleasant old garden on the borders of the lovely lake, with
chestnuts rustling overhead, ivy climbing everywhere, and the black
shadow of the tower falling far across the sunny water. At one
corner of the wide, low wall was a seat, and here Amy often came to
read or work, or console herself with the beauty all about her. She
was sitting here that day, leaning her head on her hand, with a
homesick heart and heavy eyes, thinking of Beth, and wondering why
Laurie did not come. She did not hear him cross the court-yard beyond,
nor see him pause in the archway that led from the subterranean path
into the garden. He stood a minute, looking at her with new eyes,
seeing what no one had ever seen before- the tender side of Amy's
character. Everything about her mutely suggested love and sorrow-
the blotted letters in her lap, the black ribbon that tied up her
hair, the womanly pain and patience in her face; even the little ebony
cross at her throat seemed pathetic to Laurie, for he had given it
to her, and she wore it as her only ornament. If he had any doubts
about the reception she would give him, they were set at rest the
minute she looked up and saw him; for, dropping everything, she ran to
him, exclaiming, in a tone of unmistakable love and longing-
  "O Laurie, Laurie; I knew you'd come to me!"
  I think everything was said and settled then; for, as they stood
together quite silent for a moment, with the dark head bent down
protectingly over the light one, Amy felt that no one could comfort
and sustain her so well as Laurie, and Laurie decided that Amy was the
only woman in the world who could fill Jo's place, and make him happy.
He did not tell her so; but she was not disappointed, for both felt
the truth, were satisfied, and gladly left the rest to silence.
  In a minute Amy went back to her place; and, while she dried her
tears, Laurie gathered up the scattered papers, finding in the sight
of sundry well-worn letters and suggestive sketches good omens for the
future. As he sat down beside her, Amy felt shy again, and turned rosy
red at the recollection of her impulsive greeting.
  "I couldn't help it; I felt so lonely and sad, and was so very
glad to see you. It was such a surprise to look up and find you,
just as I was beginning to fear you wouldn't come," she said, trying
in vain to speak quite naturally.
  "I came the minute I heard. I wish I could say something to
comfort you for the loss of dear little Beth; but I can only feel,
and-" He could not get any further, for he, too, turned bashful all of
a sudden, and did not quite know what to say. He longed to lay Amy's
head down on his shoulder, and tell her to have a good cry, but he did
not dare; so took her hand instead, and gave it a sympathetic
squeeze that was better than words.
  "You needn't say anything; this comforts me," she said softly. "Beth
is well and happy, and I mustn't wish her back; but I dread the
going home, much as I long to see them all. We won't talk about it
now, for it makes me cry, and I want to enjoy you while you stay.
You needn't go right back, need you?"
  "Not if you want me, dear."
  "I do, so much. Aunt and Flo are very kind; but you seem like one of
the family, and it would be so comfortable to have you for a little
while."
  Amy spoke and looked so like a homesick child, whose heart was full,
that Laurie forgot his bashfulness all at once, and gave her just what
she wanted- the petting she was used to and the cheerful
conversation she needed.
  "Poor little soul, you look as if you'd grieved yourself
half-sick! I'm going to take care of you, so don't cry any more, but
come and walk about with me; the wind is too chilly for you to sit
still," he said, in the half-caressing, half-commanding way that Amy
liked, as he tied on her hat, drew her arm through his, and began to
pace up and down the sunny walk, under the new-leaved chestnuts. He
felt more at ease upon his legs; and Amy found it very pleasant to
have a strong arm to lean upon, a familiar face to smile at her, and a
kind voice to talk delightfully for her alone.
  The quaint old garden had sheltered many pairs of lovers, and seemed
expressly made for them, so sunny and secluded was it, with nothing
but the tower to overlook them, and the wide lake to carry away the
echo of their words, as it rippled by below. For an hour this new pair
walked and talked, or rested on the wall, enjoying the sweet
influences which gave such a charm to time and place; and when an
unromantic dinner-bell warned them away, Amy felt as if she left her
burden of loneliness and sorrow behind her in the chateau garden.
  The moment Mrs. Carrol saw the girl's altered face, she was
illuminated with a new idea, and exclaimed to herself, "Now I
understand it all- the child has been pining for young Laurence. Bless
my heart, I never thought of such a thing!"
  With praiseworthy discretion, the good lady said nothing, and
betrayed no sign of enlightenment; but cordially urged Laurie to stay,
and begged Amy to enjoy his society, for it would do her more good
than so much solitude. Amy was a model of docility; and, as her aunt
was a good deal occupied with Flo, she was left to entertain her
friend, and did it with more than her usual success.
  At Nice, Laurie had lounged and Amy had scolded; at Vevey, Laurie
was never idle, but always walking, riding, boating, or studying, in
the most energetic manner, while Amy admired everything he did, and
followed his example as far and as fast as she could. He said the
change was owing to the climate, and she did not contradict him, being
glad of a like excuse for her own recovered health and spirits.
  The invigorating air did them both good, and much exercise worked
wholesome changes in minds as well as bodies. They seemed to get
clearer views of life and duty up there among the everlasting hills;
the fresh winds blew away desponding doubts, delusive fancies, and
moody mists; the warm spring sunshine brought out all sorts of
aspiring ideas, tender hopes, and happy thoughts; the lake seemed to
wash away the troubles of the past, and the grand old mountains to
look benignly down upon them, saying, "Little children, love one
another."
  In spite of the new sorrow, it was a very happy time, so happy
that Laurie could not bear to disturb it by a word. It took him a
little while to recover from his surprise at the rapid cure of his
first, and, as he had firmly believed, his last and only love. He
consoled himself for the seeming disloyalty by the thought that Jo's
sister was almost the same as Jo's self, and the conviction that it
would have been impossible to love any other woman but Amy so soon and
so well. His first wooing had been of the tempestuous order, and he
looked back upon it as if through a long vista of years, with a
feeling of compassion blended with regret. He was not ashamed of it,
but put it away as one of the bitter-sweet experiences of his life,
for which he could be grateful when the pain was over. His second
wooing he resolved should be as calm and simple as possible; there was
no need of having a scene, hardly any need of telling Amy that he
loved her; she knew it without words, and had given him his answer
long ago. It all came about so naturally that no one could complain,
and he knew that everybody would be pleased, even Jo. But when our
first little passion has been crushed, we are apt to be wary and
slow in making a second trial; so Laurie let the days pass, enjoying
every hour, and leaving to chance the utterance of the word that would
put an end to the first and sweetest part of his new romance.
  He had rather imagined that the denouement would take place in the
chateau garden by moonlight, and in the most graceful and decorous
manner; but it turned out exactly the reverse, for the matter was
settled on the lake, at noonday, in a few blunt words. They had been
floating about all the morning, from gloomy St. Gingolf to sunny
Montreux, with the Alps of Savoy on one side, Mont St. Bernard and the
Dent du Midi on the other, pretty Vevey in the valley, and Lausanne
upon the hill beyond, a cloudless blue sky overhead, and the bluer
lake below, dotted with the picturesque boats that look like
white-winged gulls.
  They had been talking of Bonnivard, as they glided past Chillon, and
of Rousseau, as they looked up at Clarens, where he wrote his
"Heloise." Neither had read it, but they knew it was a love-story, and
each privately wondered if it was half as interesting as their own.
Amy had been dabbling her hand in the water during the little pause
that fell between them, and, when she looked up, Laurie was leaning on
his oars, with an expression in his eyes that made her say hastily,
merely for the sake of saying something-
  "You must be tired; rest a little, and let me row; it will do me
good; for, since you came, I have been altogether lazy and luxurious."
  "I'm not tired; but you may take an oar, if you like. There's room
enough, though I have to sit nearly in the middle, else the boat won't
trim," returned Laurie, as if he rather liked the arrangement.
  Feeling that she had not mended matters much, Amy took the offered
third of a seat, shook her hair over her face, and accepted an oar.
She rowed as well as she did many other things; and, though she used
both hands, and Laurie but one, the oars kept time, and the boat
went smoothly through the water.
  "How well we pull together, don't we?" said Amy, who objected to
silence just then.
  "So well that I wish we might always pull in the same boat. Will
you, Amy?" very tenderly.
  "Yes, Laurie," very low.
  Then they both stopped rowing, and unconsciously added a pretty
little tableau of human love and happiness to the dissolving views
reflected in the lake.
                             42
                          All Alone

