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   Project Gutenberg presents the Illustrated e-book of Little Women 
	 by Louisa M. Alcott.
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<div class="boilerplate">

<p>The Project Gutenberg EBook of Little Women, by Louisa M. Alcott</p>

<p>This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org</p>


<p>Title: Little Women or Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy</p>
<p>Author: Louisa M. Alcott</p>
<p>Illustrator: Frank T. Merrill</p>
<p>Release Date: August 16, 2011 [EBook #37106]</p>
<p>Last Update: August 8, 2017.</p>
<p>Language: English</p>
<p>Character set encoding: utf-8</p>


<p>
Produced by David Edwards, Ernest Schaal, Robert Homa, and 
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at 
http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images 
generously made available by The Internet Archive)
</p>


<p>*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LITTLE WOMEN ***</p>
<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>


<!--  <div class="figcenter">  (used link instead of this)
<a name="cover.png" id="cover.png"></a>
<img class="border" src="images/cover.png"
alt="LITTLE WOMEN
MEG, JO, BETH, AND AMY

LOUISA M. ALCOTT"
title="LITTLE WOMEN
MEG, JO, BETH, AND AMY

LOUISA M. ALCOTT" />
</div>  

<hr class="hr2" />  -->

<p><span class="pagenum2">i</span></p>
<h1>LITTLE WOMEN.</h1>

<hr class="hr2" />
<p><span class="pagenum2">ii</span><br /><br /></p>
<div class="figcenter">
<a name="b001.png" id="b001.png"></a>
<img class="border" src="images/b001.png"
alt="They all drew to the fire"
title="They all drew to the fire" /><br />
<span class="caption">
&quot;They all drew to the fire, mother in the big chair, with Beth at her feet&quot;</span>
</div>

<p class="right">(See page 9) <span class="smc">Frontispiece</span></p>

<hr class="hr2" />
<p><span class="pagenum2">iii</span></p>
<p class="h1"><a name="titlepage" id="titlepage"></a>LITTLE WOMEN</p>

<p class="cnomargins">OR</p>

<p class="h2a">Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p class="cnobmargin">BY</p>

<p class="h2a">LOUISA M. ALCOTT</p>

<p class="cnotmargin">AUTHOR OF "LITTLE MEN," "AN OLD-FASHIONED GIRL"<br />
"SPINNING-WHEEL STORIES," ETC.</p>

<p><br /></p>

<p class="book-description">
<i>With more than 200 illustrations by Frank T. Merrill
and a picture of the Home of the Little Women
by Edmund H. Garrett</i></p>

<p><br /><br /><br /></p>


<p class="center">BOSTON<br />
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY</p>

<hr class="hr2" />

<p class="cnobmargin">
<span class="pagenum2">iv</span>
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the years 1868 and 1869, by</p>
<p class="cnomargins">LOUISA M. ALCOTT,</p>
<p class="cnotmargin">In the Clerk's office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.</p>

<p class="cnobmargin"><i>Copyright, 1880</i>,</p>
<p class="cnotmargin"><span class="smc">By LOUISA M. ALCOTT.</span></p>

<p class="cnobmargin"><i>Copyright, 1896</i>,</p>
<p class="cnotmargin"><span class="smc">By JOHN S. P. ALCOTT.</span></p>

<p><br /><br /></p>

<p class="cnobmargin">BOSTON</p>
<p class="cnotmargin"><span class="smc">Alfred Mudge &amp; Son Inc. Printers</span></p>

<hr class="hr2" />
<p><span class="pagenum2">v</span></p>
<div class="figcenter">
<a name="b002.png" id="b002.png"></a>
<img src="images/b002.png"
alt="Preface"
title="Preface" />
</div>

<div class="poem1 italic">
<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   "Go then, my little Book, and show to all</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
That entertain and bid thee welcome shall,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
What thou dost keep close shut up in thy breast;</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
And wish what thou dost show them may be blest</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
To them for good, may make them choose to be</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
Pilgrims better, by far, than thee or me.</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
Tell them of Mercy; she is one</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
Who early hath her pilgrimage begun.</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
Yea, let young damsels learn of her to prize</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
The world which is to come, and so be wise;</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
For little tripping maids may follow God</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
Along the ways which saintly feet have trod."</p>
</div>
<p class="right max-width30">Adapted from <span class="smc">John Bunyan</span>.</p>

<hr class="hr2" />

<h2>Contents</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">vii</span></p>
<div class="figcenter">
<a name="b003.png" id="b003.png"></a>
<img src="images/b003.png"
alt="Contents"
title="Contents" />
</div>


<table>
<caption>Part First.</caption>
<thead>
<tr>
<th>Chapter</th>
<th></th>
<th>Page</th>
</tr>
</thead>
<tbody>
<tr>
   <td><a name="contents" id="contents"></a>I.</td> 
	 <td>Playing Pilgrims</td>
	 <td><a href="#I">1</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>II.</td>
	 <td>A Merry Christmas</td>
	 <td><a href="#II">15</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>III.</td>
	 <td>The Laurence Boy</td>
	 <td><a href="#III">29</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>IV.</td>
	 <td>Burdens</td>
	 <td><a href="#IV">43</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
	 <td>V.</td>
	 <td>Being Neighborly</td>
	 <td><a href="#V">58</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>VI.</td>
	 <td>Beth finds the Palace Beautiful</td>
	 <td><a href="#VI">73</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>VII.</td>
	 <td>Amy's Valley of Humiliation</td>
	 <td><a href="#VII">82</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>VIII.</td>
	 <td>Jo meets Apollyon</td>
	 <td><a href="#VIII">91</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>IX.</td>
	 <td>Meg goes to Vanity Fair</td>
	 <td><a href="#IX">104</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>X.</td>
	 <td>The P. C. and P. O.</td>
	 <td><a href="#X">124</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>XI.</td>
	 <td>Experiments</td>
	 <td><a href="#XI">134</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td><a name="contents1b" id="contents1b"></a>XII.</td>
	 <td>Camp Laurence</td>
	 <td><a href="#XII">147</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>XIII.</td>
	 <td>Castles in the Air</td>
	 <td><a href="#XIII">172</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td><span class="pagenum2">viii</span>XIV.</td>
	 <td>Secrets</td>
	 <td><a href="#XIV">184</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>XV.</td>
	 <td>A Telegram</td>
	 <td><a href="#XV">195</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>XVI.</td>
	 <td>Letters</td>
	 <td><a href="#XVI">206</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>XVII.</td>
	 <td>Little Faithful</td>
	 <td><a href="#XVII">216</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>XVIII.</td>
	 <td>Dark Days</td>
	 <td><a href="#XVIII">225</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>XIX.</td>
	 <td>Amy's Will</td>
	 <td><a href="#XIX">234</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>XX.</td>
	 <td>Confidential</td>
	 <td><a href="#XX">246</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>XXI.</td>
	 <td>Laurie makes Mischief, and Jo makes Peace</td>
	 <td><a href="#XXI">254</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>XXII.</td>
	 <td>Pleasant Meadows</td>
	 <td><a href="#XXII">269</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>XXIII.</td>
	 <td>Aunt March settles the Question</td>
	 <td><a href="#XXIII">277</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td colspan="3"><a name="contents2" id="contents2"></a>Part Second.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>XXIV.</td>
	 <td>Gossip</td>
	 <td><a href="#XXIV">293</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>XXV.</td>
	 <td>The First Wedding</td>
	 <td><a href="#XXV">306</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>XXVI.</td>
	 <td>Artistic Attempts</td>
	 <td><a href="#XXVI">313</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>XXVII.</td>
	 <td>Literary Lessons</td>
	 <td><a href="#XXVII">325</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>XXVIII.</td>
	 <td>Domestic Experiences</td>
	 <td><a href="#XXVIII">334</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>XXIX.</td>
	 <td>Calls</td>
	 <td><a href="#XXIX">350</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>XXX.</td>
	 <td>Consequences</td>
	 <td><a href="#XXX">365</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>XXXI.</td>
	 <td>Our Foreign Correspondent</td>
	 <td><a href="#XXXI">378</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>XXXII.</td>
	 <td>Tender Troubles</td>
	 <td><a href="#XXXII">389</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>XXXIII.</td>
	 <td>Jo's Journal</td>
	 <td><a href="#XXXIII">403</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>XXXIV.</td>
	 <td>A Friend</td>
	 <td><a href="#XXXIV">418</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td><a name="contents2b" id="contents2b"></a>XXXV.</td>
	 <td>Heartache</td>
	 <td><a href="#XXXV">435</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>XXXVI.</td>
	 <td>Beth's Secret</td>
	 <td><a href="#XXXVI">448</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>XXXVII.</td>
	 <td>New Impressions</td>
	 <td><a href="#XXXVII">454</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>XXXVIII.</td>
	 <td>On the Shelf</td>
	 <td><a href="#XXXVIII">466</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td><span class="pagenum2">ix</span>XXXIX.</td>
	 <td>Lazy Laurence</td>
	 <td><a href="#XXXIX">480</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>XL.</td>
	 <td>The Valley of the Shadow</td>
	 <td><a href="#XL">495</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>XLI.</td>
	 <td>Learning to Forget</td>
	 <td><a href="#XLI">502</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>XLII.</td>
	 <td>All Alone</td>
	 <td><a href="#XLII">516</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>XLIII.</td>
	 <td>Surprises</td>
	 <td><a href="#XLIII">525</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>XLIV.</td>
	 <td>My Lord and Lady</td>
	 <td><a href="#XLIV">543</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>XLV.</td>
	 <td>Daisy and Demi</td>
	 <td><a href="#XLV">550</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>XLVI.</td>
	 <td>Under the Umbrella</td>
	 <td><a href="#XLVI">558</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>XLVII.</td>
	 <td>Harvest Time</td>
	 <td><a href="#XLVII">575</a></td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>


<div class="figcenter">
<a name="b004.png" id="b004.png"></a>
<img src="images/b004.png"
alt="Tail-piece to Contents"
title="Tail-piece to Contents" />
</div>

<hr class="hr2" />
<p><span class="pagenum2">xi</span></p>
<h2>Illustrations</h2>
<div class="figcenter">
<a name="b005.png" id="b005.png"></a>
<img src="images/b005.png"
alt="List of illustrations."
title="List of illustrations." />
</div>

<table class="illustrations" summary="table of illustrations with page numbers">
<caption>[The Illustrations, designed by <span class="smc">Frank T. Merrill</span>, drawn, engraved, and printed under
the supervision of <span class="smc">George T. Andrew</span>.]</caption>
<thead>
<tr>
<th></th>
<th>Page</th>
</tr>
</thead>
<tbody>
<tr>
   <td>They all drew to the fire, mother in the big chair, 
	 with Beth at her feet </td>
	 <td></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td colspan="2"><a href="#b001.png">Frontispiece.</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Titlepage</td>
	 <td><a href="#titlepage">iii</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Preface</td>
	 <td><a href="#b002.png">v</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Contents</td>
	 <td><a href="#b003.png">vii</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Tail-piece to Contents</td>
	 <td><a href="#b004.png">ix</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>List of Illustrations</td>
	 <td><a href="#b005.png">xi</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Tail-piece to Illustrations</td>
	 <td><a href="#b006.png">xvi</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents</td>
	 <td><a href="#b007.png">1</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Beth put a pair of slippers down to warm</td>
	 <td><a href="#b008.png">5</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>I used to be so frightened when it was my turn to sit 
	 in the big chair </td>
	 <td><a href="#b009.png">6</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Do it this way, clasp your hands so</td>
	 <td><a href="#b010.png">7</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>It was a cheerful, hopeful letter</td>
	 <td><a href="#b011.png">10</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>How you used to play Pilgrim's Progress</td>
	 <td><a href="#b012.png">11</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>No one but Beth could get much music out of the old piano</td>
	 <td><a href="#b013.png">13</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>At nine they stopped work and sung as usual</td>
	 <td><a href="#b014.png">14</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td><span class="pagenum2">xii</span>Merry Christmas</td>
	 <td><a href="#b015.png">15</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>The procession set out</td>
	 <td><a href="#b016.png">19</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Out came Meg with gray horse-hair hanging about her face</td>
	 <td><a href="#b017.png">22</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>A little figure in cloudy white</td>
	 <td><a href="#b018.png">23</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>The lovers kneeling to receive Don Pedro's blessing</td>
	 <td><a href="#b019.png">25</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>We talked over the fence</td>
	 <td><a href="#b020.png">27</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Tail-piece</td>
	 <td><a href="#b021.png">28</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Eating apples and crying over the "Heir of Redclyffe"</td>
	 <td><a href="#b022.png">29</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Jo undertook to pinch the papered locks</td>
	 <td><a href="#b023.png">31</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Mrs. Gardiner greeted them</td>
	 <td><a href="#b024.png">34</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Face to face with the Laurence boy</td>
	 <td><a href="#b025.png">35</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>They sat down on the stairs</td>
	 <td><a href="#b026.png">39</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Tell about the party</td>
	 <td><a href="#b027.png">42</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>The kitten stuck like a burr just out of reach</td>
	 <td><a href="#b028.png">43</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Curling herself up in the big chair</td>
	 <td><a href="#b029.png">48</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Reading that everlasting Belsham</td>
	 <td><a href="#b030.png">52</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>He took her by the ear! by the ear!</td>
	 <td><a href="#b031.png">54</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Mr. Laurence hooked up a big fish</td>
	 <td><a href="#b032.png">55</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Tail-piece</td>
	 <td><a href="#b033.png">57</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Being neighborly</td>
	 <td><a href="#b034.png">58</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Laurie opened the window</td>
	 <td><a href="#b035.png">60</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Poll tweaked off his wig</td>
	 <td><a href="#b036.png">64</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Putting his finger under her chin</td>
	 <td><a href="#b037.png">67</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Please give these to your mother</td>
	 <td><a href="#b038.png">69</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
    <td>Tail-piece</td>
		<td><a href="#b039.png">72</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
    <td>O sir, they do care very much</td>
		<td><a href="#b040.png">75</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Mr. Laurence often opened his study door</td>
	 <td><a href="#b041.png">77</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>She put both arms around his neck and kissed him</td>
	 <td><a href="#b042.png">81</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>The Cyclops</td>
	 <td><a href="#b043.png">82</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Amy bore without flinching several tingling blows</td>
	 <td><a href="#b044.png">86</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>You do know her</td>
	 <td><a href="#b045.png">89</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Girls, where are you going?</td>
	 <td><a href="#b046.png">91</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>I burnt it up</td>
	 <td><a href="#b047.png">95</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Held Amy up by his arms and hockey</td>
	 <td><a href="#b048.png">99</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Packing the go abroady trunk</td>
	 <td><a href="#b049.png">104</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Meg's partner appeared</td>
	 <td><a href="#b050.png">110</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Asked to be introduced</td>
	 <td><a href="#b051.png">114</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
   <td>I wouldn't, Meg</td>
	 <td><a href="#b052.png">118</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Holding a hand of each, Mrs. March said, &amp;c.</td>
	 <td><a href="#b053.png">122</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Mr. Pickwick</td>
	 <td><a href="#b054.png">125</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Jo threw open the door of the closet</td>
	 <td><a href="#b055.png">131</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Jo spent the morning on the river</td>
	 <td><a href="#b056.png">134</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Amy sat down to draw</td>
	 <td><a href="#b057.png">136</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td><span class="pagenum2">xiii</span>O Pip! O Pip!</td>
	 <td><a href="#b058.png">140</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Miss Crocker made a wry face</td>
	 <td><a href="#b059.png">143</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>We'll work like bees</td>
	 <td><a href="#b060.png">146</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Beth was post-mistress</td>
	 <td><a href="#b061.png">147</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Amy capped the climax by putting a clothes-pin on her nose</td>
	 <td><a href="#b062.png">151</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Mr. Laurence waving his hat</td>
	 <td><a href="#b063.png">153</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Now, Miss Jo, I'll settle you</td>
	 <td><a href="#b064.png">155</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>A very merry lunch it was</td>
	 <td><a href="#b065.png">156</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>He went prancing down a quiet street</td>
	 <td><a href="#b066.png">158</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>"Oh, rise," she said</td>
	 <td><a href="#b067.png">159</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>A stunning blow from the big Greek lexicon</td>
	 <td><a href="#b067a.png">159</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>He sneezed</td>
	 <td><a href="#b068.png">160</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>The Portuguese walked the plank</td>
	 <td><a href="#b069.png">161</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Will you give me a rose?</td>
	 <td><a href="#b070.png">162</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Miss Kate put up her glass</td>
	 <td><a href="#b071.png">167</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Ellen Tree</td>
	 <td><a href="#b072.png">168</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
   <td>Tail-piece</td>
	 <td><a href="#b073.png">171</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Swinging to and fro in his hammock</td>
	 <td><a href="#b074.png">172</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>It was rather a pretty little picture</td>
	 <td><a href="#b075.png">174</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Waved a brake before her face</td>
	 <td><a href="#b076.png">178</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>I see him bow and smile</td>
	 <td><a href="#b077.png">181</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Tail-piece</td>
	 <td><a href="#b078.png">183</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Jo was very busy</td>
	 <td><a href="#b079.png">184</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Hurrah for Miss March</td>
	 <td><a href="#b080.png">189</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Jo darted away</td>
	 <td><a href="#b081.png">190</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Jo laid herself on the sofa and affected to read</td>
	 <td><a href="#b082.png">193</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>November is the most disagreeable month in the year</td>
	 <td><a href="#b083.png">195</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>One of them horrid telegraph things</td>
	 <td><a href="#b084.png">197</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>She came suddenly upon Mr. Brooke</td>
	 <td><a href="#b085.png">199</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>The man clipped</td>
	 <td><a href="#b086.png">203</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Tail-piece</td>
	 <td><a href="#b087.png">205</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Letters</td>
	 <td><a href="#b088.png">206</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>She rolled away</td>
	 <td><a href="#b089.png">208</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>I wind the clock</td>
	 <td><a href="#b090.png">213</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Yours Respectful, Hannah Mullet</td>
	 <td><a href="#b091.png">214</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Tail-piece</td>
	 <td><a href="#b092.png">215</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>It didn't stir, and I knew it was dead</td>
	 <td><a href="#b093.png">218</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>He sat down beside her</td>
	 <td><a href="#b094.png">221</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>What do you want now?</td>
	 <td><a href="#b095.png">224</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Beth did have the fever</td>
	 <td><a href="#b096.png">225</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Gently stroking her head as her mother used to do</td>
	 <td><a href="#b097.png">228</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Amy's Will</td>
	 <td><a href="#b098.png">234</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Polish up the spoons and the fat silver teapot</td>
	 <td><a href="#b099.png">235</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td><span class="pagenum2">xiv</span>On his back, with all his legs in the air</td>
	 <td><a href="#b100.png">236</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>I should choose this</td>
	 <td><a href="#b101.png">237</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Gravely promenaded to and fro</td>
	 <td><a href="#b102.png">241</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Amy's Will</td>
	 <td><a href="#b103.png">243</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Tail-piece</td>
	 <td><a href="#b104.png">245</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Mrs. March would not leave Beth's side</td>
	 <td><a href="#b105.png">246</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Tail-piece</td>
	 <td><a href="#b106.png">253</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Letters</td>
	 <td><a href="#b107.png">254</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Jo and her mother were reading the note</td>
	 <td><a href="#b108.png">256</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Get up and don't be a goose</td>
	 <td><a href="#b109.png">261</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>"Hold your tongue!" cried Jo, covering her ears</td>
	 <td><a href="#b110.png">263</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>He stood at the foot, like a lion in the path</td>
	 <td><a href="#b111.png">265</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Beth was soon able to lie on the study sofa all day</td>
	 <td><a href="#b112.png">269</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>The Jungfrau</td>
	 <td><a href="#b113.png">271</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Popping in her head now and then</td>
	 <td><a href="#b115.png">277</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>He sat in the big chair by Beth's sofa</td>
	 <td><a href="#b114.png">277</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Shall I tell you how?</td>
	 <td><a href="#b116.png">280</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Bless me, what's all this?</td>
	 <td><a href="#b117.png">282</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>For Mrs. John Brooke</td>
	 <td><a href="#b118.png">288</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Home of the Little Women</td>
	 <td><a href="#b118a.png">290</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>The Dove Cote</td>
	 <td><a href="#b119.png">293</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>A small watchman's rattle</td>
	 <td><a href="#b120.png">302</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Tail-piece</td>
	 <td><a href="#b121.png">305</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>The First Wedding</td>
	 <td><a href="#b122.png">306</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Artistic Attempts</td>
	 <td><a href="#b123.png">313</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Her foot held fast in a panful of plaster</td>
	 <td><a href="#b124.png">315</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Please don't, it's mine</td>
	 <td><a href="#b125.png">322</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Tail-piece</td>
	 <td><a href="#b126.png">324</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Literary Lessons</td>
	 <td><a href="#b127.png">325</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>A check for one hundred dollars</td>
	 <td><a href="#b128.png">329</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Tail-piece</td>
	 <td><a href="#b129.png">333</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Domestic Experiences</td>
	 <td><a href="#b130.png">334</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Both felt desperately uncomfortable</td>
	 <td><a href="#b131.png">341</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>A bargain, I assure you, ma'am</td>
	 <td><a href="#b132.png">344</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Laurie heroically shut his eyes while something was put into his arms</td>
	 <td><a href="#b133.png">348</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Calls</td>
	 <td><a href="#b134.png">350</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>She took the saddle to the horse</td>
	 <td><a href="#b135.png">355</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>It might have been worse</td>
	 <td><a href="#b136.png">359</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>The call at Aunt March's</td>
	 <td><a href="#b137.png">362</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Tail-piece</td>
	 <td><a href="#b138.png">364</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>You shall have another table</td>
	 <td><a href="#b139.png">365</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Bought up the bouquets</td>
	 <td><a href="#b140.png">372</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Tail-piece</td>
	 <td><a href="#b141.png">377</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td><span class="pagenum2">xv</span>Flo and I ordered a hansom-cab</td>
	 <td><a href="#b142.png">378</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Every one was very kind, especially the officers</td>
	 <td><a href="#b143.png">378</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>I've seen the imperial family several times</td>
	 <td><a href="#b144.png">384</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Trying to sketch the gray-stone lion's head on the wall</td>
	 <td><a href="#b145.png">387</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>She leaned her head upon her hands</td>
	 <td><a href="#b146.png">391</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Now, this is filling at the price</td>
	 <td><a href="#b147.png">395</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Up with the Bonnets of Bonnie Dundee</td>
	 <td><a href="#b148.png">398</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>I amused myself by dropping gingerbread nuts over the seat</td>
	 <td><a href="#b149.png">403</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Thou shalt haf thy Bhaer</td>
	 <td><a href="#b150.png">406</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>He waved his hand, sock and all</td>
	 <td><a href="#b151.png">409</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Dis is mine effalunt</td>
	 <td><a href="#b152.png">410</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>I sat down upon the floor and read and looked and ate</td>
	 <td><a href="#b153.png">415</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Tail-piece</td>
	 <td><a href="#b154.png">417</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>In the presence of three gentlemen</td>
	 <td><a href="#b155.png">418</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>A select symposium</td>
	 <td><a href="#b156.png">425</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>He doesn't prink at his glass before coming</td>
	 <td><a href="#b157.png">428</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Jo stuffed the whole bundle into the stove</td>
	 <td><a href="#b158.png">431</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>He put the sisters into the carriage</td>
	 <td><a href="#b159.png">435</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>He laid his head down on the mossy post</td>
	 <td><a href="#b160.png">438</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>O Jo, can't you?</td>
	 <td><a href="#b161.png">446</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Tail-piece</td>
	 <td><a href="#b162.png">447</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>With her head in Jo's lap, while the wind blew healthfully over her</td>
	 <td><a href="#b163.png">449</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Tail-piece</td>
	 <td><a href="#b164.png">453</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>He hurried forward to meet her</td>
	 <td><a href="#b165.png">454</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Here are your flowers</td>
	 <td><a href="#b166.png">461</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Demi and Daisy</td>
	 <td><a href="#b167.png">466</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Mornin' now</td>
	 <td><a href="#b168.png">473</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>My dear man, it's a bonnet</td>
	 <td><a href="#b169.png">477</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Tail-piece</td>
	 <td><a href="#b170.png">479</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Sat piping on a stone while his goats skipped</td>
	 <td><a href="#b171.png">480</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Laurie threw himself down on the turf</td>
	 <td><a href="#b172.png">485</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>A rough sketch of Laurie taming a horse</td>
	 <td><a href="#b173.png">493</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>The Valley of the Shadow</td>
	 <td><a href="#b174.png">495</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Tail-piece</td>
	 <td><a href="#b175.png">501</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Sat staring up at the busts</td>
	 <td><a href="#b176.png">502</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Turning the ring thoughtfully upon his finger</td>
	 <td><a href="#b177.png">507</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>O Laurie, Laurie, I knew you'd come</td>
	 <td><a href="#b178.png">511</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>How well we pull together</td>
	 <td><a href="#b179.png">515</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Jo and her father</td>
	 <td><a href="#b180.png">518</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Jo laid her head on a comfortable rag-bag and cried</td>
	 <td><a href="#b181.png">524</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>A substantial lifelike ghost leaning over her</td>
	 <td><a href="#b182.png">525</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>The tall uncle proceeded to toss and tousle the small nephew</td>
	 <td><a href="#b183.png">534</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>O Mr. Bhaer, I am so glad to see you</td>
	 <td><a href="#b184.png">537</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td><span class="pagenum2">xvi</span>Mr. Bhaer sang heartily</td>
	 <td><a href="#b185.png">541</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Mrs. Laurence sitting in her mother's lap</td>
	 <td><a href="#b186.png">543</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>They began to pace up and down</td>
	 <td><a href="#b187.png">547</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Tail-piece</td>
	 <td><a href="#b188.png">549</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Me loves evvybody</td>
	 <td><a href="#b189.png">551</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>What makes my legs go, dranpa?</td>
	 <td><a href="#b190.png">552</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Dranpa, it's a We</td>
	 <td><a href="#b191.png">556</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Tail-piece</td>
	 <td><a href="#b192.png">557</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Mr. Bhaer and Jo were enjoying promenades</td>
	 <td><a href="#b193.png">558</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Looking up she saw Mr. Bhaer</td>
	 <td><a href="#b194.png">561</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Does this suit you, Mr. Bhaer?</td>
	 <td><a href="#b195.png">565</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Under the umbrella</td>
	 <td><a href="#b196.png">573</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Tail-piece</td>
	 <td><a href="#b197.png">574</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Harvest time</td>
	 <td><a href="#b198.png">575</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Teddy bore a charmed life</td>
	 <td><a href="#b199.png">582</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Leaving Mrs. March and her daughters under the festival tree</td>
	 <td><a href="#b200.png">583</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
   <td>Tail-piece</td>
	 <td><a href="#b201.png">586</a></td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="b006.png" id="b006.png"></a>
<img src="images/b006.png"
alt="Tail-piece to Illustrations"
title="Tail-piece to Illustrations" />
</div>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>I. Playing Pilgrims.</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">1</span></p>
<div class="figcenter">
<a name="b007.png" id="b007.png"></a>
<img src="images/b007.png"
alt="Christmas won&#39;t be Christmas without any presents"
title="Christmas won&#39;t be Christmas without any presents" />
</div>


<p class="h2"><a name="I" id="I"></a><a href="#contents">I.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">PLAYING PILGRIMS.</p>

<p>
"<span class="smc">Christmas</span> won't be Christmas without any 
presents," grumbled Jo, lying on the rug.</p>

<p>
"It's so dreadful to be poor!" sighed Meg, looking down at her
old dress.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"We've got father and mother and each other," said Beth contentedly,
from her corner.</p>

<p>The four young faces on which the firelight shone brightened at the
cheerful words, but darkened again as Jo said sadly,&mdash;</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">2</span>
"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.</p>

<p>Nobody spoke for a minute; then Meg said in an altered tone,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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
<em>so</em> long," said Jo, who was a bookworm.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I shall get a nice box of Faber's drawing-pencils; I really need
them," said Amy decidedly.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I know <em>I</em> do,&mdash;teaching those tiresome children nearly all day,
when I'm longing to enjoy myself at home," began Meg, in the complaining
tone again.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I don't believe any of you suffer as I do," cried Amy; "for you
<span class="pagenum2">3</span>
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."</p>

<p>
"If you mean <em>libel</em>, I'd say so, and not talk about 
<em>labels</em>, as if papa was a pickle-bottle," advised Jo, laughing.</p>

<p>"I know what I mean, and you needn't be <em>statirical</em> 
about it. It's proper to use good words, and improve your <em>vocabilary</em>," 
returned Amy, with dignity.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Don't, Jo; it's so boyish!"</p>

<p>"That's why I do it."</p>

<p>"I detest rude, unlady-like girls!"</p>

<p>"I hate affected, niminy-piminy chits!"</p>

<p>"'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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">4</span>
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.</p>

<p>"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 dish-washing and dusting in the world could not
make ungentle in its touch.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"If Jo is a tom-boy and Amy a goose, what am I, please?" asked
Beth, ready to share the lecture.</p>

<p>"You're a dear, and nothing else," answered Meg warmly; and
no one contradicted her, for the "Mouse" was the pet of the
family.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">5</span>
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&mdash;or Beth,
as every one called her&mdash;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,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<div class="figright">
<a name="b008.png" id="b008.png"></a>
<img src="images/b008.png"
alt="Beth put a pair of slippers down to warm"
title="Beth put a pair of slippers down to warm" />
</div>

<p>"They are quite worn out;
Marmee must have a new
pair."</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">6</span>
"I thought I'd get her some with my dollar," said Beth.</p>

<p>"No, I shall!" cried Amy.</p>

<p>"I'm the oldest," began Meg, but Jo cut in with a decided&mdash;</p>

<p>"I'm the man of the family now papa is away, and <em>I</em> shall provide
the slippers, for he told me to take special care of mother while he
was gone."</p>

<p>"I'll tell you what we'll do," said Beth; "let's each get her something
for Christmas, and not get anything for ourselves."</p>

<p>"That's like you, dear! What will we get?" exclaimed Jo.</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p>"Army shoes, best to be had," cried Jo.</p>

<p>"Some handkerchiefs, all hemmed," said Beth.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"How will we give the things?" asked Meg.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<div class="figleft">
<a name="b009.png" id="b009.png"></a>
<img src="images/b009.png"
alt="I used to be so frightened when it was my turn to sit in the big chair"
title="I used to be so frightened when it was my turn to sit in the big chair" />
</div>

<p>"I used to be <em>so</em> 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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">7</span>
"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<div class="figright">
<a name="b010.png" id="b010.png"></a>
<img src="images/b010.png"
alt="Do it this way, clasp your hands so"
title="Do it this way, clasp your hands so" />
</div>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>Then things went smoothly, for Don Pedro defied the world in a
speech of two pages without a single break; Hagar, the witch, chanted
<span class="pagenum2">8</span>
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!"</p>

<p>"It's the best we've had yet," said Meg, as the dead villain sat
up and rubbed his elbows.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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 trap-door 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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">9</span>
As they gathered about the table, Mrs. March said, with a particularly
happy face, "I've got a treat for you after supper."</p>

<p>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!"</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Don't I wish I could go as a drummer, a 
<em>vivan</em>&mdash;what's its name? or a nurse, so I could be near him and 
help him," exclaimed Jo, with a groan.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"When will he come home, Marmee?" asked Beth, with a little
quiver in her voice.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Very few letters were written in those hard times that were not
touching, especially those which fathers sent home. In this one little
<span class="pagenum2">10</span>
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.</p>

<div class="figright">
<a name="b011.png" id="b011.png"></a>
<img src="images/b011.png"
alt="It was a cheerful, hopeful letter"
title="It was a cheerful, hopeful letter" />
</div>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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 <em>am</em> a selfish girl! but I'll truly try to be
better, so he mayn't be disappointed in me by and by."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">11</span>
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.</p>

<div class="figright">
<a name="b012.png" id="b012.png"></a>
<img src="images/b012.png"
alt="How you used to play Pilgrim&#39;s Progress"
title="How you used to play Pilgrim&#39;s Progress" />
</div>

<p>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."</p>

<p>"What fun it was, especially going
by the lions, fighting Apollyon, and passing
through the Valley where the hobgoblins
were!" said Jo.</p>

<p>"I liked the place where the bundles
fell off and tumbled down stairs," said
Meg.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I don't remember much about it,
except that I was afraid of the cellar
and the dark entry, and always liked
<span class="pagenum2">12</span>
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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Really, mother? Where are our bundles?" asked Amy, who was
a very literal young lady.</p>

<p>"Each of you told what your burden was just now, except Beth;
I rather think she hasn't got any," said her mother.</p>

<p>"Yes, I have; mine is dishes and dusters, and envying girls with
nice pianos, and being afraid of people."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Look under your pillows, Christmas morning, and you will find
your guide-book," replied Mrs. March.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">13</span>
they talked about the different countries as they stitched their way
through them.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="b013.png" id="b013.png"></a>
<img src="images/b013.png"
alt="No one but Beth could get much music out of the old piano"
title="No one but Beth could get much music out of the old piano" />
</div>

<p>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</p>

<p class="center">"Crinkle, crinkle, 'ittle 'tar,"</p>

<p class="noindent"><span class="pagenum2">14</span>
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.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="b014.png" id="b014.png"></a>
<img src="images/b014.png"
alt="At nine they stopped work and sung as usual"
title="At nine they stopped work and sung as usual" />
</div>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>II. A Merry Christmas.</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">15</span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="b015.png" id="b015.png"></a>
<img src="images/b015.png"
alt="A Merry Christmas"
title="A Merry Christmas" />
</div>

<p class="h2"><a name="II" id="II"></a><a href="#contents">II.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">A MERRY CHRISTMAS.</p>

<p><span class="smc">Jo</span> 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
<span class="pagenum2">16</span>
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,&mdash;one dove-colored,
the other blue; and all sat looking at and talking about them, while
the east grew rosy with the coming day.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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 <em>I</em> 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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Where is mother?" asked Meg, as she and Jo ran down to thank
her for their gifts, half an hour later.</p>

<p>"Goodness only knows. Some poor creeter come a-beggin', and
your ma went straight off to see what was needed. There never <em>was</em>
such a woman for givin' away vittles and drink, clothes and firin'," replied
<span class="pagenum2">17</span>
Hannah, who had lived with the family since Meg was born,
and was considered by them all more as a friend than a servant.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Bless the child! she's gone and put 'Mother' on them instead
of 'M. March.' How funny!" cried Jo, taking up one.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"It's all right, dear, and a very pretty idea,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>"There's mother. Hide the basket, quick!" cried Jo, as a door
slammed, and steps sounded in the hall.</p>

<p>Amy came in hastily, and looked rather abashed when she saw her
sisters all waiting for her.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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 <em>all</em> my money to get it, and I'm truly trying not to be
selfish any more."</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">18</span>
her "a trump," while Beth ran to the window, and picked her finest
rose to ornament the stately bottle.</p>

<p>"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 <em>so</em> glad, for mine is the
handsomest now."</p>

<p>Another bang of the street-door sent the basket under the sofa, and
the girls to the table, eager for breakfast.</p>

<p>"Merry Christmas, Marmee! Many of them! Thank you for our
books; we read some, and mean to every day," they cried, in chorus.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>They were all unusually hungry, having waited nearly an hour, and
for a minute no one spoke; only a minute, for Jo exclaimed impetuously,&mdash;</p>

<p>"I'm so glad you came before we began!"</p>

<p>"May I go and help carry the things to the poor little children?"
asked Beth, eagerly.</p>

<p>"<em>I</em> shall take the cream and the muffins," added Amy, 
heroically giving up the articles she most liked.</p>

<p>Meg was already covering the buckwheats, and piling the bread
into one big plate.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="b016.png" id="b016.png"></a>
<img src="images/b016.png"
alt="The procession set out"
title="The procession set out" />
</div>

<p>A poor, bare, miserable room it was, with broken windows, no fire,
ragged bed-clothes, a sick mother, wailing baby, and a group of
<span class="pagenum2">19</span>
pale, hungry children cuddled under one old quilt, trying to keep
warm.</p>

<p>How the big eyes stared and the blue lips smiled as the girls
went in!</p>

<p>"Ach, mein Gott! it is good angels come to us!" said the poor
woman, crying for joy.</p>

<p>"Funny angels in hoods and mittens," said Jo, and set them
laughing.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;laughing, talking, and trying to understand the funny broken
English.</p>

<p>"Das ist gut!" "Die Engel-kinder!" cried the poor things, as
they ate, and warmed their purple hands at the comfortable blaze.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">20</span>
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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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 theatre, and not
rich enough to afford any great outlay for private performances, the
girls put their wits to work, and&mdash;necessity being the mother of invention,&mdash;made
whatever they needed. Very clever were some of their
productions,&mdash;pasteboard guitars, antique lamps made of old-fashioned
<span class="pagenum2">21</span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>On Christmas night, a dozen girls piled on to 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.</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">22</span>
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!"</p>