  IT was easy to promise self-abnegation when self was wrapped up in
another, and heart and soul were purified by a sweet example; but when
the helpful voice was silent, the daily lesson over, the beloved
presence gone, and nothing remained but loneliness and grief, then
Jo found her promise very hard to keep. How could she "comfort
father and mother," when her own heart ached with a ceaseless
longing for her sister; how could she "make the house cheerful,"
when all its light and warmth and beauty seemed to have deserted it
when Beth left the old home for the new; and where in all the world
could she "find some useful, happy work to do," that would take the
place of the loving service which had been its own reward? She tried
in a blind, hopeless way to do her duty, secretly rebelling against it
all the while, for it seemed unjust that her few joys should be
lessened, her burdens made heavier, and life get harder and harder
as she toiled along. Some people seemed to get all sunshine, and
some all shadow; it was not fair, for she tried more than Amy to be
good, but never got any reward, only disappointment, trouble, and hard
work.
  Poor Jo, these were dark days to her, for something like despair
came over her when she thought of spending all her life in that
quiet house, devoted to humdrum cares, a few small pleasures, and
the duty that never seemed to grow any easier. "I can't do it. I
wasn't meant for a life like this, and I know I shall break away and
do something desperate if somebody don't come and help me," she said
to herself, when her first efforts failed, and she fell into the
moody, miserable state of mind which often comes when strong wills
have to yield to the inevitable.
  But some one did come and help her, though Jo did not recognize
her good angels at once, because they wore familiar shapes, and used
the simple spells best fitted to poor humanity. Often she started up
at night, thinking Beth called her; and when the sight of the little
empty bed made her cry with the bitter cry of an unsubmissive
sorrow, "O Beth, come back! come back!" she did not stretch out her
yearning arms in vain; for, as quick to hear her sobbing as she had
been to hear her sister's faintest whisper, her mother came to comfort
her, not with words only, but the patient tenderness that soothes by a
touch, tears that were mute reminders of a greater grief than Jo's,
and broken whispers, more eloquent than prayers, because hopeful
resignation went hand-in-hand with natural sorrow. Sacred moments,
when heart talked to heart in the silence of the night, turning
affliction to a blessing, which chastened grief and strengthened love.
Feeling this, Jo's burden seemed easier to bear, duty grew sweeter,
and life looked more endurable, seen from the safe shelter of her
mother's arms.
  When aching heart was a little comforted, troubled mind likewise
found help; for one day she went to the study, and, leaning over the
good gray head lifted to welcome her with a tranquil smile she said,
very humbly-
  "Father, talk to me as you did to Beth. I need it more than she did,
for I'm all wrong."
  "My dear, nothing can comfort me like this," he answered, with a
falter in his voice, and both arms round her, as if he, too, needed
help, and did not fear to ask it.
  Then, sitting in Beth's little chair close beside him, Jo told her
troubles- the resentful sorrow for her loss, the fruitless efforts
that discouraged her, the want of faith that made life look so dark,
and all the sad bewilderment which we call despair. She gave him
entire confidence, he gave her the help she needed, and both found
consolation in the act; for the time had come when they could talk
together not only as father and daughter, but as man and woman, able
and glad to serve each other with mutual sympathy as well as mutual
love. Happy, thoughtful times there in the old study which Jo called
"the church of one member," and from which she came with fresh
courage, recovered cheerfulness, and a more submissive spirit; for the
parents who had taught one child to meet death without fear, were
trying now to teach another to accept life without despondency or
distrust, and to use its beautiful opportunities with gratitude and
power.
  Other helps had Jo- humble, wholesome duties and delights that would
not be denied their part in serving her, and which she slowly
learned to see and value. Brooms and dishcloths never could be as
distasteful as they once had been, for Beth had presided over both;
and something of her housewifely spirit seemed to linger round the
little mop and the old brush, that was never thrown away. As she
used them, Jo found herself humming the songs Beth used to hum,
imitating Beth's orderly ways, and giving the little touches here
and there that kept everything fresh and cosey, which was the first
step toward making home happy, though she didn't know it, till
Hannah said with an approving squeeze of the hand-
  "You thoughtful creeter, you're determined we shan't miss that
dear lamb ef you can help it. We don't say much, but we see it, and
the Lord will bless you for 't, see ef He don't."
  As they sat sewing together, Jo discovered how much improved her
sister Meg was; how well she could talk, how much she knew about good,
womanly impulses, thoughts, and feelings, how happy she was in husband
and children, and how much they were all doing for each other.
  "Marriage is an excellent thing, after all. I wonder if I should
blossom out half as well as you have, if I tried it?" said Jo, as
she constructed a kite for Demi, in the topsy-turvy nursery.
  "It's just what you need to bring out the tender, womanly half of
your nature, Jo. You are like a chestnut-burr, prickly outside, but
silky-soft within, and a sweet kernel, if one can only get at it. Love
will make you show your heart some day, and then the rough burr will
fall off."
  "Frost opens chestnut-burrs, ma'am, and it takes a good shake to
bring them down. Boys go nutting, and I don't care to be bagged by
them," returned Jo, pasting away at the kite which no wind that
blows would ever carry up, for Daisy had tied herself on as a bob.
  Meg laughed, for she was glad to see a glimmer of Jo's old spirit,
but she felt it her duty to enforce her opinion by every argument in
her power; and the sisterly chats were not wasted, especially as two
of Meg's most effective arguments were the babies, whom Jo loved
tenderly. Grief is the best opener for some hearts, and Jo's was
nearly ready for the bag: a little more sunshine to ripen the nut,
then, not a boy's impatient shake, but a man's hand reached up to pick
it gently from the burr, and find the kernel sound and sweet. If she
had suspected this, she would have shut up tight, and been more
prickly than ever; fortunately she wasn't thinking about herself,
so, when the time came, down she dropped.
  Now, if she had been the heroine of a moral story-book, she ought at
this period of her life to have become quite saintly, renounced the
world, and gone about doing good in a mortified bonnet, with tracts in
her pocket. But, you see, Jo wasn't a heroine; she was only a
struggling human girl, like hundreds of others, and she just acted out
her nature, being sad, cross, listless, or energetic, as the mood
suggested. It's highly virtuous to say we'll be good, but we can't
do it all at once, and it takes a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull
all together, before some of us even get our feet set in the right
way. Jo had got so far, she was learning to do her duty, and to feel
unhappy if she did not; but to do it cheerfully- ah, that was
another thing! She had often said she wanted to do something splendid,
no matter how hard; and now she had her wish, for what could be more
beautiful than to devote her life to father and mother, trying to make
home as happy to them as they had to her? And, if difficulties were
necessary to increase the splendor of the effort, what could be harder
for a restless, ambitious girl than to give up her own hopes, plans,
and desires, and cheerfully live for others?
  Providence had taken her at her word; here was the task, not what
she had expected, but better, because self had no part in it: now,
could she do it? She decided that she would try; and, in her first
attempt, she found the helps I have suggested. Still another was given
her, and she took it, not as a reward, but as a comfort, as
Christian took the refreshment afforded by the little arbor where he
rested, as he climbed the hill called Difficulty.
  "Why don't you write? That always used to make you happy," said
her mother, once, when the desponding fit overshadowed Jo.
  "I've no heart to write, and if I had, nobody cares for my things."
  "We do; write something for us, and never mind the rest of the
world. Try it, dear; I'm sure it would do you good, and please us very
much."
  "Don't believe I can"; but Jo got out her desk, and began to
overhaul her half-finished manuscripts.
  An hour afterward her mother peeped in, and there she was,
scratching away, with her black pinafore on, and an absorbed
expression, which caused Mrs. March to smile, and slip away, well
pleased with the success of her suggestion. Jo never knew how it
happened, but something got into that story that went straight to
the hearts of those who read it; for, when her family had laughed
and cried over it, her father sent it, much against her will, to one
of the popular magazines, and, to her utter surprise, it was not
only paid for, but others requested. Letters from several persons,
whose praise was honor, followed the appearance of the little story,
newspapers copied it, and strangers as well as friends admired it. For
a small thing it was a great success; and Jo was more astonished
than when her novel was commended and condemned all at once.
  "I don't understand it. What can there be in a simple little story
like that, to make people praise it so?" she said, quite bewildered.
  "There is truth in it, Jo, that's the secret; humor and pathos
make it alive, and you have found your style at last. You wrote with
no thought of fame or money, and put your heart into it, my
daughter; you have had the bitter, now comes the sweet. Do your
best, and grow as happy as we are in your success."
  "If there is anything good or true in what I write, it isn't mine; I
owe it all to you and mother and to Beth," said Jo, more touched by
her father's words than by any amount of praise from the world.
  So, taught by love and sorrow, Jo wrote her little stories, and sent
them away to make friends for themselves and her, finding it a very
charitable world to such humble wanderers; for they were kindly
welcomed, and sent home comfortable tokens to their mother, like
dutiful children whom good fortune overtakes.
  When Amy and Laurie wrote of their engagement, Mrs. March feared
that Jo would find it difficult to rejoice over it, but her fears were
soon set at rest; for, though Jo looked grave at first, she took it
very quietly, and was full of hopes and plans for "the children"
before she read the letter twice. It was a sort of written duet,
wherein each glorified the other in lover-like fashion, very
pleasant to read and satisfactory to think of, for no one had any
objection to make.
  "You like it, mother?" said Jo, as they laid down the closely
written sheets, and looked at one another.
  "Yes, I hoped it would be so, ever since Amy wrote that she had
refused Fred. I felt sure then that something better than what you
call the 'mercenary spirit' had come over her, and a hint here and
there in her-letters made me suspect that love and Laurie would win
the day."
  "How sharp you are, Marmee, and how silent! You never said a word to
me."
  "Mothers have need of sharp eyes and discreet tongues when they have
girls to manage. I was half afraid to put the idea into your head,
lest you should write and congratulate them before the thing was
settled."
  "I'm not the scatter-brain I was; you may trust me, I'm sober and
sensible enough for any one's confidante now."
  "So you are, dear, and I should have made you mine, only I fancied
it might pain you to learn that your Teddy loved any one else."
  "Now, mother, did you really think I could be so silly and
selfish, after I'd refused his love, when it was freshest, if not
best?"
  "I knew you were sincere then, Jo, but lately I have thought that if
he came back, and asked again, you might, perhaps, feel like giving
another answer. Forgive me, dear, I can't help seeing that you are
very lonely, and sometimes there is a hungry look in your eyes that
goes to my heart; so I fancied that your boy might fill the empty
place if he tried now."
  "No, mother, it is better as it is, and I'm glad Amy has learned
to love him. But you are right in one thing; I am lonely, and
perhaps if Teddy had tried again, I might have said 'Yes,' not because
I love him any more, but because I care more to be loved than when
he went away."
  "I'm glad of that, Jo, for it shows that you are getting on. There
are plenty to love you, so try to be satisfied with father and mother,
sisters and brothers, friends and babies, till the best lover of all
comes to give you your reward."
  "Mothers are the best lovers in the world; but I don't mind
whispering to Marmee that I'd like to try all kinds. It's very
curious, but the more I try to satisfy myself with all sorts of
natural affections, the more I seem to want. I'd no idea hearts
could take in so many; mine is so elastic, it never seems full now,
and I used to be quite contented with my family. I don't understand
it."
  "I do"; and Mrs. March smiled her wise smile, as Jo turned back
the leaves to read what Amy said of Laurie.
  "It is so beautiful to be loved as Laurie loves me; he isn't
sentimental, doesn't say much about it, but I see and feel it in all
he says and does, and it makes me so happy and so humble that I
don't seem to be the same girl I was. I never knew how good and
generous and tender he was till now, for he lets me read his heart,
and I find it full of noble impulses and hopes and purposes, and am so
proud to know it's mine. He says he feels as if he 'could make a
prosperous voyage now with me aboard as mate, and lots of love for
ballast.' I pray he may, and try to be all he believes me, for I
love my gallant captain with all my heart and soul and might, and
never will desert him, while God lets us be together. O mother, I
never knew how much like heaven this world could be, when two people
love and live for one another!"
  "And that's our cool, reserved, and worldly Amy! Truly, love does
work miracles. How very, very happy they must be!" And Jo laid the
rustling sheets together with a careful hand, as one might shut the
covers of a lovely romance, which holds the reader fast till the end
comes, and he finds himself alone in the work-a-day world again.
  By and by Jo roamed away upstairs, for it was rainy, and she could
not walk. A restless spirit possessed her, and the old feeling came
again, not bitter as it once was, but a sorrowfully patient wonder why
one sister should have all she asked, the other nothing. It was not
true; she knew that, and tried to put it away, but the natural craving
for affection was strong, and Amy's happiness woke the hungry
longing for some one to "love with heart and soul, and cling to
while God let them be together."
  Up in the garret, where Jo's unquiet wanderings ended, stood four
little wooden chests in a row, each marked with its owner's name,
and each filled with relics of the childhood and girlhood ended now
for all. Jo glanced into them, and when she came to her own, leaned
her chin on the edge, and stared absently at the chaotic collection,
till a bundle of old exercise-books caught her eye. She drew them out,
turned them over, and re-lived that pleasant winter at kind Mrs.
Kirke's. She had smiled at first, then she looked thoughtful, next
sad, and when she came to a little message written in the
Professor's hand, her lips began to tremble, the books slid out of her
lap, and she sat looking at the friendly words, as if they took a
new meaning, and touched a tender spot in her heart.
  "Wait for me, my friend. I may be a little late, but I shall
surely come."
  "Oh, if he only would! So kind, so good, so patient with me
always; my dear old Fritz, I didn't value him half enough when I had
him, but now how I should love to see him, for every one seems going
away from me, and I'm all alone."
  And holding the little paper fast, as if it were a promise yet to be
fulfilled, Jo laid her head down on a comfortable rag-bag and cried,
as if in opposition to the rain pattering on the roof.
  Was it all self-pity, loneliness, or low spirits? or was it the
waking up of a sentiment which had bided its time as patiently as
its inspirer? Who shall say?
                             43
                          Surprises

  JO was alone in the twilight, lying on the old sofa, looking at
the fire, and thinking. It was her favorite way of spending the hour
of dusk; no one disturbed her, and she used to lie there on Beth's
little red pillow, planning stories, dreaming dreams, or thinking
tender thoughts of the sister who never seemed far away. Her face
looked tired, grave, and rather sad; for to-morrow was her birthday,
and she was thinking how fast the years went by, how old she was
getting, and how little she seemed to have accomplished. Almost
twenty-five, and nothing to show for it. Jo was mistaken in that;
there was a good deal to show, and by and by she saw, and was grateful
for it.
  "An old maid, that's what I'm to be. A literary spinster, with a pen
for a spouse, a family of stories for children, and twenty years hence
a morsel of fame, perhaps; when, like poor Johnson, I'm old, and can't
enjoy it, solitary, and can't share it, independent, and don't need
it. Well, I needn't be a sour saint nor a selfish sinner; and, I
dare say, old maids are very comfortable when they get used to it;
but-" and there Jo sighed, as if the prospect was not inviting.
  It seldom is, at first, and thirty seems the end of all things to
five-and-twenty; but it's not so bad as it looks, and one can get on
quite happily if one has something in one's self to fall back upon. At
twenty-five, girls begin to talk about being old maids, but secretly
resolve that they never will be; at thirty they say nothing about
it, but quietly accept the fact, and, if sensible, console
themselves by remembering that they have twenty more useful, happy
years, in which they may be learning to grow old gracefully. Don't
laugh at the spinsters, dear girls, for often very tender, tragical
romances are hidden away in the hearts that beat so quietly under
the sober gowns, and many silent sacrifices of youth, health,
ambition, love itself, make the faded faces beautiful in God's
sight. Even the sad, sour sisters should be kindly dealt with, because
they have missed the sweetest part of life, if for no other reason;
and, looking at them with compassion, not contempt, girls in their
bloom should remember that they too may miss the blossom time; that
rosy cheeks don't last forever, that silver threads will come in the
bonnie brown hair, and that, by and by, kindness and respect will be
as sweet as love and admiration now.
  Gentlemen, which means boys, be courteous to the old maids, no
matter how poor and plain and prim, for the only chivalry worth having
is that which is the readiest to pay deference to the old, protect the
feeble, and serve womankind, regardless of rank, age, or color. Just
recollect the good aunts who have not only lectured and fussed, but
nursed and petted, too often without thanks; the scrapes they have
helped you out of, the "tips" they have given you from their small
store, the stitches the patient old fingers have set for you, the
steps the willing old feet have taken, and gratefully pay the dear old
ladies the little attentions that women love to receive as long as
they live. The bright-eyed girls are quick to see such traits, and
will like you all the better for them; and if death, almost the only
power that can part mother and son, should rob you of yours, you
will be sure to find a tender welcome and maternal cherishing from
some Aunt Priscilla, who has kept the warmest corner of her lonely old
heart for "the best nevvy in the world."
  Jo must have fallen asleep (as I dare say my reader has during
this little homily), for suddenly Laurie's ghost seemed to stand
before her- a substantial, lifelike ghost- leaning over her, with
the very look he used to wear when he felt a good deal and didn't like
to show it. But, like Jenny in the ballad-

                  "She could not think it he,"

and lay staring up at him in startled silence, till he stooped and
kissed her. Then she knew him, and flew up, crying joyfully-
  "O my Teddy! O my Teddy!"
  "Dear Jo, you are glad to see me, then?"
  "Glad! My blessed boy, words can't express my gladness. Where's
Amy?"
  "Your mother has got her down at Meg's. We stopped there by the way,
and there was no getting my wife out of their clutches."
  "Your what?" cried Jo, for Laurie uttered those two words with an
unconscious pride and satisfaction which betrayed him.
  "Oh, the dickens! now I've done it"; and he looked so guilty that Jo
was down upon him like a flash.
  "You've gone and got married!"
  "Yes, please, but I never will again"; and he went down upon his
knees, with a penitent clasping of hands, and a face full of mischief,
mirth, and triumph.
  "Actually married?"
  "Very much so, thank you."
  "Mercy on us! What dreadful thing will you do next?" and Jo fell
into her seat, with a gasp.
  "A characteristic, but not exactly complimentary, congratulation,"
returned Laurie, still in an abject attitude, but beaming with
satisfaction.
  "What can you expect, when you take one's breath away, creeping in
like a burglar, and letting cats out of bags like that? Get up, you
ridiculous boy, and tell me all about it."
  "Not a word, unless you let me come in my old place, and promise not
to barricade."
  Jo laughed at that as she had not done for many a long day, and
patted the sofa invitingly, as she said, in a cordial tone-
  "The old pillow is up garret, and we don't need it now; so, come and
'fess, Teddy."
  "How good it sounds to hear you say 'Teddy'! No one ever calls me
that but you"; and Laurie sat down, with an air of great content.
  "What does Amy call you?"
  "My lord."
  "That's like her. Well, you look it"; and Jo's eyes plainly betrayed
that she found her boy comelier than ever.
  The pillow was gone, but there was a barricade, nevertheless- a
natural one, raised by time, absence, and change of heart. Both felt
it, and for a minute looked at one another as if that invisible
barrier cast a little shadow over them. It was gone directly, however,
for Laurie said, with a vain attempt at dignity-
  "Don't I look like a married man and the head of a family?"
  "Not a bit, and you never will. You've grown bigger and bonnier, but
you are the same scapegrace as ever."
  "Now, really, Jo, you ought to treat me with more respect," began
Laurie, who enjoyed it all immensely.
  "How can I, when the mere idea of you, married and settled, is so
irresistibly funny that I can't keep sober!" answered Jo, smiling
all over her face, so infectiously that they had another laugh, and
then settled down for a good talk, quite in the pleasant old fashion.
  "It's no use your going out in the cold to get Amy, for they are all
coming up presently. I couldn't wait; I wanted to be the one to tell
you the grand surprise, and have 'first skim,' as we used to say
when we squabbled about the cream."
  "Of course you did, and spoilt your story by beginning at the
wrong end. Now, start right, and tell me how it all happened; I'm
pining to know."
  "Well, I did it to please Amy," began Laurie, with a twinkle that
made Jo exclaim-
  "Fib number one; Amy did it to please you. Go on, and tell the
truth, if you can, sir."
  "Now she's beginning to marm it; isn't it jolly to hear her?" said
Laurie to the fire, and the fire glowed and sparkled as if it quite
agreed. "It's all the same, you know, she and I being one. We
planned to come home with the Carrols, a month or more ago, but they
suddenly changed their minds, and decided to pass another winter in
Paris. But grandpa wanted to come home; he went to please me, and I
couldn't let him go alone, neither could I leave Amy; and Mrs.
Carrol had got English notions about chaperons and such nonsense,
and wouldn't let Amy come with us. So I just settled the difficulty by
saying, 'Let's be married, and then we can do as we like.'"
  "Of course you did; you always have things to suit you."
  "Not always"; and something in Laurie's voice made Jo say hastily-
  "How did you ever get aunt to agree?"
  "It was hard work; but, between us, we talked her over, for we had
heaps of good reasons on our side. There wasn't time to write and
ask leave, but you all liked it, had consented to it by and by, and it
was only 'taking Time by the fetlock,' as my wife says."
  "Aren't we proud of those two words, and don't we like to say them?"
interrupted Jo, addressing the fire in her turn, and watching with
delight the happy light it seemed to kindle in the eyes that had
been so tragically gloomy when she saw them last.
  "A trifle, perhaps; she's such a captivating little woman I can't
help being proud of her. Well, then, uncle and aunt were there to play
propriety; we were so absorbed in one another we were of no mortal use
apart, and that charming arrangement would make everything easy all
round; so we did it."
  "When, where, how?" asked Jo, in a fever of feminine interest and
curiosity, for she could not realize it a particle.
  "Six weeks ago, at the American consul's, in Paris; a very quiet
wedding, of course, for even in our happiness we didn't forget dear
little Beth."
  Jo put her hand in his as he said that, and Laurie gently smoothed
the little red pillow, which he remembered well.
  "Why didn't you let us know afterward?" asked Jo, in a quieter tone,
when they had sat quite still a minute.
  "We wanted to surprise you; we thought we were coming directly home,
at first; but the dear old gentleman, as soon as we were married,
found he couldn't be ready under a month, at least, and sent us off to
spend our honeymoon wherever we liked. Amy had once called Valrosa a
regular honeymoon home, so we went there, and were as happy as
people are but once in their lives. My faith! wasn't it love among the
roses!"
  Laurie seemed to forget Jo for a minute, and Jo was glad of it;
for the fact that he told her these things so freely and naturally
assured her that he had quite forgiven and forgotten. She tried to
draw away her hand; but, as if he guessed the thought that prompted
the half-involuntary impulse, Laurie held it fast, and said, with a
manly gravity she had never seen in him before-
  "Jo, dear, I want to say one thing, and then we'll put it by
forever. As I told you in my letter, when I wrote that Amy had been so
kind to me, I never shall stop loving you; but the love is altered,
and I have learned to see that it is better as it is. Amy and you
change places in my heart, that's all. I think it was meant to be
so, and would have come about naturally, if I had waited, as you tried
to make me; but I never could be patient, and so I got a heartache.
I was a boy then, headstrong and violent; and it took a hard lesson to
show me my mistake. For it was one, Jo, as you said, and I found it
out, after making a fool of myself. Upon my word, I was so tumbled
up in my mind, at one time, that I didn't know which I loved best, you
or Amy, and tried to love both alike; but I couldn't, and when I saw
her in Switzerland, everything seemed to clear up all at once. You
both got into your right places, and I felt sure that it was well
off with the old love before it was on with the new; that I could
honestly share my heart between sister Jo and wife Amy, and love
them both dearly. Will you believe it, and go back to the happy old
times when we first knew one another?"
  "I'll believe it, with all my heart; but, Teddy, we never can be boy
and girl again: the happy old times can't come back, and we mustn't
expect it. We are man and woman now, with sober work to do, for
playtime is over, and we must give up frolicking. I'm sure you feel
this; I see the change in you, and you'll find it in me. I shall
miss my boy, but I shall love the man as much, and admire him more,
because he means to be what I hoped he would. We can't be little
playmates any longer, but we will be brother and sister, to love and
help one another all our lives, won't we, Laurie?"
  He did not say a word, but took the hand she offered him, and laid
his face down on it for a minute, feeling that out of the grave of a
boyish passion, there had risen a beautiful, strong friendship to
bless them both. Presently Jo said cheerfully, for she didn't want the
coming home to be a sad one-
  "I can't make it true that you children are really married, and
going to set up housekeeping. Why, it seems only yesterday that I
was buttoning Amy's pinafore, and pulling your hair when you teased.
Mercy me, how time does fly!"
  "As one of the children is older than yourself, you needn't talk
so like a grandma. I flatter myself I'm a 'gentleman growed,' as
Peggotty said of David; and when you see Amy, you'll find her rather a
precocious infant," said Laurie, looking amused at her maternal air.
  "You may be a little older in years, but I'm ever so much older in
feeling, Teddy. Women always are; and this last year has been such a
hard one that I feel forty."
  "Poor Jo! we left you to bear it alone, while we went pleasuring.
You are older; here's a line, and there's another; unless you smile,
your eyes look sad, and when I touched the cushion, just now, I
found a tear on it. You've had a great deal to bear, and had to bear
it all alone. What a selfish beast I've been!" and Laurie pulled his
own hair, with a remorseful look.
  But Jo only turned over the traitorous pillow, and answered, in a
tone which she tried to make quite cheerful-
  "No, I had father and mother to help me, the dear babies to
comfort me, and the thought that you and Amy were safe and happy, to
make the troubles here easier to bear. I am lonely, sometimes, but I
dare say it's good for me, and-"
  "You never shall be again," broke in Laurie, putting his arm about
her, as if to fence out every human ill. "Amy and I can't get on
without you, so you must come and teach 'the children' to keep
house, and go halves in everything, just as we used to do, and let
us pet you, and all be blissfully happy and friendly together."
  "If I shouldn't be in the way, it would be very pleasant. I begin to
feel quite young already; for, somehow, all my troubles seemed to
fly away when you came. You always were a comfort, Teddy"; and Jo
leaned her head on his shoulder, just as she did years ago, when
Beth lay ill, and Laurie told her to hold on to him.
  He looked down at her, wondering if she remembered the time, but
Jo was smiling to herself, as if, in truth, her troubles had all
vanished at his coming.
  "You are the same Jo still, dropping tears about one minute, and
laughing the next. You look a little wicked now; what is it, grandma?"
  "I was wondering how you and Amy get on together."
  "Like angels!"
  "Yes, of course, at first; but which rules?"
  "I don't mind telling you that she does, now; at least I let her
think so- it pleases her, you know. By and by we shall take turns, for
marriage, they say, halves one's rights and doubles one's duties."
  "You'll go on as you begin, and Amy will rule you all the days of
your life."
  "Well, she does it so imperceptibly that I don't think I shall
mind much. She is the sort of woman who knows how to rule well; in
fact, I rather like it, for she winds one round her finger as softly
and prettily as a skein of silk, and makes you feel as if she was
doing you a favor all the while."
  "That ever I should live to see you a henpecked husband and enjoying
it!" cried Jo, with uplifted hands.
  It was good to see Laurie square his shoulders, and smile with
masculine scorn at that insinuation, as he replied, with his "high and
mighty" air-
  "Amy is too well-bred for that, and I am not the sort of man to
submit to it. My wife and I respect ourselves and one another too much
ever to tyrannize or quarrel."
  Jo liked that, and thought the new dignity very becoming, but the
boy seemed changing very fast into the man, and regret mingled with
her pleasure.
  "I am sure of that; Amy and you never did quarrel as we used to. She
is the sun and I the wind, in the fable, and the sun managed the man
best, you remember."
  "She can blow him up as well as shine on him," laughed Laurie. "Such
a lecture as I got at Nice! I give you my word it was a deal worse
than any of your scoldings- a regular rouser. I'll tell you all
about it sometime- she never will, because, after telling me that
she despised and was ashamed of me, she lost her heart to the
despicable party and married the good-for-nothing."
  "What baseness! Well, if she abuses you, come to me, and I'll defend
you."
  "I look as if I needed it, don't I?" said Laurie, getting up and
striking an attitude which suddenly changed from the imposing to the
rapturous, as Amy's voice was heard calling-
  "Where is she? Where's my dear old Jo?"
  In trooped the whole family, and every one was hugged and kissed all
over again, and, after several vain attempts, the three wanderers were
set down to be looked at and exulted over. Mr. Laurence, hale and
hearty as ever, was quite as much improved as the others by his
foreign tour, for the crustiness seemed to be nearly gone, and the
old-fashioned courtliness had received a polish which made it kindlier
than ever. It was good to see him beam at "my children," as he
called the young pair; it was better still to see Amy pay him the
daughterly duty and affection which completely won his old heart;
and best of all, to watch Laurie revolve about the two, as if never
tired of enjoying the pretty picture they made.
  The minute she put her eyes upon Amy, Meg became conscious that
her own dress hadn't a Parisian air, that young Mrs. Moffat would be
entirely eclipsed by young Mrs. Laurence, and that "her ladyship"
was altogether a most elegant and graceful woman. Jo thought, as she
watched the pair, "How well they look together! I was right, and
Laurie has found the beautiful, accomplished girl who will become
his home better than clumsy old Jo, and be a pride, not a torment to
him." Mrs. March and her husband smiled and nodded at each other
with happy faces, for they saw that their youngest had done well,
not only in worldly things, but the better wealth of love, confidence,
and happiness.
  For Amy's face was full of the soft brightness which betokens a
peaceful heart, her voice had a new tenderness in it, and the cool,
prim carriage was changed to a gentle dignity, both womanly and
winning. No little affectations marred it, and the cordial sweetness
of her manner was more charming than the new beauty or the old
grace, for it stamped her at once with the unmistakable sign of the
true gentlewoman she had hoped to become.
  "Love has done much for our little girl," said her mother softly.
  "She has had a good example before her all her life, my dear," Mr.
March whispered back, with a loving look at the worn face and gray
head beside him.
  Daisy found it impossible to keep her eyes off her "pitty aunty,"
but attached herself like a lap-dog to the wonderful chatelaine full
of delightful charms. Demi paused to consider the new relationship
before he compromised himself by the rash acceptance of a bribe, which
took the tempting form of a family of wooden bears from Berne. A flank
movement produced an unconditional surrender, however, for Laurie knew
where to have him.
  "Young man, when I first had the honor of making your acquaintance
you hit me in the face: now I demand the satisfaction of a gentleman";
and with that the tall uncle proceeded to toss and tousle the small
nephew in a way that damaged his philosophical dignity as much as it
delighted his boyish soul.
  "Blest if she ain't in silk from head to foot? Ain't it a
relishin' sight to see her settin' there as fine as a fiddle, and hear
folks calling little Amy, Mis. Laurence?" muttered old Hannah, who
could not resist frequent "peeks" through the slide as she set the
table in a most decidedly promiscuous manner.
  Mercy on us, how they did talk! first one, then the other, then
all burst out together, trying to tell the history of three years in
half an hour. It was fortunate that tea was at hand, to produce a lull
and provide refreshment, for they would have been hoarse and faint
if they had gone on much longer. Such a happy procession as filed away
into the little dining-room! Mr. March proudly escorted "Mrs.
Laurence"; Mrs. March as proudly leaned on the arm of "my son"; the
old gentleman took Jo, with a whispered "You must be my girl now," and
a glance at the empty corner by the fire, that made Jo whisper back,
with trembling lips, "I'll try to fill her place, sir."
  The twins pranced behind, feeling that the millennium was at hand,
for every one was so busy with the new-comers that they were left to
revel at their own sweet will, and you may be sure they made the
most of the opportunity. Didn't they steal sips of tea, stuff
gingerbread ad libitum, get a hot biscuit apiece, and, as a crowning
trespass, didn't they each whisk a captivating little tart into
their tiny pockets, there to stick and crumble treacherously, teaching
them that both human nature and pastry are frail? Burdened with the
guilty consciousness of the sequestered tarts, and fearing that Dodo's
sharp eyes would pierce the thin disguise of cambric and merino
which hid their booty, the little sinners attached themselves to
"Dranpa," who hadn't his spectacles on. Amy, who was handed about like
refreshments, returned to the parlor on Father Laurence's arm; the
others paired off as before, and this arrangement left Jo
companionless. She did not mind it at the minute, for she lingered
to answer Hannah's eager inquiry-
  "Will Miss Amy ride in her coop (coupe), and use all them lovely
silver dishes that's stored away over yander?"
  "Shouldn't wonder if she drove six white horses, ate off gold plate,
and wore diamonds and point-lace every day. Teddy thinks nothing too
good for her," returned Jo with infinite satisfaction.
  "No more there is! Will you have hash or fish-balls for
breakfast?" asked Hannah, who wisely mingled poetry and prose.
  "I don't care"; and Jo shut the door, feeling that food was an
uncongenial topic just then. She stood a minute looking at the party
vanishing above, and, as Demi's short plaid legs toiled up the last
stair, a sudden sense of loneliness came over her so strongly that she
looked about her with dim eyes, as if to find something to lean
upon, for even Teddy had deserted her. If she had known what
birthday gift was coming every minute nearer and nearer, she would not
have said to herself, "I'll weep a little weep when I go to bed; it
won't do to be dismal now." Then she drew her hand over her eyes-
for one of her boyish habits was never to know where her
handkerchief was- and had just managed to call up a smile when there
came a knock at the porch-door.
  She opened it with hospitable haste, and started as if another ghost
had come to surprise her; for there stood a tall, bearded gentleman,
beaming on her from the darkness like a midnight sun.
  "O Mr. Bhaer, I am so glad to see you!" cried Jo, with a clutch,
as if she feared the night would swallow him up before she could get
him in.
  "And I to see Miss Marsch- but no, you haf a party-" and the
Professor paused as the sound of voices and the tap of dancing feet
came down to them.
  "No, we haven't, only the family. My sister and friends have just
come home, and we are all very happy. Come in, and make one of us."
  Though a very social man, I think Mr. Bhaer would have gone
decorously away, and come again another day; but how could he, when Jo
shut the door behind him, and bereft him of his hat? Perhaps her
face had something to do with it, for she forgot to hide her joy at
seeing him, and showed it with a frankness that proved irresistible to
the solitary man, whose welcome far exceeded his boldest hopes.
  "If I shall not be Monsieur de Trop, I will so gladly see them
all. You haf been ill, my friend?"
  He put the question abruptly, for, as Jo hung up his coat, the light
fell on her face, and he saw a change in it.
  "Not ill, but tired and sorrowful. We have had trouble since I saw
you last."
  "Ah, yes, I know. My heart was sore for you when I heard that";
and he shook hands again, with such a sympathetic face that Jo felt as
if no comfort could equal the look of the kind eyes, the grasp of
the big, warm hand.
  "Father, mother, this is my friend, Professor Bhaer," she said, with
a face and tone of such irrepressible pride and pleasure that she
might as well have blown a trumpet and opened the door with a
flourish.
  If the stranger had had any doubts about his reception, they were
set at rest in a minute by the cordial welcome he received. Every
one greeted him kindly, for Jo's sake at first, but very soon they
liked him for his own. They could not help it, for he carried the
talisman that opens all hearts, and these simple people warmed to
him at once, feeling even the more friendly because he was poor; for
poverty enriches those who live above it, and is a sure passport to
truly hospitable spirits. Mr. Bhaer sat looking about him with the air
of a traveller who knocks at a strange door, and, when it opens, finds
himself at home. The children went to him like bees to a honey-pot;
and, establishing themselves on each knee, proceeded to captivate
him by rifling his pockets, pulling his beard, and investigating his
watch, with juvenile audacity. The women telegraphed their approval to
one another, and Mr. March, feeling that he had got a kindred
spirit, opened his choicest stores for his guest's benefit, while
silent John listened and enjoyed the talk, but said not a word, and
Mr. Laurence found it impossible to go to sleep.
  If Jo had not been otherwise engaged, Laurie's behavior would have
amused her; for a faint twinge, not of jealousy, but something like
suspicion, caused that gentleman to stand aloof at first, and
observe the newcomer with brotherly circumspection. But it did not
last long. He got interested in spite of himself, and, before he
knew it, was drawn into the circle; for Mr. Bhaer talked well in
this genial atmosphere, and did himself justice. He seldom spoke to
Laurie, but he looked at him often, and a shadow would pass across his
face, as if regretting his own lost youth, as he watched the young man
in his prime. Then his eye would turn to Jo so wistfully that she
would have surely answered the mute inquiry if she had seen it; but Jo
had her own eyes to take care of, and, feeling that they could not
be trusted, she prudently kept them on the little sock she was
knitting, like a model maiden aunt.
  A stealthy glance now and then refreshed her like sips of fresh
water after a dusty walk, for the sidelong peeps showed her several
propitious omens. Mr. Bhaer's face had lost the absent-minded
expression, and looked all alive with interest in the present
moment, actually young and handsome, she thought, forgetting to
compare him with Laurie, as she usually did strange men, to their
great detriment. Then he seemed quite inspired, though the burial
customs of the ancients, to which the conversation had strayed,
might not be considered an exhilarating topic. Jo quite glowed with
triumph when Teddy got quenched in an argument, and thought to
herself, as she watched her father's absorbed face, "How he would
enjoy having such a man as my Professor to talk with every day!"
Lastly, Mr. Bhaer was dressed in a new suit of black, which made him
look more like a gentleman than ever. His bushy hair had been cut
and smoothly brushed, but didn't stay in order long, for, in
exciting moments, he rumpled it up in the droll way he used to do; and
Jo liked it rampantly erect better than flat, because she thought it
gave his fine forehead a Jove-like aspect. Poor Jo, how she did
glorify that plain man, as she sat knitting away so quietly, yet
letting nothing escape her, not even the fact that Mr. Bhaer
actually had gold sleeve-buttons in his immaculate wrist-bands!
  "Dear old fellow! He couldn't have got himself up with more care
if he'd been going a-wooing," said Jo to herself; and then a sudden
thought, born of the words, made her blush so dreadfully that she
had to drop her ball, and go down after it to hide her face.
  The manoeuvre did not succeed as well as she expected, however; for,
though just in the act of setting fire to a funeral-pile, the
Professor dropped his torch, metaphorically speaking, and made a
dive after the little blue ball. Of course they bumped their heads
smartly together, saw stars, and both came up flushed and laughing,
without the ball, to resume their seats, wishing they had not left
them.
  Nobody knew where the evening went to; for Hannah skilfully
abstracted the babies at an early hour, nodding like two rosy poppies,
and Mr. Laurence went home to rest. The others sat round the fire
talking away, utterly regardless of the lapse of time, till Meg, whose
maternal mind was impressed with a firm conviction that Daisy had
tumbled out of bed, and Demi set his night-gown afire studying the
structure of matches, made a move to go.
  "We must have our sing, in the good old way, for we are all together
again once more," said Jo, feeling that a good shout would be a safe
and pleasant vent for the jubilant emotions of her soul.
  They were not all there. But no one found the words thoughtless or
untrue; for Beth still seemed among them, a peaceful presence,
invisible, but dearer than ever, since death could not break the
household league that love made indissoluble. The little chair stood
in its old place; the tidy basket, with the bit of work she left
unfinished when the needle grew "so heavy," was still on its
accustomed shelf; the beloved instrument, seldom touched now, had
not been moved; and above it Beth's face serene and smiling, as in the
early days, looked down upon them, seeming to say, "Be happy. I am
here."
  "Play something, Amy. Let them hear how much you have improved,"
said Laurie, with pardonable pride in his promising pupil.
  But Amy whispered, with full eyes, as she twirled the faded stool-
  "Not to-night, dear. I can't show off to-night."
  But she did show something better than brilliancy or skill; for
she sung Beth's songs with a tender music in her voice which the
best master could not have taught, and touched the listeners' hearts
with a sweeter power than any other inspiration could have given
her. The room was very still, when the clear voice failed suddenly
at the last line of Beth's favorite hymn. It was hard to say-