<div class="figleft">
<a name="b017.png" id="b017.png"></a>
<img src="images/b017.png"
alt="Out came Meg with gray horse-hair hanging about her face"
title="Out came Meg with gray horse-hair hanging about her face" />
</div>

<p>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:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem1 clear">
<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   "Hither, hither, from thy home,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
   Airy sprite, I bid thee come!</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
   Born of roses, fed on dew,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
   Charms and potions canst thou brew?</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
   Bring me here, with elfin speed,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
   The fragrant philter which I need;</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
   Make it sweet and swift and strong,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
   Spirit, answer now my song!"</p>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum2">23</span></p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem1">
<p class="indent20 left-indent15">
      "Hither I come,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent15">
       From my airy home,</p>
<p class="indent30 left-indent15">
       Afar in the silver moon.</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent15">
       Take the magic spell,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent15">
       And use it well,</p>
<p class="indent30 left-indent15">
       Or its power will vanish soon!"</p>
</div>


<div class="figright">
<a name="b018.png" id="b018.png"></a>
<img src="images/b018.png"
alt="A little figure in cloudy white"
title="A little figure in cloudy white" />
</div>

<p class="noindent">And, dropping a small, gilded bottle
at the witch's feet, the spirit
vanished. Another chant from
Hagar produced another apparition,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">24</span>
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,&mdash;it caught
in the window; the tower tottered, leaned forward, fell with a crash,
and buried the unhappy lovers in the ruins!</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Don't laugh! Act as if it was all right!"&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">25</span>
singing was considered more wonderful than all the rest of the performance
put together.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.
<span class="pagenum2">26</span>
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.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="b019.png" id="b019.png"></a>
<img src="images/b019.png"
alt="The lovers kneeling to receive Don Pedro&#39;s blessing"
title="The lovers kneeling to receive Don Pedro&#39;s blessing" />
</div>

<p>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."</p>

<p>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,&mdash;actually two dishes of it, pink and white,&mdash;and
cake and fruit and distracting French bonbons, and, in the middle of
the table, four great bouquets of hot-house flowers!</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Is it fairies?" asked Amy,</p>

<p>"It's Santa Claus," said Beth.</p>

<p>"Mother did it"; and Meg smiled her sweetest, in spite of her
gray beard and white eyebrows.</p>

<p>"Aunt March had a good fit, and sent the supper," cried Jo, with
a sudden inspiration.</p>

<p>"All wrong. Old Mr. Laurence sent it," replied Mrs. March.</p>

<p>"The Laurence boy's grandfather! What in the world put such a
thing into his head? We don't know him!" exclaimed Meg.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">27</span>
"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">28</span>
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."</p>

<p>"Our cat ran away once, and he brought her back, and we talked
over the fence, and were getting on capitally,&mdash;all about cricket, and
so on,&mdash;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.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="b020.png" id="b020.png"></a>
<img src="images/b020.png"
alt="We talked over the fence"
title="We talked over the fence" />
</div>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"It's a mercy you didn't, mother!" laughed Jo, looking at her
boots. "But we'll have another play, some time, that he <em>can</em> see.
Perhaps he'll help act; wouldn't that be jolly?"</p>

<p>"I never had such a fine bouquet before! How pretty it is!"
And Meg examined her flowers with great interest.</p>

<p>"They <em>are</em> lovely! But Beth's roses are sweeter 
to me," said Mrs. March, smelling the half-dead posy in her belt.</p>

<p>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."</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="b021.png" id="b021.png"></a>
<img src="images/b021.png"
alt="Tail-piece"
title="Tail-piece" />
</div>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>III. The Laurence Boy.</h2>
<p>
<span class="pagenum2">29</span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="b022.png" id="b022.png"></a>
<img src="images/b022.png"
alt="Eating apples and crying over the &quot;Heir of Redclyffe&quot;"
title="Eating apples and crying over the &quot;Heir of Redclyffe&quot;" />
</div>

<p class="h2"><a name="III" id="III"></a><a href="#contents">III.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">THE LAURENCE BOY.</p>

<p>
"<span class="smc">Jo! Jo!</span> where are you?" cried Meg, at the foot of the garret
stairs.</p>

<p>"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 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.</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">30</span>
"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.</p>

<p>"'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 <em>shall</em> we wear?"</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"You <em>must</em> 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 <em>so</em> mortified."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;each wear one good one and carry a bad one; don't
you see?"</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">31</span>
"Your hands are bigger than mine, and you will stretch my glove
dreadfully," began Meg, whose gloves were a tender point with her.</p>

<p>"Then I'll go without. I don't care what people say!" cried Jo,
taking up her book.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>On New-Year's Eve the parlor was deserted, for the two younger
<span class="pagenum2">32</span>
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.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="b023.png" id="b023.png"></a>
<img src="images/b023.png"
alt="Jo undertook to pinch the papered locks"
title="Jo undertook to pinch the papered locks" />
</div>

<p>"Ought they to smoke like that?" asked Beth, from her perch on
the bed.</p>

<p>"It's the dampness drying," replied Jo.</p>

<p>"What a queer smell! it's like burnt feathers," observed Amy,
smoothing her own pretty curls with a superior air.</p>

<p>"There, now I'll take off the papers and you'll see a cloud of little
ringlets," said Jo, putting down the tongs.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Oh, oh, oh! what <em>have</em> 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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Serves me right for trying to be fine. I wish I'd let my hair
alone," cried Meg petulantly.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;Meg in silvery drab, with
a blue velvet snood, lace frills, and the pearl pin; Jo in maroon, with
a stiff, gentlemanly linen collar, and a white chrysanthemum or two
for her only ornament. Each put on one nice light glove, and carried
<span class="pagenum2">33</span>
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 hair-pins all seemed stuck straight
into her head, which was not exactly comfortable; but, dear me, let
us be elegant or die!</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Girls, girls! <em>have</em> you both got nice pocket-handkerchiefs?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Now don't forget to keep the bad breadth out of sight, Jo. Is my
sash right? and does my hair look <em>very</em> bad?" said Meg, as she
turned from the glass in Mrs. Gardiner's dressing-room, after a prolonged
prink.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"How <em>do</em> you learn all the proper ways? I never can. Isn't that
music gay?"</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="b024.png" id="b024.png"></a>
<img src="images/b024.png"
alt="Mrs. Gardiner greeted them"
title="Mrs. Gardiner greeted them" />
</div>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">34</span>
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."</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="b025.png" id="b025.png"></a>
<img src="images/b025.png"
alt="Face to face with the Laurence boy"
title="Face to face with the Laurence boy" />
</div>

<p>"Dear me, I didn't know any one was here!" stammered Jo,
preparing to back out as speedily as she had bounced in.</p>

<p>But the boy laughed, and said pleasantly, though he looked a little
startled,&mdash;</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">35</span>
"Don't mind me; stay, if you like."</p>

<p>"Sha'n't I disturb you?"</p>

<p>"Not a bit; I only came here because I don't know many people,
and felt rather strange at first, you know."</p>

<p>"So did I. Don't go away, please, unless you'd rather."</p>

<p>The boy sat down again and looked at his pumps, till Jo said, trying
to be polite and easy,&mdash;</p>

<p>"I think I've had the pleasure of seeing you before; you live near
us, don't you?"</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>That put Jo at her ease; and she laughed too, as she said, in her
heartiest way,&mdash;</p>

<p>"We did have such a good time over your nice Christmas present."</p>

<p>"Grandpa sent it."</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">36</span>
"But you put it into his head, didn't you, now?"</p>

<p>"How is your cat, Miss March?" asked the boy, trying to look
sober, while his black eyes shone with fun.</p>

<p>"Nicely, thank you, Mr. Laurence; but I am not Miss March, I'm
only Jo," returned the young lady.</p>

<p>"I'm not Mr. Laurence, I'm only Laurie."</p>

<p>"Laurie Laurence,&mdash;what an odd name!"</p>

<p>"My first name is Theodore, but I don't like it, for the fellows
called me Dora, so I made them say Laurie instead."</p>

<p>"I hate my name, too&mdash;so sentimental! I wish every one would
say Jo, instead of Josephine. How did you make the boys stop
calling you Dora?"</p>

<p>"I thrashed 'em."</p>

<p>"I can't thrash Aunt March, so I suppose I shall have to bear it";
and Jo resigned herself with a sigh.</p>

<p>"Don't you like to dance, Miss Jo?" asked Laurie, looking as if
he thought the name suited her.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Abroad!" cried Jo. "Oh, tell me about it! I love dearly to hear
people describe their travels."</p>

<p>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 Vevay, 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.</p>

<p>"Don't I wish I'd been there!" cried Jo. "Did you go to
Paris?"</p>

<p>"We spent last winter there."</p>

<p>"Can you talk French?"</p>

<p>"We were not allowed to speak any thing else at Vevay."</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">37</span>
"Do say some! I can read it, but can't pronounce."</p>

<p>"Quel nom a cette jeune demoiselle en les pantoufles jolis?" said
Laurie good-naturedly.</p>

<p>"How nicely you do it! Let me see,&mdash;you said, 'Who is the
young lady in the pretty slippers,' didn't you?"</p>

<p>"Oui, mademoiselle."</p>

<p>"It's my sister Margaret, and you knew it was! Do you think she
is pretty?"</p>

<p>"Yes; she makes me think of the German girls, she looks so fresh
and quiet, and dances like a lady."</p>

<p>Jo quite glowed with pleasure at this boyish praise of her sister, and
stored it up to repeat to Meg. Both peeped and criticised 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.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"I suppose you are going to college soon? I see you pegging
away at your books,&mdash;no, I mean studying hard"; and Jo blushed
at the dreadful "pegging" which had escaped her.</p>

<p>Laurie smiled, but didn't seem shocked, and answered, with a
shrug,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Not for a year or two; I won't go before seventeen, anyway."</p>

<p>"Aren't you but fifteen?" asked Jo, looking at the tall lad, whom
she had imagined seventeen already.</p>

<p>"Sixteen, next month."</p>

<p>"How I wish I was going to college! You don't look as if you
liked it."</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">38</span>

"I hate it! Nothing but grinding or skylarking. And I don't
like the way fellows do either, in this country."</p>

<p>"What do you like?"</p>

<p>"To live in Italy, and to enjoy myself in my own way."</p>

<p>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?"</p>

<p>"If you will come too," he answered, with a gallant little bow.</p>

<p>"I can't; for I told Meg I wouldn't, because&mdash;" There Jo
stopped, and looked undecided whether to tell or to laugh.</p>

<p>"Because what?" asked Laurie curiously.</p>

<p>"You won't tell?"</p>

<p>"Never!"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>But Laurie didn't laugh; he only looked down a minute, and the
expression of his face puzzled Jo, when he said very gently,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="b026.png" id="b026.png"></a>
<img src="images/b026.png"
alt="They sat down on the stairs"
title="They sat down on the stairs" />
</div>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">39</span>
"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I'll go."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I'll ask Laurie; he will go," said Jo, looking relieved as the idea
occurred to her.</p>

<p>"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;
<span class="pagenum2">40</span>
but as soon as supper is over, watch for Hannah, and tell me the
minute she comes."</p>

<p>"They are going out to supper now. I'll stay with you; I'd
rather."</p>

<p>"No, dear, run along, and bring me some coffee. I'm so tired,
I can't stir!"</p>

<p>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 
<ins title="Add period to Mr Gardiner."> 
old Mr. Gardiner</ins>
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.</p>

<p>"Oh, dear, what a blunderbuss I am!" exclaimed Jo, finishing
Meg's glove by scrubbing her gown with it.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Too bad! I was looking for some one to give this to. May I
take it to your sister?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Hush! Don't say anything," she whispered, adding aloud,
"It's nothing. I turned my foot a little, that's all"; and limped
up-stairs to put her things on.</p>

<p>Hannah scolded, Meg cried, and Jo was at her wits' end, till she
<span class="pagenum2">41</span>
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.</p>

<p>"It's so early! You can't mean to go yet?" began Jo, looking
relieved, but hesitating to accept the offer.</p>

<p>"I always go early,&mdash;I do, truly! Please let me take you home?
It's all on my way, you know, and it rains, they say."</p>

<p>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. 
<ins title="Replace semicolon after box with a comma."> 
Laurie went on the box,</ins> so Meg could keep her foot
up, and the girls talked over their party in freedom.</p>

<p>"I had a capital time. Did you?" asked Jo, rumpling up her
hair, and making herself comfortable.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I saw you dancing with the red-headed man I ran away from.
Was he nice?"</p>

<p>"Oh, very! His hair is auburn, not red; and he was very polite,
and I had a delicious redowa with him."</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"No; but it was very rude. What <em>were</em> you about all that time,
hidden away there?"</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">42</span>
"Tell about the party! tell about the party!"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="b027.png" id="b027.png"></a>
<img src="images/b027.png"
alt="Tell about the party"
title="Tell about the party" />
</div>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>IV. Burdens.</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">43</span></p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="b028.png" id="b028.png"></a>
<img src="images/b028.png"
alt="The kitten stuck like a burr just out of reach"
title="The kitten stuck like a burr just out of reach" />
</div>

<p class="h2"><a name="IV" id="IV"></a><a href="#contents">IV.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">BURDENS.</p>

<p>
"<span class="smc">Oh</span> 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.</p>

<p>
"I wish it was Christmas or New-Year all the time; wouldn't it
be fun?" answered Jo, yawning dismally.</p>

<p>
"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
<span class="pagenum2">44</span>
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.</p>

<p>
"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 sha'n't mind her."</p>

<p>
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.</p>

<p>"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!"</p>

<p>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 <em>would</em> 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.</p>

<p>"There never <em>was</em> 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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">45</span>
the kitten, which had scrambled up her back, and stuck like a burr
just out of reach.</p>

<p>Jo laughed, Meg scolded, Beth implored, and Amy wailed, because
she couldn't remember how much nine times twelve was.</p>

<p>"Girls, girls, do be quiet one minute! I <em>must</em> 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Don't use such dreadful expressions," said Meg, from the depths
of the vail in which she had shrouded herself like a nun sick of the
world.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Call yourself any names you like; but <em>I</em> 
am neither a rascal nor a wretch, and I don't choose to be called so."</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">46</span>
"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."</p>

<p>"How ridiculous you are, Jo!" but Meg laughed at the nonsense,
and felt better in spite of herself.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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 <em>was</em> "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 theatres, 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
<span class="pagenum2">47</span>
to know how rich she was in the blessings which alone can make
life happy.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"We can't give up our girls for a dozen fortunes. Rich or poor,
we will keep together and be happy in one another."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">48</span>
paradise to wind yarn, wash the poodle, or read Belsham's Essays by
the hour together.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="b029.png" id="b029.png"></a>
<img src="images/b029.png"
alt="Curling herself up in the big chair"
title="Curling herself up in the big chair" />
</div>

<p>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!"</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">49</span>
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 <em>dollanity</em> had belonged to Jo; and,
having led a tempestuous life, was left a wreck in the rag-bag, 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."</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">50</span>
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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>Amy was in a fair way to be spoilt; for every one petted her, and
<span class="pagenum2">51</span>
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.</p>

<p>"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 Parks' 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 <em>deggerredation</em>, I feel that I can bear
even my flat nose and purple gown, with yellow sky-rockets on it."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="b030.png" id="b030.png"></a>
<img src="images/b030.png"
alt="Reading that everlasting Belsham"
title="Reading that everlasting Belsham" />
</div>

<p>"'I wish I could, and be done with it,' said I, trying not to be
saucy.</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">52</span>
"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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"'I don't understand what it's all about. Go back and begin it,
child.'</p>

<p>"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; sha'n't I stop now?'</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"'Finish the chapter, and don't be impertinent, miss.'"</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">53</span>
"Did she own she liked it?" asked Meg.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I think being disgraced in school is a great deal try<em>inger</em> 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 <em>was</em> on us, and he ordered Susie to bring up her slate. She was
<em>parry</em>lized with fright, but she went, and oh, what <em>do</em> you think he
did? He took her by the ear, the ear! just fancy how horrid!&mdash;and
led her to the recitation platform, and made her stand there half
an hour, holding that slate so every one could see."</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="b031.png" id="b031.png"></a>
<img src="images/b031.png"
alt="He took her by the ear! by the ear!"
title="He took her by the ear! by the ear!" />
</div>

<p>"Didn't the girls laugh at the picture?" asked Jo, who relished the
scrape.</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">54</span>
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.</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">55</span>
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.'"</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="b032.png" id="b032.png"></a>
<img src="images/b032.png"
alt="Mr. Laurence hooked up a big fish"
title="Mr. Laurence hooked up a big fish" />
</div>

<p>When they had laughed at Beth's story, they asked their mother for
one; and, after a moment's thought, she said soberly,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"'Have you sons in the army?' I asked; for the note he brought
was not to me.</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">56</span>
"'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.</p>

<p>"'You have done a great deal for your country, sir,' I said, feeling
respect now, instead of pity.</p>

<p>"'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.'</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Tell another story, mother,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.)</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">57</span>
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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="b033.png" id="b033.png"></a>
<img src="images/b033.png"
alt="Tail-piece"
title="Tail-piece" />
</div>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>V. Being Neighborly.</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">58</span></p>
<p class="h2"><a name="V" id="V"></a><a href="#contents">V.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">BEING NEIGHBORLY.</p>

<div class="figleft" style="width: 200px;">
<a name="b034.png" id="b034.png"></a>
<img src="images/b034.png" width="200" height="355"
alt="Being Neighborly"
title="Being Neighborly" />
</div>

<p>
<span class="smc">"What</span> 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.</p>

<p>"Going out for exercise," answered
Jo, with a mischievous twinkle in her
eyes.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Never take advice! Can't keep
still all day, and, not being a pussycat,
I don't like to doze by the fire.
I like adventures, and I'm going to
find some."</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">59</span>
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.</p>

<p>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 snow-balling
one another.</p>

<p>"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!"</p>

<p>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,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>"There he is," thought Jo, "poor boy! all alone and sick this
dismal day. It's a shame! I'll toss up a snow-ball, and make him
<span class="pagenum2">60</span>
look out, and then say a kind word to
him."</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"How do you do? Are you
sick?"</p>

<div class="figleft" style="width: 311px;">
<a name="b035.png" id="b035.png"></a>
<img src="images/b035.png" width="311" height="700"
alt="Laurie opened the window"
title="Laurie opened the window" />
</div>

<p>Laurie opened the window,
and croaked out as hoarsely as
a raven,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Better, thank you. I've
had a bad cold, and been shut
up a week."</p>

<p>"I'm sorry. What do you
amuse yourself with?"</p>

<p>"Nothing; it's as dull as
tombs up here."</p>

<p>"Don't you read?"</p>

<p>"Not much; they won't let
me."</p>

<p>"Can't somebody read
to you?"</p>

<p>"Grandpa does,
sometimes; but my
books don't interest
him, and I hate to
ask Brooke all the
time."</p>

<p>"Have some one
come and see you,
then."</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">61</span>
"There isn't any one I'd like to see. Boys make such a row,
and my head is weak."</p>

<p>"Isn't there some nice girl who'd read and amuse you? Girls are
quiet, and like to play nurse."</p>

<p>"Don't know any."</p>

<p>"You know us," began Jo, then laughed, and stopped.</p>

<p>"So I do! Will you come, please?" cried Laurie.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">62</span>
"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!"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I'll right it up in two minutes; for it only needs to have the
hearth brushed, so,&mdash;and the things made straight on the mantel-piece
so,&mdash;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."</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"No; I came to amuse you. Shall I read aloud?" and Jo looked
affectionately toward some inviting books near by.</p>

<p>"Thank you; I've read all those, and if you don't mind, I'd
rather talk," answered Laurie.</p>

<p>"Not a bit; I'll talk all day if you'll only set me going. Beth
says I never know when to stop."</p>

<p>"Is Beth the rosy one, who stays at home a good deal, and sometimes
goes out with a little basket?" asked Laurie, with interest.</p>

<p>"Yes, that's Beth; she's my girl, and a regular good one she is,
too."</p>

<p>"The pretty one is Meg, and the curly-haired one is Amy, I
believe?"</p>

<p>"How did you find that out?"</p>

<p>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
<!--<span class="pagenum">[Pg&nbsp;63]</span>-->
<span class="pagenum2">63</span>
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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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 <em>I</em> 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?"</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"We are not strangers, we are neighbors, and you needn't think
you'd be a bother. We <em>want</em> to know you, and I've been trying to
do it 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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>Laurie turned red again, but wasn't offended at being accused of
<span class="pagenum2">64</span>
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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Don't go to school; I'm a business man&mdash;girl, I mean. I go
to wait on my great-aunt, and a dear, cross old soul she is, too,"
answered Jo.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<div class="figleft" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b036.png" id="b036.png"></a>
<img src="images/b036.png" width="400" height="524"
alt="Poll tweaked off his wig"
title="Poll tweaked off his wig" />
</div>

<p>"Oh! that does me no end of good. Tell on, please," he said,
taking his face out of the sofa-cushion, red and 
<ins title="Add period after merriment."> 
shining with merriment.</ins></p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">65</span>
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.</p>

<p>"If you like them so much, come down and see ours. Grandpa
is out, so you needn't be afraid," said Laurie, getting up.</p>

<p>"I'm not afraid of anything," returned Jo, with a toss of the head.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"A fellow can't live on books," said Laurie, shaking his head, as
he perched on a table opposite.</p>

<p>Before he could say more, a bell rung, and Jo flew up, exclaiming
with alarm, "Mercy me! it's your grandpa!"</p>

<p>"Well, what if it is? You are not afraid of anything, you know,"
returned the boy, looking wicked.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I'm a great deal better for it, and ever so much obliged. I'm
<span class="pagenum2">66</span>
only afraid you are very tired talking to me; it was <em>so</em> pleasant, I
couldn't bear to stop," said Laurie gratefully.</p>

<p>"The doctor to see you, sir," and the maid beckoned as she
spoke.</p>

<p>"Would you mind if I left you for a minute? I suppose I must
see him," said Laurie.</p>

<p>"Don't mind me. I'm as happy as a cricket here," answered Jo.</p>

<p>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 <em>my</em> grandfather, but
I like him."</p>

<p>"Thank you, ma'am," said a gruff voice behind her; and there,
to her great dismay, stood old Mr. Laurence.</p>

<p>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?"</p>

<p>"Not much, sir."</p>

<p>"And you don't think me as handsome as your grandfather?"</p>

<p>"Not quite, sir."</p>

<p>"And I've got a tremendous will, have I?"</p>

<p>"I only said I thought so."</p>

<p>"But you like me, in spite of it?"</p>

<p>"Yes, I do, sir."</p>

<p>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,
<span class="pagenum2">67</span>
"You've got your grandfather's spirit, if you haven't his face. He
<em>was</em> 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."</p>

<div class="figright" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b037.png" id="b037.png"></a>
<img src="images/b037.png" width="400" height="577"
alt="Putting his finger under her chin"
title="Putting his finger under her chin" />
</div>

<p>"Thank you, sir;"
and Jo was quite comfortable
after that, for
it suited her exactly.</p>

<p>"What have you
been doing to this boy
of mine, hey?" was
the next question,
sharply put.</p>

<p>"Only trying to be
neighborly, sir;" and
Jo told how her visit
came about.</p>

<p>"You think he needs
cheering up a bit, do
you?"</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Tut, tut, tut! that was the boy's affair. How is the poor woman?"</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">68</span>
"If you'd like to have me, sir."</p>

<p>"Shouldn't ask you, if I didn't;" and Mr. Laurence offered her
his arm with old-fashioned courtesy.</p>

<p>"What <em>would</em> 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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I didn't know you'd come, sir," he began, as Jo gave him a
triumphant little glance.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"She's right; the lad <em>is</em> 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.</p>

<p>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 fairylike to Jo, as she went up and down the walks,
enjoying the blooming walls on either side, the soft light, the damp
<ins title="Change weet to sweet.">  
sweet air, and the wonderful vines</ins> and trees that hung above 
her,&mdash;while
<span class="pagenum2">69</span>
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."</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 467px;">
<a name="b038.png" id="b038.png"></a>
<img src="images/b038.png" width="467" height="400"
alt="Please give these to your mother"
title="Please give these to your mother" />
</div>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Do you play?" she asked, turning to Laurie with a respectful
expression.</p>

<p>"Sometimes," he answered modestly.</p>

<p>"Please do now. I want to hear it, so I can tell Beth."</p>

<p>"Won't you first?"</p>

<p>"Don't know how; too stupid to learn, but I love music dearly."</p>

<p>So Laurie played, and Jo listened, with her nose luxuriously buried
<span class="pagenum2">70</span>
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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"No, it was me; he doesn't like to hear me play."</p>

<p>"Why not?"</p>

<p>"I'll tell you some day. John is going home with you, as I
can't."</p>

<p>"No need of that; I am not a young lady, and it's only a
step. Take care of yourself, won't you?"</p>

<p>"Yes; but you will come again, I hope?"</p>

<p>"If you promise to come and see us after you are well."</p>

<p>"I will."</p>

<p>"Good-night, Laurie!"</p>

<p>"Good-night, Jo, good-night!"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Mother, why didn't Mr. Laurence like to have Laurie play?"
asked Jo, who was of an inquiring disposition.</p>

<p>"I am 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.
<span class="pagenum2">71</span>
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."</p>

<p>"Dear me, how romantic!" exclaimed Meg.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"What do you know about his eyes and his manners? You never
spoke to him, hardly," cried Jo, who was <em>not</em> sentimental.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"He meant the blanc-mange, I suppose."</p>

<p>"How stupid you are, child! He meant you, of course."</p>

<p>"Did he?" and Jo opened her eyes as if it had never occurred to
her before.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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
<em>may</em> come over and see us, mayn't he, Marmee?"</p>

<p>"Yes, Jo, your little friend is very welcome, and I hope Meg
will remember that children should be children as long as they
can."</p>

<p>"I don't call myself a child, and I'm not in my teens yet," observed
Amy. "What do you say, Beth?"</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">72</span>
"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."</p>

<p>"We have got to get by the lions, first," said Jo, as if she rather
liked the prospect.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 259px;">
<a name="b039.png" id="b039.png"></a>
<img src="images/b039.png" width="259" height="200"
alt="Tail-piece"
title="Tail-piece" />
</div>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>VI. Beth finds the Palace Beautiful.</h2>
<p>
<span class="pagenum2">73</span></p>

<p class="h2"><a name="VI" id="VI"></a><a href="#contents">VI.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">BETH FINDS THE PALACE BEAUTIFUL.</p>

<p><span class="smc">The</span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">74</span>
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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">75</span>
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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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."
<span class="pagenum2">76</span>
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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"O sir, they do care, very, very much!"</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b040.png" id="b040.png"></a>
<img src="images/b040.png" width="400" height="413"
alt="O sir, they do care very much"
title="O sir, they do care very much" />
</div>

<p>"Are you the musical girl?" he asked, without any startling "Hey!"
as he looked down at her very kindly.</p>

<p>"I'm Beth. I love it dearly, and I'll come, if you are quite sure
nobody will hear me&mdash;and be disturbed," she added, fearing to be
rude, and trembling at her own boldness as she spoke.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"How kind you are, sir!"</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">77</span></p>

<div class="figright" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b041.png" id="b041.png"></a>
<img src="images/b041.png" width="400" height="649"
alt="Mr. Laurence often opened his study door"
title="Mr. Laurence often opened his study door" />
</div>

<p>
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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">78</span>
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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Here's a letter from the old gentleman! Come quick, and read
it!"</p>

<p>"O Beth, he's sent you&mdash;" began Amy, gesticulating with
unseemly energy; but she got no further, for Jo quenched her by
slamming down the window.</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p>"For me?" gasped Beth, holding on to Jo, and feeling as if
she should tumble down, it was such an overwhelming thing altogether.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">79</span>
"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.</p>

<p>Jo opened the paper, and began to laugh, for the first words she
saw were,&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>
<p>"<span class="smc">Miss March</span>:<br />
<span class="left-margin2em">"<i>Dear Madam</i>,&mdash;"</span></p>
</blockquote>

<p>"How nice it sounds! I wish some one would write to me so!"
said Amy, who thought the old-fashioned address very elegant.</p>

<blockquote>
<p>
"'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, 
<ins title="Add comma after I remain."> 
I remain, </ins></p>

<p class="left-margin2em">"'Your grateful friend and humble servant,</p>
<p class="right smc">"'James Laurence.'"</p>
</blockquote>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"'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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">80</span>
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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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&mdash;" 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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 420px;">
<a name="b042.png" id="b042.png"></a>
<img src="images/b042.png" width="420" height="400"
alt="She put both arms around his neck and kissed him"
title="She put both arms around his neck and kissed him" />
</div>

<p>If the roof of the house had suddenly flown off, the old gentleman
wouldn't have been more astonished; but he liked it,&mdash;oh, dear,
yes, he liked it amazingly!&mdash;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
<span class="pagenum2">81</span>
his hat as he marched back again, looking very stately and erect, like
a handsome, soldierly old gentleman, as he was.</p>

<p>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!"</p>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>VII. Amy's Valley of Humiliation.</h2>
<p>
<span class="pagenum2">82</span></p>

<p class="h2"><a name="VII" id="VII"></a><a href="#contents">VII.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">AMY'S VALLEY OF HUMILIATION.</p>

<div class="figleft" style="width: 200px;">
<a name="b043.png" id="b043.png"></a>
<img src="images/b043.png" width="200" height="422"
alt="The Cyclops"
title="The Cyclops" />
</div>

<p>
<span class="smc">"That</span>
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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I didn't say anything about his
eyes, and I don't see why you need fire
up when I admire his riding."</p>

<p>"Oh, my goodness! that little goose
means a centaur, and she called him a
Cyclops," exclaimed Jo, with a burst of
laughter.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Why?" asked Meg kindly, for Jo had gone off in another laugh
at Amy's second blunder.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">83</span>
"In debt, Amy? What do you mean?" and Meg looked sober.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"How much will pay them off, and restore your credit?" asked
Meg, taking out her purse.</p>

<p>"A quarter would more than do it, and leave a few cents over for
a treat for you. Don't you like limes?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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,
<span class="pagenum2">84</span>
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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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, nicknames, and caricatures,
and done all that one man could do 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
<span class="pagenum2">85</span>
powder; his yellow face flushed, and he rapped on his desk with an
energy which made Jenny skip to her seat with unusual rapidity.</p>

<p>"Young ladies, attention, if you please!"</p>

<p>At the stern order the buzz ceased, and fifty pairs of blue, black,
gray, and brown eyes were obediently fixed upon his awful countenance.</p>

<p>"Miss March, come to the desk."</p>

<p>Amy rose to comply with outward composure, but a secret fear oppressed
her, for the limes weighed upon her conscience.</p>

<p>"Bring with you the limes you have in your desk," was the unexpected
command which arrested her before she got out of her seat.</p>

<p>"Don't take all," whispered her neighbor, a young lady of great
presence of mind.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Is that all?"</p>

<p>"Not quite," stammered Amy.</p>

<p>"Bring the rest immediately."</p>

<p>With a despairing glance at her set, she obeyed.</p>

<p>"You are sure there are no more?"</p>

<p>"I never lie, sir."</p>

<p>"So I see. Now take these disgusting things two by two, and throw
them out of the window."</p>

<p>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&mdash;looking oh! so plump and
juicy&mdash;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&mdash;this
was too much; all flashed indignant or appealing glances at the
inexorable Davis, and one passionate lime-lover burst into tears.</p>

<p>As Amy returned from her last trip, Mr. Davis gave a portentous
"Hem!" and said, in his most impressive manner,&mdash;</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">86</span>
"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 <em>never</em> break my word. Miss March, hold out your
hand."</p>

<p>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 <em>would</em> 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.</p>

<p>"Your hand, Miss March!" was the only answer her mute appeal
received; and, too proud to cry or beseech, Amy set her teeth,
<span class="pagenum2">87</span>
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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 411px;">
<a name="b044.png" id="b044.png"></a>
<img src="images/b044.png" width="411" height="400"
alt="Amy bore without flinching several tingling blows"
title="Amy bore without flinching several tingling blows" />
</div>

<p>"You will now stand on the platform till recess," said Mr. Davis,
resolved to do the thing thoroughly, since he had begun.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"I shall have to tell at home, and they will be so disappointed in
me!"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"You can go, Miss March," said Mr. Davis, looking, as he felt,
uncomfortable.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">88</span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Do you mean you are glad I was disgraced before the whole
school?" cried Amy.</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">89</span>
consciousness of possessing and using it well should satisfy one, and
the great charm of all power is modesty."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 512px;">
<a name="b045.png" id="b045.png"></a>
<img src="images/b045.png" width="512" height="400"
alt="You do know her"
title="You do know her" />
</div>

<p>Jo let Laurie win the game, to pay for that praise of her Beth, who
<span class="pagenum2">90</span>
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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Is Laurie an accomplished boy?"</p>

<p>"Yes; he has had an excellent education, and has much talent;
he will make a fine man, if not spoilt by petting," replied her
mother.</p>

<p>"And he isn't conceited, is he?" asked Amy.</p>

<p>"Not in the least; that is why he is so charming, and we all like
him so much."</p>

<p>"I see; it's nice to have accomplishments, and be elegant; but
not to show off, or get perked up," said Amy thoughtfully.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>VIII. Jo Meets Apollyon.</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">91</span></p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 516px;">
<a name="b046.png" id="b046.png"></a>
<img src="images/b046.png" width="516" height="400"
alt="Girls, where are you going?"
title="Girls, where are you going?" />
</div>

<p class="h2"><a name="VIII" id="VIII"></a><a href="#contents">VIII.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">JO MEETS APOLLYON.</p>

<p>"<span class="smc">Girls</span>, 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.</p>

<p>"Never mind; little girls shouldn't ask questions," returned Jo
sharply.</p>

<p>Now if there <em>is</em> 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
<span class="pagenum2">92</span>
fussing over her piano, and I haven't got anything to do, and am <em>so</em>
lonely."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"Yes, we are; now do be still, and stop bothering."</p>

<p>Amy held her tongue, but used her eyes, and saw Meg slip a fan
into her pocket.</p>

<p>"I know! I know! you're going to the theatre to see the 'Seven
Castles!'" she cried; adding resolutely, "and I <em>shall</em> 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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Suppose we take her. I don't believe mother would mind, if we
bundle her up well," began Meg.</p>

<p>"If <em>she</em> goes <em>I</em> sha'n'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.</p>

<p>Her tone and manner angered Amy, who began to put her boots
on, saying, in her most aggravating way, "I <em>shall</em> go; Meg says I
may; and if I pay for myself, Laurie hasn't anything to do with it."</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">93</span>
pleasure; or he'll get another seat for you, and that isn't proper,
when you weren't asked. You sha'n'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.</p>

<p>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 grown-up 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."</p>

<p>"Fiddlesticks!" returned Jo, slamming the door.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">94</span>
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.</p>

<p>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?"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Amy, you've got it?"</p>

<p>"No, I haven't."</p>

<p>"You know where it is, then?"</p>

<p>"No, I don't."</p>

<p>"That's a fib!" cried Jo, taking her by the shoulders, and looking
fierce enough to frighten a much braver child than Amy.</p>

<p>"It isn't. I haven't got it, don't know where it is now, and don't
care."</p>

<p>"You know something about it, and you'd better tell at once, or
I'll make you," and Jo gave her a slight shake.</p>

<p>"Scold as much as you like, you'll never see your silly old book
again," cried Amy, getting excited in her turn.</p>

<p>"Why not?"</p>

<p>"I burnt it up."</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 437px;">
<a name="b047.png" id="b047.png"></a>
<img src="images/b047.png" width="437" height="400"
alt="I burnt it up"
title="I burnt it up" />
</div>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Yes, I did! I told you I'd make you pay for being so cross
yesterday, and I have, so&mdash;"</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"You wicked, wicked girl! I never can write it again, and I'll
never forgive you as long as I live."</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">95</span>
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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">96</span>
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.</p>

<p>When the tea-bell rung, Jo appeared, looking so grim and unapproachable
that it took all Amy's courage to say meekly,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Please forgive me, Jo; I'm very, very sorry."</p>

<p>"I never shall forgive you," was Jo's stern answer; and, from that
moment, she ignored Amy entirely.</p>

<p>No one spoke of the great trouble,&mdash;not even Mrs. March,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>As Jo received her good-night kiss, Mrs. March whispered
gently,&mdash;</p>

<p>"My dear, don't let the sun go down upon your anger; forgive
each other, help each other, and begin again to-morrow."</p>

<p>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 <em>couldn't</em> quite forgive
yet. So she winked hard, shook her head, and said, gruffly because
Amy was listening,&mdash;</p>