          "Earth hath no sorrow that heaven cannot heal,"

and Amy leaned against her husband, who stood behind her, feeling that
her welcome home was not quite perfect without Beth's kiss.
  "Now, we must finish with Mignon's song; for Mr. Bhaer sings
that," said Jo, before the pause grew painful. And Mr. Bhaer cleared
his throat with a gratified "Hem!" as he stepped into the corner where
Jo stood, saying-
  "You will sing with me? We go excellently well together."
  A pleasing fiction, by the way; for Jo had no more idea of music
than a grasshopper. But she would have consented if he had proposed to
sing a whole opera, and warbled away, blissfully regardless of time
and tune. It didn't much matter; for Mr. Bhaer sang like a true
German, heartily and well; and Jo soon subsided into a subdued hum,
that she might listen to the mellow voice that seemed to sing for
her alone.

          "Know'st thou the land where the citron blooms,"

used to be the Professor's favorite line, for "das Land" meant Germany
to him; but now he seemed to dwell, with peculiar warmth and melody,
upon the words-

                "There, oh there, might I with thee,
                 O my beloved, go!"

and one listener was so thrilled by the tender invitation that she
longed to say she did know the land, and would joyfully depart thither
whenever he liked.
  The song was considered a great success, and the singer retired
covered with laurels. But a few minutes afterward, he forgot his
manners entirely, and stared at Amy putting on her bonnet; for she had
been introduced simply as "my sister," and no one had called her by
her new name since he came. He forgot himself still further when
Laurie said, in his most gracious manner, at parting-
  "My wife and I are very glad to meet you, sir. Please remember
that there is always a welcome waiting for you over the way."
  Then the Professor thanked him so heartily, and looked so suddenly
illuminated with satisfaction, that Laurie thought him the most
delightfully demonstrative old fellow he ever met.
  "I too shall go; but I shall gladly come again, if you will gif me
leave, dear madame, for a little business in the city will keep me
here some days."
  He spoke to Mrs. March, but he looked at Jo; and the mother's
voice gave as cordial an assent as did the daughter's eyes; for Mrs.
March was not so blind to her children's interest as Mrs. Moffat
supposed.
  "I suspect that is a wise man," remarked Mr. March, with placid
satisfaction, from the hearth-rug, after the last guest had gone.
  "I know he is a good one," added Mrs. March, with decided
approval, as she wound up the clock.
  "I thought you'd like him," was all Jo said, as she slipped away
to her bed.
  She wondered what the business was that brought Mr. Bhaer to the
city, and finally decided that he had been appointed to some great
honor, somewhere, but had been too modest to mention the fact. If
she had seen his face when, safe in his own room, he looked at the
picture of a severe and rigid young lady, with a good deal of hair,
who appeared to be gazing darkly into futurity, it might have thrown
some light upon the subject, especially when he turned off the gas,
and kissed the picture in the dark.
                             44
                       My Lord and Lady

  "PLEASE, Madam Mother, could you lend me my wife for half an hour?
The luggage has come, and I've been making hay of Amy's Paris
finery, trying to find some things I want," said Laurie, coming in the
next day to find Mrs. Laurence sitting in her mother's lap, as if
being made "the baby" again.
  "Certainly. Go, dear; I forget that you have any home but this," and
Mrs. March pressed the white hand that wore the wedding-ring, as if
asking pardon for her maternal covetousness.
  "I shouldn't have come over if I could have helped it; but I can't
get on without my little woman any more than a-"
  "Weathercock can without wind," suggested Jo, as he paused for a
simile; Jo had grown quite her own saucy self again since Teddy came
home.
  "Exactly; for Amy keeps me pointing due west most of the time,
with only an occasional whiffle round to the south, and I haven't
had an easterly spell since I was married; don't know anything about
the north, but am altogether salubrious and balmy, hey, my lady?"
  "Lovely weather so far; I don't know how long it will last, but
I'm not afraid of storms, for I'm learning how to sail my ship. Come
home, dear, and I'll find your bootjack; I suppose that's what you are
rummaging after among my things. Men are so helpless, mother," said
Amy, with a matronly air, which delighted her husband.
  "What are you going to do with yourselves after you get settled?"
asked Jo, buttoning Amy's cloak as she used to button her pinafores.
  "We have our plans; we don't mean to say much about them yet,
because we are such very new brooms, but we don't intend to be idle.
I'm going into business with a devotion that shall delight
grandfather, and prove to him that I'm not spoilt. I need something of
the sort to keep me steady. I'm tired of dawdling, and mean to work
like a man."
  "And Amy, what is she going to do?" asked Mrs. March, well pleased
at Laurie's decision, and the energy with which he spoke.
  "After doing the civil all round, and airing our best bonnet, we
shall astonish you by the elegant hospitalities of our mansion, the
brilliant society we shall draw about us, and the beneficial influence
we shall exert over the world at large. That's about it, isn't it,
Madame Recamier?" asked Laurie, with a quizzical look at Amy.
  "Time will show. Come away, Impertinence, and don't shock my
family by calling me names before their faces," answered Amy,
resolving that there should be a home with a good wife in it before
she set up a salon as a queen of society.
  "How happy those children seem together!" observed Mr. March,
finding it difficult to become absorbed in his Aristotle after the
young couple had gone.
  "Yes, and I think it will last," added Mrs. March, with the
restful expression of a pilot who has brought a ship safely into port.
  "I know it will. Happy Amy!" and Jo sighed, then smiled brightly
as Professor Bhaer opened the gate with an impatient push.
  Later in the evening, when his mind had been set at rest about the
bootjack, Laurie said suddenly to his wife, who was flitting about,
arranging her new art treasures-
  "Mrs. Laurence."
  "My lord!"
  "That man intends to marry our Jo!"
  "I hope so; don't you, dear?"
  "Well, my love, I consider him a trump, in the fullest sense of that
expressive word, but I do wish he was a little younger and a good deal
richer."
  "Now, Laurie, don't be too fastidious and worldly-minded. If they
love one another it doesn't matter a particle how old they are nor how
poor. Women never should marry for money-" Amy caught herself up short
as the words escaped her, and looked at her husband, who replied, with
malicious gravity-
  "Certainly not, though you do hear charming girls say that they
intend to do it sometimes. If my memory serves me, you once thought it
your duty to make a rich match; that accounts, perhaps, for your
marrying a good-for-nothing like me."
  "O my dearest boy, don't, don't say that! I forgot you were rich
when I said 'Yes.' I'd have married you if you hadn't a penny, and I
sometimes wish you were poor that I might show how much I love you";
and Amy, who was very dignified in public and very fond in private,
gave convincing proofs of the truth of her words.
  "You don't really think I am such a mercenary creature as I tried to
be once, do you? It would break my heart if you didn't believe that
I'd gladly pull in the same boat with you, even if you had to get your
living by rowing on the lake."
  "Am I an idiot and a brute? How could I think so, when you refused a
richer man for me, and won't let me give you half I want to now,
when I have the right? Girls do it every day, poor things, and are
taught to think it is their only salvation; but you had better
lessons, and, though I trembled for you at one time, I was not
disappointed, for the daughter was true to the mother's teaching. I
told mamma so yesterday, and she looked as glad and grateful as if I'd
given her a check for a million, to be spent in charity. You are not
listening to my moral remarks, Mrs. Laurence"; and Laurie paused,
for Amy's eyes had an absent look, though fixed upon his face.
  "Yes, I am, and admiring the dimple in your chin at the same time. I
don't wish to make you vain, but I must confess that I'm prouder of my
handsome husband than of all his money. Don't laugh, but your nose
is such a comfort to me"; and Amy softly caressed the well-cut feature
with artistic satisfaction.
  Laurie had received many compliments in his life, but never one that
suited him better, as he plainly showed, though he did laugh at his
wife's peculiar taste, while she said slowly-
  "May I ask you a question, dear?"
  "Of course you may."
  "Shall you care if Jo does marry Mr. Bhaer?"
  "Oh, that's the trouble, is it? I thought there was something in the
dimple that didn't suit you. Not being a dog in the manger, but the
happiest fellow alive, I assure you I can dance at Jo's wedding with a
heart as light as my heels. Do you doubt it, my darling?"
  Amy looked up at him, and was satisfied; her last little jealous
fear vanished forever, and she thanked him, with a face full of love
and confidence.
  "I wish we could do something for that capital old Professor.
Couldn't we invent a rich relation, who shall obligingly die out there
in Germany, and leave him a tidy little fortune?" said Laurie, when
they began to pace up and down the long drawing-room, arm-in-arm, as
they were fond of doing, in memory of the chateau garden.
  "Jo would find us out, and spoil it all; she is very proud of him,
just as he is, and said yesterday that she thought poverty was a
beautiful thing."
  "Bless her dear heart! she won't think so when she has a literary
husband, and a dozen little professors and professorins to support. We
won't interfere now, but watch our chance, and do them a good turn
in spite of themselves. I owe Jo for a part of my education, and she
believes in people's paying their honest debts, so I'll get round
her in that way."
  "How delightful it is to be able to help others, isn't it? That
was always one of my dreams, to have the power of giving freely;
and, thanks to you, the dream has come true."
  "Ah! we'll do quantities of good, won't we? There's one sort of
poverty that I particularly like to help. Out-and-out beggars get
taken care of, but poor gentlefolks fare badly, because they won't
ask, and people don't dare to offer charity; yet there are a
thousand ways of helping them, if one only knows how to do it so
delicately that it does not offend. I must say, I like to serve a
decayed gentleman better than a blarneying beggar; I suppose it's
wrong, but I do, though it is harder."
  "Because it takes a gentleman to do it," added the other member of
the domestic admiration society.
  "Thank you, I'm afraid I don't deserve that pretty compliment. But I
was going to say that while I was dawdling about abroad, I saw a
good many talented young fellows making all sorts of sacrifices, and
enduring real hardships, that they might realize their dreams.
Splendid fellows, some of them, working like heroes, poor and
friendless, but so full of courage, patience, and ambition, that I was
ashamed of myself, and longed to give them a right good lift. Those
are people whom it's a satisfaction to help, for if they've got
genius, it's an honor to be allowed to serve them, and not let it be
lost or delayed for want of fuel to keep the pot boiling; if they
haven't, it's a pleasure to comfort the poor souls, and keep them from
despair when they find it out."
  "Yes, indeed; and there's another class who can't ask, and who
suffer in silence. I know something of it, for I belonged to it before
you made a princess of me, as the king does the beggar-maid in the old
story. Ambitious girls have a hard time, Laurie, and often have to see
youth, health, and precious opportunities go by, just for want of a
little help at the right minute. People have been very kind to me; and
whenever I see girls struggling along, as we used to do, I want to put
out my hand and help them, as I was helped."
  "And so you shall, like an angel as you are!" cried Laurie,
resolving, with a glow of philanthropic zeal, to found and endow an
institution for the express benefit of young women with artistic
tendencies. "Rich people have no right to sit down and enjoy
themselves, or let their money accumulate for others to waste. It's
not half so sensible to leave legacies when one dies as it is to use
the money wisely while alive, and enjoy making one's
fellow-creatures happy with it. We'll have a good time ourselves,
and add an extra relish to our own pleasure by giving other people a
generous taste. Will you be a little Dorcas, going about emptying a
big basket of comforts, and filling it up with good deeds?"
  "With all my heart, if you will be a brave St. Martin, stopping,
as you ride gallantly through the world, to share your cloak with
the beggar."
  "It's a bargain; and we shall get the best of it!"
  So the young pair shook hands upon it, and then paced happily on
again, feeling that their pleasant home was more home-like because
they hoped to brighten other homes, believing that their own feet
would walk more uprightly along the flowery path before them, if
they smoothed rough ways for other feet, and feeling that their hearts
were more closely knit together by a love which could tenderly
remember those less blest than they.
                             45
                        Daisy and Demi

  I CANNOT feel that I have done my duty as humble historian of the
March family, without devoting at least one chapter to the two most
precious and important members of it. Daisy and Demi had now arrived
at years of discretion; for in this fast age babies of three or four
assert their rights, and get them, too, which is more than many of
their elders do. If there ever were a pair of twins in danger of being
utterly spoilt by adoration, it was these prattling Brookes. Of course
they were the most remarkable children ever born, as will be shown
when I mention that they walked at eight months, talked fluently at
twelve months, and at two years they took their places at table, and
behaved with a propriety which charmed all beholders. At three,
Daisy demanded a "needler," and actually made a bag with four stitches
in it; she likewise set up housekeeping in the sideboard, and
managed a microscopic cooking-stove with a skill that brought tears of
pride to Hannah's eyes, while Demi learned his letters with his
grandfather, who invented a new mode of teaching the alphabet by
forming the letters with his arms and legs, thus uniting gymnastics
for head and heels. The boy early developed a mechanical genius
which delighted his father and distracted his mother, for he tried
to imitate every machine he saw, and kept the nursery in a chaotic
condition with his "sewin-sheen"- a mysterious structure of string,
chairs, clothes-pins, and spools, for wheels to go "wound and
wound"; also a basket hung over the back of a big chair, in which he
vainly tried to hoist his too confiding sister, who, with feminine
devotion, allowed her little head to be bumped till rescued, when
the young inventor indignantly remarked, "Why, marmar, dat's my
lellywaiter, and me's trying to pull her up."
  Though utterly unlike in character, the twins got on remarkably well
together, and seldom quarreled more than thrice a day. Of course, Demi
tyrannized over Daisy, and gallantly defended her from every other
aggressor; while Daisy made a galley-slave of herself, and adored
her brother as the one perfect being in the world. A rosy, chubby,
sunshiny little soul was Daisy, who found her way to everybody's
heart, and nestled there. One of the captivating children, who seem
made to be kissed and cuddled, adorned and adored like little
goddesses, and produced for general approval on all festive occasions.
Her small virtues were so sweet that she would have been quite angelic
if a few small naughtinesses had not kept her delightfully human. It
was all fair weather in her world, and every morning she scrambled
up to the window in her little night-gown to look out, and say, no
matter whether it rained or shone, "Oh, pitty day, oh, pitty day!"
Every one was a friend, and she offered kisses to a stranger so
confidingly that the most inveterate bachelor relented, and
baby-lovers became faithful worshippers.
  "Me loves evvybody," she once said, opening her arms, with her spoon
in one hand, and her mug in the other, as if eager to embrace and
nourish the whole world.
  As she grew, her mother began to feel that the Dove-cote would be
blest by the presence of an inmate as serene and loving as that
which had helped to make the old house home, and to pray that she
might be spared a loss like that which had lately taught them how long
they had entertained an angel unawares. Her grandfather often called
her "Beth," and her grandmother watched over her with untiring
devotion, as if trying to atone for some past mistake, which no eye
but her own could see.
  Demi, like a true Yankee, was of an inquiring turn, wanting to
know everything, and often getting much disturbed because he could not
get satisfactory answers to his perpetual "What for?"
  He also possessed a philosophic bent, to the great delight of his
grandfather, who used to hold Socratic conversations with him, in
which the precocious pupil occasionally posed as his teacher, to the
undisguised satisfaction of the womenfolk.
  "What makes my legs go, dranpa?" asked the young philosopher,
surveying those active portions of his frame with a meditative air,
while resting after a go-to-bed frolic one night.
  "It's your little mind, Demi," replied the sage, stroking the yellow
head respectfully.
  "What is a little mine?"
  "It is something which makes your body move, as the spring made
the wheels go in my watch when I showed it to you."
  "Open me; I want to see it go wound."
  "I can't do that any more than you could open the watch. God winds
you up, and you go till He stops you."
  "Does I?" and Demi's brown eyes grew big and bright as he took in
the new thought. "Is I wounded up like the watch?"
  "Yes; but I can't show you how; for it is done when we don't see."
  Demi felt of his back, as if expecting to find it like that of the
watch, and then gravely remarked, "I dess Dod does it when I's
asleep."
  A careful explanation followed, to which he listened so
attentively that his anxious grandmother said-
  "My dear, do you think it wise to talk about such things to that
baby? He's getting great bumps over his eyes, and learning to ask
the most unanswerable questions."
  "If he is old enough to ask questions he is old enough to receive
true answers. I am not putting the thoughts into his head, but helping
him unfold those already there. These children are wiser than we
are, and I have no doubt the boy understands every word I have said to
him. Now, Demi, tell me where you keep your mind?"
  If the boy had replied like Alcibiades, "By the gods, Socrates, I
cannot tell," his grandfather would not have been surprised; but when,
after standing a moment on one leg, like a meditative young stork,
he answered, in a tone of calm conviction, "In my little belly," the
old gentleman could only join in grandma's laugh, and dismiss the
class in metaphysics.
  There might have been cause for maternal anxiety, if Demi had not
given convincing proofs that he was a true boy, as well as a budding
philosopher; for, often, after a discussion which caused Hannah to
prophesy, with ominous nods, "That child ain't long for this world,"
he would turn about and set her fears at rest by some of the pranks
with which dear, dirty, naughty little rascals distract and delight
their parents' souls.
  Meg made many moral rules, and tried to keep them; but what mother
was ever proof against the winning wiles, the ingenious evasions, or
the tranquil audacity of the miniature men and women who so early show
themselves accomplished Artful Dodgers?
  "No more raisins, Demi, they'll make you sick," says mamma to the
young person who offers his services in the kitchen with unfailing
regularity on plum-pudding day.
  "Me likes to be sick."
  "I don't want to have you, so run away and help Daisy make
patty-cakes."
  He reluctantly departs, but his wrongs weigh upon his spirit; and,
by and by, when an opportunity comes to redress them, he outwits mamma
by a shrewd bargain.
  "Now you have been good children, and I'll play anything you
like," says Meg, as she leads her assistant cooks upstairs, when the
pudding is safely bouncing in the pot.
  "Truly, marmar?" asks Demi, with a brilliant idea in his
well-powdered head.
  "Yes, truly; anything you say," replies the short-sighted parent,
preparing herself to sing "The Three Little Kittens" half a dozen
times over, or to take her family to "Buy a penny bun," regardless
of wind or limb. But Demi corners her by the cool reply-
  "Then we'll go and eat up all the raisins."
  Aunt Dodo was chief playmate and confidante of both children, and
the trio turned the little house topsy-turvy. Aunt Amy was as yet only
a name to them, Aunt Beth soon faded into a pleasantly vague memory,
but Aunt Dodo was a living reality, and they made the most of her, for
which compliment she was deeply grateful. But when Mr. Bhaer came,
Jo neglected her playfellows, and dismay and desolation fell upon
their little souls. Daisy, who was fond of going about peddling
kisses, lost her best customer and became bankrupt; Demi, with
infantile penetration, soon discovered that Dodo liked to play with
"the bear-man" better than she did with him; but, though hurt, he
concealed his anguish, for he hadn't the heart to insult a rival who
kept a mine of chocolate-drops in his waistcoat-pocket, and a watch
that could be taken out of its case and freely shaken by ardent
admirers.
  Some persons might have considered these pleasing liberties as
bribes; but Demi didn't see it in that light, and continued to
patronize the "bear-man" with pensive affability, while Daisy bestowed
her small affections upon him at the third call, and considered his
shoulder her throne, his arm her refuge, his gifts treasures of
surpassing worth.
  Gentlemen are sometimes seized with sudden fits of admiration for
the young relatives of ladies whom they honor with their regard; but
this counterfeit philoprogenitiveness sits uneasily upon them, and
does not deceive anybody a particle. Mr. Bhaer's devotion was sincere,
however, likewise effective- for honesty is the best policy in love as
in law; he was one of the men who are at home with children, and
looked particularly well when little faces made a pleasant contrast
with his manly one. His business, whatever it was, detained him from
day to day, but evening seldom failed to bring him out to see- well,
he always asked for Mr. March, so I suppose he was the attraction. The
excellent papa labored under the delusion that he was, and revelled in
long discussions with the kindred spirit, till a chance remark of
his more observing grandson suddenly enlightened him.
  Mr. Bhaer came in one evening to pause on the threshold of the
study, astonished by the spectacle that met his eye. Prone upon the
floor lay Mr. March, with his respectable legs in the air, and
beside him, likewise prone, was Demi, trying to imitate the attitude
with his own short, scarlet-stockinged legs, both grovellers so
seriously absorbed that they were unconscious of spectators, till
Mr. Bhaer laughed his sonorous laugh, and Jo cried out, with a
scandalized face-
  "Father, father, here's the Professor!"
  Down went the black legs and up came the gray head, as the preceptor
said, with undisturbed dignity-
  "Good evening, Mr. Bhaer. Excuse me for a moment; we are just
finishing our lesson. Now, Demi, make the letter and tell its name."
  "I knows him!" and, after a few convulsive efforts, the red legs
took the shape of a pair of compasses, and the intelligent pupil
triumphantly shouted, "It's a We, dranpa, it's a We!"
  "He's a born Weller," laughed Jo, as her parent gathered himself up,
and her nephew tried to stand on his head, as the only mode of
expressing his satisfaction that school was over.
  "What have you been at to-day, bubchen?" asked Mr. Bhaer, picking up
the gymnast.
  "Me went to see little Mary."
  "And what did you there?"
  "I kissed her," began Demi, with artless frankness.
  "Prut! thou beginnest early. What did the little Mary say to
that?" asked Mr. Bhaer, continuing to confess the young sinner, who
stood upon his knee, exploring the waistcoat-pocket.
  "Oh, she liked it, and she kissed me, and I liked it. Don't little
boys like little girls?" added Demi, with his mouth full, and an air
of bland satisfaction.
  "You precocious chick! Who put that into your head?" said Jo,
enjoying the innocent revelations as much as the Professor.
  "'Tisn't in mine head; it's in mine mouf," answered literal Demi,
putting out his tongue, with a chocolate-drop on it, thinking she
alluded to confectionery, not ideas.
  "Thou shouldst save some for the little friend: sweets to the sweet,
mannling"; and Mr. Bhaer offered Jo some, with a look that made her
wonder if chocolate was not the nectar drunk by the gods. Demi also
saw the smile, was impressed by it, and artlessly inquired-
  "Do great boys like great girls, too, 'Fessor?"
  Like young Washington, Mr. Bhaer "couldn't tell a lie"; so he gave
the somewhat vague reply that he believed they did sometimes, in a
tone that made Mr. March put down his clothes-brush, glance at Jo's
retiring face, and then sink into his chair, looking as if the
"precocious chick" had put an idea into his head that was both sweet
and sour.
  Why Dodo, when she caught him in the china-closet half an hour
afterward, nearly squeezed the breath out of his little body with a
tender embrace, instead of shaking him for being there, and why she
followed up this novel performance by the unexpected gift of a big
slice of bread and jelly, remained one of the problems over which Demi
puzzled his small wits, and was forced to leave unsolved forever.
                             46
                      Under the Umbrella