<p>"It was an abominable thing, and she don't deserve to be forgiven."</p>

<p>With that she marched off to bed, and there was no merry or
confidential gossip that night.</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">97</span>
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 <em>would</em> 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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>Amy heard the clash of skates, and looked out with an impatient
exclamation,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Don't say that; you <em>were</em> very naughty, and it <em>is</em> 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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">98</span>
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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Keep near the shore; it isn't safe in the middle."</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"No matter whether she heard or not, let her take care of herself."</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Bring a rail; quick, quick!"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 503px;">
<a name="b048.png" id="b048.png"></a>
<img src="images/b048.png" width="503" height="400"
alt="Held Amy up by his arms and hockey"
title="Held Amy up by his arms and hockey" />
</div>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>Shivering, dripping, and crying, they got Amy home; and, after
<span class="pagenum2">99</span>
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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Laurie did it all; I only let her go. Mother, if she <em>should</em> 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
<span class="pagenum2">100</span>
her hardness of heart, and sobbing out her gratitude for
being spared the heavy punishment which might have come upon
her.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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 <em>shall</em> do something dreadful
some day, and spoil my life, and make everybody hate me. O
mother, help me, do help me!"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Yours, mother? Why, you are never angry!" and, for the moment,
Jo forgot remorse in surprise.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Mother, are you angry when you fold your lips tight together,
and go out of the room sometimes, when Aunt March scolds, or
<span class="pagenum2">101</span>
people worry you?" asked Jo, feeling nearer and dearer to her
mother than ever before.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"How did you learn to keep still? That is what troubles me&mdash;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."</p>

<p>"My good mother used to help me&mdash;"</p>

<p>"As you do us&mdash;" interrupted Jo, with a grateful kiss.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Poor mother! what helped you then?"</p>

<p>"Your father, Jo. He never loses patience,&mdash;never doubts or
complains,&mdash;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."</p>

<p>"O mother, if I'm ever half as good as you, I shall be satisfied,"
cried Jo, much touched.</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">102</span>
"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I thought I'd grieved you."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">103</span>
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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>IX. Meg goes to Vanity Fair.</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">104</span></p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 434px;">
<a name="b049.png" id="b049.png"></a>
<img src="images/b049.png" width="434" height="400"
alt="Packing the go abroady trunk"
title="Packing the go abroady trunk" />
</div>

<p class="h2"><a name="IX" id="IX"></a><a href="#contents">IX.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">MEG GOES TO VANITY FAIR.</p>

<p>"I <span class="smc">do</span> 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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">105</span>
"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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 promised to send me all I want," replied Meg. "Now,
let me see; there's my new gray walking-suit&mdash;just curl up the
feather in my hat, Beth,&mdash;then my poplin, for Sunday, and the small
party,&mdash;it looks heavy for spring, doesn't it? The violet silk would
be so nice; oh, dear!"</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">106</span>
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.</p>

<p>"Change it," advised Jo.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Annie Moffat has blue and pink bows on her night-caps; would
you put some on mine?" she asked, as Beth brought up a pile of
snowy muslins, fresh from Hannah's hands.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I wonder if I shall <em>ever</em> be happy enough to have real lace on my
clothes, and bows on my caps?" said Meg impatiently.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"So I did! Well, I <em>am</em> happy, and I <em>won't</em> 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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">107</span>
so delightful after a winter of irksome work, that the mother yielded,
and the daughter went to take her first taste of fashionable life.</p>

<p>The Moffats <em>were</em> 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.</p>

<p>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 theatres 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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">108</span>
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.</p>

<p>"It's for Belle, of course; George always sends her some, but these
are altogether ravishing," cried Annie, with a great sniff.</p>

<p>"They are for Miss March, the man said. And here's a note,"
put in the maid, holding it to Meg.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"The note is from mother, and the flowers from Laurie," said Meg
simply, yet much gratified that he had not forgotten her.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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 <em>very</em>
shabby now.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">109</span>
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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"How old is he?"</p>

<p>"Sixteen or seventeen, I should say," replied another voice.</p>

<p>"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
<ins title="Place period after them."> 
on them."</ins></p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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?" 
<ins title="Place period after voice."> 
asked another voice.</ins></p>


<p>"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."</p>

<p>"We'll see. I shall ask young Laurence, as a compliment to her,
and we'll have fun about it afterward."</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 437px;">
<a name="b050.png" id="b050.png"></a>
<img src="images/b050.png" width="437" height="400"
alt="Meg&#39;s partner appeared"
title="Meg&#39;s partner appeared" />
</div>

<p>Here Meg's partner appeared, to find her looking much flushed
and rather agitated. She <em>was</em> 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
<span class="pagenum2">110</span>
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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">111</span>
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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>Meg colored, but a mischievous fancy to tease the girls made her
reply demurely,&mdash;</p>

<p>"You are very kind, but I'm afraid he won't come."</p>

<p>"Why not, <i>ch&eacute;rie</i>?" asked Miss Belle.</p>

<p>"He's too old."</p>

<p>"My child, what do you mean? What is his age, I beg to know!"
cried Miss Clara.</p>

<p>"Nearly seventy, I believe," answered Meg, counting stitches, to
hide the merriment in her eyes.</p>

<p>"You sly creature! Of course we meant the young man," exclaimed
Miss Belle, laughing.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"About your age," Nan said.</p>

<p>"Nearer my sister Jo's; <em>I</em> am seventeen in August," returned Meg,
tossing her head.</p>

<p>"It's very nice of him to send you flowers, isn't it?" said Annie,
looking wise about nothing.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"It's evident Daisy isn't out yet," said Miss Clara to Belle, with
a nod.</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">112</span>
"Quite a pastoral state of innocence all round," returned Miss
Belle, with a shrug.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"No, thank you, ma'am," replied Sallie. "I've got my new pink
silk for Thursday, and don't want a thing."</p>

<p>"Nor I,&mdash;" began Meg, but stopped, because it occurred to her
that she <em>did</em> want several things, and could not have them.</p>

<p>"What shall you wear?" asked Sallie.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Why don't you send home for another?" said Sallie, who was not
an observing young lady.</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Only that? How funny&mdash;" She did not finish her speech, for
Belle shook her head at her, and broke in, saying kindly,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"You are very kind, but I don't mind my old dress, 
<ins title="Change colon after dont to semicolon."> 
if you don't;</ins>
it does well enough for a little girl like me," said Meg.</p>

<p>"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 sha'n'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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>On the Thursday evening, Belle shut herself up with her maid;
and, between them, they turned Meg into a fine lady. They crimped
<span class="pagenum2">113</span>
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 <i>soup&ccedil;on</i> 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 ear-rings, 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 <i>ruche</i>, 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.</p>

<p>"Mademoiselle is charmante, tr&egrave;s jolie, is she not?" cried Hortense,
clasping her hands in an affected rapture.</p>

<p>"Come and show yourself," said Miss Belle, leading the way to the
room where the others were waiting.</p>

<p>As Meg went rustling after, with her long skirts trailing, her ear-rings
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 <em>was</em> "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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">114</span>
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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 442px;">
<a name="b051.png" id="b051.png"></a>
<img src="images/b051.png" width="442" height="400"
alt="Asked to be introduced"
title="Asked to be introduced" />
</div>

<p>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 criticised the rest of the party, inquired who
she was, with an air of interest. She heard Mrs. Moffat reply to one
of them,&mdash;</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">115</span>
"Daisy March&mdash;father a colonel in the army&mdash;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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I'm glad you came, I was afraid you wouldn't," she said, with
her most grown-up air.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">116</span>
"Yes, I think she would," returned Laurie gravely.</p>

<p>"Don't you like me so?" asked Meg.</p>

<p>"No, I don't," was the blunt reply.</p>

<p>"Why not?" in an anxious tone.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"I don't like fuss and feathers."</p>

<p>That was altogether too much from a lad younger than herself; and
Meg walked away, saying petulantly,&mdash;</p>

<p>"You are the rudest boy I ever saw."</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Please forgive my rudeness, and come and dance with me."</p>

<p>"I'm afraid it will be too disagreeable to you," said Meg, trying to
look offended, and failing entirely.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;just splendid;" and
he waved his hands, as if words failed to express his admiration.</p>

<p>Meg smiled and relented, and whispered, as they stood waiting to
catch the time,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Take care my skirt don't trip you up; it's the plague of my life,
and I was a goose to wear it."</p>

<p>"Pin it round your neck, and then it will be useful," said Laurie,
<span class="pagenum2">117</span>
looking down at the little blue boots, which he evidently approved
of.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Won't I!" said Laurie, with alacrity.</p>

<p>"Please don't tell them at home about my dress to-night. They
won't understand the joke, and it will worry mother."</p>

<p>"Then why did you do it?" said Laurie's eyes, so plainly that
Meg hastily added,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"I give you my word I won't; only what shall I say when they ask
me?"</p>

<p>"Just say I looked pretty well, and was having a good time."</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">118</span>
a brotherly sort of right to watch over the Marches, and fight their
battles whenever a defender was needed.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b052.png" id="b052.png"></a>
<img src="images/b052.png" width="400" height="434"
alt="I wouldn&#39;t, Meg"
title="I wouldn&#39;t, Meg" />
</div>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">119</span>
"Wish to-morrow was here, then," muttered Laurie, walking off,
ill-pleased at the change he saw in her.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Remember!" she said, trying to smile, for the splitting headache
had already begun.</p>

<p>"Silence &agrave; la mort," replied Laurie, with a melodramatic flourish,
as he went away.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"It does seem pleasant to be quiet, and not have company
manners on all the time. Home <em>is</em> 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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Marmee, I want to ''fess.'"</p>

<p>"I thought so; what is it, dear?"</p>

<p>"Shall I go away?" asked Jo discreetly.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">120</span>
"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 Moffat's."</p>

<p>"We are prepared," said Mrs. March, smiling, but looking a little
anxious.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"No; I drank champagne and romped and tried to flirt, and was
altogether abominable," said Meg self-reproachfully.</p>

<p>"There is something more, I think;" and Mrs. March smoothed
the soft cheek, which suddenly grew rosy, as Meg answered slowly,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Just wait till <em>I</em> 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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">121</span>
"If you tell Laurie, I'll never forgive you! She mustn't, must
she, mother?" said Meg, looking distressed.</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;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."</p>

<p>"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 <em>is</em> nice to be praised and
admired, and I can't help saying I like it," said Meg, looking half
ashamed of the confession.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Mother, do you have 'plans,' as Mrs. Moffat said?" asked Meg
bashfully.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">122</span>
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,&mdash;</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b053.png" id="b053.png"></a>
<img src="images/b053.png" width="400" height="428"
alt="Holding a hand of each, Mrs. March said, &amp;c."
title="Holding a hand of each, Mrs. March said, &amp;c." />
</div>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">123</span>
happy time comes, you may feel ready for the duties and worthy of
the joy. My dear girls, I <em>am</em> ambitious for you, but not to have you
make a dash in the world,&mdash;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,&mdash;and, when well
used, a noble thing,&mdash;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."</p>

<p>"Poor girls don't stand any chance, Belle says, unless they put
themselves forward," sighed Meg.</p>

<p>"Then we'll be old maids," said Jo stoutly.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"We will, Marmee, we will!" cried both, with all their hearts, as
she bade them good-night.</p>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>X. The P. C. and P. O.</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">124</span></p>

<p class="h2"><a name="X" id="X"></a><a href="#contents">X.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">THE P. C. AND P. O.</p>

<p><span class="smc">As</span> 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,&mdash;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,&mdash;rather
small and earwiggy, but very pretty to look at,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>Gardening, walks, rows on the river, and flower-hunts employed the
fine days; and for rainy ones, they had house diversions,&mdash;some old,
some new,&mdash;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,
<span class="pagenum2">125</span>
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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b054.png" id="b054.png"></a>
<img src="images/b054.png" width="400" height="481"
alt="Mr. Pickwick"
title="Mr. Pickwick" />
</div>

<p>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:&mdash;</p>

<hr class="hr2" />
<p><span class="pagenum2">126</span></p>

<p class="h2 cursive">"The Pickwick Portfolio."</p>

<p class="center">MAY 20, 18&mdash;</p>

<hr class="hr3" />

<p class="center"><span class="cursive">Poet's Corner.</span></p>

<hr class="hr3" />

<p class="center">ANNIVERSARY ODE.</p>

<hr class="tiny" />

<div class="poem1">
<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   Again we meet to celebrate</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      With badge and solemn rite,</p>
<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   Our fifty-second anniversary,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      In Pickwick Hall, to-night.</p>
<p><br /></p>
<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   We all are here in perfect health,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      None gone from our small band;</p>
<p class="indent30 left-indent10"> 
   Again we see each well-known face,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      And press each friendly hand.</p>
<p><br /></p>

<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   Our Pickwick, always at his post,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      With reverence we greet,</p>
<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   As, spectacles on nose, he reads</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      Our well-filled weekly sheet.</p>
<p><br /></p>

<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   Although he suffers from a cold,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
   We joy to hear him speak,</p>
<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   For words of wisdom from him fall,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
   In spite of croak or squeak.</p>
<p><br /></p>

<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   Old six-foot Snodgrass looms on high,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      With elephantine grace,</p>
<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   And beams upon the company,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      With brown and jovial face.</p>
<p><br /></p>

<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   Poetic fire lights up his eye,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      He struggles 'gainst his lot.</p>
<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   Behold ambition on his brow,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      And on his nose a blot!</p>
<p><br /></p>

<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   Next our peaceful Tupman comes,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      So rosy, plump, and sweet.</p>
<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   Who chokes with laughter at the puns,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      And tumbles off his seat.</p>
<p><br /></p>

<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   Prim little Winkle too is here,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      With every hair in place,</p>
<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   A model of propriety,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      Though he hates to wash his face.</p>
<p><br /></p>

<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   The year is gone, we still unite</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      To joke and laugh and read,</p>
<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   And tread the path of literature</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      That doth to glory lead.</p>
<p><br /></p>

<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   Long may our paper prosper well,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      Our club unbroken be,</p>
<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   And coming years their blessings pour</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      On the useful, gay "P. C."</p>
</div>

<p class="sig">A. Snodgrass.</p>

<hr />

<p class="center">THE MASKED MARRIAGE.</p>

<p class="center sm">A TALE OF VENICE.</p>

<hr class="tiny" />

<p>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.</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">127</span>
"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"'Tis 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.</p>

<p>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:&mdash;</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p class="right smc">S. Pickwick.</p>

<hr />

<p>Why is the P. C. like the Tower of Babel?
It is full of unruly members.</p>

<hr />
<p class="center">THE HISTORY OF A SQUASH.</p>

<hr class="tiny" />

<p>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 grocer-man 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,
<span class="pagenum2">128</span>
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.</p>

<p class="right"><span class="smc">T. Tupman.</span></p>

<hr />

<p><span class="smc">Mr. Pickwick</span>, <i>Sir</i>:&mdash;</p>

<p>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 <i>commy
la fo</i> that means all right I am in haste as
it is nearly school time</p>

<div class="complicatedformatting">
<p>Yours respectably, </p>
<p class="right smc">N. Winkle.</p>
</div>

<p>[The above is a manly and handsome
acknowledgment of past misdemeanors. If
our young friend studied punctuation, it
would be well.]</p>

<hr />

<p class="center">A SAD ACCIDENT.</p>

<hr class="tiny" />

<p>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.</p>

<p class="right">
<span class="smc">Ed.</span></p>

<p><br /></p>

<div class="bbox">
<p class="center bold">THE PUBLIC BEREAVEMENT.</p>

<hr class="tiny" />

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>
</div>

<hr />

<p>A sympathizing friend sends the following
gem:&mdash;</p>

<p class="center">A LAMENT</p>

<p class="center sm">FOR S.&nbsp;B. PAT PAW.</p>

<hr class="tiny" />


<div class="poem1">
<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   We mourn the loss of our little pet,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      And sigh o'er her hapless fate,</p>
<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   For never more by the fire she'll sit,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      Nor play by the old green gate.</p>
<p><br /></p>

<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   The little grave where her infant sleeps,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      Is 'neath the chestnut tree;</p>
<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   But o'er <em>her</em> grave we may not weep,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      We know not where it may be.</p>
<p><br /></p>

<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   Her empty bed, her idle ball,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
   Will never see her more;</p>
<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   No gentle tap, no loving purr</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
   Is heard at the parlor-door.</p>
<p><br /></p>

<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   <span class="pagenum2">129</span>
   Another cat comes after her mice,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      A cat with a dirty face;</p>
<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   But she does not hunt as our darling did,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      Nor play with her airy grace.</p>
<p><br /></p>

<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   Her stealthy paws tread the very hall</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      Where Snowball used to play,</p>
<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   But she only spits at the dogs our pet</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      So gallantly drove away.</p>
<p><br /></p>

<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   She is useful and mild, and does her best,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      But she is not fair to see;</p>
<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   And we cannot give her your place, dear,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      Nor worship her as we worship thee.</p>
</div>
			
<p class="sig">A. S.</p>


<hr class="hr3" />

<p class="center bold">ADVERTISEMENTS.</p>


<hr class="hr3" />


<p><span class="smc">Miss Oranthy Bluggage</span>, the accomplished
Strong-Minded Lecturer, will
deliver her famous Lecture on "<span class="smc">Woman
and Her Position</span>," at Pickwick Hall,
next Saturday Evening, after the usual
performances.</p>

<hr class="hr3" />

<p><span class="smc">A Weekly Meeting</span> will be held at
Kitchen Place, to teach young ladies how
to cook. Hannah Brown will preside; and
all are invited to attend.</p>

<hr class="hr3" />

<p><span class="smc">The Dustpan Society</span> 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.</p>

<hr class="hr3" />

<p><span class="smc">Mrs. Beth Bouncer</span> will open her
new assortment of Doll's Millinery next
week. The latest Paris Fashions have
arrived, and orders are respectfully solicited.</p>

<hr class="hr3" />

<p><span class="smc">A New Play</span> will appear at the
Barnville Theatre, in the course of a few
weeks, which will surpass anything ever
seen on the American stage. "<span class="smc">The
Greek Slave</span>, or Constantine the Avenger,"
is the name of this thrilling drama!!!</p>

<hr class="hr3" />

<p class="center">HINTS.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<hr />

<p class="center">WEEKLY REPORT.</p>

<p class="noindent">
Meg&mdash;Good.<br />
Jo&mdash;Bad.<br />
Beth&mdash;Very good.<br />
Amy&mdash;Middling.</p>

<hr class="hr2" />

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">130</span>
As the President finished reading the paper (which I beg leave to
assure my readers is a <i>bona fide</i> copy of one written by <i>bona fide</i> girls
once upon a time), a round of applause followed, and then Mr.
Snodgrass rose to make a proposition.</p>

<p>"Mr. President and gentlemen," he began, assuming a parliamentary
attitude and tone, "I wish to propose the admission of a
new member,&mdash;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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"We'll put it to vote," said the President. "All in favor of this
motion please to manifest it by saying 'Ay.'"</p>

<p>A loud response from Snodgrass, followed, to everybody's surprise,
by a timid one from Beth.</p>

<p>"Contrary minded say 'No.'"</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p>This artful allusion to benefits conferred brought Tupman to his
feet, looking as if he had quite made up his mind.</p>

<p>"Yes, we ought to do it, even if we <em>are</em> afraid. I say he <em>may</em>
come, and his grandpa, too, if he likes."</p>

<p>This spirited burst from Beth electrified the club, and Jo left her
<span class="pagenum2">131</span>
seat to shake hands approvingly. "Now then, vote again. Everybody
remember it's our Laurie, and say 'Ay!'" cried Snodgrass
excitedly.</p>

<p>"Ay! ay! ay!" replied three voices at once.</p>

<p>"Good! Bless you! Now, as there's nothing like 'taking time by
the <i>fetlock</i>,' 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 twinkling with suppressed laughter.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b055.png" id="b055.png"></a>
<img src="images/b055.png" width="400" height="504"
alt="Jo threw open the door of the closet"
title="Jo threw open the door of the closet" />
</div>

<p>"You rogue! you traitor! Jo, how could you?" cried the three
<span class="pagenum2">132</span>
girls, as Snodgrass led her friend triumphantly forth; and, producing
both a chair and a badge, installed him in a jiffy.</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;I beg pardon,
gentlemen,&mdash;allow me to introduce myself as Sam Weller, the very
humble servant of the club."</p>

<p>"Good! good!" cried Jo, pounding with the handle of the old
warming-pan on which she leaned.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Come now, don't lay it all on yourself; you know I proposed
the cupboard," broke in Snodgrass, who was enjoying the joke
amazingly.</p>

<p>"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 <i>dewote</i>
myself to the interest of this immortal club."</p>

<p>"Hear! hear!" cried Jo, clashing the lid of the warming-pan like
a cymbal.</p>

<p>"Go on, go on!" added Winkle and Tupman, while the President
bowed benignly.</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;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
<span class="pagenum2">133</span>
present the club key; and, with many thanks for your favor, take my
seat."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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!</p>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>XI. Experiments.</h2>
<p>
<span class="pagenum2">134</span></p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 617px;">
<a name="b056.png" id="b056.png"></a>
<img src="images/b056.png" width="617" height="400"
alt="Jo spent the morning on the river"
title="Jo spent the morning on the river" />
</div>

<p class="h2"><a name="XI" id="XI"></a><a href="#contents">XI.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">EXPERIMENTS.</p>

<p>"<span class="smc">The</span> first of June! The Kings are off to the seashore to-morrow,
and I'm free. Three months' vacation,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>"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, 'Josy-phine,
<span class="pagenum2">135</span>
won't you&mdash;?' 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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Aunt March is a regular samphire, is she not?" observed Amy,
tasting her mixture critically.</p>

<p>"She means <em>vampire</em>, not sea-weed; but it doesn't matter; it's
too warm to be particular about one's parts of speech," murmured
Jo.</p>

<p>"What shall you do all your vacation?" asked Amy, changing the
subject, with tact.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Don't say 'larks!'" implored Amy, as a return snub for the
"samphire" correction.</p>

<p>"I'll say 'nightingales,' then, with Laurie; that's proper and
appropriate, since he's a warbler."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"May we, mother?" asked Meg, turning to Mrs. March, who sat
sewing, in what they called "Marmee's corner."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p><ins title="Ambiguous punctuation after no is an exclamation point!"> 
"Oh, dear, no!</ins> it will be delicious, I'm sure," said Meg 
complacently.</p>

<p>"I now propose a toast, as my 'friend and pardner, Sairy Gamp,'
<span class="pagenum2">136</span>
says. Fun forever, and no grubbing!" cried Jo, rising, glass in hand,
as the lemonade went round.</p>

<div class="figleft" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b057.png" id="b057.png"></a>
<img src="images/b057.png" width="400" height="519"
alt="Amy sat down to draw"
title="Amy sat down to draw" />
</div>

<p>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.</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">137</span>
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 furbish them up
&agrave; 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 <em>all play, and no work</em>, 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
<span class="pagenum2">138</span>
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 <i>ennui</i>.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Mercy on us! what <em>has</em> happened?" cried Jo, staring about her
in dismay.</p>

<p>Meg ran upstairs, and soon came back again, looking relieved, but
rather bewildered, and a little ashamed.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"That's easy enough, and I like the idea; I'm aching for something
to do&mdash;that is, some new amusement, you know," added Jo
quickly.</p>

<p>In fact it <em>was</em> 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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">139</span>
received her repast with thanks, and laughed heartily over it after Jo
was gone.</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;a
motherly little deception, for which they were grateful.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>This obliging offer was gladly accepted; and 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.</p>

<p>"You'd better see what you have got before you think of having
company," said Meg, when informed of the hospitable but rash
act.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I don't want you to do anything but be civil to him, and help to
the pudding. You'll give me your advice if I get in a muddle, won't
you?" asked Jo, rather hurt.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">140</span>
"Of course I shall; I'm not a fool," and Jo went off in a huff at
the doubts expressed of her powers.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Everything is out of sorts, somehow," she said to herself, going
down stairs. "There's Beth crying; that's a sure sign that something
is wrong with this family. If Amy is bothering, I'll shake her."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">141</span>
"It's all my fault&mdash;I forgot him&mdash;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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 466px;">
<a name="b058.png" id="b058.png"></a>
<img src="images/b058.png" width="466" height="400"
alt="O Pip! O Pip!"
title="O Pip! O Pip!" />
</div>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Put him in the oven, and maybe he will get warm and revive,"
said Amy hopefully.</p>

<p>"He's been starved, and he sha'n'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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Here's a sweet prospect!" muttered Jo, slamming the stove-door
open, and poking vigorously among the cinders.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"I say, isn't bread 'riz' enough when it runs over the pans?"</p>

<p>Sallie began to laugh; but Meg nodded, and lifted her eyebrows
<span class="pagenum2">142</span>
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, criticised
everything, and told stories of the people whom she knew.</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">143</span></p>

<div class="figright" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b059.png" id="b059.png"></a>
<img src="images/b059.png" width="400" height="537"
alt="Miss Crocker made a wry face"
title="Miss Crocker made a wry face" />
</div>

<p>
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.</p>

<p>"Oh, what is it?" exclaimed Jo trembling.</p>

<p>"Salt instead of sugar, and the cream is sour," replied Meg, with a
tragic gesture.</p>

<p>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 <em>would</em> 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.</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">144</span>
"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.</p>

<p>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:&mdash;</p>


<div class="poem1 clear">
<p class="indent30 left-indent20">
   "Here lies Pip March,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent20">
    Who died the 7th of June;</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent20">
    Loved and lamented sore,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent20">
    And not forgotten soon."</p>
</div>


<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"What a dreadful day this has been!" begun Jo, usually the first
to speak.</p>

<p>"It has seemed shorter than usual, but <em>so</em> uncomfortable," said
Meg.</p>

<p>"Not a bit like home," added Amy.</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">145</span>
"It can't seem so without Marmee and little Pip," sighed Beth,
glancing, with full eyes, at the empty cage above her head.</p>

<p>"Here's mother, dear, and you shall have another bird to-morrow,
if you want it."</p>

<p>As she spoke, Mrs. March came and took her place among them,
looking as if her holiday had not been much pleasanter than theirs.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I don't!" cried Jo decidedly.</p>

<p>"Nor I," echoed the others.</p>

<p>"You think, then, that it is better to have a few duties, and live a
little for others, do you?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"We do, mother, we do!" cried the girls.</p>

<p>"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 <i>ennui</i> and mischief, is good for
<span class="pagenum2">146</span>
health and spirits, and gives us a sense of power and independence
better than money or fashion."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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 
<ins title="Change buttonholes to button-holes."> 
button-holes,</ins>
and attend to my parts of speech."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"We'll remember, mother!" and they did.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 310px;">
<a name="b060.png" id="b060.png"></a>
<img src="images/b060.png" width="310" height="200"
alt="We&#39;ll work like bees"
title="We&#39;ll work like bees" />
</div>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>XII. Camp Laurence</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">147</span></p>

<p class="h2"><a name="XII" id="XII"></a><a href="#contents1b">XII.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">CAMP LAURENCE.</p>

<div class="figleft" style="width: 200px;">
<a name="b061.png" id="b061.png"></a>
<img src="images/b061.png" width="200" height="335"
alt="Beth was post-mistress"
title="Beth was post-mistress" />
</div>

<p><span class="smc">Beth</span>
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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Miss Meg March, one letter
and a glove," continued
Beth, delivering the articles to
her sister, who sat near her
mother, stitching wristbands.</p>

<p>"Why, I left a pair over there, and here is only one," said Meg,
looking at the gray cotton glove.</p>

<p>"Didn't you drop the other in the garden?"</p>

<p>"No, I'm sure I didn't; for there was only one in the office."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">148</span>
"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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 <em>don't</em> care for the fashion;" and, hanging
the antique broad-brim on a bust of Plato, Jo read her letters.</p>

<p>One from her mother made her cheeks glow and her eyes fill, for
it said to her,&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>
<p class="noindent smc">"My dear:</p>

<p>"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. <em>I</em>, 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</p>

<p class="right">"<span class="smc">Mother.</span>"</p>
</blockquote>

<p>"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."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">149</span>
Laying her head on her arms, Jo wet her little romance with a few
happy tears, for she <em>had</em> 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,&mdash;</p>


<p class="letter-head1">
     "<span class="smc">Dear Jo</span>,<br />
      What ho!
</p>


<p class="noindent">
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,&mdash;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,&mdash;I'll see to that, and
everything else,&mdash;only do come, there's a good fellow!</p>


<p class="letter-trail1">
     "In a tearing hurry,<br />
      Yours ever, <span class="smc">Laurie</span>."
</p>

<p>"Here's richness!" cried Jo, flying in to tell the news to Meg.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I hope the Vaughns are not fine, grown-up people. Do you
know anything about them, Jo?" asked Meg.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I'm so glad my French print is clean; it's just the thing, and so
<span class="pagenum2">150</span>
becoming!" observed Meg complacently. "Have you anything
decent, Jo?"</p>

<p>"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, Bethy?"</p>

<p>"If you won't let any of the boys talk to me."</p>

<p>"Not a boy!"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I had a box of chocolate drops, and the picture I wanted to
copy," said Amy, showing her mail.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Now let's fly round, and do double duty to-day, so that we can
play to-morrow with free minds," said Jo, preparing to replace her
pen with a broom.</p>

<p>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 f&ecirc;te 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
<span class="pagenum2">151</span>
that Jo woke up, and roused all her sisters by a hearty laugh at Amy's
ornament.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 560px;">
<a name="b062.png" id="b062.png"></a>
<img src="images/b062.png" width="560" height="400"
alt="Amy capped the climax by putting a clothes-pin on her nose"
title="Amy capped the climax by putting a clothes-pin on her nose" />
</div>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;nice boy! Oh, mercy me!
here's a carriage full of people&mdash;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?"</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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!"</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">152</span>
"O Jo, you are not going to wear that awful hat? It's too
absurd! You shall <em>not</em> 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.</p>

<p>"I just will, though, for it's capital,&mdash;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,&mdash;a bright
little band of sisters, all looking their best, in summer suits, with happy
faces under the jaunty hat-brims.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">153</span>
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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 577px;">
<a name="b063.png" id="b063.png"></a>
<img src="images/b063.png" width="577" height="400"
alt="Mr. Laurence waving his hat"
title="Mr. Laurence waving his hat" />
</div>

<p>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 encyclop&aelig;dia
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 piqu&eacute; dress clean, and chattering with the ubiquitous Fred, who
kept Beth in constant terror by his pranks.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">154</span>
"Welcome to Camp Laurence!" said the young host, as they
landed, with exclamations of delight.</p>

<p>"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 mess-room, and the third is the camp-kitchen.
Now, let's have a game before it gets hot, and then we'll see about
dinner."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"I'm through! Now, Miss Jo, I'll settle you, and get in first,"
cried the young gentleman, swinging his mallet for another blow.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 475px;">
<a name="b064.png" id="b064.png"></a>
<img src="images/b064.png" width="475" height="400"
alt="Now, Miss Jo, I&#39;ll settle you"
title="Now, Miss Jo, I&#39;ll settle you" />
</div>

<p>"You pushed it; I saw you; it's my turn now," said Jo sharply.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"We don't cheat in America, but you can, if you choose," said Jo
angrily.</p>

<p>"Yankees are a deal the most tricky, everybody knows. There
you go!" returned Fred, croqueting her ball far away.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">155</span>
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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>Meg drew her aside, under pretence of pinning up a loose braid,
and said approvingly,&mdash;</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">156</span>
"It was dreadfully provoking; but you kept your temper, and I'm
so glad, Jo."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Time for lunch," said Mr. Brooke, looking at his watch. "Commissary-general,
will you make the fire and get water, while Miss
March, Miss Sallie, and I spread the table? Who can make good
coffee?"</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 593px;">
<a name="b065.png" id="b065.png"></a>
<img class="border" src="images/b065.png" width="593" height="400"
alt="A very merry lunch it was"
title="A very merry lunch it was" /><br />
<span class="caption">&quot;A very merry lunch it was.&quot;&mdash;Page 156.</span>

</div>

<p>"There's salt here, if you prefer it," said Laurie, as he handed Jo
a saucer of berries.</p>

<p>"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?"
<span class="pagenum2">157</span>
added Jo, as they both laughed, and ate out of one plate, the china
having run short.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<div class="figleft" style="width: 350px;">
<a name="b066.png" id="b066.png"></a>
<img src="images/b066.png" width="350" height="700"
alt="He went prancing down a quiet street"
title="He went prancing down a quiet street" />
</div>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">158</span>
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&mdash;"</p>

<p>"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, 
<ins title="Add period after kneeling."> 
still kneeling.</ins> '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&mdash;"</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b067.png" id="b067.png"></a>
<img src="images/b067.png" width="400" height="461"
alt="&quot;Oh, rise,&quot; she said"
title="&quot;Oh, rise,&quot; she said" />
</div>

<div class="figright" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b067a.png" id="b067a.png"></a>
<img src="images/b067a.png" width="400" height="421"
alt="A stunning blow from the big Greek lexicon"
title="A stunning blow from the big Greek lexicon" />
</div>

<p>"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;
<span class="pagenum2">159</span>
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
<span class="pagenum2">160</span>
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&mdash;"</p>

<p>"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&mdash;"</p>

<div class="figleft" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b068.png" id="b068.png"></a>
<img src="images/b068.png" width="400" height="473"
alt="He sneezed"
title="He sneezed" />
</div>

<p>"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&mdash;"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"No, they don't!" cried Jo, aside.</p>

<div class="figright" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b069.png" id="b069.png"></a>
<img src="images/b069.png" width="400" height="415"
alt="The Portuguese walked the plank"
title="The Portuguese walked the plank" />
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum2">161</span>
"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&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Oh, gracious! what
<em>shall</em> 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&mdash;"</p>

<p>"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&mdash;"</p>

<div class="figleft" style="width: 311px;">
<a name="b070.png" id="b070.png"></a>
<img src="images/b070.png" width="311" height="700"
alt="Will you give me a rose?"
title="Will you give me a rose?" />
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum2">162</span>
"'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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">163</span>
"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I hope so," said Meg soberly.</p>

<p>"The game, I mean?"</p>

<p>"What is it?" said Fred.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Let's try it," said Jo, who liked new experiments.</p>

<p>Miss Kate and Mr. Brooke, Meg, and Ned declined, but Fred,
Sallie, Jo, and Laurie piled and drew; and the lot fell to Laurie.</p>

<p>"Who are your heroes?" asked Jo.</p>

<p>"Grandfather and Napoleon."</p>

<p>"Which lady here do you think prettiest?" said Sallie.</p>

<p>"Margaret."</p>

<p>"Which do you like best?" from Fred.</p>

<p>"Jo, of course."</p>

<p>"What silly questions you ask!" and Jo gave a disdainful shrug as
the rest laughed at Laurie's matter-of-fact tone.</p>

<p>"Try again; Truth isn't a bad game," said Fred.</p>

<p>"It's a very good one for you," retorted Jo, in a low voice.</p>

<p>Her turn came next.</p>

<p>"What is your greatest fault?" asked Fred, by way of testing in
her the virtue he lacked himself.</p>

<p>"A quick temper."</p>

<p>"What do you most wish for?" said Laurie.</p>

<p>"A pair of boot-lacings," returned Jo, guessing and defeating his
purpose.</p>

<p>"Not a true answer; you must say what you really do want most."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">164</span>
"Genius; don't you wish you could give it to me, Laurie?" and
she slyly smiled in his disappointed face.</p>

<p>"What virtues do you most admire in a man?" asked Sallie.</p>

<p>"Courage and honesty."</p>

<p>"Now my turn," said Fred, as his hand came last.</p>

<p>"Let's give it to him," whispered Laurie to Jo, who nodded, and
asked at once,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Didn't you cheat at croquet?"</p>

<p>"Well, yes, a little bit."</p>

<p>"Good! Didn't you take your story out of 'The Sea-Lion?'"
said Laurie.</p>

<p>"Rather."</p>

<p>"Don't you think the English nation perfect in every respect?"
asked Sallie.</p>

<p>"I should be ashamed of myself if I didn't."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"You impertinent boy! of course I'm not," exclaimed Sallie, with
an air that proved the contrary.</p>

<p>"What do you hate most?" asked Fred.</p>

<p>"Spiders and rice-pudding."</p>

<p>"What do you like best?" asked Jo.</p>

<p>"Dancing and French gloves."</p>

<p>"Well, <em>I</em> think Truth is a very silly play; let's have a sensible
game of Authors, to refresh our minds," proposed Jo.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"How beautifully you do it! I wish I could draw," said Meg,
with mingled admiration and regret in her voice.</p>

<p>"Why don't you learn? I should think you had taste and talent
for it," replied Miss Kate graciously.</p>

<p>"I haven't time."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">165</span>
"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?"</p>

<p>"I have none."</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"I don't go at all; I am a governess myself."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Did the German song suit, Miss March?" inquired Mr. Brooke,
breaking an awkward pause.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Don't you read German?" asked Miss Kate, with a look of surprise.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"It's so hard I'm afraid to try," said Meg, grateful, but bashful in
the presence of the accomplished young lady beside her.</p>