  WHILE Laurie and Amy were taking conjugal strolls over velvet
carpets, as they set their house in order, and planned a blissful
future, Mr. Bhaer and Jo were enjoying promenades of a different sort,
along muddy roads and sodden fields.
  "I always do take a walk toward evening, and I don't know why I
should give it up, just because I often happen to meet the Professor
on his way out," said Jo to herself, after two or three encounters;
for, though there were two paths to Meg's, whichever one she took
she was sure to meet him, either going or returning. He was always
walking rapidly, and never seemed to see her till quite close, when he
would look as if his short-sighted eyes had failed to recognize the
approaching lady till that moment. Then, if she was going to Meg's, he
always had something for the babies; if her face was turned
homeward, he had merely strolled down to see the river, and was just
about returning, unless they were tired of his frequent calls.
  Under the circumstances, what could Jo do but greet him civilly, and
invite him in? If she was tired of his visits, she concealed her
weariness with perfect skill, and took care that there should be
coffee for supper, "as Friedrich- I mean Mr. Bhaer- doesn't like tea."
  By the second week, every one knew perfectly well what was going on,
yet every one tried to look as if they were stone-blind to the changes
in Jo's face. They never asked why she sang about her work, did up her
hair three times a day, and got so blooming with her evening exercise;
and no one seemed to have the slightest suspicion that Professor
Bhaer, while talking philosophy with the father, was giving the
daughter lessons in love.
  Jo couldn't even lose her heart in a decorous manner, but sternly
tried to quench her feelings; and, failing to do so, led a somewhat
agitated life. She was mortally afraid of being laughed at for
surrendering, after her many vehement declarations of independence.
Laurie was her especial dread; but, thanks to the new manager, he
behaved with praiseworthy propriety, never called Mr. Bhaer "a capital
old fellow" in public, never alluded, in the remotest manner, to
Jo's improved appearance, or expressed the least surprise at seeing
the Professor's hat on the Marches' hall-table nearly every evening.
But he exulted in private and longed for the time to come when he
could give Jo a piece of plate, with a bear and a ragged staff on it
as an appropriate coat-of-arms.
  For a fortnight, the Professor came and went with lover-like
regularity; then he stayed away for three whole days, and made no
sign- a proceeding which caused everybody to look sober, and Jo to
become pensive, at first, and then- alas for romance!- very cross.
  "Disgusted, I dare say, and gone home as suddenly as he came. It's
nothing to me, of course; but I should think he would have come and
bid us good-by, like a gentleman," she said to herself, with a
despairing look at the gate, as she put on her things for the
customary walk, one dull afternoon.
  "You'd better take the little umbrella, dear; it looks like rain,"
said her mother, observing that she had on her new bonnet, but not
alluding to the fact.
  "Yes, Marmee; do you want anything in town? I've got to run in and
get some paper," returned Jo, pulling out the bow under her chin
before the glass as an excuse for not looking at her mother.
  "Yes; I want some twilled silesia, a paper of number nine needles,
and two yards of narrow lavender ribbon. Have you got your thick boots
on, and something warm under your cloak?"
  "I believe so," answered Jo absently.
  "If you happen to meet Mr. Bhaer, bring him home to tea. I quite
long to see the dear man," added Mrs. March.
  Jo heard that, but made no answer, except to kiss her mother, and
walk rapidly away, thinking with a glow of gratitude, in spite of
her heartache-
  "How good she is to me! What do girls do who haven't any mothers
to help them through their troubles?"
  The dry-goods stores were not down among the counting-houses, banks,
and wholesale warerooms, where gentlemen most do congregate; but Jo
found herself in that part of the city before she did a single errand,
loitering along as if waiting for some one, examining engineering
instruments in one window and samples of wool in another, with most
unfeminine interest; tumbling over barrels, being half-smothered by
descending bales, and hustled unceremoniously by busy men who looked
as if they wondered "how the deuce she got there." A drop of rain on
her cheek recalled her thoughts from baffled hopes to ruined
ribbons; for the drops continued to fall, and, being a woman as well
as a lover, she felt that, though it was too late to save her heart,
she might her bonnet. Now she remembered the little umbrella, which
she had forgotten to take in her hurry to be off; but regret was
unavailing, and nothing could be done but borrow one or submit to a
drenching. She looked up at the lowering sky, down at the crimson
bow already flecked with black, forward along the muddy street, then
one long, lingering look behind, at a certain grimy warehouse, with
"Hoffmann, Swartz, & Co." over the door, and said to herself, with a
sternly reproachful air-
  "It serves me right! What business had I to put on all my best
things and come philandering down here, hoping to see the Professor?
Jo, I'm ashamed of you! No, you shall not go there to borrow an
umbrella, or find out where he is, from his friends. You shall
trudge away, and do your errands in the rain; and if you catch your
death and ruin your bonnet, it's no more than you deserve. Now then!"
  With that she rushed across the street so impetuously that she
narrowly escaped annihilation from a passing truck, and precipitated
herself into the arms of a stately old gentleman, who said, "I beg
pardon, ma'am," and looked mortally offended. Somewhat daunted, Jo
righted herself, spread her handkerchief over the devoted ribbons,
and, putting temptation behind her, hurried on, with increasing
dampness about the ankles, and much clashing of umbrellas overhead,
The fact that a somewhat dilapidated blue one remained stationary
above the unprotected bonnet, attracted her attention; and, looking
up, she saw Mr. Bhaer looking down.
  "I feel to know the strong-minded lady who goes so bravely under
many horse-noses, and so fast through much mud. What do you down here,
my friend?"
  "I'm shopping."
  Mr. Bhaer smiled, as he glanced from the pickle-factory on one side,
to the wholesale hide and leather concern on the other; but he only
said politely-
  "You haf no umbrella. May I go also, and take for you the bundles?"
  "Yes, thank you."
  Jo's cheeks were as red as her ribbon, and she wondered what he
thought of her; but she didn't care, for in a minute she found herself
walking away arm-in-arm with her Professor, feeling as if the sun
had suddenly burst out with uncommon brilliancy, that the world was
all right again, and that one thoroughly happy woman was paddling
through the wet that day.
  "We thought you had gone," said Jo hastily, for she knew he was
looking at her. Her bonnet wasn't big enough to hide her face, and she
feared he might think the joy it betrayed unmaidenly.
  "Did you believe that I should go with no farewell to those who
haf been so heavenly kind to me?" he asked so reproachfully that she
felt as if she had insulted him by the suggestion, and answered
heartily-
  "No, I didn't; I knew you were busy about your own affairs, but we
rather missed you- father and mother especially."
  "And you?"
  "I am always glad to see you, sir."
  In her anxiety to keep her voice quite calm, Jo made it rather cool,
and the frosty little monosyllable at the end seemed to chill the
Professor, for his smile vanished, as he said gravely-
  "I thank you, and come one time more before I go."
  "You are going, then?"
  "I haf no longer any business here; it is done."
  "Successfully, I hope?" said Jo, for the bitterness of
disappointment was in that short reply of his.
  "I ought to think so, for I haf a way opened to me by which I can
make my bread and gif my Junglings much help."
  "Tell me, please! I like to know all about the- the boys," said
Jo, eagerly.
  "That is so kind, I gladly tell you. My friends find for me a
place in a college, where I teach as at home, and earn enough to
make the way smooth for Franz and Emil. For this I should be grateful,
should I not?"
  "Indeed you should. How splendid it will be to have you doing what
you like, and be able to see you often, and the boys!" cried Jo,
clinging to the lads as an excuse for the satisfaction she could not
help betraying.
  "Ah! but we shall not meet often, I fear; this place is at the
West."
  "So far away!" and Jo left her skirts to their fate, as if it didn't
matter now what became of her clothes or herself.
  Mr. Bhaer could read several languages, but he had not learned to
read women yet. He flattered himself that he knew Jo pretty well,
and was, therefore, much amazed by the contradictions of voice,
face, and manner, which she showed him in rapid succession that day,
for she was in half a dozen different moods in the course of half an
hour. When she met him she looked surprised, though it was
impossible to help suspecting that she had come for that express
purpose. When he offered her his arm, she took it with a look that
filled him with delight; but when he asked if she missed him, she gave
such a chilly, formal reply that despair fell upon him. On learning
his good fortune she almost clapped her hands: was the joy all for the
boys? Then, on hearing his destination, she said, "So far away!" in
a tone of despair that lifted him on to a pinnacle of hope; but the
next minute she tumbled him down again by observing, like one entirely
absorbed in the matter-
  "Here's the place for my errands; will you come in? It won't take
long.
  Jo rather prided herself upon her shopping capabilities, and
particularly wished to impress her escort with the neatness and
despatch with which she would accomplish the business. But, owing to
the flutter she was in, everything went amiss; she upset the tray of
needles, forgot the silesia was to be "twilled" till it was cut off,
gave the wrong change, and covered herself with confusion by asking
for lavender ribbon at the calico counter. Mr. Bhaer stood by,
watching her blush and blunder; and, as he watched, his own
bewilderment seemed to subside, for he was beginning to see that on
some occasions women, like dreams, go by contraries.
  When they came out, he put the parcel under his arm with a more
cheerful aspect, and splashed through the puddles as if he rather
enjoyed it, on the whole.
  "Should we not do a little what you call shopping for the babies,
and haf a farewell feast to-night if I go for my last call at your
so pleasant home?" he asked, stopping before a window full of fruit
and flowers.
  "What will we buy?" said Jo, ignoring the latter part of his speech,
and sniffing the mingled odors with an affectation of delight as
they went in.
  "May they haf oranges and figs?" asked Mr. Bhaer, with a paternal
air.
  "They eat them when they can get them."
  "Do you care for nuts?"
  "Like a squirrel."
  "Hamburg grapes; yes, we shall surely drink to the Fatherland in
those?"
  Jo frowned upon that piece of extravagance, and asked why he
didn't buy a frail of dates, a cask of raisins, and a bag of
almonds, and done with it? Whereat Mr. Bhaer confiscated her purse,
produced his own, and finished the marketing by buying several
pounds of grapes, a pot of rosy daisies, and a pretty jar of honey, to
be regarded in the light of a demijohn. Then, distorting his pockets
with the knobby bundles, and giving her the flowers to hold, he put up
the old umbrella, and they travelled on again.
  "Miss Marsch, I haf a great favor to ask of you," began the
Professor, after a moist promenade of half a block.
  "Yes, sir"; and Jo's heart began to beat so hard she was afraid he
would hear it.
  "I am bold to say it in spite of the rain, because so short a time
remains to me."
  "Yes, sir"; and Jo nearly crushed the small flower-pot with the
sudden squeeze she gave it.
  "I wish to get a little dress for my Tina, and I am too stupid to go
alone. Will you kindly gif me a word of taste and help?"
  "Yes, sir"; and Jo felt as calm and cool, all of a sudden, as if she
had stepped into a refrigerator.
  "Perhaps also a shawl for Tina's mother, she is so poor and sick,
and the husband is such a care. Yes, yes, a thick, warm shawl would be
a friendly thing to take the little mother."
  "I'll do it with pleasure, Mr. Bhaer. I'm going very fast and he's
getting dearer every minute," added Jo to herself; then, with a mental
shake, she entered into the business with an energy which was pleasant
to behold.
  Mr. Bhaer left it all to her, so she chose a pretty gown for Tina,
and then ordered out the shawls. The clerk, being a married man,
condescended to take an interest in the couple, who appeared to be
shopping for their family.
  "Your lady may prefer this; it's a superior article, a most
desirable color, quite chaste and genteel," he said, shaking out a
comfortable gray shawl, and throwing it over Jo's shoulders.
  "Does this suit you, Mr. Bhaer?" she asked, turning her back to him,
and feeling deeply grateful for the chance of hiding her face.
  "Excellently well; we will haf it," answered the Professor,
smiling to himself as he paid for it, while Jo continued to rummage
the counters like a confirmed bargain-hunter.
  "Now shall we go home?" he asked, as if the words were very pleasant
to him.
  "Yes; it's late, and I'm so tired." Jo's voice was more pathetic
than she knew; for now the sun seemed to have gone in as suddenly as
it came out, the world grew muddy and miserable again, and for the
first time she discovered that her feet were cold, her head ached, and
that her heart was colder than the former, fuller of pain than the
latter. Mr. Bhaer was going away; he only cared for her as a friend;
it was all a mistake, and the sooner it was over the better. With this
idea in her head, she hailed an approaching omnibus with such a
hasty gesture that the daisies flew out of the pot and were badly
damaged.
  "This is not our omniboos," said the Professor, waving the loaded
vehicle away, and stopping to pick up the poor little flowers.
  "I beg your pardon, I didn't see the name distinctly. Never mind,
I can walk. I'm used to plodding in the mud," returned Jo, winking
hard, because she would have died rather than openly wipe her eyes.
  Mr. Bhaer saw the drops on her cheeks, though she turned her head
away; the sight seemed to touch him very much, for, suddenly
stooping down, he asked in a tone that meant a great deal-
  "Heart's dearest, why do you cry?"
  Now, if Jo had not been new to this sort of thing she would have
said she wasn't crying, had a cold in her head, or told any other
feminine fib proper to the occasion; instead of which that undignified
creature answered, with an irrepressible sob-
  "Because you are going away."
  "Ach, mein Gott, that is so good," cried Mr. Bhaer, managing to
clasp his hands in spite of the umbrella and the bundles. "Jo, I haf
nothing but much love to gif you; I came to see if you could care
for it, and I waited to be sure that I was something more than a
friend. Am I? Can you make a little place in your heart for old
Fritz?" he added, all in one breath.
  "Oh, yes!" said Jo; and he was quite satisfied, for she folded
both hands over his arm, and looked up at him with an expression
that plainly showed how happy she would be to walk through life beside
him, even though she had no better shelter than the old umbrella, if
he carried it.
  It was certainly proposing under difficulties, for, even if he had
desired to do so, Mr. Bhaer could not go down upon his knees, on
account of the mud; neither could he offer Jo his hand, except
figuratively, for both were full; much less could he indulge in tender
demonstrations in the open street, though he was near it: so the
only way in which he could express his rapture was to look at her,
with an expression which glorified his face to such a degree that
there actually seemed to be little rainbows in the drops that sparkled
on his beard. If he had not loved Jo very much, I don't think he could
have done it then, for she looked far from lovely, with her skirts
in a deplorable state, her rubber boots splashed to the ankle, and her
bonnet a ruin. Fortunately, Mr. Bhaer considered her the most
beautiful woman living, and she found him more "Jove-like" than
ever, though his hat-brim was quite limp with the little rills
trickling thence upon his shoulders (for he held the umbrella all over
Jo), and every finger of his gloves needed mending.
  Passers-by probably thought them a pair of harmless lunatics, for
they entirely forgot to hail a 'bus, and strolled leisurely along,
oblivious of deepening dusk and fog. Little they cared what anybody
thought, for they were enjoying the happy hour that seldom comes but
once in any life, the magical moment which bestows youth on the old,
beauty on the plain, wealth on the poor, and gives human hearts a
foretaste of heaven. The Professor looked as if he had conquered a
kingdom, and the world had nothing more to offer him in the way of
bliss; while Jo trudged beside him, feeling as if her place had always
been there, and wondering how she ever could have chosen any other
lot. Of course, she was the first to speak- intelligibly, I mean,
for the emotional remarks which followed her impetuous "Oh, yes!" were
not of a coherent or reportable character.
  "Friedrich, why didn't you-"
  "Ah, heaven, she gifs me the name that no one speaks since Minna
died!" cried the Professor, pausing in a puddle to regard her with
grateful delight.
  "I always call you so to myself- I forgot; but I won't, unless you
like it."
  "Like it? it is more sweet to me than I can tell. Say 'thou,'
also, and I shall say your language is almost as beautiful as mine."
  "Isn't 'thou' a little sentimental?" asked Jo, privately thinking it
a lovely monosyllable.
  "Sentimental? Yes. Thank Gott, we Germans believe in sentiment,
and keep ourselves young mit it. Your English 'you' is so cold, say
'thou,' heart's dearest, it means so much to me," pleaded Mr. Bhaer,
more like a romantic student than a grave professor.
  "Well, then, why didn't thou tell me all this sooner?" asked Jo
bashfully.
  "Now I shall haf to show thee all my heart, and I so gladly will,
because thou must take care of it hereafter. See, then, my Jo- ah, the
dear, funny little name!- I had a wish to tell something the day I
said good-by, in New York; but I thought the handsome friend was
betrothed to thee, and so I spoke not. Wouldst thou have said 'Yes,'
then, if I had spoken?"
  "I don't know; I'm afraid not, for I didn't have any heart just
then."
  "Prut! that I do not believe. It was asleep till the fairy prince
came through the wood, and waked it up. Ah, well, 'Die erste Liebe ist
die beste'; but that I should not expect."
  "Yes, the first love is the best; so be contented, for I never had
another. Teddy was only a boy, and soon got over his little fancy,"
said Jo, anxious to correct the Professor's mistake.
  "Good! then I shall rest happy, and be sure that thou givest me all.
I haf waited so long, I am grown selfish, as thou wilt find,
Professorin."
  "I like that," cried Jo, delighted with her new name. "Now tell me
what brought you, at last, just when I most wanted you?"
  "This"; and Mr. Bhaer took a little worn paper out of his
waistcoat-pocket.
  Jo unfolded it, and looked much abashed, for it was one of her own
contributions to a paper that paid for poetry, which accounted for her
sending it an occasional attempt.
  "How could that bring you?" she asked, wondering what he meant.
  "I found it by chance; I knew it by the names and the initials,
and in it there was one little verse that seemed to call me. Read
and find him; I will see that you go not in the wet."
  Jo obeyed, and hastily skimmed through the lines which she had
christened-