<p>"I'll read a bit to encourage you;" and Miss Kate read one of
<span class="pagenum2">166</span>
the most beautiful passages, in a perfectly correct but perfectly expressionless
manner.</p>

<p>Mr. Brooke made no comment, as she returned the book to Meg,
who said innocently,&mdash;</p>

<p>"I thought it was poetry."</p>

<p>"Some of it is. Try this passage."</p>

<p>There was a queer smile about Mr. Brooke's mouth as he opened
at poor Mary's lament.</p>

<p><ins title="Add comm after Meg,"> 
Meg, obediently following the long grass-blade</ins> 
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.</p>

<p>"Very well indeed!" said Mr. Brooke, as she paused, quite ignoring
her many mistakes, and looking as if he did, indeed, "love to
teach."</p>

<p>Miss Kate put up her glass, and, having taken a survey of the little
tableau before her, shut her sketch-book, saying, with condescension,&mdash;</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b071.png" id="b071.png"></a>
<img src="images/b071.png" width="400" height="466"
alt="Miss Kate put up her glass"
title="Miss Kate put up her glass" />
</div>

<p>"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 <em>is</em> young and pretty. What odd
people these Yankees are; I'm afraid Laurie will be quite spoilt
among them."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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 ashamed to lament her hard lot.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">167</span>
"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Going to college, I suppose?" Meg's lips asked that question,
but her eyes added, "And what becomes of you?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">168</span>
"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Tell me about Ellen Tree; is it a donkey?" asked Grace curiously.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 524px;">
<a name="b072.png" id="b072.png"></a>
<img src="images/b072.png" width="524" height="400"
alt="Ellen Tree"
title="Ellen Tree" />
</div>

<p>"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."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">169</span>
"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"I'm afraid you are tired; can I do anything for you?"</p>

<p>"Talk to me, please; it's dull, sitting by myself," answered Frank,
who had evidently been used to being made much of at home.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"What do you like to talk about?" she asked, fumbling over the
cards, and dropping half as she tried to tie them up.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>Buffaloes proved soothing and satisfactory; and, in her eagerness
to amuse another, Beth forgot herself, and was quite unconscious
<span class="pagenum2">170</span>
of her sisters' surprise and delight at the unusual spectacle of Beth
talking away to one of the dreadful boys, against whom she had
begged protection.</p>

<p>"Bless her heart! She pities him, so she is good to him," said Jo,
beaming at her from the croquet-ground.</p>

<p>"I always said she was a little saint," added Meg, as if there could
be no further doubt of it.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"My sister Beth is a very <em>fastidious</em> 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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p class="center">"Alone, alone, ah! woe, alone,"</p>

<p>and at the lines&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem1">
<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   "We each are young, we each have a heart,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
    Oh, why should we stand thus coldly apart?"</p>
</div>

<p class="noindent">
he looked at Meg with such a lackadaisical expression that she
laughed outright and spoilt his song.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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 <em>had</em> shunned him, remembering the Moffat
party and the talk after it.</p>

<p>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?"</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">171</span>
"Not a particle; but she's a dear," returned Sallie, defending her
friend even while confessing her short-comings.</p>

<p>"She's not a stricken deer, any way," said Ned, trying to be witty,
and succeeding as well as very young gentlemen usually do.</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p>"I quite agree with you," said Mr. Brooke.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 565px;">
<a name="b073.png" id="b073.png"></a>
<img src="images/b073.png" width="565" height="400"
alt="Tail-piece"
title="Tail-piece" />
</div>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>XIII. Castles in the Air.</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">172</span></p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 501px;">
<a name="b074.png" id="b074.png"></a>
<img src="images/b074.png" width="501" height="400"
alt="Swinging to and fro in his hammock"
title="Swinging to and fro in his hammock" />
</div>

<p class="h2"><a name="XIII" id="XIII"></a><a href="#contents1b">XIII.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">CASTLES IN THE AIR.</p>

<p><span class="smc">Laurie</span> 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
<span class="pagenum2">173</span>
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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Here's a landscape!" thought Laurie, peeping through the bushes,
and looking wide-awake and good-natured already.</p>

<p>It <em>was</em> 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
<span class="pagenum2">174</span>
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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 533px;">
<a name="b075.png" id="b075.png"></a>
<img src="images/b075.png" width="533" height="400"
alt="It was rather a pretty little picture"
title="It was rather a pretty little picture" />
</div>

<p>"May I come in, please? or shall I be a bother?" he asked, advancing
slowly.</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p>"I always liked your games; but if Meg doesn't want me, I'll go
away."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">175</span>
"I've no objection, if you do something; it's against the rules to
be idle here," replied Meg, gravely but graciously.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Finish this story while I set my heel," said Jo, handing him the
book.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>The story was not a long one, and, when it was finished, he ventured
to ask a few questions as a reward of merit.</p>

<p>"Please, ma'am, could I inquire if this highly instructive and
charming institution is a new one?"</p>

<p>"Would you tell him?" asked Meg of her sisters.</p>

<p>"He'll laugh," said Amy warningly.</p>

<p>"Who cares?" said Jo.</p>

<p>"I guess he'll like it," added Beth.</p>

<p>"Of course I shall! I give you my word I won't laugh. Tell
away, Jo, and don't be afraid."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Yes, I know," said Laurie, nodding wisely.</p>

<p>"Who told you?" demanded Jo.</p>

<p>"Spirits."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"You can't keep a secret. Never mind; it saves trouble now."</p>

<p>"Go on, please," said Laurie, as Jo became absorbed in her work,
looking a trifle displeased.</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">176</span>
worked at it with a will. The vacation is nearly over, the stints are
all done, and we are ever so glad that we didn't dawdle."</p>

<p>"Yes, I should think so;" and Laurie thought regretfully of his
own idle days.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"How beautiful that is!" said Laurie softly, for he was quick to
see and feel beauty of any kind.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Jo talks about the country where we hope to live some time,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>"There is a lovelier country even than that, where we <em>shall</em> go, by
and by, when we are good enough," answered Meg, with her sweet
voice.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">177</span>
City. If I arrive late, you'll say a good word for me, won't you,
Beth?"</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"You'd have to take your favorite one. What is it?" asked Meg.</p>

<p>"If I tell mine, will you tell yours?"</p>

<p>"Yes, if the girls will too."</p>

<p>"We will. Now, Laurie."</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>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,&mdash;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."</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b076.png" id="b076.png"></a>
<img src="images/b076.png" width="400" height="412"
alt="Waved a brake before her face"
title="Waved a brake before her face" />
</div>

<p>"Wouldn't you have a master for your castle in the air?" asked
Laurie slyly.</p>

<p>"I said 'pleasant people,' you know;" and Meg carefully tied up
her shoe as she spoke, so that no one saw her face.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">178</span>
"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.</p>

<p>"You'd have nothing but horses, inkstands, and novels in yours,"
answered Meg petulantly.</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;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 <em>my</em> favorite dream."</p>

<p>"Mine is to stay at home safe with father and mother, and help
take care of the family," said Beth contentedly.</p>

<p>"Don't you wish for anything else?" asked Laurie.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">179</span>
"Since I had my little piano, I am perfectly satisfied. I only
wish we may all keep well and be together; nothing else."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I've got the key to mine, but I'm not allowed to try it. Hang
college!" muttered Laurie, with an impatient sigh.</p>

<p>"Here's mine!" and Amy waved her pencil.</p>

<p>"I haven't got any," said Meg forlornly.</p>

<p>"Yes, you have," said Laurie at once.</p>

<p>"Where?"</p>

<p>"In your face."</p>

<p>"Nonsense; that's of no use."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Bless me! how old I shall be,&mdash;twenty-seven!" exclaimed Meg
who felt grown up already, having just reached seventeen.</p>

<p>"You and I shall be twenty-six, Teddy, Beth twenty-four, and
Amy twenty-two. What a venerable party!" said Jo.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"You need a motive, mother says; and when you get it, she is
sure you'll work splendidly."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">180</span>
"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Only what your grandpa told us about him,&mdash;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
<span class="pagenum2">181</span>
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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Begin to do something
now, by not
plaguing his life out,"
said Meg sharply.</p>

<p>"How do you know
I do, miss?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<div class="figright" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b077.png" id="b077.png"></a>
<img src="images/b077.png" width="400" height="572"
alt="I see him bow and smile"
title="I see him bow and smile" />
</div>

<p>"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."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">182</span>
"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.</p>

<p>"<em>I</em> 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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p>Bent on showing that he was not offended, he made himself as
agreeable as possible,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>"May I come again?" asked Laurie.</p>

<p>"Yes, if you are good, and love your book, as the boys in the
primer are told to do," said Meg smiling.</p>

<p>"I'll try."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">183</span>
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."</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 435px;">
<a name="b078.png" id="b078.png"></a>
<img src="images/b078.png" width="435" height="400"
alt="Tail-piece"
title="Tail-piece" />
</div>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>XIV. Secrets.</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">184</span></p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 461px;">
<a name="b079.png" id="b079.png"></a>
<img src="images/b079.png" width="461" height="400"
alt="Jo was very busy"
title="Jo was very busy" />
</div>

<p class="h2"><a name="XIV" id="XIV"></a><a href="#contents1b">XIV.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">SECRETS.</p>

<p><span class="smc">Jo</span> 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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"There, I've done my best! If this won't suit I shall have to wait
till I can do better."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">185</span>
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 
<ins title="Change receptable to receptacle."> 
tin receptacle Jo produced another manuscript;</ins>
and, putting both in her pocket, crept quietly down stairs, leaving her
friends to nibble her pens and taste her ink.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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 door-way,
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 man&oelig;uvre 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.</p>

<p>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 
<ins title="Change doorway to door-way."> 
door-way, saying, </ins> with a smile and a
shiver,&mdash;</p>

<p>"It's like her to come alone, but if she has a bad time she'll need
some one to help her home."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">186</span>
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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Did you have a bad time?"</p>

<p>"Not very."</p>

<p>"You got through quickly."</p>

<p>"Yes, thank goodness!"</p>

<p>"Why did you go alone?"</p>

<p>"Didn't want any one to know."</p>

<p>"You're the oddest fellow I ever saw. How many did you have
out?"</p>

<p>Jo looked at her friend as if she did not understand him; then
began to laugh, as if mightily amused at something.</p>

<p>"There are two which I want to have come out, but I must wait
a week."</p>

<p>"What are you laughing at? You are up to some mischief, Jo,"
said Laurie, looking mystified.</p>

<p>"So are you. What were you doing, sir, up in that billiard saloon?"</p>

<p>"Begging your pardon, ma'am, it wasn't a billiard saloon, but a
gymnasium, and I was taking a lesson in fencing."</p>

<p>"I'm glad of that."</p>

<p>"Why?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>Laurie burst out with a hearty boy's laugh, which made several
passers-by smile in spite of themselves.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"No, I was glad that you were not in the saloon, because I hope
you never go to such places. Do you?"</p>

<p>"Not often."</p>

<p>"I wish you wouldn't."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">187</span>
"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Can't a fellow take a little innocent amusement now and then
without losing his respectability?" asked Laurie, looking nettled.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Won't she?" asked Laurie anxiously.</p>

<p>"No, she can't bear fashionable young men, and she'd shut us all
up in bandboxes rather than have us associate with them."</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I'll be a double-distilled saint."</p>

<p>"I can't bear saints: just be a simple, honest, respectable boy,
and we'll never desert you. I don't know what I <em>should</em> 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."</p>

<p>"You think I'm likely to do the same? Much obliged."</p>

<p>"No, I don't&mdash;oh, <em>dear</em>, no!&mdash;but I hear people talking about
money being such a temptation, and I sometimes wish you were
poor; I shouldn't worry then."</p>

<p>"Do you worry about me, Jo?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>Laurie walked in silence a few minutes, and Jo watched him, wishing
<span class="pagenum2">188</span>
she had held her tongue, for his eyes looked angry, though his
lips still smiled as if at her warnings.</p>

<p>"Are you going to deliver lectures all the way home?" he asked
presently.</p>

<p>"Of course not; why?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I won't preach any more, and I'd like to hear the news immensely."</p>

<p>"Very well, then; come on. It's a secret, and if I tell you, you
must tell me yours."</p>

<p>"I haven't got any," began Jo, but stopped suddenly, remembering
that she had.</p>

<p>"You know you have,&mdash;you can't hide anything; so up and 'fess,
or I won't tell," cried Laurie.</p>

<p>"Is your secret a nice one?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"You'll not say anything about it at home, will you?"</p>

<p>"Not a word."</p>

<p>"And you won't tease me in private?"</p>

<p>"I never tease."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Thank you; fire away."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<div class="figright" style="width: 320px;">
<a name="b080.png" id="b080.png"></a>
<img src="images/b080.png" width="320" height="700"
alt="Hurrah for Miss March"
title="Hurrah for Miss March" />
</div>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"It won't fail. Why, Jo, your stories are works of Shakespeare,
<span class="pagenum2">189</span>
compared to half the rubbish 
<ins title="Change comma to period after every day."> 
that is published every day.</ins> Won't it
be fun to see them in print; and sha'n't we feel proud of our authoress?"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Where's <em>your</em> 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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Is that all?" said Jo, looking
disappointed, as Laurie nodded
and twinkled, with a face
full of mysterious intelligence.</p>

<p>"It's quite enough for the
present, as you'll agree when I
tell you where it is."</p>

<p>"Tell, then."</p>

<p>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?"</p>

<p>"Saw it."</p>

<p>"Where?"</p>

<p>"Pocket."</p>

<p>"All this time?"</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">190</span>
"Yes; isn't that romantic?"</p>

<p>"No, it's horrid."</p>

<p>"Don't you like it?"</p>

<p>"Of course I don't. It's ridiculous; it won't be allowed. My
patience! what would Meg say?"</p>

<p>"You are not to tell any one; mind that."</p>

<p>"I didn't promise."</p>

<p>"That was understood, and I trusted you."</p>

<p>"Well, I won't for the present, any way; but I'm disgusted, and
wish you hadn't told me."</p>

<p>"I thought you'd be pleased."</p>

<p>"At the idea of anybody coming to take Meg away? No, thank
you."</p>

<p>"You'll feel better about
it when somebody comes to
take you away."</p>

<p>"I'd like to see any one
try it," cried Jo fiercely.</p>

<p>"So should I!" and Laurie
chuckled at the idea.</p>

<p>"I don't think secrets
agree with me; I feel rumpled
up in my mind since you
told me that," said Jo, rather
ungratefully.</p>

<p>"Race down this hill with
me, and you'll be all right,"
suggested Laurie.</p>

<div class="figleft" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b081.png" id="b081.png"></a>
<img src="images/b081.png" width="400" height="551"
alt="Jo darted away"
title="Jo darted away" />
</div>

<p>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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">191</span>
"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"What in the world are you doing here?" she asked, regarding
her dishevelled sister with well-bred surprise.</p>

<p>"Getting leaves," meekly answered Jo, sorting the rosy handful
she had just swept up.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"You have been running, Jo; how could you? When <em>will</em> you
stop such romping ways?" said Meg reprovingly, as she settled her
cuffs, and smoothed her hair, with which the wind had taken liberties.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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?"</p>

<p>"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!"</p>

<p>"Do you envy her, Meg?" said Laurie.</p>

<p>"I'm afraid I do."</p>

<p>"I'm glad of it!" muttered Jo, tying on her hat with a jerk.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">192</span>
"Why?" asked Meg, looking surprised.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I shall never '<em>go</em> 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.</p>

<p>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 woe-begone 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.</p>

<p>"What shall we do with that girl? She never <em>will</em> behave like a
young lady," sighed Meg, as she watched the race with a disapproving
face.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"It's very trying, but we never can make her <i>commy la fo</i>," added
Amy, who sat making some new frills for herself, with her curls tied
up in a very becoming way,&mdash;two agreeable things, which made her
feel unusually elegant and ladylike.</p>

<p>In a few minutes Jo bounced in, laid herself on the sofa, and affected
to read.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 700px;">
<a name="b082.png" id="b082.png"></a>
<img src="images/b082.png" width="700" height="384"
alt="Jo laid herself on the sofa and affected to read"
title="Jo laid herself on the sofa and affected to read" />
</div>

<p>"Have you anything interesting there?" asked Meg, with condescension.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">193</span>
"Nothing but a story; won't amount to much, I guess," returned
Jo, carefully keeping the name of the paper out of sight.</p>

<p>"You'd better read it aloud; that will amuse us and keep you out
of mischief," said Amy, in her most grown-up tone.</p>

<p>"What's the name?" asked Beth, wondering why Jo kept her
face behind the sheet.</p>

<p>"The Rival Painters."</p>

<p>"That sounds well; read it," said Meg.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"I like that about the splendid picture," was Amy's approving
remark, as Jo paused.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Who wrote it?" asked Beth, who had caught a glimpse of Jo's
face.</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p>"You?" cried Meg, dropping her work.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">194</span>
"It's very good," said Amy critically.</p>

<p>"I knew it! I knew it! O my Jo, I <em>am</em> so proud!" and Beth
ran to hug her sister, and exult over this splendid success.</p>

<p>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 criticised 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.</p>

<p>"Tell us all about it." "When did it come?" "How much did you
get for it?" "What <em>will</em> 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.</p>

<p>"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 <em>am</em> so happy, for in time I may be able to support
myself and help the girls."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>XV. A Telegram.</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">195</span></p>

<p class="h2"><a name="XV" id="XV"></a><a href="#contents1b">XV.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">A TELEGRAM.</p>

<div class="figleft" style="width: 280px;">
<a name="b083.png" id="b083.png"></a>
<img src="images/b083.png" width="280" height="700"
alt="November is the most disagreeable month in the year"
title="November is the most disagreeable month in the year" />
</div>

<p>
<span class="smc">"November</span> is the most disagreeable
month in the whole year," said Margaret,
standing at the window one
dull afternoon, looking out at the
frost-bitten garden.</p>

<p>"That's the reason I was born in
it," observed Jo pensively, quite unconscious
of the blot on her nose.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I dare say; but nothing pleasant
ever <em>does</em> 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."</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">196</span>
heiress, scorn every one who has slighted you, go abroad, and come
home my Lady Something, in a blaze of splendor and elegance."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Can't wait, and I'm afraid I haven't much faith in ink and dirt,
though I'm grateful for your good intentions."</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p>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?"</p>

<p>"Of course we will."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"We three will be ready in a minute," cried Amy, running away to
wash her hands.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">197</span>
A sharp ring interrupted her, and a minute after Hannah came in
with a letter.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<div class="figright" style="width: 391px;">
<a name="b084.png" id="b084.png"></a>
<img src="images/b084.png" width="391" height="700"
alt="One of them horrid telegraph things"
title="One of them horrid telegraph things" />
</div>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>
<p class="noindent smc">"Mrs. March:</p>

<p>"Your husband is very ill.
Come at once.</p>

<p class="sig2"><span class="padd-right2em">S. Hale,</span></p>
<p class="right no-space-top">"Blank Hospital, Washington"</p>
</blockquote>

<p>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!"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">198</span>
"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.</p>

<p>"She's right; there's no time for tears now. Be calm, girls, and
let me think."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Where's Laurie?" she asked presently, when she had collected
her thoughts, and decided on the first duties to be done.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Send a telegram saying I will come at once. The next train goes
early in the morning. I'll take that."</p>

<p>"What else? The horses are ready; I can go anywhere, do anything,"
he said, looking ready to fly to the ends of the earth.</p>

<p>"Leave a note at Aunt March's. Jo, give me that pen and paper."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Now go, dear; but don't kill yourself driving at a desperate pace;
there is no need of that."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>Writing, thinking, and directing, all at once, might well bewilder the
<span class="pagenum2">199</span>
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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">200</span>
one hand and a cup of tea in the other, she came suddenly upon
Mr. Brooke.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 454px;">
<a name="b085.png" id="b085.png"></a>
<img src="images/b085.png" width="454" height="400"
alt="She came suddenly upon Mr. Brooke"
title="She came suddenly upon Mr. Brooke" />
</div>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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!"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>The short afternoon wore away; all the other errands were done,
and Meg and her mother busy at some necessary 
<ins title="Change needlework to needle-work."> 
needle-work, while</ins>
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
<span class="pagenum2">201</span>
towards making father comfortable and bringing him
home!"</p>

<p>"My dear, where did you get it? Twenty-five dollars! Jo, I hope
you haven't done anything rash?</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>As she spoke, Jo took off her bonnet, and a general outcry arose,
for all her abundant hair was cut short.</p>

<p>"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!"</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p>"Tell me all about it, Jo. <em>I</em> 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.</p>

<p>"No, I won't!" returned Jo stoutly, feeling much relieved that her
prank was not entirely condemned.</p>

<p>"What made you do it?" asked Amy, who would as soon have
thought of cutting off her head as her pretty hair.</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">202</span>
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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I don't see how you dared to do it," said Beth, in a tone of awe.</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"'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.'"</p>

<p>"Who was Jimmy?" asked Amy, who liked to have things explained
as they went along.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 431px;">
<a name="b086.png" id="b086.png"></a>
<img src="images/b086.png" width="431" height="400"
alt="The man clipped"
title="The man clipped" />
</div>

<p>"Didn't you feel dreadfully when the first cut came?" asked Meg,
with a shiver.</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">203</span>
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."</p>

<p>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 to-morrow, and the happy times they would have when
father came home to be nursed.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">204</span>
broke down one by one, till Beth was left alone, singing with all her
heart, for to her music was always a sweet consoler.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Jo, dear, what is it? Are you crying about father?"</p>

<p>"No, not now."</p>

<p>"What then?"</p>

<p>"My&mdash;my hair!" burst out poor Jo, trying vainly to smother her
emotion in the pillow.</p>

<p>It did not sound at all comical to Meg, who kissed and caressed
the afflicted heroine in the tenderest manner.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"I can't sleep, I'm so anxious," said Meg.</p>

<p>"Think about something pleasant, and you'll soon drop off."</p>

<p>"I tried it, but felt wider awake than ever."</p>

<p>"What did you think of?"</p>

<p>"Handsome faces,&mdash;eyes particularly," answered Meg, smiling to
herself, in the dark.</p>

<p>"What color do you like best?"</p>

<p>"Brown&mdash;that is, sometimes; blue are lovely."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>The clocks were striking midnight, and the rooms were very still,
as a figure glided quietly from bed to bed, smoothing a coverlid here,
<span class="pagenum2">205</span>
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."</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 700px;">
<a name="b087.png" id="b087.png"></a>
<img src="images/b087.png" width="700" height="367"
alt="Tail-piece"
title="Tail-piece" />
</div>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>XVI. Letters.</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">206</span></p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 700px;">
<a name="b088.png" id="b088.png"></a>
<img src="images/b088.png" width="700" height="366"
alt="Letters"
title="Letters" />
</div>

<p class="h2"><a name="XVI" id="XVI"></a><a href="#contents1b">XVI.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">LETTERS.</p>

<p><span class="smc">In</span> 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,&mdash;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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">207</span>
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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Yes, mother."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"We will, mother! we will!"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">208</span>
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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 509px;">
<a name="b089.png" id="b089.png"></a>
<img src="images/b089.png" width="509" height="400"
alt="She rolled away"
title="She rolled away" />
</div>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"It seems as if half the house was gone," added Meg forlornly.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">209</span>
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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"'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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"No need of that; Beth and I can keep house perfectly well," put
in Amy, with an important air.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I think anxiety is very interesting," observed Amy, eating sugar,
pensively.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>The sight of the 
<ins title="Change turnovers to turn-overs."> 
turn-overs made Jo</ins> 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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"And I hope Aunt March won't croak. Your hair <em>is</em> becoming,
<span class="pagenum2">210</span>
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.</p>

<p>"That's my only comfort;" and, touching her hat <i>&agrave; la</i> Laurie,
away went Jo, feeling like a shorn sheep on a wintry day.</p>

<p>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:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>
<p class="noindent smc">"My Dearest Mother,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">211</span>
busy; but we long, day and night, to have you back. Give my dearest
love to father, and believe me, ever your own</p>

<p class="right smc">"Meg."</p>
</blockquote>

<p>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:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>
<p class="noindent smc">"My Precious Marmee,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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&mdash;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 <em>was</em>
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 <em>my</em> 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.</p>

<p>"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</p>

<p class="right smc">"Topsy-Turvy Jo."</p>
</blockquote>

<hr class="tiny" />

<p><span class="pagenum2">212</span></p>

<p class="center">"A SONG FROM THE SUDS.</p>

<div class="poem1 clear sm">
<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   "Queen of my tub, I merrily sing,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       While the white foam rises high;</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
    And sturdily wash and rinse and wring,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       And fasten the clothes to dry;</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
    Then out in the free fresh air they swing,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       Under the sunny sky.</p>
<p><br /></p>
<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   "I wish we could wash from our hearts and souls</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       The stains of the week away,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
    And let water and air by their magic make</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       Ourselves as pure as they;</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
    Then on the earth there would be indeed</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       A glorious washing-day!</p>
<p><br /></p>
<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
    "Along the path of a useful life,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       Will heart's-ease ever bloom;</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10"> 
     The busy mind has no time to think</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10"> 
       Of sorrow or care or gloom;</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
     And anxious thoughts may be swept away,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       As we bravely wield a broom.</p>
<p><br /></p>
<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
    "I am glad a task to me is given,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       To labor at day by day;</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
     For it brings me health and strength and hope,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       And I cheerfully learn to say,&mdash;</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
     'Head, you may think, Heart, you may feel,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       But, Hand, you shall work alway!'"</p>
</div>

<div class="figright" style="width: 356px;">
<a name="b090.png" id="b090.png"></a>
<img src="images/b090.png" width="356" height="700"
alt="I wind the clock"
title="I wind the clock" />
</div>

<blockquote>
<p class="noindent smc">"Dear Mother,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Kiss dear father on the cheek he calls mine. Oh, do come soon
to your loving</p>

<p class="right smc">"Little Beth."</p>
</blockquote>

<hr class="tiny" />

<p><span class="pagenum2">213</span></p>

<blockquote>
<p class="noindent smc">"Ma Chere Mamma,&mdash;</p>

<p>"We are all well I do my lessons always and never corroberate the
girls&mdash;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.</p>
<div class="complicatedformatting">
<p class="center">"Your affectionate daughter,</p>
<p class="right smc">"Amy Curtis March."</p>
</div>
</blockquote>

<div class="figleft" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b091.png" id="b091.png"></a>
<img src="images/b091.png" width="400" height="427"
alt="Yours Respectful, Hannah Mullet"
title="Yours Respectful, Hannah Mullet" />
</div>

<blockquote>
<p class="noindent smc">"Dear Mis March,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">214</span>
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.</p>

<p class="right"><span class="padd-right2em">"Yours Respectful,</span></p>

<p class="right smc">"Hannah Mullet."</p>
</blockquote>

<hr class="tiny" />

<blockquote>
<p class="noindent smc">
<ins title="Change single quote to double quote before Head Nurse."> 
"Head Nurse of Ward</ins> No. 2,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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 Mullett keeps order in camp, and Major
<span class="pagenum2">215</span>
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</p>

<p class="right">"<span class="smc">Colonel Teddy.</span>"</p>
</blockquote>

<hr class="tiny" />

<blockquote>
<p class="noindent">"<span class="smc">Dear Madam</span>,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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.</p>
<p class="right">
   <span class="padd-right2em">"Your sincere friend and servant,</span></p>

<p class="right">"<span class="smc">James Laurence.</span>"</p>
</blockquote>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 570px;">
<a name="b092.png" id="b092.png"></a>
<img src="images/b092.png" width="570" height="400"
alt="Tail-piece"
title="Tail-piece" />
</div>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>XVII. Little Faithful.</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">216</span></p>

<p class="h2"><a name="XVII" id="XVII"></a><a href="#contents1b">XVII.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">LITTLE FAITHFUL.</p>

<p><span class="smc">For</span> 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">217</span>
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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I'm too tired to go this afternoon," replied Meg, rocking comfortably
as she sewed.</p>

<p>"Can't you, Jo?" asked Beth.</p>

<p>"Too stormy for me with my cold."</p>

<p>"I thought it was almost well."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Why don't you go yourself?" asked Meg.</p>

<p>"I <em>have</em> 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."</p>

<p>Beth spoke earnestly, and Meg promised she would go to-morrow.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"My head aches and I'm tired, so I thought may be some of you
would go," said Beth.</p>

<p>"Amy will be in presently, and she will run down for us," suggested
Meg.</p>

<p>"Well, I'll rest a little and wait for her."</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">218</span>
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.</p>

<p>"Christopher Columbus! What's the matter?" cried Jo, as Beth
put out her hand as if to warn her off, and asked quickly,&mdash;</p>

<p>"You've had the scarlet fever, haven't you?"</p>

<p><ins title="Change Year's ago to Years ago."> 
"Years ago, when Meg did.</ins> Why?"</p>

<p>"Then I'll tell you. Oh, Jo, the baby's dead!"</p>

<p>"What baby?"</p>

<p>"Mrs. Hummel's; it died in my lap before she got home," cried
Beth, with a sob.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">219</span>
"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b093.png" id="b093.png"></a>
<img src="images/b093.png" width="400" height="403"
alt="It didn&#39;t stir, and I knew it was dead"
title="It didn&#39;t stir, and I knew it was dead" />
</div>

<p>"Don't cry, dear! What did you do?"</p>

<p>"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 <ins title="Change ask him so help to ask him to help."> 
ask him to help the others,</ins> 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."</p>

<p>"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 <em>shall</em> we do?"</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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
<em>you</em> are going to have it, Beth. I'll call Hannah, she knows all about
sickness."</p>

<p>"Don't let Amy come; she never had it, and I should hate to give
<ins title="Add period after her."> 
it to her.</ins> Can't you and Meg have it over again?" asked Beth,
anxiously.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">220</span>
"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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;all of which Jo
believed, and felt much relieved as they went up to call Meg.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I shall stay, of course; I'm oldest," began Meg, looking anxious
and self-reproachful.</p>

<p>"<em>I</em> shall, because it's my fault she is sick; I told mother I'd do
the errands, and I haven't," said Jo decidedly.</p>

<p>"Which will you have, Beth? there ain't no need of but one," said
Hannah.</p>

<p>"Jo, please;" and Beth leaned her head against her sister, with a
contented look, which effectually settled that point.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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 <em>not</em> 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?"</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">221</span></p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 501px;">
<a name="b094.png" id="b094.png"></a>
<img src="images/b094.png" width="501" height="400"
alt="He sat down beside her"
title="He sat down beside her" />
</div>

<p>"I don't wish to be sent off as if I was in the way," began Amy,
in an injured voice.</p>

<p>"Bless your heart, child, it's to keep you well. You don't want to
be sick, do you?"</p>

<p>"No, I'm sure I don't; but I dare say I shall be, for I've been
with Beth all the time."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"But it's dull at Aunt March's, and she is so cross," said Amy,
looking rather frightened.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">222</span>
"Will you take me out in the trotting wagon with Puck?"</p>

<p>"On my honor as a gentleman."</p>

<p>"And come every single day?"</p>

<p>"See if I don't."</p>

<p>"And bring me back the minute Beth is well?"</p>

<p>"The identical minute."</p>

<p>"And go to the theatre, truly?"</p>

<p>"A dozen theatres, if we may."</p>

<p>"Well&mdash;I guess&mdash;I will," said Amy slowly.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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
<em>says</em> she thinks so; but she <em>looks</em> worried, and that makes me
fidgety," answered Meg.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Hum, well, I can't say; suppose you ask grandfather after the
doctor has been."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">223</span>
"We will. Jo, go and get Dr. Bangs at once," commanded Meg;
"we can't decide anything till he has been."</p>

<p>"Stay where you are, Jo; I'm errand-boy to this establishment,"
said Laurie, taking up his cap.</p>

<p>"I'm afraid you are busy," began Meg.</p>

<p>"No, I've done my lessons for the day."</p>

<p>"Do you study in vacation time?" asked Jo.</p>

<p>"I follow the good example my neighbors set me," was Laurie's
answer, as he swung himself out of the room.</p>

<p>"I have great hopes of my boy," observed Jo, watching him fly
over the fence with an approving smile.</p>

<p>"He does very well&mdash;for a boy," was Meg's somewhat ungracious
answer, for the subject did not interest her.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Aunt March received them with her usual hospitality.</p>

<p>"What do you want now?" she asked, looking sharply over her
spectacles, while the parrot, sitting on the back of her chair, called
out,&mdash;</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b095.png" id="b095.png"></a>
<img src="images/b095.png" width="400" height="414"
alt="What do you want now?"
title="What do you want now?" />
</div>

<p>"Go away. No boys allowed here."</p>

<p>Laurie retired to the window, and Jo told her story.</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;looks like it now. Don't
cry, child, it worries me to hear people sniff."</p>

<p>Amy <em>was</em> on the point of crying, but Laurie slyly pulled the parrot's
tail, which caused Polly to utter an astonished croak, and call out,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Bless my boots!" in such a funny way, that she laughed instead.</p>

<p>"What do you hear from your mother?" asked the old lady gruffly.</p>

<p>"Father is much better," replied Jo, trying to keep sober.</p>

<p>"Oh, is he? Well, that won't last long, I fancy; March never had
any stamina," was the cheerful reply.</p>

<p>"Ha, ha! never say die, take a pinch of snuff, good by, good by!"
<span class="pagenum2">224</span>
squalled Polly, dancing on her perch, and clawing at the old lady's
cap as Laurie tweaked him in the rear.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;"</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I don't think I <em>can</em> bear it, but I'll try," thought Amy, as she was
left alone with Aunt March.</p>

<p>"Get along, you fright!" screamed Polly; and at that rude speech
Amy could not restrain a sniff.</p>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>XVIII. Dark Days.</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">225</span></p>

<p class="h2"><a name="XVIII" id="XVIII"></a><a href="#contents1b">XVIII.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">DARK DAYS.</p>

<div class="figleft" style="width: 383px;">
<a name="b096.png" id="b096.png"></a>
<img src="images/b096.png" width="383" height="700"
alt="Beth did have the fever"
title="Beth did have the fever" />
</div>

<p><span class="smc">Beth</span> 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,
<span class="pagenum2">226</span>
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 <em>yet</em>." 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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>Meanwhile she lay on her bed with old Joanna at her side, for even
in her wanderings she did not forget her forlorn 
<i>prot&eacute;g&eacute;</i>. She longed
<span class="pagenum2">227</span>
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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"If Mrs. March <em>can</em> leave her husband, she'd better be sent for."</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"What is it? is Beth worse?"</p>

<p>"I've sent for mother," said Jo, tugging at her rubber boots with
a tragical expression.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"No, the doctor told us to."</p>

<p>"O Jo, it's not so bad as that?" cried Laurie, with a startled
face.</p>

<p>"Yes, it is; she doesn't know us, she doesn't even talk about the
<span class="pagenum2">228</span>
flocks of green doves, as she calls the vine-leaves 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."</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"I'm here. Hold on
to me, Jo, dear!"</p>

<div class="figleft" style="width: 361px;">
<a name="b097.png" id="b097.png"></a>
<img src="images/b097.png" width="361" height="700"
alt="Gently stroking her head as her mother used to do"
title="Gently stroking her head as her mother used to do" />
</div>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">229</span>
she dried the tears which had relieved her, and looked up with a
grateful face.</p>

<p>"Thank you, Teddy, I'm better now; I don't feel so forlorn, and
will try to bear it if it comes."</p>

<p>"Keep hoping for the best; that will help you, Jo. Soon your
mother will be here, and then everything will be right."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Doesn't Meg pull fair?" asked Laurie, looking indignant.</p>

<p>"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 <em>can't</em> give
her up. I can't! I can't!"</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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&mdash;Health
to my Beth! You are a good doctor, Teddy, and <em>such</em> 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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">230</span>
"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.</p>

<p>"What is it?" cried Jo, forgetting her woes for a minute, in her
wonder.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>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 <em>am</em> 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."</p>

<p>"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&mdash;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 <em>can</em> 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, <span class="smc">a.m.</span> 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."</p>

<p>"Laurie, you're an angel! How shall I ever thank you?"</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">231</span>
"Fly at me again; I rather like it," said Laurie, looking mischievous,&mdash;a
thing he had not done for a fortnight.</p>

<p>"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!"</p>

<p>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, <em>so</em>
happy!" while Laurie departed, feeling that he had made rather a
neat thing of it.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;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
<span class="pagenum2">232</span>
better or worse, would probably take place about midnight, at which
time he would return.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"If God spares Beth I never will complain again," whispered Meg
earnestly.</p>

<p>"If God spares Beth I'll try to love and serve Him all my life,"
answered Jo, with equal fervor.</p>

<p>"I wish I had no heart, it aches so," sighed Meg, after a pause.</p>

<p>"If life is often as hard as this, I don't see how we ever shall get
through it," added her sister despondently.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">233</span>
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!"</p>

<p>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!"</p>

<p>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&mdash;"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"If mother would only come now!" said Jo, as the winter night
began to wane.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"It looks like a fairy world," said Meg, smiling to herself, as she
stood behind the curtain, watching the dazzling sight.</p>

<p>"Hark!" cried Jo, starting to her feet.</p>

<p>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!"</p>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>XIX. Amy's Will.</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">234</span></p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 547px;">
<a name="b098.png" id="b098.png"></a>
<img src="images/b098.png" width="547" height="400"
alt="Amy&#39;s Will"
title="Amy&#39;s Will" />
</div>

<p class="h2"><a name="XIX" id="XIX"></a><a href="#contents1b">XIX.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">AMY'S WILL.</p>

<p><span class="smc">While</span> 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.
<span class="pagenum2">235</span>
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,&mdash;a process
which carried dismay to Amy's soul, and made her feel like a
fly in the web of a very strict spider.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 470px;">
<a name="b099.png" id="b099.png"></a>
<img src="images/b099.png" width="470" height="400"
alt="Polish up the spoons and the fat silver teapot"
title="Polish up the spoons and the fat silver teapot" />
</div>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">236</span>
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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 700px;">
<a name="b100.png" id="b100.png"></a>
<img src="images/b100.png" width="700" height="322"
alt="On his back, with all his legs in the air"
title="On his back, with all his legs in the air" />
</div>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">237</span>
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,
<span class="pagenum2">238</span>
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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 492px;">
<a name="b101.png" id="b101.png"></a>
<img src="images/b101.png" width="492" height="400"
alt="I should choose this"
title="I should choose this" />
</div>

<p>"Which would Mademoiselle choose if she had her will?" asked
Esther, who always sat near to watch over and lock up the valuables.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Is it meant to use as you use the string of good-smelling wooden
beads hanging over your glass?" asked Amy.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>Esther was truly pious, and quite sincere in her advice; for she
<span class="pagenum2">239</span>
had an affectionate heart, and felt much for the sisters in their anxiety.
Amy liked the idea, and gave her leave to arrange the light
closet next her room, hoping it would do her good.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"It is too soon yet for the young ladies to wear these things. The
first one who is affianced will have the pearls&mdash;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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">240</span>
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
<em>did</em> 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.</p>

<p>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!"</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b102.png" id="b102.png"></a>
<img src="images/b102.png" width="400" height="478"
alt="Gravely promenaded to and fro"
title="Gravely promenaded to and fro" />
</div>

<p>Having with difficulty restrained an explosion of merriment, lest it
<span class="pagenum2">241</span>
should offend her majesty, Laurie tapped, and was graciously received.</p>

<p>"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 <em>couldn't</em> help laughing, which made
Poll swear, and aunt woke up and scolded us both."</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">242</span>
"Did the spider accept the old fellow's invitation?" asked Laurie,
yawning.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"That's a lie! Oh lor!" cried the parrot, pecking at Laurie's toes.</p>

<p>"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!"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b103.png" id="b103.png"></a>
<img src="images/b103.png" width="400" height="495"
alt="Amy&#39;s Will"
title="Amy&#39;s Will" />
</div>

<p>Laurie bit his lips, and turning a little from the pensive speaker,
read the following document, with praiseworthy gravity, considering
the spelling:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>
<p class="center">"MY LAST WILL AND TESTIMENT.</p>

<p>"I, Amy Curtis March, being in my sane mind, do give and bequeethe
all my earthly property&mdash;viz. to wit:&mdash;namely</p>

<p>"To my father, my best pictures, sketches, maps, and works of art,
including frames. Also my $100, to do what he likes with.</p>

<p>"To my mother, all my clothes, except the blue apron with pockets,&mdash;also
my likeness, and my medal, with much love.</p>

<p>"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.'</p>

<p>"To Jo I leave my breast-pin, the one mended with sealing wax,
also my bronze inkstand&mdash;she lost the cover&mdash;and my most precious
plaster rabbit, because I am sorry I burnt up her story.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">243</span>
"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I wish my favorite playmate Kitty Bryant to have the blue silk
apron and my gold-bead ring with a kiss.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">244</span>
"To Hannah I give the bandbox she wanted and all the patch
work I leave hoping she 'will remember me, when it you see.'</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"To this will and testiment I set my hand and seal on this 20th
day of Nov. Anni Domino 1861.</p>
<p class="right">"<span class="smc">Amy Curtis March.</span></p>
</blockquote>



<table class="witness" summary="witnesses to the will and testament">
<tr>
  <td>"Witnesses:</td>
  <td>{</td>
	<td>Estelle Valnor,<br />
      Theodore Laurence."
  </td>
</tr>
</table>






<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>She explained; and then asked anxiously, "What about Beth?"</p>

<p>"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. <em>She</em> never thought of
a will."</p>

<p>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 
<ins title="Change postscrips to postscripts."> 
postscripts to their wills,</ins> sometimes?"</p>

<p>"Yes; 'codicils,' they call them."</p>

<p>"Put one in mine then&mdash;that I wish <em>all</em> my curls cut off, 
and given round to my friends. I forgot it; but I want it done, though it 
will spoil my looks."</p>

<p>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?"</p>

<p>"I'm afraid there is; but we must hope for the best, so don't cry,
<span class="pagenum2">245</span>
dear;" and Laurie put his arm about her with a brotherly gesture
which was very comforting.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 205px;">
<a name="b104.png" id="b104.png"></a>
<img src="images/b104.png" width="205" height="200"
alt="Tail-piece"
title="Tail-piece" />
</div>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>XX. Confidential.</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">246</span></p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 469px;">
<a name="b105.png" id="b105.png"></a>
<img src="images/b105.png" width="469" height="400"
alt="Mrs. March would not leave Beth&#39;s side"
title="Mrs. March would not leave Beth&#39;s side" />
</div>

<p class="h2"><a name="XX" id="XX"></a><a href="#contents1b">XX.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">CONFIDENTIAL.</p>

<p>I <span class="smc">don't</span> 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 <em>were</em> 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
<span class="pagenum2">247</span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">248</span>
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.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;it's too beautiful
for me to draw,&mdash;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."</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Do you mean Aunt March?" asked her mother, laughing.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">249</span>
"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.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>That evening, while Meg was writing to her father, to report the
traveller's safe arrival, Jo slipped up stairs 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.</p>

<p>"What is it, deary?" asked Mrs. March, holding out her hand, with
a face which invited confidence.</p>

<p>"I want to tell you something, mother."</p>

<p>"About Meg?"</p>

<p>"How quickly you guessed! Yes, it's about her, and though it's
a little thing, it fidgets me."</p>

<p>"Beth is asleep; speak low, and tell me all about it. That Moffat
hasn't been here, I hope?" asked Mrs. March rather sharply.</p>

<p>"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
<em>dread</em>ful state of things?"</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">250</span>
"Do you think Meg cares for him?" asked Mrs. March, with an
anxious look.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Then you fancy that Meg is <em>not</em> interested in John?"</p>

<p>"Who?" cried Jo, staring.</p>

<p>"Mr. Brooke. I call him 'John' now; we fell into the way of
doing so at the hospital, and he likes it."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Of course not; it would be idiotic! I knew 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."</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p>"She'll see his in those handsome eyes that she talks about, and
<span class="pagenum2">251</span>
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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Hadn't you rather have her marry a rich man?" asked Jo, as her
mother's voice faltered a little over the last words.</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">252</span>
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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"He is younger than she, you know," began Mrs. March; but Jo
broke in,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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 <em>I</em> say it's a pity my plan is spoilt."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;more's the
pity!"</p>

<p>"What's that about flat-irons and cats?" asked Meg, as she crept
into the room, with the finished letter in her hand.</p>

<p>"Only one of my stupid speeches. I'm going to bed; come,
Peggy," said Jo, unfolding herself, like an animated puzzle.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Do you call him 'John'?" asked Meg, smiling, with her innocent
eyes looking down into her mother's.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">253</span>
"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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."</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 239px;">
<a name="b106.png" id="b106.png"></a>
<img src="images/b106.png" width="239" height="200"
alt="Tail-piece"
title="Tail-piece" />
</div>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>XXI. Laurie makes Mischief, and Jo makes Peace.</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">254</span></p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 484px;">
<a name="b107.png" id="b107.png"></a>
<img src="images/b107.png" width="484" height="400"
alt="Letters"
title="Letters" />
</div>

<p class="h2"><a name="XXI" id="XXI"></a><a href="#contents1b">XXI.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">LAURIE MAKES MISCHIEF, AND JO MAKES PEACE.</p>

<p><span class="smc">Jo's</span> 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
<span class="pagenum2">255</span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"She feels it in the air&mdash;love, I mean&mdash;and she's going very fast.
She's got most of the symptoms,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>"Nothing but wait. Let her alone, be kind and patient, and
father's coming will settle everything," replied her mother.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"My child, what is it?" cried her mother, running to her, while Jo
tried to take the paper which had done the mischief.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">256</span>
"It's all a mistake&mdash;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.</p>

<p>"Me! I've done nothing! What's she talking about?" cried Jo,
bewildered.</p>

<p>Meg's mild eyes kindled with anger as she pulled a crumpled note
from her pocket, and threw it at Jo, saying reproachfully,&mdash;</p>

<p>"You wrote it, and that bad boy helped you. How could you be
so rude, so mean, and cruel to us both?"</p>

<p>Jo hardly heard her, for she and her mother were reading the note,
which was written in a peculiar hand.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b108.png" id="b108.png"></a>
<img src="images/b108.png" width="400" height="463"
alt="Jo and her mother were reading the note"
title="Jo and her mother were reading the note" />
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum2">257</span></p>

<blockquote>
<p class="noindent">"<span class="smc">My Dearest Margaret</span>,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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</p>

<p class="right">"Your devoted <span class="smc">John</span>."</p>
</blockquote>

<p>"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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Stop, Jo, you must clear yourself first. You have played so many
pranks, that I am afraid you have had a hand in this."</p>

<p>"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 <em>had</em> 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.</p>

<p>"It's like his writing," faltered Meg, comparing it with the note in
her hand.</p>

<p>"O Meg, you didn't answer it?" cried Mrs. March quickly.</p>

<p>"Yes, I did!" and Meg hid her face again, overcome with shame.</p>

<p>"Here's a scrape! <em>Do</em> 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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">258</span>
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."</p>

<p>"What did you say to him?" asked Mrs. March.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>Mrs. March smiled, as if well pleased, and Jo clapped her hands,
exclaiming, with a laugh,&mdash;</p>

<p>"You are almost equal to Caroline Percy, who was a pattern of
prudence! Tell on, Meg. What did he say to that?"</p>

<p>"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!"</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p>"Don't have any secrets, Jo; tell it to mother, and keep out of
trouble, as I should have done," said Meg warningly.</p>

<p>"Bless you, child! Mother told me."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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?"</p>

<p>"I've been so scared and worried, I don't want to have anything
to do with lovers for a long while,&mdash;perhaps never," answered Meg
petulantly. "If John <em>doesn't</em> know anything about this nonsense,
<span class="pagenum2">259</span>
don't tell him, and make Jo and Laurie hold their tongues. I won't
be deceived and plagued and made a fool of,&mdash;it's a shame!"</p>

<p>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 fled 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"I'll never tell him to my dying day,&mdash;wild horses sha'n'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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">260</span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Is Mr. Laurence in?" asked Jo, of a housemaid, who was coming
down stairs.</p>

<p>"Yes, miss; but I don't believe he's seeable just yet."</p>

<p>"Why not? is he ill?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Where is Laurie?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I'll go and see what the matter is. I'm not afraid of either of
them."</p>

<p>Up went Jo, and knocked smartly on the door of Laurie's little
study.</p>

<p>"Stop that, or I'll open the door and make you!" called out the
young gentleman, in a threatening tone.</p>

<p>Jo immediately knocked again; the door flew open, and in she
bounced, before Laurie could recover from his surprise. Seeing that
he really <em>was</em> 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."</p>

<p>"It's all right. Get up, and don't be a goose, Jo," was the cavalier
reply to her petition.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b109.png" id="b109.png"></a>
<img src="images/b109.png" width="400" height="472"
alt="Get up and don&#39;t be a goose"
title="Get up and don&#39;t be a goose" />
</div>

<p>"Thank you; I will. Could I ask what's the matter? You don't
look exactly easy in your mind."</p>

<p>"I've been shaken, and I won't bear it!" growled Laurie indignantly.</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">261</span>
"Who did it?" demanded Jo.</p>

<p>"Grandfather; if it had been
any one else I'd have&mdash;" and
the injured youth finished his sentence
by an energetic gesture of
the right arm.</p>

<p>"That's nothing; I often shake
you, and you don't mind," said Jo
soothingly.</p>

<p>"Pooh! you're a girl, and it's fun; but I'll allow no man to shake
<em>me</em>."</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">262</span>
"Couldn't you satisfy your grandpa in any other way?"</p>

<p>"No; he <em>would</em> 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."</p>

<p>"It wasn't nice, but he's sorry, I know; so go down and make
up. I'll help you."</p>

<p>"Hanged if I do! I'm not going to be lectured and pummelled
by every one, just for a bit of a frolic. I <em>was</em> sorry about Meg, and
begged pardon like a man; but I won't do it again, when I wasn't
in the wrong."</p>

<p>"He didn't know that."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"What pepper-pots you are!" sighed Jo. "How do you mean
to settle this affair?"</p>

<p>"Well, he ought to beg pardon, and believe me when I say I can't
tell him what the fuss's about."</p>

<p>"Bless you! he won't do that."</p>

<p>"I won't go down till he does."</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I dare say; but you ought not to go and worry him."</p>

<p>"Don't preach. I'll go to Washington and see Brooke; it's gay
there, and I'll enjoy myself after the troubles."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.
<span class="pagenum2">263</span>
I've got money enough; it will do you good, and be no harm, as
you go to your father."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">264</span>
"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."</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 417px;">
<a name="b110.png" id="b110.png"></a>
<img src="images/b110.png" width="417" height="400"
alt="&quot;Hold your tongue!&quot; cried Jo, covering her ears"
title="&quot;Hold your tongue!&quot; cried Jo, covering her ears" />
</div>

<p>"I know Meg would wet-blanket such a proposal, but I thought
you had more spirit," began Laurie insinuatingly.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Yes, but you won't do it," answered Laurie, who wished "to
make up," but felt that his outraged dignity must be appeased first.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Come in!" and Mr. Laurence's gruff voice sounded gruffer than
ever, as Jo tapped at his door.</p>

<p>"It's only me, sir, come to return a book," she said blandly, as
she entered.</p>

<p>"Want any more?" asked the old gentleman, looking grim and
vexed, but trying not to show it.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">265</span>
"He did do
wrong, but we forgave
him, and all
promised not to say a
word to any one," began
Jo reluctantly.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>Mr. Laurence looked so alarming and spoke so sharply that Jo
would have gladly run away, if she could, but she was perched aloft
<span class="pagenum2">266</span>
on the steps, and he stood at the foot, a lion in the path, so she had
to stay and brave it out.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b111.png" id="b111.png"></a>
<img src="images/b111.png" width="400" height="538"
alt="He stood at the foot, like a lion in the path"
title="He stood at the foot, like a lion in the path" />
</div>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Hum&mdash;ha&mdash;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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"You think I'm not kind to him, hey?" was the sharp answer.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I'll tell you, he'll run away." Jo was sorry for that speech the
<span class="pagenum2">267</span>
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.</p>

<p>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 <em>had</em> 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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>She laughed as she spoke, and Mr. Laurence looked relieved, evidently
taking the whole as a joke.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>Jo tried to look pathetic, but must have failed, for Mr. Laurence
began to laugh, and she knew the day was won.</p>

<p>"I'm sorry for that, and ought to thank him for not shaking <em>me,</em> 
I suppose. What the dickens does the fellow expect?" and the old gentleman
looked a trifle ashamed of his own testiness.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>Mr. Laurence gave her a sharp look, and put on his spectacles, saying
<span class="pagenum2">268</span>
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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"No; he was pretty mild, on the whole."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Don't talk in that way; turn over a new leaf and begin again,
Teddy, my son."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<hr class="hr2" />

<h2>XXII. Pleasant Meadows.</h2>

<p><span class="pagenum2">269</span></p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 643px;">
<a name="b112.png" id="b112.png"></a>
<img src="images/b112.png" width="643" height="400"
alt="Beth was soon able to lie on the study sofa all day"
title="Beth was soon able to lie on the study sofa all day" />
</div>

<p class="h2"><a name="XXII" id="XXII"></a><a href="#contents1b">XXII.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">PLEASANT MEADOWS.</p>

<p><span class="smc">Like</span> 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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">270</span>
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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;a soft crimson merino wrapper,&mdash;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:&mdash;</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 460px;">
<a name="b113.png" id="b113.png"></a>
<img src="images/b113.png" width="460" height="400"
alt="The Jungfrau"
title="The Jungfrau" />
</div>

<p class="center">"THE JUNGFRAU TO BETH.</p>

<div class="poem1 clear">
<p class="indent30 left-indent15">
   "God bless you, dear Queen Bess!</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent15">
       May nothing you dismay,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent15">
    But health and peace and happiness</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent15">
       Be yours, this Christmas Day.</p>
<p><br /></p>
<p class="indent30 left-indent15">
   "Here's fruit to feed our busy bee,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent15">
       And flowers for her nose;</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent15">
    Here's music for her pianee,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent15">
       An Afghan for her toes.</p>
<p><br /></p>
<p class="indent30 left-indent15">
   "A portrait of Joanna, see,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent15">
       By Raphael No. 2,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent15">
    Who labored with great industry</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       To make it fair and true.</p>
<p><br /></p>
<p class="indent30 left-indent15">
<span class="pagenum2">271</span>
   "Accept a ribbon red, I beg,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent15">
       For Madam Purrer's tail;</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent15">
    And ice-cream made by lovely Peg,&mdash;</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent15">
       A Mont Blanc in a pail.</p>
<p><br /></p>
<p class="indent30 left-indent15"> 
    "Their dearest love my makers laid</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent15">
        Within my breast of snow:</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent15">
     Accept it, and the Alpine maid,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent15">
        From Laurie and from Jo."</p>
</div>

<p>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!</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">272</span>
"So am I," added Jo, slapping the pocket wherein reposed the
long-desired Undine and Sintram.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Of course I am!" cried Meg, smoothing the silvery folds of her
first silk dress; for Mr. Laurence had insisted on giving it.</p>

<p>"How can <em>I</em> 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.</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p>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!"</p>

<p>But it was too late; the study door flew open, the little red wrapper
<span class="pagenum2">273</span>
appeared on the threshold,&mdash;joy put strength into the feeble
limbs,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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!"</p>

<p>There never <em>was</em> 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."</p>

<p>Mr. Laurence and his grandson dined with them, also Mr.
Brooke,&mdash;at whom Jo glowered darkly, to Laurie's infinite amusement.
Two easy-chairs stood side by side at the head of the table,
<span class="pagenum2">274</span>
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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Rather a pleasant year on the whole!" said Meg, smiling at the
fire, and congratulating herself on having treated Mr. Brooke with
dignity.</p>

<p>"I think it's been a pretty hard one," observed Amy, watching the
light shine on her ring, with thoughtful eyes.</p>

<p>"I'm glad it's over, because we've got you back," whispered Beth,
who sat on her father's knee.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"How do you know? Did mother tell you?" asked Jo.</p>

<p>"Not much; straws show which way the wind blows, and I've
made several discoveries to-day."</p>

<p>"Oh, tell us what they are!" cried Meg, who sat beside him.</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;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.
<span class="pagenum2">275</span>
I'm proud to shake this good, industrious little hand, and
hope I shall not soon be asked to give it away."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>He laughed, and looked across at the tall girl who sat opposite,
with an unusually mild expression in her brown face.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Now Beth," said Amy, longing for her turn, but ready to wait.</p>

<p>"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 <em>had</em> 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."</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"I observed that Amy took drumsticks at dinner, ran errands for
her mother all the afternoon, gave Meg her place to-night, and has
<span class="pagenum2">276</span>
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 clay 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."</p>

<p>"What are you thinking of, Beth?" asked Jo, when Amy had
thanked her father and told about her ring.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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:&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem1 clear">
<p class="indent30 left-indent15">
   "He that is down need fear no fall,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent15">
       He that is low no pride;</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent15">
    He that is humble ever shall</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent15">
       Have God to be his guide.</p>
<p><br /></p>
<p class="indent30 left-indent15">
    "I am content with what I have,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent15">
        Little be it or much;</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent15">
     And, Lord! contentment still I crave,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent15">
        Because Thou savest such.</p>
<p><br /></p>
<p class="indent30 left-indent15">
    "Fulness to them a burden is,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent15">
        That go on pilgrimage;</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent15">
     Here little, and hereafter bliss,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent15">
        Is best from age to age!"</p>
</div>

<hr class="hr2" />

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="b114.png" id="b114.png"></a>
<img class="border" src="images/b114.png" width="568" height="400"
alt="He sat in the big chair"
title="He sat in the big chair" /><br />
<span class="caption">
&quot;He sat in the big chair by Beth&#39;s sofa with the other three close by.&quot;&mdash;Page 277.</span>
</div>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>XXIII. Aunt March settles the Question.</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">277</span></p>

<p class="h2"><a name="XXIII" id="XXIII"></a><a href="#contents1b">XXIII.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">AUNT MARCH SETTLES THE QUESTION.</p>

<div class="figleft" style="width: 290px;">
<a name="b115.png" id="b115.png"></a>
<img src="images/b115.png" width="290" height="700"
alt="Popping in her head now and then"
title="Popping in her head now and then" />
</div>

<p><span class="smc">Like</span> 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 <em>was</em> 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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">278</span>
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.</p>

<p>"What does the goose mean?" said Meg, laughing, and trying to
look unconscious.</p>

<p>"He's showing you how your John will go on by and by. Touching,
isn't it?" answered Jo scornfully.</p>

<p>"Don't say <i>my John</i>, 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 <em>much</em> about him, and
there isn't to be anything said, but we are all to be friendly, and go
on as before."</p>

<p>"We can't, for something <em>has</em> 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.</p>

<p>"<em>I</em> 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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Would you mind telling me what you'd say?" asked Jo more
respectfully.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">279</span>
"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I thought you were going to tell your speech to that man," said
Jo, rudely shortening her sister's little reverie.</p>

<p>"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.'"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p><ins title="Add exclamation point after won't."> 
"No, I won't!</ins> I shall tell him I've made up my mind, and shall
walk out of the room with dignity."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Good afternoon. I came to get my umbrella,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Mother will like to see you. Pray sit down, I'll call her."</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">280</span>
"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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"How can I be afraid when you have been so kind to father? I
only wish I could thank you for it."</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b116.png" id="b116.png"></a>
<img src="images/b116.png" width="400" height="411"
alt="Shall I tell you how?"
title="Shall I tell you how?" />
</div>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">281</span>
the brown eyes, that her heart began to flutter, and she both longed to
run away and to stop and listen.</p>

<p>"Oh no, please don't&mdash;I'd rather not," she said, trying to withdraw
her hand, and looking frightened in spite of her denial.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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
<em>so</em> 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."</p>

<p>"I'm too young," faltered Meg, wondering why she was so fluttered,
yet rather enjoying it.</p>

<p>"I'll wait; and in the meantime, you could be learning to like me.
Would it be a very hard lesson, dear?"</p>

<p>"Not if I chose to learn it, but&mdash;"</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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 <em>don't</em> choose. Please go away and let me be!"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Do you really mean that?" he asked anxiously, following her as
she walked away.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">282</span>
"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">283</span></p>

<div class="figleft" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b117.png" id="b117.png"></a>
<img src="images/b117.png" width="400" height="585"
alt="Bless me, what&#39;s all this?"
title="Bless me, what&#39;s all this?" />
</div>

<p>
"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.</p>

<p>"It's father's friend. I'm <em>so</em> surprised to see you!" stammered
Meg, feeling that she was in for a lecture now.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Hush! he'll hear. Sha'n't I call mother?" said Meg, much
troubled.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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 <em>not</em> 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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">284</span>
"It can't be a worse one than some people find in big houses,"
retorted Meg.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;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."</p>

<p>"Father and mother don't think so; they like John, though he <em>is</em>
poor."</p>

<p>"Your parents, my dear, have no more worldly wisdom than two
babies."</p>

<p>"I'm glad of it," cried Meg stoutly.</p>

<p>Aunt March took no notice, but went on with her lecture. "This
Rook is poor, and hasn't got any rich relations, has he?"</p>

<p>"No; but he has many warm friends."</p>

<p>"You can't live on friends; try it, and see how cool they'll grow.
He hasn't any business, has he?"</p>

<p>"Not yet; Mr. Laurence is going to help him."</p>

<p>"That won't last long. James Laurence is a crotchety 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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"He knows <em>you</em> have got rich relations, child; that's the secret of
his liking, I suspect."</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">285</span>
"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, anymore
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&mdash;"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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 <em>do</em> care for me a little bit."</p>

<p>"I didn't know how much, till she abused you," began Meg.</p>

<p>"And I needn't go away, but may stay and be happy, may I,
dear?"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Fifteen minutes after Aunt March's departure, Jo came softly down
stairs, paused an instant at the parlor door, and, hearing no sound
within, nodded and smiled, with a satisfied expression, saying to herself,
<span class="pagenum2">286</span>
"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."</p>

<p>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 <em>was</em> 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,&mdash;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!"</p>

<p>That was adding insult to injury,&mdash;it was altogether too 
much,&mdash;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, <em>do</em> 
somebody go down quick; <ins title="Replace actingly with acting."> 
John Brooke is acting dreadfully,</ins> and Meg likes it!"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">287</span>
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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I hope the third year from this <em>will</em> 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.</p>

<p>"Doesn't it seem very long to wait?" asked Amy, who was in a
hurry for the wedding.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"You have only to wait; <em>I</em> 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."</p>

<div class="figleft" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b118.png" id="b118.png"></a>
<img src="images/b118.png" width="400" height="586"
alt="For Mrs. John Brooke"
title="For Mrs. John Brooke" />
</div>

<p>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.</p>

<p>
<span class="pagenum2">288</span>
"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.</p>

<p>"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
<ins title="Place comma after mankind."> 
peace with all mankind,</ins>
even his mischievous
pupil.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"You don't give her up. You only go halves," said Laurie consolingly.</p>

<p>"It never can be the same again. I've lost my dearest friend,"
sighed Jo.</p>

<p>"You've got me, anyhow. I'm not good for much, I know; but
<span class="pagenum2">289</span>
I'll stand by you, Jo, all the days of my life; upon my word I will!"
and Laurie meant what he said.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"I rather think it would; but there's no knowing what may happen
in three years," said Jo thoughtfully.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<hr />

<p>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 "<span class="smc">Little Women</span>."</p>

<hr class="hr2" />

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="b118a.png" id="b118a.png"></a>
<img class="border" src="images/b118a.png"
alt="Home of the Little Women"
title="Home of the Little Women" /><br />
<span class="caption">Home of the Little Women</span>
</div>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>XXIV. Gossip.</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">293</span></p>
<p class="cursivecenter">The Second Part</p>

<hr class="hr2" />


<div class="figcenter">
<a name="b119.png" id="b119.png"></a>
<img src="images/b119.png" width="591" height="400"
alt="The Dove Cote"
title="The Dove Cote" /><br />
<span class="caption">The Dove-Cote</span>
</div>

<p class="h2"><a name="XXIV" id="XXIV"></a><a href="#contents2">XXIV.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">GOSSIP.</p>

<p><span class="smc">In</span>
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 <em>can</em> you expect when I have four gay girls
in the house, and a dashing young neighbor over the way?"</p>

<p>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,&mdash;a quiet, studious man, rich in the wisdom
<span class="pagenum2">294</span>
that is better than learning, the charity which calls all mankind
"brother," the piety that blossoms into character, making it august
and lovely.</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">295</span> 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 <ins title="Place comma after salary.">  
an honestly-earned salary, than by running</ins>
any risks with borrowed money.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Laurie, having dutifully gone to college to please his grandfather,
was now getting through it in the easiest possible manner to please
<span class="pagenum2">296</span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p>That was the name of the little brown house which Mr. Brooke had
<span class="pagenum2">297</span>
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.</p>

<p>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 <em>could</em>
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
<span class="pagenum2">298</span>
round, and invented three different kinds of dishcloths for the express
service of the bridal china.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Yes, mother, perfectly satisfied, thanks to you all, and <em>so</em> happy
that I can't talk about it," answered Meg, with a look that was better
than words.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">299</span>
"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Sallie Moffat has four," began Amy.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I did, after a while; not to 'mess,' but to learn of Hannah how
things should be done, that my servants need <em>not</em> 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."</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">300</span>
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.</p>

<p>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 <em>her</em> 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.</p>

<p>"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 table-cloths, with a truly feminine appreciation of
their fineness.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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&mdash;</p>

<p>"Here I am, mother! Yes, it's all right."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">301</span>
"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Where is John?" asked Meg anxiously.</p>

<p>"Stopped to get the license for to-morrow, ma'am."</p>

<p>"Which side won the last match, Teddy?" inquired Jo, who persisted
in feeling an interest in manly sports, despite her nineteen
years.</p>

<p>"Ours, of course. Wish you'd been there to see."</p>

<p>"How is the lovely Miss Randal?" asked Amy, with a significant
smile.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"What's the last joke? Undo the bundle and see, Meg," said
Beth, eying the knobby parcel with curiosity.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 528px;">
<a name="b120.png" id="b120.png"></a>
<img src="images/b120.png" width="528" height="400"
alt="A small watchman&#39;s rattle"
title="A small watchman&#39;s rattle" />
</div>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I wonder if you will ever grow up, Laurie," said Meg, in a matronly
tone.</p>

<p>"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,"
<span class="pagenum2">302</span>
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.</p>

<p>"Mother and I are going to wait for John. There are some last
things to settle," said Meg, bustling away.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Now, Teddy, I want to talk seriously to you about to-morrow,"
began Jo, as they strolled away together. "You <em>must</em> promise to
behave well, and not cut up any pranks, and spoil our plans."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">303</span>
"Not a prank."</p>

<p>"And don't say funny things when we ought to be sober."</p>

<p>"I never do; you are the one for that."</p>

<p>"And I implore you not to look at me during the ceremony; I
shall certainly laugh if you do."</p>

<p>"You won't see me; you'll be crying so hard that the thick fog
round you will obscure the prospect."</p>

<p>"I never cry unless for some great affliction."</p>

<p>"Such as fellows going to college, hey?" cut in Laurie, with a
suggestive laugh.</p>

<p>"Don't be a peacock. I only moaned a trifle to keep the girls
company."</p>

<p>"Exactly. I say, Jo, how is grandpa this week; pretty amiable?"</p>

<p>"Very; why, have you got into a scrape, and want to know how
he'll take it?" asked Jo rather sharply.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"No, I don't."</p>

<p>"Then don't go and be suspicious; I only want some money,"
said Laurie, walking on again, appeased by her hearty tone.</p>

<p>"You spend a great deal, Teddy."</p>

<p>"Bless you, <em>I</em> don't spend it; it spends itself, somehow, and is
gone before I know it."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;to make your head look like a scrubbing-brush, wear a
<span class="pagenum2">304</span>
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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I'll leave you in peace if you'll <em>only</em> 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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Of course he had; we don't want any more marrying in this
family for years to come. Mercy on us, what <em>are</em> the children thinking
of?" and Jo looked as much scandalized as if Amy and little
Parker were not yet in their teens.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"You won't give any one a chance," said Laurie, with a sidelong
<span class="pagenum2">305</span>
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,&mdash;throw cold water
over him,&mdash;and get so thorny no one dares touch or look at you."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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."</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 324px;">
<a name="b121.png" id="b121.png"></a>
<img src="images/b121.png" width="324" height="200"
alt="Tail-piece"
title="Tail-piece" />
</div>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>XXV. The First Wedding.</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">306</span></p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 522px;">
<a name="b122.png" id="b122.png"></a>
<img src="images/b122.png" width="522" height="400"
alt="The First Wedding"
title="The First Wedding" />
</div>

<p class="h2"><a name="XXV" id="XXV"></a><a href="#contents2">XXV.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">THE FIRST WEDDING.</p>

<p><span class="smc">The</span> 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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">307</span>
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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"You <em>do</em> 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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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 wrought in their appearance; for all are looking their
best just now.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Beth has grown slender, pale, and more quiet than ever; the beautiful,
kind eyes are larger, and in them lies an expression that saddens
<span class="pagenum2">308</span>
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."</p>

<p>Amy is with truth considered "the flower of the family;" for at
sixteen she has the air and bearing of a full-grown woman&mdash;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,&mdash;unconscious, yet harmonious,
and as attractive to many as beauty itself. Amy's nose still
afflicted her, for it never <em>would</em> 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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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 <i>moire</i> with a great rustle. "You oughtn't to be seen till
the last minute, child."</p>

<p>"I'm not a show, aunty, and no one is coming to stare at me, to
criticise 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.</p>

<p>
Mr. Brooke didn't even say "Thank you," but as he stooped for the
<span class="pagenum2">309</span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"He has promised to be very good to-day, and he <em>can</em> 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Jo did <em>not</em> 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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">310</span>
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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p>"You are not made wise by experience, I hope?" and there was an
anxious accent in Meg's voice.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">311</span>
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!"</p>

<p>"I thank you, very, very much."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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
<i>chass&eacute;ed</i> 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.</p>

<p>Want of breath brought the impromptu ball to a close, and then
people began to go.</p>

<p>"I wish you well, my dear, I heartily wish you well; but I think
<span class="pagenum2">312</span>
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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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
<em>am</em> 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!"</p>

<p>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,&mdash;and so Meg's married life began.</p>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>XXVI. Artistic Attempts.</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">313</span></p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 530px;">
<a name="b123.png" id="b123.png"></a>
<img src="images/b123.png" width="530" height="400"
alt="Artistic Attempts"
title="Artistic Attempts" />
</div>

<p class="h2"><a name="XXVI" id="XXVI"></a><a href="#contents2">XXVI.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">ARTISTIC ATTEMPTS.</p>

<p><span class="smc">It</span> 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
<span class="pagenum2">314</span>
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.</p>

<p>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 sea-sickness 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.</p>

<div class="figright" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b124.png" id="b124.png"></a>
<img src="images/b124.png" width="400" height="651"
alt="Her foot held fast in a panful of plaster"
title="Her foot held fast in a panful of plaster" />
</div>

<p>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 on to 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
<span class="pagenum2">315</span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>If "genius is eternal patience," as Michael Angelo 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."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">316</span>
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."</p>

<p>One of her weaknesses was a desire to move in "our best society,"
without being quite sure what the <em>best</em> 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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I want to ask a favor of you, mamma," Amy said, coming in, with
an important air, one day.</p>

<p>"Well, little girl, what is it?" replied her mother, in whose eyes
the stately young lady still remained "the baby."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Why should they?" and Mrs. March put the question with what
the girls called her "Maria Theresa air."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">317</span>
"You know as well as I that it <em>does</em> 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.</p>

<p>Mrs. March laughed, and smoothed down her maternal pride as
she asked,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Well, my swan, what is your plan?"</p>

<p>"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 <i>f&ecirc;te</i> for them."</p>

<p>"That looks feasible. What do you want for lunch? Cake, sandwiches,
fruit, and coffee will be all that is necessary, I suppose?"</p>

<p>"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 <em>do</em> work for
my living."</p>

<p>"How many young ladies are there?" asked her mother, beginning
to look sober.</p>

<p>"Twelve or fourteen in the class, but I dare say they won't all
come."</p>

<p>"Bless me, child, you will have to charter an omnibus to carry
them about."</p>

<p>"Why, mother, how <em>can</em> 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
<i>char-&agrave;-banc</i>.)</p>

<p>"All this will be expensive, Amy."</p>

<p>"Not very; I've calculated the cost, and I'll pay for it myself."</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">318</span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Thanks, mother; you are always <em>so</em> kind;" and away went Amy
to lay her plan before her sisters.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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 <i>coup&eacute;</i>," said Jo, who, being called from the
tragical climax of her novel, was not in the best mood for social enterprises.</p>

<p>"I <em>don't</em> 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. <em>You</em> 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."</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">319</span>
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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>If it was not fair on Monday, the young ladies were to come on
Tuesday,&mdash;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 till 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 skilfully made the best of what she had, arranging chairs over the
<span class="pagenum2">320</span>
worn places in the carpet, covering stains on the walls with pictures
framed in ivy, and filling up empty corners with home-made statuary,
which gave an artistic air to the room, as did the lovely vases of
flowers Jo scattered about.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"No doubt about the weather to-day; they will certainly come, so
we must fly round 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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Use the chicken, then; the toughness won't matter in a salad,"
advised his wife.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Then I <em>must</em> have a lobster, for tongue alone won't do," said
Amy decidedly.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">321</span>
"Shall I rush into town and demand one?" asked Jo, with the
magnanimity of a martyr.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&mdash;oh, horror!&mdash;the
lobster, in all its vulgar size and brilliancy, was revealed to the highborn
eyes of a Tudor.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Please don't&mdash;it's&mdash;it's mine," murmured Amy, with a face
nearly as red as her fish.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 525px;">
<a name="b125.png" id="b125.png"></a>
<img src="images/b125.png" width="525" height="400"
alt="Please don&#39;t, it&#39;s mine"
title="Please don&#39;t, it&#39;s mine" />
</div>