                     IN THE GARRET.

               Four little chests all in a row,
                 Dim with dust, and worn by time,
               All fashioned and filled, long ago,
                 By children now in their prime.
               Four little keys hung side by side,
                 With faded ribbons, brave and gay
               When fastened there, with childish pride,
                 Long ago, on a rainy day.
               Four little names, one on each lid,
                 Carved out by a boyish hand,
               And underneath there lieth hid
                 Histories of the happy band
               Once playing here, and pausing oft
                 To hear the sweet refrain,
               That came and went on the roof aloft,
                 In the falling summer rain.

              "Meg" on the first lid, smooth and fair.
                 I look in with loving eyes,
               For folded here, with well-known care,
                 A goodly gathering lies,
               The record of a peaceful life-
                 Gifts to gentle child and girl,
               A bridal gown, lines to a wife,
                 A tiny shoe, a baby curl.
               No toys in this first chest remain,
                 For all are carried away,
               In their old age, to join again
                 In another small Meg's play.
               Ah, happy mother! well I know
                 You hear, like a sweet refrain,
               Lullabies ever soft and low
                 In the falling summer rain.

              "Jo" on the next lid, scratched and worn,
                 And within a motley store
               Of headless dolls, of school-books torn,
                 Birds and beasts that speak no more;
               Spoils brought home from the fairy ground
                 Only trod by youthful feet,
               Dreams of a future never found,
                 Memories of a past still sweet;
               Half-writ poems, stories wild,
                 April letters, warm and cold,
               Diaries of a wilful child,
                 Hints of a woman early old;
               A woman in a lonely home,
                 Hearing, like a sad refrain-
              "Be worthy love, and love will come,"
                 In the falling summer rain.

               My Beth! the dust is always swept
                 From the lid that bears your name,
               As if by loving eyes that wept,
                 By careful hands that often came.
               Death canonized for us one saint,
                 Ever less human than divine,
               And still we lay, with tender plaint,
                 Relics in this household shrine-
               The silver bell, so seldom rung,
                 The little cap which last she wore,
               The fair, dead Catherine that hung
                 By angels borne above her door;
               The songs she sang, without lament,
                 In her prison-house of pain,
               Forever are they sweetly blent
                 With the falling summer rain.

               Upon the last lid's polished field-
                 Legend now both fair and true-
               A gallant knight bears on his shield,
                "Amy," in letters gold and blue.
               Within lie snoods that bound her hair,
                 Slippers that have danced their last,
               Faded flowers laid by with care,
                 Fans whose airy toils are past;
               Gay valentines, all ardent flames,
                 Trifles that have borne their part
               In girlish hopes and fears and shames-
                 The record of a maiden heart
               Now learning fairer, truer spells,
                 Hearing, like a blithe refrain,
               The silver sound of bridal bells
                 In the falling summer rain.

               Four little chests all in a row,
                 Dim with dust, and worn by time,
               Four women, taught by weal and woe
                 To love and labor in their prime.
               Four sisters, parted for an hour,
                 None lost, one only gone before,
               Made by love's immortal power,
                 Nearest and dearest evermore.
               Oh, when these hidden stores of ours
                 Lie open to the Father's sight,
               May they be rich in golden hours,
                 Deeds that show fairer for the light,
               Lives whose brave music long shall ring,
                 Like a spirit-stirring strain,
               Souls that shall gladly soar and sing
                 In the long sunshine after rain.
                                                           J. M.

  "It's very bad poetry, but I felt it when I wrote it, one day when I
was very lonely, and had a good cry on a rag-bag. I never thought it
would go where it could tell tales," said Jo, tearing up the verses
the Professor had treasured so long.
  "Let it go, it has done its duty, and I will haf a fresh one when
I read all the brown book in which she keeps her little secrets," said
Mr. Bhaer, with a smile, as he watched the fragments fly away on the
wind. "Yes," he added earnestly, "I read that, and I think to
myself, She has a sorrow, she is lonely, she would find comfort in
true love. I haf a heart full, full for her; shall I not go and say,
'If this is not too poor a thing to gif for what I shall hope to
receive, take it in Gott's name?'"
  "And so you came to find that it was not too poor, but the one
precious thing I needed," whispered Jo.
  "I had no courage to think that at first, heavenly kind as was
your welcome to me. But soon I began to hope, and then I said, 'I will
haf her if I die for it,' and so I will!" cried Mr. Bhaer, with a
defiant nod, as if the walls of mist closing round them were
barriers which he was to surmount or valiantly knock down.
  Jo thought that was splendid, and resolved to be worthy of her
knight, though he did not come prancing on a charger in gorgeous
array.
  "What made you stay away so long?" she asked presently, finding it
so pleasant to ask confidential questions and get delightful answers
that she could not keep silent.
  "It was not easy, but I could not find the heart to take you from
that so happy home until I could haf a prospect of one to give you,
after much time, perhaps, and hard work. How could I ask you to gif up
so much for a poor old fellow, who has no fortune but a little
learning?"
  "I'm glad you are poor; I couldn't bear a rich husband," said Jo
decidedly, adding, in a softer tone, "Don't fear poverty; I've known
it long enough to lose my dread, and be happy working for those I
love; and don't call yourself old- forty is the prime of life. I
couldn't help loving you if you were seventy!"
  The Professor found that so touching that he would have been glad of
his handkerchief, if he could have got at it; as he couldn't, Jo wiped
his eyes for him, and said, laughing, as she took away a bundle or
two-
  "I may be strong-minded, but no one can say I'm out of my sphere
now, for woman's special mission is supposed to be drying tears and
bearing burdens. I'm to carry my share, Friedrich, and help to earn
the home. Make up your mind to that, or I'll never go," she added
resolutely, as he tried to reclaim his load.
  "We shall see. Haf you patience to wait a long time, Jo? I must go
away and do my work alone. I must help my boys first, because, even
for you, I may not break my word to Minna. Can you forgif that, and be
happy while we hope and wait?"
  "Yes, I know I can; for we love one another, and that makes all
the rest easy to bear. I have my duty, also, and my work. I couldn't
enjoy myself if I neglected them even for you, so there's no need of
hurry or impatience. You can do your part out West, I can do mine
here, and both be happy hoping for the best, and leaving the future to
be as God wills."
  "Ah! thou gifest me such hope and courage, and I haf nothing to
gif back but a full heart and these empty hands," cried the Professor,
quite overcome.
  Jo never, never would learn to be proper; for when he said that as
they stood upon the steps, she just put both hands into his,
whispering tenderly, "Not empty now"; and, stooping down, kissed her
Friedrich under the umbrella. It was dreadful, but she would have done
it if the flock of draggle-tailed sparrows on the hedge had been human
beings, for she was very far gone indeed, and quite regardless of
everything but her own happiness. Though it came in such a very simple
guise, that was the crowning moment of both their lives, when, turning
from the night and storm and loneliness to the household light and
warmth and peace waiting to receive them, with a glad "Welcome
home!" Jo led her lover in, and shut the door.
                             47
                         Harvest Time