<p>"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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">322</span>
Amy recovered herself in a breath, set her basket boldly on the
seat, and said, laughing,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"I suppose he'll laugh and joke over it with Laurie, but I sha'n't
see them; that's a comfort," thought Amy, as Tudor bowed and
departed.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">323</span>
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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p>As she came walking in, looking very tired, but as composed as
ever, she observed that every vestige of the unfortunate <i>f&ecirc;te</i> 
had disappeared, except a suspicious pucker about the corners of Jo's 
mouth.</p>

<p>"You've had a lovely afternoon for your drive, dear," said her
mother, as respectfully as if the whole twelve had come.</p>

<p>"Miss Eliott is a very sweet girl, and seemed to enjoy herself, I
thought," observed Beth, with unusual warmth.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">324</span>
"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.</p>

<p>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"&mdash;here
a general explosion of laughter cut short the "history of sallets,"
to the great surprise of the learned gentleman.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I thought I <em>should</em> have died when I saw you two girls rattling
about in the what-you-call-it, like two little kernels in a very big nutshell,
and mother waiting in state to receive the throng," sighed Jo,
quite spent with laughter.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I <em>am</em> 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."</p>

<p>No one did for several months; but the word "<i>f&ecirc;te</i>" 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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 407px;">
<a name="b126.png" id="b126.png"></a>
<img src="images/b126.png" width="407" height="200"
alt="Tail-piece"
title="Tail-piece" />
</div>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>XXVII. Literary Lessons.</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">325</span></p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 456px;">
<a name="b127.png" id="b127.png"></a>
<img src="images/b127.png" width="456" height="400"
alt="Literary Lessons"
title="Literary Lessons" />
</div>

<p class="h2"><a name="XXVII" id="XXVII"></a><a href="#contents2">XXVII.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">LITERARY LESSONS.</p>

<p><span class="smc">Fortune</span> 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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">326</span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">327</span>
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.</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p>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
<i>dramatis person&aelig;</i>, leaving the other half to exult over their downfall.</p>

<p>"Prime, isn't it?" asked the boy, as her eye went down the last
paragraph of her portion.</p>

<p>"I think you and I could do as well as that if we tried," returned
Jo, amused at his admiration of the trash.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Do you know her?" asked Jo, with sudden interest.</p>

<p>"No; but I read all her pieces, and I know a fellow who works in
the office where this paper is printed."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Guess she does! She knows just what folks like, and gets paid
well for writing it."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">328</span>
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.</p>

<p>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 <i>d&eacute;nouement</i>. 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.</p>

<div class="figright" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b128.png" id="b128.png"></a>
<img src="images/b128.png" width="400" height="480"
alt="A check for one hundred dollars"
title="A check for one hundred dollars" />
</div>

<p>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 <em>so</em> pleasant to find that she had learned
to do something, though it was only to write a sensation story.</p>

<p>A prouder young woman was seldom seen than she, when, having
<span class="pagenum2">329</span>
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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"You can do better
than this, Jo. Aim at
the highest, and never
mind the money."</p>

<p>"<em>I</em> think the money
is the best part of it.
What <em>will</em> you do with
such a fortune?" asked
Amy, regarding the
magic slip of paper with
a reverential eye.</p>

<p>"Send Beth and
mother to the seaside for a month or two," answered Jo promptly.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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
<em>must</em> go. Won't it be fun to see you come home plump and rosy
again? Hurrah for Dr. Jo, who always cures her patients!"</p>

<p>To the sea side they went, after much discussion; and though Beth
didn't come home as plump and rosy as could be desired, she was
<span class="pagenum2">330</span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">331</span>
blame of outsiders will prove useful, even if she gets but little
money."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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 novels," said Amy, who
took a strictly practical view of the subject.</p>

<p>"Well," said Jo, laughing, "if my people <em>are</em> '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?"</p>

<p>"I should so like to see it printed <em>soon</em>," 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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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 <em>was</em> a trifle too much
<span class="pagenum2">332</span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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 <em>can</em> 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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">333</span>
"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."</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 286px;">
<a name="b129.png" id="b129.png"></a>
<img src="images/b129.png" width="286" height="200"
alt="Tail-piece"
title="Tail-piece" />
</div>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>XXVIII. Domestic Experiences.</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">334</span></p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 700px;">
<a name="b130.png" id="b130.png"></a>
<img src="images/b130.png" width="700" height="381"
alt="Domestic Experiences"
title="Domestic Experiences" />
</div>

<p class="h2"><a name="XXVIII" id="XXVIII"></a><a href="#contents2">XXVIII.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">DOMESTIC EXPERIENCES.</p>

<p><span class="smc">Like</span> 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 <em>his</em> work would
stand impatient tugs and clumsy fingers any better than hers.</p>

<p>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 at him from behind the familiar coffee-pot; nor did Meg
<span class="pagenum2">335</span>
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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;a family jar.</p>

<p>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
bared 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
<span class="pagenum2">336</span>
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 "<em>jell</em>."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Now, in the first flush of the new life, she had often said,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">337</span>
to his mansion, with the irrepressible satisfaction of a young host and
husband.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"O John, I <em>am</em> 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 <em>shall</em>
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.</p>

<p>"What worries you, dear? Has anything dreadful happened?"
asked the anxious John, tenderly kissing the crown of the little cap,
which was all askew.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">338</span>
"Yes," sobbed Meg despairingly.</p>

<p>"Tell me quick, then. Don't cry, I can bear anything better than
that. Out with it, love."</p>

<p>"The&mdash;the jelly won't jell and I don't know what to do!"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;"</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"A man to dinner, and everything in a mess! John Brooke, how
<em>could</em> you do such a thing?"</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I should hope not! Take him away at once; I can't see him,
and there isn't any dinner."</p>

<p>"Well, I like that! Where's the beef and vegetables I sent home,
and the pudding you promised?" cried John, rushing to the larder.</p>

<p>"I hadn't time to cook anything; I meant to dine at mother's.
I'm sorry, but I was <em>so</em> busy;" and Meg's tears began again.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">339</span>
repose of mind or manner. He restrained himself, however, and the
little squall would have blown over, but for one unlucky word.</p>

<p>"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 sha'n't mind what it is. Give us the cold
meat, and bread and cheese; we won't ask for jelly."</p>

<p>He meant it for a good-natured joke; but that one word sealed his
fate. Meg thought it was <em>too</em> cruel to hint about her sad failure, and
the last atom of patience vanished as he spoke.</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p>Meg longed to go and tell mother; but a sense of shame at her
<ins title="Change shortcomings to short-comings."> 
own short-comings,</ins> 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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">340</span>
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&mdash;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.</p>

<p>Meg likewise resolved to be "calm and kind, but firm," and show
<em>him</em> 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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"We are going to have a new moon, my dear."</p>

<p>"I've no objection," was Meg's equally soothing remark.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 511px;">
<a name="b131.png" id="b131.png"></a>
<img src="images/b131.png" width="511" height="400"
alt="Both felt desperately uncomfortable"
title="Both felt desperately uncomfortable" />
</div>

<p>"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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">341</span>
"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&mdash;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,&mdash;one flash, and then
all over,&mdash;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."</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">342</span>
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 <em>will</em> 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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"It was too bad to laugh at the poor little jelly-pots. Forgive me,
dear, I never will again!"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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 that John wouldn't like it; and then this foolish little woman
went and did what John disliked infinitely worse.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">343</span>
value more,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;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,
<span class="pagenum2">344</span>
feeling as if she had stolen something, and the police were after
her.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 560px;">
<a name="b132.png" id="b132.png"></a>
<img src="images/b132.png" width="560" height="400"
alt="A bargain, I assure you, ma&#39;am"
title="A bargain, I assure you, ma&#39;am" />
</div>

<p>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 pocket-book which they called the
"bank," when Meg, knowing that it was quite empty, stopped his
hand, saying nervously,&mdash;</p>

<p>"You haven't seen my private expense book yet."</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">345</span>
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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>John laughed, and drew her round beside him, saying good-humoredly,
"Don't go and hide. I won't beat you if you <em>have</em> 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."</p>

<p>That had been one of her last "trifles," and John's eye had fallen
on it as he spoke. "Oh, what <em>will</em> he say when he comes to that
awful fifty dollars!" thought Meg, with a shiver.</p>

<p>"It's worse than boots, it's a silk dress," she said, with the calmness
of desperation, for she wanted the worst over.</p>

<p>"Well, dear, what is the 'dem'd total,' as Mr. Mantalini says?"</p>

<p>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,&mdash;but she could feel it cost him an effort to express no
displeasure,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Well, I don't know that fifty is much for a dress, with all the furbelows
and notions you have to have to finish it off these days."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">346</span>
"It isn't made or trimmed," sighed Meg faintly, for a sudden recollection
of the cost still to be incurred quite overwhelmed her.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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, for 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!"</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">347</span>
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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;the deepest
and tenderest of a woman's life.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"How's the little mamma? Where is everybody? Why didn't
you tell me before I came home?" began Laurie, in a loud whisper.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Shut your eyes and hold out your arms," she said invitingly.</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p>"Then you sha'n't see your nevvy," said Jo decidedly, turning as if
to go.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">348</span>
"I will, I will! only you must be responsible for damages;" and,
obeying orders, Laurie heroically shut his eyes while 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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 470px;">
<a name="b133.png" id="b133.png"></a>
<img src="images/b133.png" width="470" height="400"
alt="Laurie heroically shut his eyes while something was put into his arms"
title="Laurie heroically shut his eyes while something was put into his arms" />
</div>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">349</span>
"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Boy and girl. Aren't they beauties?" said the proud papa, beaming
upon the little, red squirmers as if they were unfledged angels.</p>

<p>"Most remarkable children I ever saw. Which is which?" and
Laurie bent like a well-sweep to examine the prodigies.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I'm afraid they mightn't like it," began Laurie, with unusual timidity
in such matters.</p>

<p>"Of course they will; they are used to it now. Do it this minute,
sir!" commanded Jo, fearing he might propose a proxy.</p>

<p>Laurie screwed up his face, and obeyed with a gingerly peck at each
little cheek that produced another laugh, and made the babies squeal.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Name him Demijohn, and call him 'Demi' for short," said
Laurie.</p>

<p>"Daisy and Demi,&mdash;just the thing! I <em>knew</em> Teddy would do it,"
cried Jo, clapping her hands.</p>
<p>Teddy certainly had done it that time, for the babies were
"Daisy" and "Demi" to the end of the chapter.</p>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>XXIX. Calls.</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">350</span></p>

<p class="h2"><a name="XXIX" id="XXIX"></a><a href="#contents2">XXIX.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">CALLS.</p>

<div class="figleft" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b134.png" id="b134.png"></a>
<img src="images/b134.png" width="400" height="672"
alt="Calls"
title="Calls" />
</div>

<p><span class="smc">"Come,</span> Jo, it's time."</p>

<p>"For what?"</p>

<p>"You don't mean to say
you have forgotten that you
promised to make half a
dozen calls with me to-day?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"If it was fair&mdash;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 <em>not</em> fair,
and I don't go."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">351</span>
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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">352</span>
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."</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"I'm perfectly miserable; but if you consider me presentable, I
die happy."</p>

<p>"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 <em>with</em>
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&mdash;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 <em>are</em> pretty, though my nose isn't."</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"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.
<span class="pagenum2">353</span>
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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>"Let me see. 'Calm, cool, and quiet,'&mdash;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."</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"How could you mistake me so? I merely meant you to be
properly dignified and composed, and you made yourself a perfect
<span class="pagenum2">354</span>
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."</p>

<p>"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!'"</p>

<p>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:&mdash;</p>

<p>"She rides splendidly,&mdash;who taught her?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">355</span>
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.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"Which did she choose?" asked one of the laughing gentlemen,
who enjoyed the subject.</p>

<p>"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!"</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 523px;">
<a name="b135.png" id="b135.png"></a>
<img src="images/b135.png" width="523" height="400"
alt="She took the saddle to the horse"
title="She took the saddle to the horse" />
</div>

<p>"Did she ride the horse?"</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">356</span>
"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p>"Isn't that an original idea?" cried Miss Lamb, who found Jo
great fun.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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
<i>brusque</i> 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?"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">357</span>
"Amy, we <em>must</em> go. <em>Good</em>-by, dear; <em>do</em> come and see 
us; we are <i>pining</i> for a visit. I don't dare to ask <em>you</em>, 
Mr. Lamb; but if you <em>should</em> come, I don't think I shall have the
heart to send you away."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Didn't I do that well?" asked Jo, with a satisfied air, as they
walked away.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>Poor Jo looked abashed, and silently chafed the end of her nose
with the stiff handkerchief, as if performing a penance for her misdemeanors.</p>

<p>"How shall I behave here?" she asked, as they approached the
third mansion.</p>

<p>"Just as you please; I wash my hands of you," was Amy's short
answer.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">358</span>
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, bear-like but affectionate, and dearer to her than the most faultless
<i>coiffure</i> from the hands of an inspired Frenchwoman.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 644px;">
<a name="b136.png" id="b136.png"></a>
<img src="images/b136.png" width="644" height="400"
alt="It might have been worse"
title="It might have been worse" />
</div>

<p>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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Why do you always avoid Mr. Tudor?" asked Amy, wisely refraining
from any comment upon Jo's dilapidated appearance.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">359</span>
"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 <em>I</em> don't consider him a desirable acquaintance; so I let
him alone."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"No, it wouldn't," returned perverse Jo; "I neither like, respect,
nor admire Tudor, though his grandfather's uncle's nephew's niece
<em>was</em> 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 <em>is</em> a gentleman in spite of the brown-paper parcels."</p>

<p>"It's no use trying to argue with you," began Amy.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">360</span>
"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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 as 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."</p>

<p>Amy smiled, and was mollified at once, saying with a maternal
air,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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 <em>ought</em> to do it to others if we can."</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">361</span>
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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Well, compose yourself now, and don't worry aunt with your new
ideas."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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,&mdash;"That
child improves every day."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">362</span>
"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 595px;">
<a name="b137.png" id="b137.png"></a>
<img src="images/b137.png" width="595" height="400"
alt="The call at Aunt March&#39;s"
title="The call at Aunt March&#39;s" />
</div>

<p>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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">363</span>
"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."</p>

<p>"Ahem!" coughed Aunt Carrol softly, with a look at Aunt March.</p>

<p>"I told you so," said Aunt March, with a decided nod to Aunt
Carrol.</p>

<p>Mercifully unconscious of what she had done, Jo sat with her nose in
the air, and a revolutionary aspect which was anything but inviting.</p>

<p>"Do you speak French, dear?" asked Mrs. Carrol, laying her
hand on Amy's.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"How are you about languages?" asked Mrs. Carrol of Jo.</p>

<p>"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 <i>brusque</i> reply.</p>

<p>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?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>


<div class="poem1">
<p class="indent30 left-indent15">
   <ins title="Add double quote before Cross-patch."> 
   "Cross-patch, draw the latch,</ins></p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent15">
    Sit by the fire and spin,"</p>
</div>

<p class="noindent">
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.</p>

<p>"Most observing bird," said the old lady.</p>

<p>"Come and take a walk, my dear?" cried Polly, hopping toward
the china-closet, with a look suggestive of lump-sugar.</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">364</span>
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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 309px;">
<a name="b138.png" id="b138.png"></a>
<img src="images/b138.png" width="309" height="200"
alt="Tail-piece"
title="Tail-piece" />
</div>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>XXX. Consequences.</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">365</span></p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 504px;">
<a name="b139.png" id="b139.png"></a>
<img src="images/b139.png" width="504" height="400"
alt="You shall have another table"
title="You shall have another table" />
</div>

<p class="h2"><a name="XXX" id="XXX"></a><a href="#contents2">XXX.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">CONSEQUENCES.</p>

<p><span class="smc">Mrs. Chester's</span> 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.</p>

<p>Everything went on smoothly till the day before the fair opened;
then there occurred one of the little skirmishes which it is almost impossible
<span class="pagenum2">366</span>
to avoid, when some five and twenty women, old and young,
with all their private piques and prejudices, try to work together.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;that was one
thorn; then the all-conquering Tudor had danced four times with
Amy, at a late party, and only once with May,&mdash;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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Amy felt that there was something behind this, but could not guess
what, and said quietly, feeling hurt, and showing that she did,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Perhaps you had rather I took no table at all?"</p>

<p>"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. <em>I</em> think it 
very appropriate <span class="pagenum2">367</span>
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."</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Girls' quarrels are soon over," returned her mother, feeling a trifle
ashamed of her own part in this one, as well she might.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">368</span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;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."</p>

<p>"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.
<span class="pagenum2">369</span>
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,&mdash;took the sermon to heart, and straightway put it in
practice.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I dare say she'd put them back if you asked her," suggested some
one.</p>

<p>"How could I after all the fuss?" began May, but she did not
finish, for Amy's voice came across the hall, saying pleasantly,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Now, I call that lovely of her, don't you?" cried one girl.</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p>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,&mdash;as she presently discovered; for her spirits began to rise, and
<span class="pagenum2">370</span>
her table to blossom under her skilful hands; the girls were very
kind, and that one little act seemed to have cleared the atmosphere
amazingly.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>The art-table <em>was</em> 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Is that my boy?"</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">371</span>
"O Teddy, such doings!" and Jo told Amy's wrongs with sisterly
zeal.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Didn't Hayes give you the best out of our gardens? I told him
to."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>Thanks to the conspirators, the tables <em>were</em> 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 <i>en masse</i>, 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
<span class="pagenum2">372</span>
spot in the room. Amy was in her element now, and, out of gratitude,
if nothing more, was as sprightly and gracious as possible,&mdash;coming
to the conclusion, about that time, that virtue <em>was</em> its own
reward, after all.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 530px;">
<a name="b140.png" id="b140.png"></a>
<img src="images/b140.png" width="530" height="400"
alt="Bought up the bouquets"
title="Bought up the bouquets" />
</div>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">373</span>
"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.'"</p>

<p>Jo <em>couldn't</em> 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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Now, gentlemen, I want you to go and do your duty by the other
tables as generously as you have by mine&mdash;especially the art-table,"
she said, ordering out "Teddy's Own," as the girls called the college
friends.</p>

<p>"'Charge, Chester, charge!' is the motto for that table; but do
your duty like men, and you'll get your money's worth of <em>art</em> 
in every sense of the word," said the irrepressible Jo, as the devoted 
phalanx prepared to take the field.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Buy the vases," whispered Amy to Laurie, as a final heaping of
coals of fire on her enemy's head.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">374</span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>Amy spoke earnestly, and Jo said, with a cordial hug,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">375</span>
"Aunt Carrol is going abroad next month, and wants&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Me to go with her!" burst in Jo, flying out of her chair in an
uncontrollable rapture.</p>

<p>"No, dear, not you; it's Amy."</p>

<p>"O mother! she's too young; it's my turn first. I've wanted
it so long&mdash;it would do me so much good, and be so altogether splendid&mdash;I
<em>must</em> go."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;'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.'"</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">376</span>
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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Suppose you haven't?" said Jo, sewing away, with red eyes, at
the new collars which were to be handed over to Amy.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Hum!" said Jo, with a sigh; "if you wish it you'll have it, for
your wishes are always granted&mdash;mine never."</p>

<p>"Would you like to go?" asked Amy, thoughtfully patting her
nose with her knife.</p>

<p>"Rather!"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">377</span>
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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Oh, take care of them for me; and if anything should happen&mdash;"</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 200px;">
<a name="b141.png" id="b141.png"></a>
<img src="images/b141.png" width="200" height="290"
alt="Tail-piece"
title="Tail-piece" />
</div>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>XXXI. Our Foreign Correspondent.</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">378</span></p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;">
<a name="b142.png" id="b142.png"></a>
<img src="images/b142.png" width="450" height="400"
alt="Flo and I ordered a hansom-cab"
title="Flo and I ordered a hansom-cab" />
</div>

<p class="h2"><a name="XXXI" id="XXXI"></a><a href="#contents2">XXXI.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">OUR FOREIGN CORRESPONDENT.</p>

<blockquote>
<p class="right">"<span class="smc">London.</span></p>

<p class="noindent smc">"Dearest People,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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 very
<span class="pagenum2">379</span>
necessary 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.</p>
</blockquote>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="b143.png" id="b143.png"></a>
<img class="border" src="images/b143.png" width="583" height="400"
alt="Every one was very kind"
title="Every one was very kind" /><br />
<span class="caption">
&quot;Every one was very kind, especially the officers.&quot;&mdash;Page 378.</span>
</div>

<blockquote>
<p>"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!
It 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; <ins title="Change period after Jo to a comma."> 
as for Jo, she would have gone up</ins> 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.</p>

<p>"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 <em>so</em> picturesque, and a rosy sky overhead. I never
shall forget it.</p>

<p>
"At Queenstown one of my new acquaintances left us,&mdash;Mr. 
Lennox,&mdash;and when I said something about the Lakes of Killarney, 
he sighed and sung, with a look at me,&mdash;</p>


<div class="poem1 sm">
<p class="indent28 left-indent10">
    'Oh, have you e'er heard of Kate Kearney?</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
     She lives on the banks of Killarney;</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
     From the glance of her eye,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10"> 
     Shun danger and fly,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
     For fatal's the glance of Kate Kearney.'</p>
</div>


<p class="noindent">Wasn't that nonsensical?</p>

<p>"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 <i>&agrave; la</i> 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
<span class="pagenum2">380</span>
the latest Yankee shine.' It amused uncle immensely. Oh, I <em>must</em>
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.</p>

<p>"I never <em>shall</em> 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,&mdash;the
grass so green, sky so blue, grain so yellow, woods so dark,&mdash;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,&mdash;'Oh, that
must be Kenilworth, that gray place among the trees!' Flo, darting
to my window,&mdash;'How sweet! We must go there some time, won't
we, papa?' Uncle, calmly admiring his boots,&mdash;'No, my dear, not
unless you want beer; that's a brewery.'</p>

<p>"A pause,&mdash;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
<ins title="Add comma after lying down"> 
lambs all lying down,' says Amy.</ins> '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.</p>

<p>"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;
<span class="pagenum2">381</span>
things seem so cheap&mdash;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?</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"'Now then, mum?'</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Rotten Row means '<i>Route de Roi</i>,' 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
<span class="pagenum2">382</span>
in a toy Noah's Ark. Every one rides,&mdash;old men, stout ladies, little
children,&mdash;and the young folks do a deal of flirting here; I saw a pair
exchange rosebuds, for it's the thing to wear one in the button-hole,
and I thought it rather a nice little idea.</p>

<p>"In the <span class="smc">p.m.</span> 
to Westminster Abbey; but don't expect me to describe
it, that's impossible&mdash;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.</p>

<hr class="tiny" />

<p class="right">"<span class="smc">Midnight.</span></p>

<p>"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 <em>so</em> 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 <em>such</em> 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?</p>

<p>"Aunt is tapping on the wall for the third time, so I <em>must</em> 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</p>

<p class="right smc">Amy."</p>
</blockquote>

<hr class="tiny" />

<blockquote>
<div class="complicatedformatting">
<p class="right smc">"Paris"</p>
<p class="smc">"Dear Girls,&mdash;</p> 
</div>

<p>
"In my last I told you about our London visit,&mdash;how kind the
Vaughns were, and what pleasant parties they made for us. I enjoyed
the trips to Hampton Court and the Kensington Museum
<span class="pagenum2">383</span>
more than anything else,&mdash;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, <em>I</em> 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,&mdash;especially
Fred.</p>

<p>"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 '<i>parley vooing</i>,' as uncle calls it.</p>

<p>"Such delightful times as we are having! sight-seeing from morning
till night, stopping for nice lunches in the gay <i>caf&eacute;s</i>, 
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 
<em>I</em> 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.</p>

<p>
"The Palais Royale is a heavenly place,&mdash;so full of <i>bijouterie</i> 
and lovely things that I'm nearly distracted because I can't buy them.
<span class="pagenum2">384</span>
Fred wanted to get me some, but of course I didn't allow it. Then
the Bois and the Champs Elys&eacute;es are <i>tr&egrave;s magnifique</i>. 
I've seen the imperial family several times,&mdash;the emperor an ugly, 
hard-looking man, the empress pale and pretty, but dressed in bad taste, 
<em>I</em> thought,&mdash;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.</p>
</blockquote>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 496px;">
<a name="b144.png" id="b144.png"></a>
<img src="images/b144.png" width="496" height="400"
alt="I&#39;ve seen the imperial family several times"
title="I&#39;ve seen the imperial family several times" />
</div>

<blockquote>
<p>"We often walk in the Tuileries Gardens, for they are lovely,
though the antique Luxembourg Gardens suit me better. P&egrave;re la
Chaise is very curious, for many of the tombs are like small rooms,
and, looking in, one sees a table, with images or pictures of the dead,
and chairs for the mourners to sit in when they come to lament.
That is so Frenchy.</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">385</span>
the most agreeable young man I ever knew,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>"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 sketch-book, will give you a better idea of my tour than
these scribbles.</p>
<p>"Adieu; I embrace you tenderly.</p> 

<div class="complicatedformatting">
<p class="right smc">Votre Amie."</p>
</div>
</blockquote>

<hr class="tiny" />


<blockquote>
<div class="complicatedformatting">
<p class="right smc">"Heidelberg.</p>
<p class="smc">"My dear Mamma,&mdash;</p>
</div>

<p>
"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.</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;the river, the
bridge of boats, the great fortress opposite, moonlight everywhere,
and music fit to melt a heart of stone.</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">386</span>
"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.</p>

<p>"Now comes the serious part,&mdash;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
walks, balcony talks, and daily adventures were something more
to him than fun. I haven't flirted, mother, truly, but remembered
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,&mdash;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 <em>must</em> marry well;
<span class="pagenum2">387</span>
Meg didn't, Jo won't, Beth can't yet, so I shall, and make everything
cosey all round. 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,&mdash;a rakish-looking
baron,&mdash;about '<i>ein wondersch&ouml;nes
Bl&ouml;ndchen</i>,' 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.</p>

<div class="figright" style="width: 350px;">
<a name="b145.png" id="b145.png"></a>
<img src="images/b145.png" width="350" height="583"
alt="Trying to sketch the gray-stone lion&#39;s head on the wall"
title="Trying to sketch the gray-stone lion&#39;s head on the wall" />
</div>

<p>"Well, last evening we went up to
the castle about sunset,&mdash;at least
all of us but Fred, who was to meet
us there, after going to the Post 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 band below, and waiting for my lover, like a
<span class="pagenum2">388</span>
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.</p></blockquote>

<blockquote>
<p>"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,&mdash;and
said it in a way that I could not mistake,&mdash;'I shall soon
come back; you won't forget me, Amy?'</p>

<p>"I didn't promise, 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 know 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?'</p>

<p>"Of course this is all <em>very private</em>, but I wished 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.</p>
<p class="left-margin2em">"Ever your</p>
<div class="complicatedformatting">
<p class="right smc">Amy."</p>
</div>
</blockquote>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>XXXII. Tender Troubles.</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">389</span></p>

<p class="h2"><a name="XXXII" id="XXXII"></a><a href="#contents2">XXXII.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">TENDER TROUBLES.</p>

<p>"<span class="smc">Jo</span>, I'm anxious about Beth."</p>

<p>"Why, mother, she has seemed unusually well since the babies
came."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"What makes you think so, mother?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Have you asked her about it?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"So she is. Dear heart, how fast you do grow up," returned her
mother, with a sigh and a smile.</p>

<p>"
<span class="pagenum2">390</span>
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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Happy woman! I've got heaps."</p>

<p>"My dear, what are they?"</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b146.png" id="b146.png"></a>
<img src="images/b146.png" width="400" height="523"
alt="She leaned her head upon her hands"
title="She leaned her head upon her hands" />
</div>

<p>"All serene! Coming in to-night."</p>

<p>Beth started, leaned forward, smiled and nodded, watched the
<span class="pagenum2">391</span>
passer-by till his quick tramp died away, then said softly, as if to herself,&mdash;</p>

<p>"How strong and well and happy that dear boy looks."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">392</span>
"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 <em>will</em>
mother say? I wonder if he&mdash;" 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 <em>are</em> 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 weathercock; 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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">393</span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>As every one <em>was</em> out of the way but herself, Jo began to feel that
<span class="pagenum2">394</span>
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.</p>

<p>Now, the old sofa was a regular patriarch of a sofa,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Now, <em>this</em> is filling at the price."</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 579px;">
<a name="b147.png" id="b147.png"></a>
<img src="images/b147.png" width="579" height="400"
alt="Now, this is filling at the price"
title="Now, this is filling at the price" />
</div>

<p>"No slang," snapped Jo, slamming down the pillow. But it was
too late, there was no room for it; and, coasting on to the floor, it
disappeared in a most mysterious manner.</p>

<p>"Come, Jo, don't be thorny. After studying himself to a skeleton
all the week, a fellow deserves petting, and ought to get it."</p>

<p>"Beth will pet you; I'm busy."</p>

<p>"No, she's not to be bothered with me; but you like that sort of
thing, unless you've suddenly lost your taste for it. Have you?
Do you hate your boy, and want to fire pillows at him?"</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">395</span>
Anything more wheedlesome than that touching appeal was seldom
heard, but Jo quenched "her boy" by turning on him with the stern
query,&mdash;</p>

<p>"How many bouquets have you sent Miss Randal this week?"</p>

<p>"Not one, upon my word. She's engaged. Now then."</p>

<p>"I'm glad of it; that's one of your foolish extravagances,&mdash;sending
flowers and things to girls for whom you don't care two pins," continued
Jo reprovingly.</p>

<p>"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 <em>went</em>."</p>

<p>"Mother doesn't approve of flirting, even in fun; and you do flirt
desperately, Teddy."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">396</span>
"Take lessons of Amy; she has a regular talent for it."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I'm glad you can't flirt; it's really refreshing to see a sensible,
straightforward 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."</p>

<p>"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 keep it up, and then you blame them."</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem1">
<p class="indent30 left-indent15">
   "'Out upon you, fie upon you,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent15">
      Bold-faced jig!'"</p>
</div>

<p>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 <i>parti</i> 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 <em>must</em> 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."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">397</span>
"You really advise it?" and Laurie looked at her with an odd
mixture of anxiety and merriment in his face.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;well, whoever the modest girl may be,"
and Jo looked a little queer likewise, for a name had almost escaped
her.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I'd rather stay here, thank you."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Ah, that depends on who wears the apron!" and Laurie gave an
audacious tweak at the tassel.</p>

<p>"Are you going?" demanded Jo, diving for the pillow.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b148.png" id="b148.png"></a>
<img src="images/b148.png" width="400" height="545"
alt="Up with the Bonnets of Bonnie Dundee"
title="Up with the Bonnets of Bonnie Dundee" />
</div>

<p>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, "What is it, dear?"</p>

<p>"I thought you were asleep," sobbed Beth.</p>

<p>"Is it the old pain, my precious?"</p>

<p>"No; it's a new one; but I can bear it," and Beth tried to check
her tears.</p>

<p>"Tell me all about it, and let me cure it as I often did the other."</p>

<p>"You can't; there is no cure." There Beth's voice gave way,
and, clinging to her sister, she cried so despairingly that Jo was
frightened.</p>

<p>"Where is it? Shall I call mother?"</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">398</span>
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."</p>

<p>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?"</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">399</span>
"Yes, Jo," after a long pause.</p>

<p>"Wouldn't it comfort you to tell me what it is?"</p>

<p>"Not now, not yet."</p>

<p>"Then I won't ask; but remember, Bethy, that mother and Jo are
always glad to hear and help you, if they can."</p>

<p>"I know it. I'll tell you by and by."</p>

<p>"Is the pain better now?"</p>

<p>"Oh, yes, much better; you are so comfortable, Jo!"</p>

<p>"Go to sleep, dear; I'll stay with you."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>But Jo had made up her mind, and, after pondering over a project
for some days, she confided it to her mother.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Why, Jo?" and her mother looked up quickly, as if the words
suggested a double meaning.</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p>"Where will you hop?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"My dear, go out to service in that great boarding-house!" and
Mrs. March looked surprised, but not displeased.</p>

<p>"It's not exactly going out to service; for Mrs. Kirke is your
friend,&mdash;the kindest soul that ever lived,&mdash;and would make things
pleasant for me, I know. Her family is separate from the rest, and no
one knows me there. Don't care if they do; it's honest work, and
I'm not ashamed of it."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">400</span>
"Nor I; but your writing?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I have no doubt of it; but are these your only reasons for this
sudden fancy?"</p>

<p>"No, mother."</p>

<p>"May I know the others?"</p>

<p>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&mdash;I'm
afraid&mdash;Laurie is getting too fond of me."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I'm glad of that, Jo."</p>

<p>"Why, please?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"You are sure of his feeling for you?"</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">401</span>
"I agree with you, and if it can be managed you shall go."</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p>"Ah, Jo, mothers may differ in their management, but the hope
is the same in all,&mdash;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?"</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">402</span>
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."</p>

<p>Jo was very much relieved that one of his virtuous fits should come
on just then, and made her preparations with a lightened heart,&mdash;for
Beth seemed more cheerful,&mdash;and hoped she was doing the best
for all.</p>

<p>"One thing I leave to your especial care," she said, the night
before she left.</p>

<p>"You mean your papers?" asked Beth.</p>

<p>"No, my boy. Be very good to him, won't you?"</p>

<p>"Of course I will; but I can't fill your place, and he'll miss you
sadly."</p>

<p>"It won't hurt him; so remember, I leave him in your charge, to
plague, pet, and keep in order."</p>

<p>"I'll do my best, for your sake," promised Beth, wondering why Jo
looked at her so queerly.</p>

<p>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."</p>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>XXXIII. Jo's Journal.</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">403</span></p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 486px;">
<a name="b149.png" id="b149.png"></a>
<img src="images/b149.png" width="486" height="400"
alt="I amused myself by dropping gingerbread nuts over the seat"
title="I amused myself by dropping gingerbread nuts over the seat" />
</div>

<p class="h2"><a name="XXXIII" id="XXXIII"></a><a href="#contents2">XXXIII.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">JO'S JOURNAL.</p>

<blockquote>
<p class="right">"<span class="smc">New York</span>, November.</p>

<p class="noindent smc">"Dear Marmee and Beth,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Soon the sun came out, and taking it as a good omen, I cleared
up likewise, and enjoyed my journey with all my heart.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;all
<span class="pagenum2">404</span>
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,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>"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 <em>am</em> bashful, though no one
will believe it.</p>

<p>"'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.</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"'It goes better so. The little back is too young to haf such
<ins title="period after heaviness."> heaviness.'</ins></p>

<p>"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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"'That must have been Professor Bhaer; he's always doing things
of that sort.'</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">405</span>
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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<hr class="tiny" />

<p class="right">"<i>Tuesday Eve.</i></p>

<p>"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 needle-work,
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,&mdash;</p>

<p class="center noindent">'Kennst du das land,'</p>

<p class="noindent">
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 took a good look at him. A regular
German,&mdash;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,&mdash;</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">406</span>
"'Herein!'</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"'Me wants my Bhaer,' said the mite, slamming down her book,
and running to meet him.</p>
</blockquote>

<div class="figleft" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b150.png" id="b150.png"></a>
<img src="images/b150.png" width="400" height="665"
alt="Thou shalt haf thy Bhaer"
title="Thou shalt haf thy Bhaer" />
</div>

<blockquote>
<p>"'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.</p>

<p>"'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.</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">407</span>
coquettish tone, and the other pronounced her German with an
accent that must have made it hard for him to keep sober.</p>

<p>"Both seemed to try his patience sorely; for more than once I
heard him say emphatically, 'No, no, it is <em>not</em> 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.'</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;the gentlemen especially,
who seemed to be eating on time, for they <em>bolted</em> 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.</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">408</span>
says, and the poor man must have needed a deal of food after
teaching idiots all day.</p>

<p>"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?'</p>

<p>"'Governess, or something of that sort.'</p>

<p>"'What the deuce is she at our table for?'</p>

<p>"'Friend of the old lady's.'</p>

<p>"'Handsome head, but no style.'</p>

<p>"'Not a bit of it. Give us a light and come on.'</p>

<p>"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!"</p>

<hr class="tiny" />

<p class="right">"<i>Thursday.</i></p>

<p>"Yesterday was a quiet day, spent in teaching, sewing, and writing
in my little room, which is very cosey, 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.</p>

<p>"The maiden lady is a Miss Norton,&mdash;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 <em>do</em> want to get into
good society, only it isn't the same sort that Amy likes.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">409</span>
"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.'</p>

<p>"'Yes; and she's jolly and we like her lots,' added Kitty, who is
an <i>enfant terrible</i>.</p>

<p>"We both bowed, and then we laughed, for the prim introduction
and the blunt addition were rather a comical contrast.</p>

<p>"'Ah, yes, I hear 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.</p>

<div class="figright" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b151.png" id="b151.png"></a>
<img src="images/b151.png" width="400" height="490"
alt="He waved his hand, sock and all"
title="He waved his hand, sock and all" />
</div>

<p>"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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"'You haf a fine day to make your walk. <i>Bon voyage, mademoiselle.</i>'</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">410</span>
German gentlemen embroider, I know; but darning hose is another
thing, and not so pretty."</p>

<hr class="tiny" />

<p class="right">"<i>Saturday.</i></p>

<p>"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,&mdash;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 as
proud as Lucifer, but such favors from such people don't burden me,
and I accepted gratefully.</p>

<p>"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 back, 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.</p>

<p>"'We are playing <i>nargerie</i>,' explained Kitty.</p>

<p>"'Dis is mine effalunt!' added Tina, holding on by the Professor's
hair.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 700px;">
<a name="b152.png" id="b152.png"></a>
<img src="images/b152.png" width="700" height="388"
alt="Dis is mine effalunt"
title="Dis is mine effalunt" />
</div>

<p>"'Mamma always allows us to do what we like Saturday afternoon,
when Franz and Emil come, doesn't she, Mr. Bhaer?' said Minnie.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">411</span>
"The 'effalunt' sat up, looking as much in earnest as any of them,
and said soberly to me,&mdash;</p>

<p>"'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.'</p>

<p>"I promised to do so, but left the door open, and enjoyed the fun
as much as they did,&mdash;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 snow-flakes as they fall. I wish Americans
were as simple and natural as Germans, don't you?</p>

<p>"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.</p>
<p><span class="left-margin2em">"From your faithful</span></p> 

<div class="complicatedformatting">
<p class="right smc">Jo.</p>
</div>



<p>
"P.&nbsp;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!"</p>
</blockquote>

<hr class="tiny" />

<blockquote>

<div class="complicatedformatting">
<p class="right smc">"December.</p>
<p class="smc">"My Precious Betsey,&mdash;</p> 
</div>

<p>
"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,
<span class="pagenum2">412</span>
like a seminary, with the Professor and myself to keep order; and
then such fun!</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"'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.'</p>

<p>"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 grand
rummage three of the missing articles were found,&mdash;one over the
bird-cage, one covered with ink, and a third burnt brown, having been
used as a holder.</p>

<p>"'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.'</p>

<p>"'Let me mend them,' said I. 'I don't mind it, and he needn't
know. I'd like to,&mdash;he's so kind to me about bringing my letters
and lending books.'</p>

<p>"So I have got his things in order, and knit heels into two pairs of
the socks,&mdash;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
<span class="pagenum2">413</span>
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.</p>

<p>"'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?'</p>

<p>"'Yes; but you are too busy. I am too stupid to learn,' I blundered
out, as red as a peony.</p>

<p>"'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.'</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">414</span>
"'Now we shall try a new way. You and I will read these pleasant
little M&auml;rchen together, and dig no more in that dry book, that goes
in the corner for making us trouble.'</p>

<p>"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 gute!
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,&mdash;and I did,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<hr class="tiny" />

<p class="right">"<span class="smc">January.</span></p>

<p>"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,
<span class="pagenum2">415</span>
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 <em>homey</em>
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!</p>
</blockquote>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 546px;">
<a name="b153.png" id="b153.png"></a>
<img src="images/b153.png" width="546" height="400"
alt="I sat down upon the floor and read and looked and ate"
title="I sat down upon the floor and read and looked and ate" />
</div>

<blockquote>
<p>"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.'</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">416</span>
"'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.'</p>

<p>"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 <em>don't</em> laugh at his horrid name; it isn't pronounced either Bear
or Beer, as people <em>will</em> 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.'</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;a new standish
on his table, a little vase for his flower,&mdash;he always has one, or a bit
of green in a glass, to keep him fresh, he says,&mdash;and a holder for his
blower, so that he needn't burn up what Amy calls 'mouchoirs.' I
made it like those Beth invented,&mdash;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
<i>vertu</i>; 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.</p>

<p>"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 of 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
<span class="pagenum2">417</span>
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,&mdash;a perfect little fairy in his
arms. To see them dance was 'quite a landscape,' to use a Teddyism.</p>

<p>"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</p>
<p class="right smc">Jo."</p>
</blockquote>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;">
<a name="b154.png" id="b154.png"></a>
<img src="images/b154.png" width="300" height="304"
alt="Tail-piece"
title="Tail-piece" />
</div>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>XXXIV. A Friend.</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">418</span></p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 502px;">
<a name="b155.png" id="b155.png"></a>
<img src="images/b155.png" width="502" height="400"
alt="In the presence of three gentlemen"
title="In the presence of three gentlemen" />
</div>

<p class="h2"><a name="XXXIV" id="XXXIV"></a><a href="#contents2">XXXIV.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">A FRIEND.</p>

<p><span class="smc">Though</span> 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.</p>

<p>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 <em>more</em> than enough, so that she
<span class="pagenum2">419</span>
might indulge in the luxury of charity, had been for years Jo's most
cherished castle in the air.</p>

<p>The prize-story experience had seemed to open a way which might,
after long travelling and much up-hill work lead to this delightful
<i>ch&acirc;teau en Espagne</i>. 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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Excuse me, I was looking for the 'Weekly Volcano' office; I
wished to see Mr. Dashwood."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">420</span>
"A friend of mine desired me to offer&mdash;a story&mdash;just as an experiment&mdash;would
like your opinion&mdash;be glad to write more if this
suits."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;sure
sign of a novice.</p>

<p>"No, sir; she has had some experience, and got a prize for a tale
in the 'Blarneystone Banner.'"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>Now, Jo did <em>not</em> 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">421</span>
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&mdash;which she had carefully put in as
ballast for much romance&mdash;had been stricken out.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>Mr. Dashwood's editorial gravity relaxed into a smile, for Jo had
forgotten her "friend," and spoken as only an author could.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"You think it would do with these alterations, then?"</p>

<p>"Yes; it's a new plot, and pretty well worked up&mdash;language
good, and so on," was Mr. Dashwood's affable reply.</p>

<p>"What do you&mdash;that is, what compensation&mdash;" began Jo, not
exactly knowing how to express herself.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"None at all, if you please; she doesn't wish her name to appear,
and has no <i>nom de plume</i>," said Jo, blushing in spite of herself.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">422</span>
"I'll call. Good morning, sir."</p>

<p>As she departed, Mr. Dashwood put up his feet, with the graceful
remark, "Poor and proud, as usual, but she'll do."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>She soon became interested in her work, for her emaciated purse
grew stout, and the little hoard 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">423</span>
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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;a proceeding which would have much surprised him,
had he known it, for the worthy Professor was very humble in his own
conceit.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">424</span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Another and a better gift than intellect was shown her in a most
unexpected manner. Miss Norton had the <i>entr&eacute;e</i> into literary society,
<span class="pagenum2">425</span>
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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 576px;">
<a name="b156.png" id="b156.png"></a>
<img src="images/b156.png" width="576" height="400"
alt="A select symposium"
title="A select symposium" />
</div>

<p>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 Sta&euml;ls of the age,
who looked daggers at another Corinne, who was amiably satirizing
<span class="pagenum2">426</span>
her, after out-man&oelig;uvring 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.</p>

<p>Before the evening was half over, Jo felt so completely 
<i>d&eacute;sillusion&eacute;e</i>, 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">427</span>
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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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 head-gear, for he was going to read her the "Death of
Wallenstein."</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b157.png" id="b157.png"></a>
<img src="images/b157.png" width="400" height="577"
alt="He doesn&#39;t prink at his glass before coming"
title="He doesn&#39;t prink at his glass before coming" />
</div>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">428</span>
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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Mees Marsch, for what do you laugh in your master's face? Haf
you no respect for me, that you go on so bad?"</p>

<p>"How can I be respectful, sir, when you forget to take your hat
off?" said Jo.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">429</span>
"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."</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Yes, you are right to put it from you. I do not like to think
that good young 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."</p>

<p>"All may not be bad, only silly, you know; and if there is a demand
<span class="pagenum2">430</span>
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.</p>

<p>"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 <em>was</em> 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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"I should like much to send all the rest after him," muttered the
Professor, coming back with a relieved air.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Shall we go on, sir? I'll be very good and proper now."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"They <em>are</em> 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
<span class="pagenum2">431</span>
I can't read this stuff in sober earnest without being horribly ashamed
of it; and what <em>should</em> I do if they were seen at home, or Mr. Bhaer
got hold of them?"</p>

<p>Jo turned hot at the bare idea, and stuffed the whole bundle into her
stove, nearly setting the chimney afire with the blaze.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 552px;">
<a name="b158.png" id="b158.png"></a>
<img src="images/b158.png" width="552" height="400"
alt="Jo stuffed the whole bundle into the stove"
title="Jo stuffed the whole bundle into the stove" />
</div>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"I think I haven't done much harm <em>yet</em>, 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."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">432</span>
Ah, Jo, instead of wishing that, thank God that "father and
mother <em>were</em> 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">433</span>
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.</p>

<p>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
beside German, and laying a foundation for the sensation story of her
own life.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>She was going early, so she bade them all good-by over night;
and when his turn came, she said warmly,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Do you? Shall I come?" he asked, looking down at her with
an eager expression which she did not see.</p>

<p>"Yes, come next month; Laurie graduates then, and you'd enjoy
Commencement as something new."</p>

<p>"That is your best friend, of whom you speak?" he said, in an
altered tone.</p>

<p>"Yes, my boy Teddy; I'm very proud of him, and should like you
to see him."</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">434</span>
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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>But after the boys were abed, he sat long before his fire, with the
tired look on his face, and the "<i>heimweh</i>," 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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>XXXV. Heartache.</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">435</span></p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 521px;">
<a name="b159.png" id="b159.png"></a>
<img src="images/b159.png" width="521" height="400"
alt="He put the sisters into the carriage"
title="He put the sisters into the carriage" />
</div>

<p class="h2"><a name="XXXV" id="XXXV"></a><a href="#contents2b">XXXV.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">HEARTACHE.</p>

<p><span class="smc">Whatever</span> 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,&mdash;oh,
so proud!&mdash;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.</p>

<p>"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 her
splendid, successful boy anything, and answered warmly,&mdash;</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">436</span>
"I'll come, Teddy, rain or shine, and march before you, playing
'<em>Hail the conquering hero comes</em>,' on a jews-harp."</p>

<p>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?"</p>

<p>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 
<i>t&ecirc;te-&agrave;-t&ecirc;te</i>, but when she saw a stalwart 
figure looming in the distance, she had a strong desire to turn about 
and run away.</p>

<p>"Where's the jews-harp, Jo?" cried Laurie, as soon as he was
within speaking distance.</p>

<p>"I forgot it;" and Jo took heart again, for that salutation could
not be called lover-like.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Now you must have a good long holiday!"</p>

<p>"I intend to."</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"No, Teddy, please don't!"</p>

<p>"I will, and you <em>must</em> 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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">437</span>
"Say what you like, then; I'll listen," said Jo, with a desperate
sort of patience.</p>

<p>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 <em>would</em> get
choky now and then, in spite of manful efforts to keep it steady,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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 <em>can't</em> go on so any longer."</p>

<p>"I wanted to save you this; I thought you'd understand&mdash;" began
Jo, finding it a great deal harder than she expected.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"<em>I</em> don't. I never wanted to make you care for me so, and I went
away to keep you from it if I could."</p>

<p>"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&mdash;" here there was a choke that couldn't be controlled, so he
decapitated buttercups while he cleared his "confounded throat."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Really, truly, Jo?"</p>

<p>He stopped short, and caught both her hands as he put his question
with a look that she did not soon forget.</p>

<p>"Really, truly, dear."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 539px;">
<a name="b160.png" id="b160.png"></a>
<img src="images/b160.png" width="539" height="400"
alt="He laid his head down on the mossy post"
title="He laid his head down on the mossy post" />
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum2">438</span>
"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.</p>

<p>"They do sometimes," said a muffled voice from the post.</p>

<p>"I don't believe it's the right sort of love, and I'd rather not try
it," was the decided answer.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Laurie, I want to tell you something."</p>

<p>He started as if he had been shot, threw up his head, and cried
out, in a fierce tone&mdash;</p>

<p>"<em>Don't</em> tell me that, Jo; I can't bear it now!"</p>

<p>"Tell what?" she asked, wondering at his violence.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">439</span>
"That you love that old man."</p>

<p>"What old man?" demanded Jo, thinking he must mean his
grandfather.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>Jo wanted to laugh, but restrained herself, and said warmly, for
she, too, was getting excited with all this,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"But you will after a while, and then what will become of me?"</p>

<p>"You'll love some one else too, like a sensible boy, and forget all
this trouble."</p>

<p>"I <em>can't</em> love any one else; and I'll never forget you, Jo, never!
never!" with a stamp to emphasize his passionate words.</p>

<p>"What <em>shall</em> 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.</p>

<p>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 <em>could</em> 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,&mdash;how touching that was, to
be sure!&mdash;</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">440</span>
very miserable, if we were so foolish as to&mdash;" Jo paused a little over
the last word, but Laurie uttered it with a rapturous expression,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Marry,&mdash;no, we shouldn't! If you loved me, Jo, I should be a
perfect saint, for you could make me anything you like."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Yes, we will if we get the chance," muttered Laurie rebelliously.</p>

<p>"Now do be reasonable, and take a sensible view of the case," implored
Jo, almost at her wit's end.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I wish I hadn't!"</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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!"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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"&mdash;she began solemnly.</p>

<p>"I'll be hanged if I do!" and Laurie bounced up off the grass,
burning with indignation at the bare idea.</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;we can't help it even now, you see,&mdash;and I
<span class="pagenum2">441</span>
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!"</p>

<p>"Anything more?" asked Laurie, finding it hard to listen patiently
to this prophetic burst.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I know better!" broke in Laurie. "You think so now; but there'll
come a time when you <em>will</em> 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.</p>

<p>"Yes, I <em>will</em> 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 <em>won't</em> 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,&mdash;so now!"</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"You'll be sorry some day, Jo."</p>

<p>"Oh, where are you going?" she cried, for his face frightened her.</p>

<p>"To the devil!" was the consoling answer.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">442</span>
"That will do him good, and he'll come home in such a tender,
penitent state of mind, that I sha'n'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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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 Path&eacute;tique," and played it as he
never did before.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>
<p>"Jo, dear, come in; I want you."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">443</span>
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.</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"I know, my boy, I know."</p>

<p>No answer for an instant; then Laurie asked sharply,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Who told you?"</p>

<p>"Jo herself."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"Anywhere. I don't care what becomes of me;" and Laurie got
up, with a reckless laugh, that grated on his grandfather's ear.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"I can't."</p>

<p>"But you've been wild to go, and I promised you should when
you got through college."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I don't ask you to go alone; there's some one ready and glad to
go with you, anywhere in the world."</p>

<p>"Who, sir?" stopping to listen.</p>

<p>"Myself."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">444</span>
Laurie came back as quickly as he went, and put out his hand, saying
huskily,&mdash;</p>

<p>"I'm a selfish brute; but&mdash;you know&mdash;grandfather&mdash;"</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Well, sir, what is it?" and Laurie sat down, without a sign of interest
in face or voice.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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,
stifling a natural regret at the thought of the home comforts he would
leave behind him, he said stoutly,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>A restless movement from Laurie suggested that <em>his</em> chair was not easy,
or that he did not like the plan, and made the old man add hastily,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">445</span>
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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Just as you like, sir; it doesn't matter where I go or what
I do."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Anything you like, sir."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">446</span>
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.</p>

<p>"O Jo, can't you?"</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b161.png" id="b161.png"></a>
<img src="images/b161.png" width="400" height="634"
alt="O Jo, can&#39;t you?"
title="O Jo, can&#39;t you?" />
</div>

<p>"Teddy, dear, I wish I could!"</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">447</span>
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 <em>did</em> 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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;">
<a name="b162.png" id="b162.png"></a>
<img src="images/b162.png" width="300" height="242"
alt="Tail-piece"
title="Tail-piece" />
</div>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>XXXVI. Beth's Secret.</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">448</span></p>

<p class="h2"><a name="XXXVI" id="XXXVI"></a><a href="#contents2b">XXXVI.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">BETH'S SECRET.</p>

<p><span class="smc">When</span> 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">449</span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 579px;">
<a name="b163.png" id="b163.png"></a>
<img src="images/b163.png" width="579" height="400"
alt="With her head in Jo&#39;s lap, while the wind blew healthfully over her"
title="With her head in Jo&#39;s lap, while the wind blew healthfully over her" />
</div>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Jo, dear, I'm glad you know it. I've tried to tell you, but I
couldn't."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">450</span>
"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 <em>was</em> best, but glad to know that Laurie
had no part in Beth's trouble.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;at least, I
thought so then."</p>

<p>"And I thought that you loved him, Beth, and I went away because
I couldn't," cried Jo, glad to say all the truth.</p>

<p>Beth looked so amazed at the idea that Jo smiled in spite of
her pain, and added softly,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Then you didn't, deary? I was afraid it was so, and imagined
your poor little heart full of love-lornity all that while."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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
<em>must</em> get well."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">451</span>
"It <em>shall</em> be stopped, your tide must not turn so soon, nineteen 
is too young. Beth,  <ins title="Add period after let you go"> 
I can't let you go.</ins> 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>By and by Beth said, with recovered serenity,&mdash;</p>

<p>"You'll tell them this when we go home?"</p>

<p>"I think they will see it without words," sighed Jo; for now it
seemed to her that Beth changed every day.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"If I can; but, Beth, I don't give up yet; I'm going to believe
that it <em>is</em> a sick fancy, and not let you think it's true," said Jo, trying
to speak cheerfully.</p>

<p>Beth lay a minute thinking, and then said in her quiet way,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">452</span>
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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;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 <em>so</em> far
away."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">453</span>
"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."</p>

<p>Jo leaned down to kiss the tranquil face; and with that silent kiss,
she dedicated herself soul and body to Beth.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 592px;">
<a name="b164.png" id="b164.png"></a>
<img src="images/b164.png" width="592" height="400"
alt="Tail-piece"
title="Tail-piece" />
</div>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>XXXVII. New Impressions.</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">454</span></p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 582px;">
<a name="b165.png" id="b165.png"></a>
<img src="images/b165.png" width="582" height="400"
alt="He hurried forward to meet her"
title="He hurried forward to meet her" />
</div>

<p class="h2"><a name="XXXVII" id="XXXVII"></a><a href="#contents2b">XXXVII.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">NEW IMPRESSIONS.</p>

<p><span class="smc">At</span> three o'clock in the afternoon, all the fashionable world at
Nice may be seen on the Promenade des Anglais,&mdash;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 lie 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
criticising the latest celebrity who has arrived,&mdash;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
<span class="pagenum2">455</span>
flounces from overflowing the diminutive vehicles, and little grooms
on the perch behind.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I was detained by the way, but I promised to spend Christmas
with you, and here I am."</p>

<p>"How is your grandfather? When did you come? Where are
you staying?"</p>

<p>"Very well&mdash;last night&mdash;at the Chauvain. I called at your hotel,
but you were all out."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"What happens then, a ball?"</p>

<p>"A Christmas party at our hotel. There are many Americans
<span class="pagenum2">456</span>
there, and they give it in honor of the day. You'll go with us, of
course? Aunt will be charmed."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"Often, years ago; but I don't mind having a look at it."</p>

<p>"Now tell me all about yourself. The last I heard of you, your
grandfather wrote that he expected you from Berlin."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"That's a sociable arrangement," said Amy, missing something in
Laurie's manner, though she couldn't tell what.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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,&mdash;not sick, nor exactly unhappy,
but older and graver than a year or two of prosperous life should have
<span class="pagenum2">457</span>
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.</p>

<p>"<i>Que pensez vous</i>?" she said, airing her French, which had improved
in quantity, if not in quality, since she came abroad.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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 <i>blas&eacute;</i>, 
it sounded indifferent in spite of the look.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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!"</p>

<p>Laurie smiled, took it, put it in his vest-pocket, "to keep it from
<span class="pagenum2">458</span>
blowing away," and listened with interest to the lively letter Amy read
him.</p>

<p>"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
<i>aplomb</i> 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 still held its own, and her
native frankness was unspoiled by foreign polish.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"I remember; it's not much changed," he answered, without enthusiasm.</p>

<p>"What Jo would give for a sight of that famous speck!" said
Amy, feeling in good spirits, and anxious to see him so also.</p>

<p>"Yes," was all he said, but he turned and strained his eyes to see
<span class="pagenum2">459</span>
the island which a greater usurper than even Napoleon now made
interesting in his sight.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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
<i>coiffures</i>, 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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">460</span>
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 <i>chass&eacute;ed</i> down the room, admiring her aristocratic feet all by
herself.</p>

<p>"My new fan just matches my flowers, my gloves fit to a charm,
and the real lace on aunt's <i>mouchoir</i> 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.</p>

<p>In spite of this affliction, she looked unusually gay and graceful as
she glided away; she seldom ran,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>"Good evening, Diana!" said Laurie, with the look of satisfaction
she liked to see in his eyes when they rested on her.</p>

<p>"Good evening, Apollo!" she answered, smiling back at him, for
he, too, looked unusually <i>debonnaire</i>, and the thought of entering the
ball-room on the arm of such a personable man caused Amy to pity
the four plain Misses Davis from the bottom of her heart.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 478px;">
<a name="b166.png" id="b166.png"></a>
<img src="images/b166.png" width="478" height="400"
alt="Here are your flowers"
title="Here are your flowers" />
</div>

<p>"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."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">461</span>
"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.</p>

<p>"Please don't."</p>

<p>"I thought you liked that sort of thing?"</p>

<p>"Not from you; it doesn't sound natural, and I like your old
bluntness better."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>The company assembled in the long <i>salle &agrave; manger</i>, 
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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">462</span>
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.</p>

<p>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 ball-room, 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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Do you care to dance?"</p>

<p>"One usually does at a ball."</p>

<p>Her amazed look and quick answer caused Laurie to repair his
error as fast as possible.</p>

<p>"I meant the first dance. May I have the honor?"</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">463</span>
that the name would have a good effect, and show Laurie that she
was not to be trifled with.</p>

<p>"Nice little boy, but rather a short Pole to support</p>

<div class="poem1">
<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   "'A daughter of the gods,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
       Divinely tall, and most divinely fair,'"</p>
</div>

<p class="noindent">was all the satisfaction she got, however.</p>

<p>The set in which they found themselves was composed of English,
and Amy was compelled to walk decorously through a cotillon, 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.</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">464</span>
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 <i>gar&ccedil;ons</i> 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Ah, I thought that would do him good!"</p>

<p>"You look like Balzac's 'Femme peinte par elle-m&ecirc;me,'" he said,
as he fanned her with one hand, and held her coffee-cup in the other.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"What do you call this stuff?" he asked, touching a fold of her
dress that had blown over his knee.</p>

<p>"Illusion."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">465</span>"Good name for it; 
it's very pretty&mdash;new thing, isn't it?"</p>

<p>"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&mdash;<i>stupide</i>!"</p>

<p>"I never saw it on you before, which accounts for the mistake, you
see."</p>

<p>"None of that, it is forbidden; I'd rather take coffee than compliments
just now. No, don't lounge, it makes me nervous."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Where did you learn all this sort of thing?" he asked, with a quizzical
look.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Well&mdash;the general air, the style, the self-possession, 
the&mdash;the&mdash;illusion&mdash;you
know," laughed Laurie, breaking down, and helping
himself out of his quandary with the new word.</p>

<p>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"&mdash;with a little gesture toward her
dress&mdash;"why, tulle is cheap, posies to be had for nothing, and I am
used to making the most of my poor little things."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>XXXVIII. On the Shelf.</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">466</span></p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 648px;">
<a name="b167.png" id="b167.png"></a>
<img src="images/b167.png" width="648" height="400"
alt="Demi and Daisy"
title="Demi and Daisy" />
</div>

<p class="h2"><a name="XXXVIII" id="XXXVIII"></a><a href="#contents2b">XXXVIII.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">ON THE SHELF.</p>

<p><span class="smc">In</span> France the young girls have a dull time 
of it till they are married, when "<i>Vive la libert&eacute;</i>" 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'm as handsome 
as ever, but no one takes any notice of me because I'm married."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>As she was a womanly little woman, the maternal instinct was very
strong, and she was entirely absorbed in her children, to the utter
<span class="pagenum2">467</span>
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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;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
<span class="pagenum2">468</span>
successfully. The parlor was always bright and attractive, the 
chess-board ready, the piano in tune, plenty of gay gossip, and a 
nice little supper set forth in tempting style.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">469</span>
"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.</p>

<p>"Goes on how, my dear?" asked her mother anxiously.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"So are women; don't blame John till you see where you are
wrong yourself."</p>

<p>"But it can't be right for him to neglect me."</p>

<p>"Don't you neglect him?"</p>

<p>"Why, mother, I thought you'd take my part!"</p>

<p>"So I do, as far as sympathizing goes; but I think the fault is
yours, Meg."</p>

<p>"I don't see how."</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"No; but I can't do it now, with two babies to tend."</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"You have only made the mistake that most young wives make,&mdash;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
<span class="pagenum2">470</span>
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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Oughtn't I to be there?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"You really think so, mother?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">471</span>
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,&mdash;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."</p>

<p>"John is so sensible, I'm afraid he will think I'm stupid if I ask
questions about politics and things."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I will. Poor John! I'm afraid I <em>have</em> neglected him sadly, but I
thought I was right, and he never said anything."</p>

<p>"He tried not to be selfish, but he <em>has</em> 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!"</p>

<p>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 so on
as they found out that kicking and squalling brought them whatever
they wanted. Mamma was an abject slave to their caprices, but papa
<span class="pagenum2">472</span>
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,&mdash;we won't call
it obstinacy,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Me has tea!" said Demi, preparing to join in the revel.</p>

<p>"No; but I'll save you some little cakies for breakfast, if you'll go
bye-by like Daisy. Will you, lovey?"</p>

<p>"Iss!" and Demi shut his eyes tight, as if to catch sleep and hurry
the desired day.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Why, little mother, how gay we are to-night. Do you expect
company?"</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">473</span>
"Only you, dear."</p>

<p>"Is it a birthday, anniversary, or anything?"</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"I do it out of respect to you, my dear," said old-fashioned John.</p>

<p>"Ditto, ditto, Mr. Brooke," laughed Meg, looking young and pretty
again, as she nodded to him over the teapot.</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Opy doy; me's tummin!"</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<div class="figright" style="width: 255px;">
<a name="b168.png" id="b168.png"></a>
<img src="images/b168.png" width="255" height="500"
alt="Mornin&#39; now"
title="Mornin&#39; now" />
</div>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Me loves parpar," said the artful one, preparing to climb the paternal
knee, and revel in forbidden joys. But John shook his head,
and said to Meg,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Yes, of course. Come, Demi;" and Meg led her son away, feeling
<span class="pagenum2">474</span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Iss!" said Demi the perjured, blissfully sucking his sugar, and
regarding his first attempt as eminently successful.</p>

<p>Meg returned to her place, and supper was progressing pleasantly,
when the little ghost walked again, and exposed the maternal delinquencies
by boldly demanding,&mdash;</p>

<p>"More sudar, marmar."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"He won't stay there; he never does, unless I sit by him."</p>

<p>"I'll manage him. Demi, go upstairs, and get into your bed, as
mamma bids you."</p>

<p>"S'ant!" replied the young rebel, helping himself to the coveted
"cakie," and beginning to eat the same with calm audacity.</p>

<p>"You must never say that to papa; I shall carry you if you don't
go yourself."</p>

<p>"Go 'way; me don't love parpar;" and Demi retired to his
mother's skirts for protection.</p>

<p>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 by the tail of his little toga, and
put back again, which lively performance was kept up till the young
<span class="pagenum2">475</span>
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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Let me stay with him; he'll be good, now, John."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"But he'll cry himself sick," pleaded Meg, reproaching herself for
deserting her boy.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"He's my child, and I can't have his spirit broken by harshness."</p>

<p>"He's my child, and I won't have his temper spoilt by indulgence.
Go down, my dear, and leave the boy to me."</p>

<p>When John spoke in that masterful tone, Meg always obeyed, and
never regretted her docility.</p>

<p>"Please let me kiss him once, John?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">476</span>
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.</p>

<p>As Meg stood watching the two faces on the pillow, she smiled to
herself, and then slipped away again, saying, in a satisfied tone,&mdash;</p>

<p>"I never need fear that John will be too harsh with my babies: he
<em>does</em> know how to manage them, and will be a great help, for Demi 
<em>is</em> getting too much for me."</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Well, I really don't see what we are coming to."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"She is trying to like politics for my sake, so I'll try and like
<span class="pagenum2">477</span>
millinery for hers, that's only fair," thought John the Just, adding
aloud,&mdash;</p>

<p>"That's very pretty; is it what you call a breakfast-cap?"</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 523px;">
<a name="b169.png" id="b169.png"></a>
<img src="images/b169.png" width="523" height="400"
alt="My dear man, it&#39;s a bonnet"
title="My dear man, it&#39;s a bonnet" />
</div>

<p>"My dear man, it's a bonnet! My very best go-to-concert-and-theatre
bonnet."</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"Of course I will, with all my heart, or anywhere else you like.
<span class="pagenum2">478</span>
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?"</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>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 <em>not</em> 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 Moffatt 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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">479</span>
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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b170.png" id="b170.png"></a>
<img src="images/b170.png" width="400" height="248"
alt="Tail-piece"
title="Tail-piece" />
</div>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>XXXIX. Lazy Laurence.</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">480</span></p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 589px;">
<a name="b171.png" id="b171.png"></a>
<img src="images/b171.png" width="589" height="254"
alt="Sat piping on a stone while his goats skipped"
title="Sat piping on a stone while his goats skipped" />
</div>

<div class="figleft" style="width: 246px;">
<img src="images/b171b.png" width="246" height="453"
alt="Laurie threw himself down on the turf"
title="Laurie threw himself down on the turf" />
</div>

<p class="h2"><a name="XXXIX" id="XXXIX"></a><a href="#contents2b">XXXIX.</a></p>
<p class="h2a">LAZY LAURENCE.</p>

<p><span class="smc">Laurie</span> 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
<span class="pagenum2">481</span>
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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Well, yes; but isn't it rather warm for such a long walk?" he
answered slowly, for the shaded <i>salon</i> looked inviting, after the glare
without.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Then I'll go with pleasure;" and he put out his hand for her
sketch-book. But she tucked it under her arm with a sharp&mdash;</p>

<p>"Don't trouble yourself; it's no exertion to me, but <em>you</em> don't look
equal to it."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>The two never quarrelled,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>It was a lovely drive, along winding roads rich in the picturesque
scenes that delight beauty-loving eyes. Here an ancient monastery,
<span class="pagenum2">482</span>
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 <i>capaline</i> 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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,
<span class="pagenum2">483</span>
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.</p>

<p>"It's good advice; you'd better take it and save your fingers,"
she said, thinking her speech amused him.</p>

<p>"Thank you, I will," he answered in jest, and a few months later
he did it in earnest.</p>

<p>"Laurie, when are you going to your grandfather?" she asked
presently, as she settled herself on a rustic seat.</p>

<p>"Very soon."</p>

<p>"You have said that a dozen times within the last three weeks."</p>

<p>"I dare say; short answers save trouble."</p>

<p>"He expects you, and you really ought to go."</p>

<p>"Hospitable creature! I know it."</p>

<p>"Then why don't you do it?"</p>

<p>"Natural depravity, I suppose."</p>

<p>"Natural indolence, you mean. It's really dreadful!" and Amy
looked severe.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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 again.</p>

<p>"What are you doing just now?"</p>

<p>"Watching lizards."</p>

<p>"No, no; I mean what do you intend and wish to do?"</p>

<p>"Smoke a cigarette, if you'll allow me."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">484</span>
"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."</p>

<p>
"With all the pleasure in life. How will you have me,&mdash;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
'<i>Dolce far niente.</i>'"</p>

<p>
"Stay as you are, and go to sleep if you like. <em>I</em> intend to work
hard," said Amy, in her most energetic tone.</p>

<p>
"What delightful enthusiasm!" and he leaned against a tall urn
with an air of entire satisfaction.</p>

<p>
"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.</p>

<p>
"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,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>
"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.</p>

<p>
"Wish I was!"</p>

<p>
"That's a foolish wish, unless you have spoilt your life. You are
so changed, I sometimes think&mdash;" there Amy stopped, with a half-timid,
half-wistful look, more significant than her unfinished speech.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">485</span>
"It's all right, ma'am."</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 497px;">
<a name="b172.png" id="b172.png"></a>
<img src="images/b172.png" width="497" height="400"
alt="Laurie threw himself down on the turf"
title="Laurie threw himself down on the turf" />
</div>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"I'm all ready for the secrets;" and he glanced up with a decided
expression of interest in his eyes.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">486</span>
"I've none to tell; you may begin."</p>

<p>"Haven't one to bless myself with. I thought perhaps you'd
had some news from home."</p>

<p>"You have heard all that has come lately. Don't you hear often?
I fancied Jo would send you volumes."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Why should you, with so much energy and talent?"</p>

<p>"That's just why,&mdash;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."</p>

<p>"And what are you going to do with yourself now, if I may ask?"</p>

<p>"Polish up my other talents, and be an ornament to society, if I
get the chance."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Good! and here is where Fred Vaughn comes in, I fancy."</p>

<p>Amy preserved a discreet silence, but there was a conscious look in
her downcast face, that made Laurie sit up and say gravely,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Now I'm going to play brother, and ask questions. May I?"</p>

<p>"I don't promise to answer."</p>

<p>"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&mdash;hey?"</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">487</span>
"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.</p>

<p>"You are not engaged, I hope?" and Laurie looked very elder-brotherly
and grave all of a sudden.</p>

<p>"No."</p>

<p>"But you will be, if he comes back and goes properly down upon
his knees, won't you?"</p>

<p>"Very likely."</p>

<p>"Then you are fond of old Fred?"</p>

<p>"I could be, if I tried."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"True, nevertheless."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"I wish you'd do me the favor to rouse yourself a little," she said
sharply.</p>

<p>"Do it for me, there's a dear girl."</p>

<p>"I could, if I tried;" and she looked as if she would like doing it
in the most summary style.</p>

<p>"Try, then; I give you leave," returned Laurie, who enjoyed having
some one to tease, after his long abstinence from his favorite pastime.</p>

<p>"You'd be angry in five minutes."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">488</span>
"I'm never angry with you. It takes two flints to make a fire: you
are as cool and soft as snow."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Flo and I have got a new name for you; it's 'Lazy Laurence.'
How do you like it?"</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p>"Do you want to know what I honestly think of you?"</p>

<p>"Pining to be told."</p>

<p>"Well, I despise you."</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Why, if you please?"</p>

<p>"Because, with every chance for being good, useful, and happy, you
are faulty, lazy, and miserable."</p>

<p>"Strong language, mademoiselle."</p>

<p>"If you like it, I'll go on."</p>

<p>"Pray, do; it's quite interesting."</p>

<p>"I thought you'd find it so; selfish people always like to talk about
themselves."</p>

<p>"Am <em>I</em> selfish?" The question slipped out involuntarily and in a
tone of surprise, for the one virtue on which he prided himself was
generosity.</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">489</span>
with you. Here you have been abroad nearly six months, and done
nothing but waste time and money and disappoint your friends."</p>

<p>"Isn't a fellow to have any pleasure after a four-years grind?"</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;ah, you like that, Old Vanity! but it's the truth,
so I can't help saying it,&mdash;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&mdash;" There she
stopped, with a look that had both pain and pity in it.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"I will be good, oh, I will be good!"</p>

<p>But Amy did not laugh, for she was in earnest; and, tapping on the
outspread hand with her pencil, said soberly,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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!"</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">490</span>
"So do I!"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I think they would," came from under the hat, in a grim tone,
quite as touching as a broken one.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I beg pardon; I thought&mdash;" and there she paused diplomatically.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">491</span>
"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."</p>

<p>"She <em>was</em> 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."</p>

<p>The hard, bitter look came back again as he said that, and it
troubled Amy, for she did not know what balm to apply.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>Now, Laurie flattered himself that he <em>had</em> 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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Do you think Jo would despise me as you do?"</p>

<p>"Yes, if she saw you now. She hates lazy people. Why don't
you do something splendid, and <em>make</em> her love you?"</p>