  FOR a year Jo and her Professor worked and waited, hoped and
loved, met occasionally, and wrote such voluminous letters that the
rise in the price of paper was accounted for, Laurie said. The
second year began rather soberly, for their prospects did not
brighten, and Aunt March died suddenly. But when their first sorrow
was over- for they loved the old lady in spite of her sharp tongue-
they found they had cause for rejoicing, for she had left Plumfield to
Jo, which made all sorts of joyful things possible.
  "It's a fine old place, and will bring a handsome sum; for of course
you intend to sell it," said Laurie, as they were all talking the
matter over, some weeks later.
  "No, I don't," was Jo's decided answer, as she petted the fat
poodle, whom she had adopted, out of respect to his former mistress.
  "You don't mean to live there?"
  "Yes, I do."
  "But, my dear girl, it's an immense house, and will take a power
of money to keep it in order. The garden and orchard alone need two or
three men, and farming isn't in Bhaer's line, I take it."
  "He'll try his hand at it there, if I propose it."
  "And you expect to live on the produce of the place? Well, that
sounds paradisiacal, but you'll find it desperate hard work."
  "The crop we are going to raise is a profitable one"; and Jo
laughed.
  "Of what is this fine crop to consist, ma'am?"
  "Boys. I want to open a school for little lads- a good, happy,
homelike school, with me to take care of them, and Fritz to teach
them."
  "There's a truly Joian plan for you! Isn't that just like her?"
cried Laurie, appealing to the family, who looked as much surprised as
he.
  "I like it," said Mrs. March decidedly.
  "So do I," added her husband, who welcomed the thought of a chance
for trying the Socratic method of education on modern youth.
  "It will be an immense care for Jo," said Meg, stroking the head
of her one all-absorbing son.
  "Jo can do it, and be happy in it. It's a splendid idea. Tell us all
about it," cried Mr. Laurence, who had been longing to lend the lovers
a hand, but knew that they would refuse his help.
  "I knew you'd stand by me, sir. Amy does too- I see it in her
eyes, though she prudently waits to turn it over in her mind before
she speaks. Now, my dear people," continued Jo earnestly, "just
understand that this isn't a new idea of mine, but a long-cherished
plan. Before my Fritz came, I used to think how, when I'd made my
fortune, and no one needed me at home, I'd hire a big house, and
pick up some poor, forlorn little lads, who hadn't any mothers, and
take care of them, and make life jolly for them before it was too
late. I see so many going to ruin, for want of help at the right
minute; I love so to do anything for them; I seem to feel their wants,
and sympathize with their troubles, and, oh, I should so like to be
a mother to them!"
  Mrs. March held out her hand to Jo, who took it, smiling, with tears
in her eyes, and went on in the old enthusiastic way, which they had
not seen for a long while.
  "I told my plan to Fritz once, and he said it was just what he would
like, and agreed to try it when we got rich. Bless his dear heart,
he's been doing it all his life- helping poor boys, I mean, not
getting rich; that he'll never be; money doesn't stay in his pocket
long enough to lay up any. But now, thanks to my good old aunt, who
loved me better than I ever deserved, I'm rich, at least I feel so,
and we can live at Plumfield perfectly well, if we have a
flourishing school. It's just the place for boys, the house is big,
and the furniture strong and plain. There's plenty of room for
dozens inside, and splendid grounds outside. They could help in the
garden and orchard: such work is healthy, isn't it, sir? Then Fritz
can train and teach in his own way, and father will help him. I can
feed and nurse and pet and scold them; and mother will be my stand-by.
I've always longed for lots of boys, and never had enough; now I can
fill the house full, and revel in the little dears to my heart's
content. Think what luxury- Plumfield my own, and a wilderness of boys
to enjoy it with me!"
  As Jo waved her hands, and gave a sigh of rapture, the family went
off into a gale of merriment, and Mr. Laurence laughed till they
thought he'd have an apoplectic fit.
  "I don't see anything funny," she said gravely, when she could be
heard. "Nothing could be more natural or proper than for my
Professor to open a school, and for me to prefer to reside on my own
estate."
  "She is putting on airs already," said Laurie, who regarded the idea
in the light of a capital joke. "But may I inquire how you intend to
support the establishment? If all the pupils are little ragamuffins,
I'm afraid your crop won't be profitable in a worldly sense, Mrs.
Bhaer."
  "Now don't be a wet-blanket, Teddy. Of course I shall have rich
pupils, also- perhaps begin with such altogether; then, when I've
got a start, I can take a ragamuffin or two, just for a relish. Rich
people's children often need care and comfort, as well as poor. I've
seen unfortunate little creatures left to servants, or backward ones
pushed forward, when it's real cruelty. Some are naughty through
mismanagement or neglect, and some lose their mothers. Besides, the
best have to get through the hobbledehoy age, and that's the very time
they need most patience and kindness. People laugh at them, and hustle
them about, try to keep them out of sight, and expect them to turn,
all at once, from pretty children into fine young men. They don't
complain much- plucky little souls- but they feel it. I've been
through something of it, and I know all about it. I've a special
interest in such young bears, and like to show them that I see the
warm, honest, well-meaning boys' hearts, in spite of the clumsy arms
and legs and the topsy-turvy heads. I've had experience, too, for
haven't I brought up one boy to be a pride and honor to his family?"
  "I'll testify that you tried to do it," said Laurie, with a grateful
look.
  "And I've succeeded beyond my hopes; for here you are, a steady,
sensible business man, doing heaps of good with your money, and laying
up the blessings of the poor, instead of dollars. But you are not
merely a business man: you love good and beautiful things, enjoy
them yourself, and let others go halves, as you always did in the
old times. I am proud of you, Teddy, for you get better every year,
and every one feels it, though you won't let them say so. Yes, and
when I have my flock, I'll just point to you, and say, 'There's your
model, my lads.'"
  Poor Laurie didn't know where to look; for, man though he was,
something of the old bashfulness came over him as this burst of praise
made all faces turn approvingly upon him.
  "I say, Jo, that's rather too much," he began, just in his old
boyish way. "You have all done more for me than I can ever thank you
for, except by doing my best not to disappoint you. You have rather
cast me off lately, Jo, but I've had the best of help, nevertheless;
so, if I've got on at all, you may thank these two for it"; and he
laid one hand gently on his grandfather's white head, the other on
Amy's golden one, for the three were never far apart.
  "I do think that families are the most beautiful things in all the
world!" burst out Jo, who was in an unusually uplifted frame of mind
just then. "When I have one of my own, I hope it will be as happy as
the three I know and love the best. If John and my Fritz were only
here, it would be quite a little heaven on earth," she added more
quietly. And that night, when she went to her room, after a blissful
evening of family counsels, hopes, and plans, her heart was so full of
happiness that she could only calm it by kneeling beside the empty bed
always near her own, and thinking tender thoughts of Beth.
  It was a very astonishing year altogether, for things seemed to
happen in an unusually rapid and delightful manner. Almost before
she knew where she was, Jo found herself married and settled at
Plumfield. Then a family of six or seven boys sprung up like
mushrooms, and flourished surprisingly, poor boys as well as rich; for
Mr. Laurence was continually finding some touching case of
destitution, and begging the Bhaers to take pity on the child, and
he would gladly pay a trifle for its support. In this way the sly
old gentleman got round proud Jo, and furnished her with the style
of boy in which she most delighted.
  Of course it was up-hill work at first, and Jo made queer
mistakes; but the wise Professor steered her safely into calmer
waters, and the most rampant ragamuffin was conquered in the end.
How Jo did enjoy her "wilderness of boys," and how poor, dear Aunt
March would have lamented had she been there to see the sacred
precincts of prim, well-ordered Plumfield overrun with Toms, Dicks,
and Harrys! There was a sort of poetic justice about it, after all,
for the old lady had been the terror of the boys for miles around; and
now the exiles feasted freely on forbidden plums, kicked up the gravel
with profane boots unreproved, and played cricket in the big field
where the irritable "cow with a crumpled horn" used to invite rash
youths to come and be tossed. It became a sort of boys' paradise,
and Laurie suggested that it should be called the "Bhaer-garten," as a
compliment to its master and appropriate to its inhabitants.
  It never was a fashionable school, and the Professor did not lay
up a fortune; but it was just what Jo intended it to be- "a happy,
homelike place for boys, who needed teaching, care, and kindness."
Every room in the big house was soon full; every little plot in the
garden soon had its owner; a regular menagerie appeared in barn and
shed, for pet animals were allowed; and, three times a day Jo smiled
at her Fritz from the head of a long table lined on either side with
rows of happy young faces, which all turned to her with affectionate
eyes, confiding words, and grateful hearts, full of love for "Mother
Bhaer." She had boys enough now, and did not tire of them, though they
were not angels, by any means, and some of them caused both
Professor and Professorin much trouble and anxiety. But her faith in
the good spot which exists in the heart of the naughtiest, sauciest,
most tantalizing little ragamuffin gave her patience, skill, and, in
time, success; for no mortal boy could hold out long with Father Bhaer
shining on him as benevolently as the sun, and Mother Bhaer
forgiving him seventy times seven. Very precious to Jo was the
friendship of the lads; their penitent sniffs and whispers after
wrong-doings; their droll or touching little confidences; their
pleasant enthusiasms, hopes, and plans; even their misfortunes, for
they only endeared them to her all the more. There were slow boys
and bashful boys; feeble boys and riotous boys; boys that lisped and
boys that stuttered; one or two lame ones; and a merry little
quadroon, who could not be taken in elsewhere, but who was welcome
to the "Bhaer-garten," though some people predicted that his admission
would ruin the school.
  Yes; Jo was a very happy woman there, in spite of hard work, much
anxiety, and a perpetual racket. She enjoyed it heartily, and found
the applause of her boys more satisfying than any praise of the world;
for now she told no stories except to her flock of enthusiastic
believers and admirers. As the years went on, two little lads of her
own came to increase her happiness- Rob, named for grandpa, and Teddy,
a happy-go-lucky baby, who seemed to have inherited his papa's
sunshiny temper as well as his mother's lively spirit. How they ever
grew up alive in that whirlpool of boys was a mystery to their grandma
and aunts; but they flourished like dandelions in spring, and their
rough nurses loved and served them well.
  There were a great many holidays at Plumfield, and one of the most
delightful was the yearly apple-picking; for then the Marches,
Laurences, Brookes, and Bhaers turned out in full force, and made a
day of it. Five years after Jo's wedding, one of these fruitful
festivals occurred- a mellow October day, when the air was full of
an exhilarating freshness which made the spirits rise, and the blood
dance healthily in the veins. The old orchard wore its holiday attire;
goldenrod and asters fringed the mossy walls; grasshoppers skipped
briskly in the sere grass, and crickets chirped like fairy pipers at a
feast; squirrels were busy with their small harvesting; birds
twittered their adieux from the alders in the lane; and every tree
stood ready to send down its shower of red or yellow apples at the
first shake. Everybody was there; everybody laughed and sang,
climbed up and tumbled down; everybody declared that there never had
been such a perfect day or such a jolly set to enjoy it; and every one
gave themselves up to the simple pleasures of the hour as freely as if
there were no such things as care or sorrow in the world.
  Mr. March strolled placidly about, quoting Tusser, Cowley, and
Columella to Mr. Laurence, while enjoying-

              "The gentle apple's winey juice."

The Professor charged up and down the green aisles like a stout
Teutonic knight, with a pole for a lance, leading on the boys, who
made a hook and ladder company of themselves, and performed wonders in
the way of ground and lofty tumbling. Laurie devoted himself to the
little ones, rode his small daughter in a bushel-basket, took Daisy up
among the birds' nests, and kept adventurous Rob from breaking his
neck. Mrs. March and Meg sat among the apple piles like a pair of
Pomonas, sorting the contributions that kept pouring in; while Amy,
with a beautiful motherly expression in her face, sketched the various
groups, and watched over one pale lad, who sat adoring her with his
little crutch beside him.
  Jo was in her element that day, and rushed about, with her gown
pinned up, her hat anywhere but on her head, and her baby tucked under
her arm, ready for any lively adventure which might turn up. Little
Teddy bore a charmed life, for nothing ever happened to him, and Jo
never felt any anxiety when he was whisked up into a tree by one
lad, galloped off on the back of another, or supplied with sour
russets by his indulgent papa, who labored under the Germanic delusion
that babies could digest anything, from pickled cabbage to buttons,
nails, and their own small shoes. She knew that little Ted would
turn up again in time, safe and rosy, dirty and serene, and she always
received him back with a hearty welcome, for Jo loved her babies
tenderly.
  At four o'clock a lull took place, and baskets remained empty, while
the apple-pickers rested, and compared rents and bruises. Then Jo
and Meg, with a detachment of the bigger boys, set forth the supper on
the grass, for an out-of-door tea was always the crowning joy of the
day. The land literally flowed with milk and honey on such
occasions, for the lads were not required to sit at table, but allowed
to partake of refreshment as they liked- freedom being the sauce
best beloved by the boyish soul. They availed themselves of the rare
privilege to the fullest extent, for some tried the pleasing
experiment of drinking milk while standing on their heads, others lent
a charm to leap-frog by eating pie in the pauses of the game,
cookies were sown broadcast over the field, and apple-turnovers
roosted in the trees like a new style of bird. The little girls had
a private tea-party, and Ted roved among the edibles at his own
sweet will.
  When no one could eat any more, the Professor proposed the first
regular toast, which was always drunk at such times- "Aunt March,
God bless her!" A toast heartily given by the good man, who never
forgot how much he owed her, and quietly drunk by the boys, who had
been taught to keep her memory green.
  "Now, grandma's sixtieth birthday! Long life to her, with three
times three!"
  That was given with a will, as you may well believe; and the
cheering once begun, it was hard to stop it. Everybody's health was
proposed, from Mr. Laurence, who was considered their special
patron, to the astonished guinea-pig, who had strayed from its
proper sphere in search of its young master. Demi, as the oldest
grandchild, then presented the queen of the day with various gifts, so
numerous that they were transported to the festive scene in a
wheelbarrow. Funny presents, some of them, but what would have been
defects to other eyes were ornaments to grandma's- for the
children's gifts were all their own. Every stitch Daisy's patient
little fingers had put into the handkerchiefs she hemmed was better
than embroidery to Mrs. March; Demi's shoe-box was a miracle of
mechanical skill, though the cover wouldn't shut; Rob's footstool
had a wiggle in its uneven legs, that she declared was very
soothing; and no page of the costly book Amy's child gave her was so
fair as that on which appeared, in tipsy capitals, the words- "To dear
Grandma, from her little Beth."
  During this ceremony the boys had mysteriously disappeared; and,
when Mrs. March had tried to thank her children, and broken down,
while Teddy wiped her eyes on his pinafore, the Professor suddenly
began to sing. Then, from above him, voice after voice took up the
words, and from tree to tree echoed the music of the unseen choir,
as the boys sung with all their hearts, the little song Jo had
written, Laurie set to music, and the Professor trained his lads to
give with the best effect. This was something altogether new, and it
proved a grand success; for Mrs. March couldn't get over her surprise,
and insisted on shaking hands with every one of the featherless birds,
from tall Franz and Emil to the little quadroon, who had the
sweetest voice of all.
  After this, the boys dispersed for a final lark, leaving Mrs.
March and her daughters under the festival tree.
  "I don't think I ever ought to call myself 'Unlucky Jo' again,
when my greatest wish has been so beautifully gratified," said Mrs.
Bhaer, taking Teddy's little fist out of the milk-pitcher, in which he
was rapturously churning.
  "And yet your life is very different from the one you pictured so
long ago. Do you remember our castles in the air?" asked Amy,
smiling as she watched Laurie and John playing cricket with the boys.
  "Dear fellows! It does my heart good to see them forget business,
and frolic for a day," answered Jo, who now spoke in a maternal way of
all mankind. "Yes, I remember; but the life I wanted then seems
selfish, lonely, and cold to me now. I haven't given up the hope
that I may write a good book yet, but I can wait, and I'm sure it will
be all the better for such experiences and illustrations as these";
and Jo pointed from the lively lads in the distance to her father,
leaning on the Professor's arm, as they walked to and fro in the
sunshine, deep in one of the conversations which both enjoyed so much,
and then to her mother, sitting enthroned among her daughters, with
their children in her lap and at her feet, as if all found help and
happiness in the face which never could grow old to them.
  "My castle was the most nearly realized of all. I asked for splendid
things, to be sure, but in my heart I knew I should be satisfied, if I
had a little home, and John, and some dear children like these. I've
got them all, thank God, and am the happiest woman in the world";
and Meg laid her hand on her tall boy's head, with a face full of
tender and devout content.
  "My castle is very different from what I planned, but I would not
alter it, though, like Jo, I don't relinquish all my artistic hopes,
or confine myself to helping others fulfil their dreams of beauty.
I've begun to model a figure of baby, and Laurie says it is the best
thing I've ever done. I think so myself, and mean to do it in
marble, so that, whatever happens, I may at least keep the image of my
little angel."
  As Amy spoke, a great tear dropped on the golden hair of the
sleeping child in her arms; for her one well-beloved daughter was a
frail little creature and the dread of losing her was the shadow
over Amy's sunshine. This cross was doing much for both father and
mother, for one love and sorrow bound them closely together. Amy's
nature was growing sweeter, deeper, and more tender; Laurie was
growing more serious, strong, and firm; and both were learning that
beauty, youth, good fortune, even love itself, cannot keep care and
pain, loss and sorrow, from the most blest; for-

            "Into each life some rain must fall,
             Some days must be dark and sad and dreary."

  "She is growing better, I am sure of it, my dear. Don't despond, but
hope and keep happy," said Mrs. March, as tender-hearted Daisy stooped
from her knee, to lay her rosy cheek against her little cousin's
pale one.
  "I never ought to, while I have you to cheer me up, Marmee, and
Laurie to take more than half of every burden," replied Amy warmly.
"He never lets me see his anxiety, but is so sweet and patient with
me, so devoted to Beth, and such a stay and comfort to me always, that
I can't love him enough. So, in spite of my one cross, I can say
with Meg, 'Thank God, I'm a happy woman.'"
  "There's no need for me to say it, for every one can see that I'm
far happier than I deserve," added Jo, glancing from her good
husband to her chubby children, tumbling on the grass beside her.
"Fritz is getting gray and stout; I'm growing as thin as a shadow, and
am thirty; we never shall be rich, and Plumfield may burn up any
night, for that incorrigible Tommy Bangs will smoke sweet-fern
cigars under the bed-clothes, though he's set himself afire three
times already. But in spite of these unromantic facts, I have
nothing to complain of, and never was so jolly in my life. Excuse
the remark, but living among boys, I can't help using their
expressions now and then."
  "Yes, Jo, I think your harvest will be a good one," began Mrs.
March, frightening away a big black cricket that was staring Teddy out
of countenance.
  "Not half so good as yours, mother. Here it is, and we never can
thank you enough for the patient sowing and reaping you have done,"
cried Jo, with the loving impetuosity which she never could outgrow.
  "I hope there will be more wheat and fewer tares every year," said
Amy softly.
  "A large sheaf, but I know there's room in your heart for it, Marmee
dear," added Meg's tender voice.
  Touched to the heart, Mrs. March could only stretch out her arms, as
if to gather children and grandchildren to herself, and say, with face
and voice full of motherly love, gratitude, and humility-
  "O my girls, however long you may live, I never can wish you a
greater happiness than this!"

                        THE END