<p>"I did my best, but it was no use."</p>

<p>"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 <em>could</em> do well."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">492</span>
"That's impossible."</p>

<p>"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 <em>am</em> 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."</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"How do you like that?"</p>

<p>He looked and then he smiled, as he could not well help doing, for
it was capitally done,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>"How well you draw!" he said, with genuine surprise and pleasure
at her skill, adding, with a half-laugh,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Yes, that's me."</p>

<p>"As you are: this is as you were;" and Amy laid another sketch
beside the one he held.</p>

<p>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 "<i>Dolce far niente</i>" sketch.
<span class="pagenum2">493</span>
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,&mdash;</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 419px;">
<a name="b173.png" id="b173.png"></a>
<img src="images/b173.png" width="419" height="400"
alt="A rough sketch of Laurie taming a horse"
title="A rough sketch of Laurie taming a horse" />
</div>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>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 <em>was</em> 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,&mdash;</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">494</span>
"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Shall we see you this evening, <i>mon fr&egrave;re</i>?" asked Amy as they
parted at her aunt's door.</p>

<p>"Unfortunately I have an engagement. <i>Au revoir, mademoiselle</i>,"
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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>Next morning, instead of the usual call, Amy received a note which
made her smile at the beginning and sigh at the end:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>
<p class="noindent smc">"My dear Mentor,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<div class="complicatedformatting">
<p><span class="left-margin2em">"Yours gratefully,</span></p>
<p class="right smc">Telemachus."</p>
</div>
</blockquote>

<p>"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,&mdash;</p>
<p>"Yes, I <em>am</em> glad, but how I shall miss him!"</p>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>XL. The Valley of the Shadow.</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">495</span></p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 546px;">
<a name="b174.png" id="b174.png"></a>
<img src="images/b174.png" width="546" height="400"
alt="The Valley of the Shadow"
title="The Valley of the Shadow" />
</div>

<p class="h2"><a name="XL" id="XL"></a><a href="#contents2b">XL.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW.</p>

<p><span class="smc">When</span> 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.</p>

<p>The pleasantest room in the house was set apart for Beth, and in it
was gathered everything that she most loved,&mdash;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
<span class="pagenum2">496</span>
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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>It was well for all that this peaceful time was given them as preparation
<span class="pagenum2">497</span>
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 that 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">498</span>
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,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>
<p><br /></p>

<p class="center">"MY BETH.</p>


<div class="poem1 sm">
<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   "Sitting patient in the shadow</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       Till the blessed light shall come,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
    A serene and saintly presence</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
		   Sanctifies our troubled home.</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
    Earthly joys and hopes and sorrows</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       Break like ripples on the strand</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
    Of the deep and solemn river</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       Where her willing feet now stand.</p>
<br />
<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
    "O my sister, passing from me,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       Out of human care and strife,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
     Leave me, as a gift, those virtues</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       Which have beautified your life.</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
     Dear, bequeath me that great patience</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       Which has power to sustain</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
     A cheerful, uncomplaining spirit</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       In its prison-house of pain.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">499</span><br /></p>

<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
    "Give me, for I need it sorely,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       Of that courage, wise and sweet,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
     Which has made the path of duty</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       Green beneath your willing feet.</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
     Give me that unselfish nature,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       That with charity divine</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
		 Can pardon wrong for love's dear sake&mdash;</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       Meek heart, forgive me mine!</p>
<br />

<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
    "Thus our parting daily loseth</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
		   Something of its bitter pain,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
     And while learning this hard lesson,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       My great loss becomes my gain.</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
     For the touch of grief will render</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10"> 
       My wild nature more serene,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
     Give to life new aspirations,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       A new trust in the unseen.</p>
<br />

<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
    "Henceforth, safe across the river,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       I shall see forevermore</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
     A beloved, household spirit</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       Waiting for me on the shore.</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
     Hope and faith, born of my sorrow,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       Guardian angels shall become,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
     And the sister gone before me</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       By their hands shall lead me home."</p>
</div>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"O Beth, so much, so much!" and Jo's head went down upon
the pillow, beside her sister's.</p>

<p>"Then I don't feel as if I'd wasted my life. I'm not so good as
you make me, but I <em>have</em> tried to do right; and now, when it's too
<span class="pagenum2">500</span>
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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">501</span>
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,&mdash;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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 598px;">
<a name="b175.png" id="b175.png"></a>
<img src="images/b175.png" width="598" height="400"
alt="Tail-piece"
title="Tail-piece" />
</div>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>XLI. Learning to Forget.</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">502</span></p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 509px;">
<a name="b176.png" id="b176.png"></a>
<img src="images/b176.png" width="509" height="400"
alt="Sat staring up at the busts"
title="Sat staring up at the busts" />
</div>

<p class="h2"><a name="XLI" id="XLI"></a><a href="#contents2b">XLI.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">LEARNING TO FORGET.</p>

<p><span class="smc">Amy's</span> 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
<span class="pagenum2">503</span>
his resolution by repeating the words that had made the deepest impression,
"I despise you;" "Go and do something splendid that will
<em>make</em> her love you."</p>

<p>Laurie turned the matter over in his mind so often that he soon
brought himself to confess that he <em>had</em> 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 <em>wouldn't</em> love him, but he might <em>make</em> 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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;beating mats with her head tied
<span class="pagenum2">504</span>
up in a bandanna, barricading herself with the sofa-pillow, or throwing
cold water over his passion <i>&agrave; la</i> Gummidge,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;
</p>
<p>
"She is right! Talent isn't genius, and you can't make it so.
<span class="pagenum2">505</span>
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?"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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 <em>you</em> 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 <em>is</em> 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.</p>

<p>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 <em>wouldn't</em> 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
<span class="pagenum2">506</span>
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.</p>

<p>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:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Well, he was a great man; and when he couldn't have one sister
he took the other, and was happy."</p>

<p>Laurie did not utter the words, but he thought them; and the next
instant kissed the little old ring, saying to himself,&mdash;</p>

<p>"No, I won't! I haven't forgotten, I never can. I'll try again, and
if that fails, why, then&mdash;"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">507</span>
Amy had been the proper conclusion of the sentence left unfinished
some weeks before.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">508</span>
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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b177.png" id="b177.png"></a>
<img src="images/b177.png" width="400" height="487"
alt="Turning the ring thoughtfully upon his finger"
title="Turning the ring thoughtfully upon his finger" />
</div>

<p>The letter went very soon, however, and was promptly answered,
for Amy <em>was</em> 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."</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">509</span>
other girls, so there was nothing to do but be very kind, and treat him
like a brother.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"I was sure she would think better of it. Poor old fellow! I've
been through it all, and I can sympathize."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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 Vevay, for the heat had driven them from
<span class="pagenum2">510</span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>He knew Vevay well; and as soon as the boat touched the little
quay, he hurried along the shore to La Tour, where the Carrols were
living <i>en pension</i>. The <i>gar&ccedil;on</i> was in despair that 
the whole family had gone to take a promenade on the lake; but no, the blond
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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;the tender side of Amy's character. Everything
about her mutely suggested love and sorrow,&mdash;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
<span class="pagenum2">511</span>
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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"O Laurie, Laurie, I knew you'd come to me!"</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 505px;">
<a name="b178.png" id="b178.png"></a>
<img src="images/b178.png" width="505" height="400"
alt="O Laurie, Laurie, I knew you&#39;d come"
title="O Laurie, Laurie, I knew you&#39;d come" />
</div>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"I couldn't help it; I felt so lonely and sad, and was so very glad
<span class="pagenum2">512</span>
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.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;" 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.</p>

<p>"You needn't say anything; this comforts me,"
<ins title="Add period after softly,"> 
she said softly.</ins>
"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?"</p>

<p>"Not if you want me, dear."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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,&mdash;the petting she was used to and the cheerful conversation
she needed.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">513</span>
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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;the child has been pining for young Laurence. Bless my heart,
I never thought of such a thing!"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>At Nice, Laurie had lounged and Amy had scolded; at Vevay,
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.</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">514</span>
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.</p>

<p>He had rather imagined that the <i>d&eacute;nouement</i> 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 Vevay 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.</p>

<p>They had been talking of Bonnivard, as they glided past Chillon,
and of Rousseau, as they looked up at Clarens, where he wrote his
"H&eacute;loise." 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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I'm not tired; but you may take an oar, if you like. There's
<span class="pagenum2">515</span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 534px;">
<a name="b179.png" id="b179.png"></a>
<img src="images/b179.png" width="534" height="400"
alt="How well we pull together"
title="How well we pull together" />
</div>

<p>"How well we pull together, don't we?" said Amy, who objected
to silence just then.</p>

<p>"So well that I wish we might always pull in the same boat. Will
you, Amy?" very tenderly.</p>

<p>"Yes, Laurie," very low.</p>

<p>Then they both stopped rowing, and unconsciously added a pretty
little <i>tableau</i> of human love and happiness to the dissolving views
reflected in the lake.</p>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>XLII. All Alone.</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">516</span></p>

<p class="h2"><a name="XLII" id="XLII"></a><a href="#contents2b">XLII.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">ALL ALONE.</p>

<p><span class="smc">It</span> 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">517</span>
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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Father, talk to me as you did to Beth. I need it more than she
did, for I'm all wrong."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 451px;">
<a name="b180.png" id="b180.png"></a>
<img src="images/b180.png" width="451" height="400"
alt="Jo and her father"
title="Jo and her father" />
</div>

<p>Then, sitting in Beth's little chair close beside him, Jo told her
troubles,&mdash;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,
<span class="pagenum2">518</span>
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.</p>

<p>Other helps had Jo,&mdash;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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"You thoughtful creter, you're determined we sha'n'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."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">519</span>
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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">520</span>
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&mdash;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?</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Why don't you write? That always used to make you happy,"
said her mother, once, when the desponding fit overshadowed Jo.</p>

<p>"I've no heart to write, and if I had, nobody cares for my things."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Don't believe I can;" but Jo got out her desk, and began to
overhaul her half-finished manuscripts.</p>

<p>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;
<span class="pagenum2">521</span>
and Jo was more astonished than when her novel was commended
and condemned all at once.</p>

<p>"I don't understand it. What <em>can</em> there be in a simple little story
like that, to make people praise it so?" she said, quite bewildered.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"If there <em>is</em> 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"You like it, mother?" said Jo, as they laid down the closely written
sheets, and looked at one another.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"How sharp you are, Marmee, and how silent! You never said a
word to me."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">522</span>
"I'm not the scatter-brain I was; you may trust me, I'm sober and
sensible enough for any one's <i>confidante</i> now."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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 <em>am</em> 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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Mothers are the <em>best</em> 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."</p>

<p>"I do;" and Mrs. March smiled her wise smile, as Jo turned back
the leaves to read what Amy said of Laurie.</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">523</span>
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!"</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Wait for me, my friend. I may be a little late, but I shall surely
come."</p>
<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">524</span>
him, but now how I should love to see him, for every one seems going
away from me, and I'm all alone."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 621px;">
<a name="b181.png" id="b181.png"></a>
<img src="images/b181.png" width="621" height="400"
alt="Jo laid her head on a comfortable rag-bag and cried"
title="Jo laid her head on a comfortable rag-bag and cried" />
</div>

<p>
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?</p>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>XLIII. Surprises</h2>

<p><span class="pagenum2">525</span></p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 495px;">
<a name="b182.png" id="b182.png"></a>
<img src="images/b182.png" width="495" height="400"
alt="A substantial lifelike ghost leaning over her"
title="A substantial lifelike ghost leaning over her" />
</div>

<p class="h2"><a name="XLIII" id="XLIII"></a><a href="#contents2b">XLIII.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">SURPRISES.</p>

<p><span class="smc">Jo</span> 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.</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">526</span>
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&mdash;" and there Jo sighed, as if the prospect was not inviting.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">527</span>
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."</p>

<p>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,&mdash;a
substantial, lifelike ghost,&mdash;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 
<ins title="Change he to the."> 
the ballad,&mdash;</ins></p>

<p class="center">"She could not think it he,"</p>

<p class="noindent">
and lay staring up at him in startled silence, till he stooped and
kissed her. Then she knew him, and flew up, crying joyfully,&mdash;</p>

<p>"O my Teddy! O my Teddy!"</p>

<p>"Dear Jo, you are glad to see me, then?"</p>

<p>"Glad! My blessed boy, words can't express my gladness. Where's
Amy?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Your what?" cried Jo, for Laurie uttered those two words with
an unconscious pride and satisfaction which betrayed him.</p>

<p>"Oh, the dickens! now I've done it;" and he looked so guilty
that Jo was down upon him like a flash.</p>

<p>"You've gone and got married!"</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Actually married?"</p>

<p>"Very much so, thank you."</p>

<p>"Mercy on us! What dreadful thing will you do next?" and Jo fell
into her seat, with a gasp.</p>

<p>"A characteristic, but not exactly complimentary, congratulation,"
returned Laurie, still in an abject attitude, but beaming with satisfaction.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">528</span>
"Not a word, unless you let me come in my old place, and promise
not to barricade."</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"The old pillow is up garret, and we don't need it now; so, come
and 'fess, Teddy."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"What does Amy call you?"</p>

<p>"My lord."</p>

<p>"That's like her. Well, you look it;" and Jo's eyes plainly
betrayed that she found her boy comelier than ever.</p>

<p>The pillow was gone, but there <em>was</em> a barricade, nevertheless,&mdash;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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Don't I look like a married man and the head of a family?"</p>

<p>"Not a bit, and you never will. You've grown bigger and bonnier,
but you are the same scapegrace as ever."</p>

<p>"Now, really, Jo, you ought to treat me with more respect," began
Laurie, who enjoyed it all immensely.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Well, I did it to please Amy," began Laurie, with a twinkle that
made Jo exclaim,&mdash;</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">529</span>
"Fib number one; Amy did it to please you. Go on, and tell the
truth, if you can, sir."</p>

<p>"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.'"</p>

<p>"Of course you did; you always have things to suit you."</p>

<p>"Not always;" and something in Laurie's voice made Jo say
hastily,&mdash;</p>

<p>"How did you ever get aunt to agree?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"When, where, how?" asked Jo, in a fever of feminine interest
and curiosity, for she could not realize it a particle.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>Jo put her hand in his as he said that, and Laurie gently smoothed
the little red pillow, which he remembered well.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">530</span>
"Why didn't you let us know afterward?" asked Jo, in a quieter
tone, when they had sat quite still a minute.</p>

<p>"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!"</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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 <em>was</em> 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?"</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">531</span>
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?"</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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!"</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Poor Jo! we left you to bear it alone, while we went pleasuring.
You <em>are</em> 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.</p>

<p>But Jo only turned over the traitorous pillow, and answered, in a
tone which she tried to make quite cheerful,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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 <em>am</em> lonely, sometimes, but I
dare say it's good for me, and&mdash;"</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">532</span>
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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>He looked down at her, wondering if she remembered the time,
but Jo was smiling to herself, as if, in truth, her troubles 
<em>had</em> all vanished
at his coming.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"I was wondering how you and Amy get on together."</p>

<p>"Like angels!"</p>

<p>"Yes, of course, at first; but which rules?"</p>

<p>"I don't mind telling you that she does, now; at least I let her
think so,&mdash;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."</p>

<p>"You'll go on as you begin, and Amy will rule you all the days of
your life."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"That ever I should live to see you a henpecked husband and enjoying
it!" cried Jo, with uplifted hands.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>Jo liked that, and thought the new dignity very becoming, but the
<span class="pagenum2">533</span>
boy seemed changing very fast into the man, and regret mingled with
her pleasure.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;a regular rouser. I'll tell you all
about it sometime,&mdash;<em>she</em> 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."</p>

<p>"What baseness! Well, if she abuses you, come to me, and I'll
defend you."</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Where is she? Where's my dear old Jo?"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">534</span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Love has done much for our little girl," said her mother softly.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>Daisy found it impossible to keep her eyes off her "pitty aunty,"
but attached herself like a lap-dog to the wonderful ch&acirc;telaine 
full of delightful charms. Demi paused to consider the new relationship
<span class="pagenum2">535</span>
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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 417px;">
<a name="b183.png" id="b183.png"></a>
<img src="images/b183.png" width="417" height="400"
alt="The tall uncle proceeded to toss and tousle the small nephew"
title="The tall uncle proceeded to toss and tousle the small nephew" />
</div>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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."</p>

<p>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
<i>ab libitum</i>, 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
<span class="pagenum2">536</span>
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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Will Miss Amy ride in her coop (<i>coup&eacute;</i>), and use all them 
lovely silver dishes that's stored away over yander?"</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"No more there is! Will you have hash or fish-balls for breakfast?"
asked Hannah, who wisely mingled poetry and prose.</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;for one of her
boyish habits was never to know where her handkerchief was,&mdash;and
had just managed to call up a smile when there came a knock at
the porch-door.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"O Mr. Bhaer, I <em>am</em> 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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b184.png" id="b184.png"></a>
<img src="images/b184.png" width="400" height="463"
alt="O Mr. Bhaer, I am so glad to see you"
title="O Mr. Bhaer, I am so glad to see you" />
</div>

<p>"And I to see Miss Marsch,&mdash;but no, you haf a party&mdash;" and
the Professor paused as the sound of voices and the tap of dancing
feet came down to them.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>Though a very social man, I think Mr. Bhaer would have gone
<span class="pagenum2">537</span>
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.</p>

<p>"If I shall not be Monsieur de Trop, I will so gladly see them all.
You haf been ill, my friend?"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Not ill, but tired and sorrowful. We have had trouble since I saw
you last."</p>

<p>"Ah, yes, I know. My heart was sore for you when I heard that;"
<span class="pagenum2">538</span>
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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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 new-comer 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
<span class="pagenum2">539</span>
trusted, she prudently kept them on the little sock she was knitting,
like a model maiden aunt.</p>

<p>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
wristbands!</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>The man&oelig;uvre 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.</p>

<p>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,
<span class="pagenum2">540</span>
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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>They were not <em>all</em> 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."</p>

<p>"Play something, Amy. Let them hear how much you have improved,"
said Laurie, with pardonable pride in his promising pupil.</p>

<p>But Amy whispered, with full eyes, as she twirled the faded stool,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Not to-night, dear. I can't show off to-night."</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p class="center">"Earth hath no sorrow that heaven cannot heal;"</p>

<p class="noindent">
and Amy leaned against her husband, who stood behind her, feeling
that her welcome home was not quite perfect without Beth's kiss.</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"You will sing with me? We go excellently well together."</p>

<div class="figright" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b185.png" id="b185.png"></a>
<img src="images/b185.png" width="400" height="637"
alt="Mr. Bhaer sang heartily"
title="Mr. Bhaer sang heartily" />
</div>

<p>A pleasing fiction, by the way; for Jo had no more idea of music
<span class="pagenum2">541</span>
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.</p>

<div class="poem1 sm">
<p class="indent30 left-indent15">
   "Know'st thou the land where the citron blooms,"</p>
</div>

<p class="noindent">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,&mdash;</p>


<div class="poem1">
<p class="indent30 left-indent15">
    "There, oh there, might I with thee,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent15">
     O my beloved, go!"</p>
</div>


<p class="noindent">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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">542</span>
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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"I suspect that is a wise man," remarked Mr. March, with placid
satisfaction, from the hearth-rug, after the last guest had gone.</p>

<p>"I know he is a good one," added Mrs. March, with decided approval,
as she wound up the clock.</p>

<p>"I thought you'd like him," was all Jo said, as she slipped away to
her bed.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>XLIV. My Lord and Lady.</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">543</span></p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 429px;">
<a name="b186.png" id="b186.png"></a>
<img src="images/b186.png" width="429" height="400"
alt="Mrs. Laurence sitting in her mother&#39;s lap"
title="Mrs. Laurence sitting in her mother&#39;s lap" />
</div>

<p class="h2"><a name="XLIV" id="XLIV"></a><a href="#contents2b">XLIV.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">MY LORD AND LADY.</p>

<p>"<span class="smc">Please</span>, 
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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;"</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">544</span>
"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?"</p>

<p>"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 <em>so</em> helpless, mother,"
said Amy, with a matronly air, which delighted her husband.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"And Amy, what is she going to do?" asked Mrs. March, well
pleased at Laurie's decision, and the energy with which he spoke.</p>

<p>"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 R&eacute;camier?" asked Laurie, with a quizzical look at Amy.</p>

<p>"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 <i>salon</i> as a queen of society.</p>

<p>"How happy those children seem together!" observed Mr. March,
finding it difficult to become absorbed in his Aristotle after the young
couple had gone.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I know it will. Happy Amy!" and Jo sighed, then smiled
brightly as Professor Bhaer opened the gate with an impatient push.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">545</span>
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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Mrs. Laurence."</p>

<p>"My lord!"</p>

<p>"That man intends to marry our Jo!"</p>

<p>"I hope so; don't you, dear?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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 <em>never</em> should marry for money&mdash;" Amy caught
herself up short as the words escaped her, and looked at her husband,
who replied, with malicious gravity,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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 <em>were</em> 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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">546</span>
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.</p>

<p>"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 <em>such</em> a comfort to me;" and Amy softly caressed
the well-cut feature with artistic satisfaction.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"May I ask you a question, dear?"</p>

<p>"Of course you may."</p>

<p>"Shall you care if Jo does marry Mr. Bhaer?"</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b187.png" id="b187.png"></a>
<img src="images/b187.png" width="400" height="497"
alt="They began to pace up and down"
title="They began to pace up and down" />
</div>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">547</span>
"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">548</span>
"Because it takes a gentleman to do it," added the other member
of the domestic admiration society.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">549</span>
"It's a bargain, and we shall get the best of it!"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;">
<a name="b188.png" id="b188.png"></a>
<img src="images/b188.png" width="300" height="375"
alt="Tail-piece"
title="Tail-piece" />
</div>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>XLV. Daisy and Demi.</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">550</span></p>

<p class="h2"><a name="XLV" id="XLV"></a><a href="#contents2b">XLV.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">DAISY AND DEMI.</p>

<p><span class="smc">I cannot</span> 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,"&mdash;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."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">551</span>
Though utterly unlike in character, the twins got on remarkably
well together, and seldom quarrelled 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.</p>

<div class="figright" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b189.png" id="b189.png"></a>
<img src="images/b189.png" width="400" height="544"
alt="Me loves evvybody"
title="Me loves evvybody" />
</div>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">552</span>
untiring devotion, as if trying to atone for some past mistake, which
no eye but her own could see.</p>

<p>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?"</p>

<p>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 his teacher, to the undisguised
satisfaction of the womenfolk.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 416px;">
<a name="b190.png" id="b190.png"></a>
<img src="images/b190.png" width="416" height="400"
alt="What makes my legs go, dranpa?"
title="What makes my legs go, dranpa?" />
</div>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"It's your little mind, Demi," replied the sage, stroking the yellow
head respectfully.</p>

<p>"What is a little mine?"</p>

<p>"It is something which makes your body move, as the spring made
the wheels go in my watch when I showed it to you."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">553</span>
"Open me; I want to see it go wound."</p>

<p>"I can't do that any more than you could open the watch. God
winds you up, and you go till He stops you."</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"Yes; but I can't show you how; for it is done when we don't
see."</p>

<p>Demi felt of his back, as if expecting to find it like that of the
watch, and then gravely remarked,&mdash;</p>

<p>"I dess Dod does it when I's asleep."</p>

<p>A careful explanation followed, to which he listened so attentively
that his anxious grandmother said,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"If he is old enough to ask the 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?"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Meg made many moral rules, and tried to keep them; but what
mother was ever proof against the winning wiles, the ingenious evasions,
<span class="pagenum2">554</span>
or the tranquil audacity of the miniature men and women who so early
show themselves accomplished Artful Dodgers?</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Me likes to be sick."</p>

<p>"I don't want to have you, so run away and help Daisy make
patty-cakes."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Truly, marmar?" asks Demi, with a brilliant idea in his well-powdered
head.</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Then we'll go and eat up all the raisins."</p>

<p>Aunt Dodo was chief playmate and <i>confidante</i> 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.</p>

<p>Some persons might have considered these pleasing liberties as
bribes; but Demi didn't see it in that light, and continued to patronize
<span class="pagenum2">555</span>
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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;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&mdash;well,
he always asked for Mr. March, so I suppose <em>he</em> 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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Father, father, here's the Professor!"</p>

<p>Down went the black legs and up came the gray head, as the preceptor
said, with undisturbed dignity,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Good evening, Mr. Bhaer. Excuse me for a moment; we are
just finishing our lesson. Now, Demi, make the letter and tell its
name."</p>

<p>"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!"</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 531px;">
<a name="b191.png" id="b191.png"></a>
<img src="images/b191.png" width="531" height="400"
alt="Dranpa, it&#39;s a We"
title="Dranpa, it&#39;s a We" />
</div>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"What have you been at to-day, b&uuml;bchen?" asked Mr. Bhaer,
picking up the gymnast.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">556</span>
"Me went to see little Mary."</p>

<p>"And what did you there?"</p>

<p>"I kissed her," began Demi, with artless frankness.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Oh, she liked it, and she kissed me, and I liked it. <em>Don't</em> little
boys like little girls?" added Demi, with his mouth full, and an air of
bland satisfaction.</p>

<p>"You precocious chick! Who put that into your head?" said Jo,
enjoying the innocent revelations as much as the Professor.</p>

<p>"'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.</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;</p>

<p>
"Do great boys like great girls, too, 'Fessor?"</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">557</span>
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 <em>his</em> head that was both sweet and sour.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 200px;">
<a name="b192.png" id="b192.png"></a>
<img src="images/b192.png" width="200" height="270"
alt="Tail-piece"
title="Tail-piece" />
</div>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>XLVI. Under the Umbrella.</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">558</span></p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 700px;">
<a name="b193.png" id="b193.png"></a>
<img src="images/b193.png" width="700" height="333"
alt="Mr. Bhaer and Jo were enjoying promenades"
title="Mr. Bhaer and Jo were enjoying promenades" />
</div>

<p class="h2"><a name="XLVI" id="XLVI"></a><a href="#contents2b">XLVI.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">UNDER THE UMBRELLA.</p>

<p><span class="smc">While</span> 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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>Under the circumstances, what could Jo do but greet him civilly,
and invite him in? If she <em>was</em> tired of his visits, she concealed
her weariness with perfect skill, and took care that there should be
<span class="pagenum2">559</span>
coffee for supper, "as Friedrich&mdash;I mean Mr. Bhaer&mdash;doesn't like
tea."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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 and 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.</p>

<p>For a fortnight, the Professor came and went with lover-like regularity;
then he stayed away for three whole days, and made no sign,&mdash;a
proceeding which caused everybody to look sober, and Jo to become
pensive, at first, and then&mdash;alas for romance!&mdash;very cross.</p>

<p>"Disgusted, I dare say, and gone home as suddenly as he came.
It's nothing to me, of course; but I <em>should</em> 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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">560</span>
"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?"</p>

<p>"I believe so," answered Jo absently.</p>

<p>"If you happen to meet Mr. Bhaer, bring him home to tea. I
quite long to see the dear man," added Mrs. March.</p>

<p>Jo heard <em>that</em>, but made no answer, except to kiss her mother, and
walk rapidly away, thinking with a glow of gratitude, in spite of her
heartache,&mdash;</p>

<p>"How good she is to me! What <em>do</em> girls do who haven't any
mothers to help them through their troubles?"</p>

<p>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, &amp; Co." over the door, and said to
herself, with a sternly reproachful air,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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 <em>not</em> 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!"</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">561</span>
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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b194.png" id="b194.png"></a>
<img src="images/b194.png" width="400" height="408"
alt="Looking up she saw Mr. Bhaer"
title="Looking up she saw Mr. Bhaer" />
</div>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"I'm shopping."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">562</span>
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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"You haf no umbrella. May I go also, and take for you the
bundles?"</p>

<p>"Yes, thank you."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"No, <em>I</em> didn't; I knew you were busy about your own affairs, but
we rather missed you,&mdash;father and mother especially."</p>

<p>"And you?"</p>

<p>"I'm always glad to see you, sir."</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"I thank you, and come one time more before I go."</p>

<p>"You <em>are</em> going, then?"</p>

<p>"I haf no longer any business here; it is done."</p>

<p>"Successfully, I hope?" said Jo, for the bitterness of disappointment
was in that short reply of his.</p>

<p>"I ought to think so, for I haf a way opened to me by which I
can make my bread and gif my J&uuml;nglings much help."</p>

<p>"Tell me, please! I like to know all about the&mdash;the boys," said
Jo eagerly.</p>

<p>"That is so kind, I gladly tell you. My friends find for me a place
<span class="pagenum2">563</span>
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?"</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Ah! but we shall not meet often, I fear; this place is at the
West."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Here's the place for my errands; will you come in? It won't
take long."</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">564</span>
seemed to subside, for he was beginning to see that on some occasions
women, like dreams, go by contraries.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"May they haf oranges and figs?" asked Mr. Bhaer, with a
paternal air.</p>

<p>"They eat them when they can get them."</p>

<p>"Do you care for nuts?"</p>

<p>"Like a squirrel."</p>

<p>"Hamburg grapes; yes, we shall surely drink to the Fatherland in
those?"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Miss Marsch, I haf a great favor to ask of you," began the Professor,
after a moist promenade of half a block.</p>

<p>"Yes, sir;" and Jo's heart began to beat so hard she was afraid he
would hear it.</p>

<p>"I am bold to say it in spite of the rain, because so short a time
remains to me."</p>

<p>"Yes, sir;" and Jo nearly crushed the small flower-pot with the
sudden squeeze she gave it.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">565</span>
"Yes, sir;" and Jo felt as calm and cool, all of a sudden, as if she
had stepped into a refrigerator.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 466px;">
<a name="b195.png" id="b195.png"></a>
<img src="images/b195.png" width="466" height="400"
alt="Does this suit you, Mr. Bhaer?"
title="Does this suit you, Mr. Bhaer?" />
</div>

<p>"Does this suit you, Mr. Bhaer?" she asked, turning her back
<span class="pagenum2">566</span>
to him, and feeling deeply grateful for the chance of hiding her
face.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Now shall we go home?" he asked, as if the words were very
pleasant to him.</p>

<p>"Yes; it's late, and I'm <em>so</em> 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.</p>

<p>"This is not our omniboos," said the Professor, waving the loaded
vehicle away, and stopping to pick up the poor little flowers.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Heart's dearest, why do you cry?"</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Because you are going away."</p>

<p>"Ach, mein Gott, that is <em>so</em> 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
<span class="pagenum2">567</span>
friend. Am I? Can you make a little place in your heart for old
Fritz?" he added, all in one breath.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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 <em>then</em>, 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.</p>

<p>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&mdash;intelligibly, I mean, for
the emotional remarks which followed her impetuous "Oh, yes!"
were not of a coherent or reportable character.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">568</span>
"Friedrich, why didn't you&mdash;"</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I always call you so to myself&mdash;I forgot; but I won't, unless you
like it."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Isn't 'thou' a little sentimental?" asked Jo, privately thinking it
a lovely monosyllable.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"Well, then, why didn't thou tell me all this sooner?" asked Jo
bashfully.</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;ah,
the dear, funny little name!&mdash;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 <em>had</em> spoken?"</p>

<p>"I don't know; I'm afraid not, for I didn't have any heart just
then."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Yes, the first love <em>is</em> 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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"I like that," cried Jo, delighted with her new name. "Now tell
me what brought you, at last, just when I most wanted you?"</p>

<p>"This;" and Mr. Bhaer took a little worn paper out of his waistcoat-pocket.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">569</span>
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.</p>

<p>"How could that bring you?" she asked, wondering what he meant.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>Jo obeyed, and hastily skimmed through the lines which she had
christened&mdash;</p>
<p><br /></p>

<p class="center">"IN THE GARRET.</p>


<div class="poem1 sm">
<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
    "Four little chests all in a row,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
        Dim with dust, and worn by time,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
     All fashioned and filled, long ago,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
        By children now in their prime.</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
     Four little keys hung side by side,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
        With faded ribbons, brave and gay</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
     When fastened there, with childish pride,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
        Long ago, on a rainy day.</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
     Four little names, one on each lid,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
        Carved out by a boyish hand,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
     And underneath there lieth hid</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
        Histories of the happy band</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
     Once playing here, and pausing oft</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
        To hear the sweet refrain,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
     That came and went on the roof aloft,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
        In the falling summer rain.</p>
<br />
<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
    "'Meg' on the first lid, smooth and fair.</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       I look in with loving eyes,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
    For folded here, with well-known care,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       A goodly gathering lies,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
    The record of a peaceful life,&mdash;</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10"> 
      Gifts to gentle child and girl,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
    A bridal gown, lines to a wife,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      A tiny shoe, a baby curl.</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
    No toys in this first chest remain,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      For all are carried away,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
    In their old age, to join again</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
	    In another small Meg's play.</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">		
<span class="pagenum2">570</span>
    Ah, happy mother! well I know</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      You hear, like a sweet refrain,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
    Lullabies ever soft and low</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      In the falling summer rain.</p>
<br />
<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   "'Jo' on the next lid, scratched and worn,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      And within a motley store</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
    Of headless dolls, of school-books torn,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      Birds and beasts that speak no more;</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
	  Spoils brought home from the fairy ground</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      Only trod by youthful feet,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
    Dreams of a future never found,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      Memories of a past still sweet;</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
    Half-writ poems, stories wild,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      April letters, warm and cold,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
    Diaries of a wilful child,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      Hints of a woman early old;</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
    A woman in a lonely home,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      Hearing, like a sad refrain,&mdash;</p>
<p class="indent26 left-indent10"> 
    'Be worthy love, and love will come,'</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      In the falling summer rain.</p>
<br />
<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   "My Beth! the dust is always swept</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      From the lid that bears your name,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
   As if by loving eyes that wept,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      By careful hands that often came.</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
   Death canonized for us one saint,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      Ever less human than divine,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
    And still we lay, with tender plaint,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      Relics in this household shrine.&mdash;</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
    The silver bell, so seldom rung,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      The little cap which last she wore,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
    The fair, dead Catherine that hung</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10"> 
      By angels borne above her door;</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
    The songs she sang, without lament,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10"> 
      In her prison-house of pain,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10"> 
    Forever are they sweetly blent</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      With the falling summer rain.</p>
<br />

<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   "Upon the last lid's polished field&mdash;</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
      Legend now both fair and true&mdash;</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
    A gallant knight bears on his shield,</p>
<p class="indent16 left-indent10">
    'Amy,' in letters gold and blue.</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
<span class="pagenum2">571</span>
    Within lie snoods that bound her hair,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       Slippers that have danced their last,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
    Faded flowers laid by with care,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       Fans whose airy toils are past;</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
    Gay valentines, all ardent flames,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       Trifles that have borne their part</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
    In girlish hopes and fears and shames,&mdash;</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10"> 
       The record of a maiden heart</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
    Now learning fairer, truer spells,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10"> 
       Hearing, like a blithe refrain,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
    The silver sound of bridal bells</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       In the falling summer rain.</p>
<br />


<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   "Four little chests all in a row,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       Dim with dust, and worn by time,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
    Four women, taught by weal and woe</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       To love and labor in their prime.</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
    Four sisters, parted for an hour,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       None lost, one only gone before,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
    Made by love's immortal power,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       Nearest and dearest evermore.</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
    Oh, when these hidden stores of ours</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       Lie open to the Father's sight,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
    May they be rich in golden hours,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       Deeds that show fairer for the light,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
    Lives whose brave music long shall ring,</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       Like a spirit-stirring strain,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
    Souls that shall gladly soar and sing</p>
<p class="indent15 left-indent10">
       In the long sunshine after rain.</p>
</div>

<p class="right">"J. M."</p>


<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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
<span class="pagenum2">572</span>
not too poor a thing to gif for what I shall hope to receive, take it in
Gott's name?'"</p>

<p>"And so you came to find that it was not too poor, but the one
precious thing I needed," whispered Jo.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"I'm glad you <em>are</em> 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,&mdash;forty is the prime of life.
I couldn't help loving you if you were seventy!"</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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,
<span class="pagenum2">573</span>
even for you, I may not break my word to Minna. Can you forgif
that, and be happy while we hope and wait?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b196.png" id="b196.png"></a>
<img src="images/b196.png" width="400" height="519"
alt="Under the umbrella"
title="Under the umbrella" />
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum2">574</span>
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.</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
<a name="b197.png" id="b197.png"></a>
<img src="images/b197.png" width="400" height="464"
alt="Tail-piece"
title="Tail-piece" />
</div>

<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>XLVII. Harvest Time.</h2>
<p><span class="pagenum2">575</span></p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 638px;">
<a name="b198.png" id="b198.png"></a>
<img src="images/b198.png" width="638" height="400"
alt="Harvest time"
title="Harvest time" />
</div>

<p class="h2"><a name="XLVII" id="XLVII"></a><a href="#contents2b">XLVII.</a></p>

<p class="h2a">HARVEST TIME.</p>

<p><span class="smc">For</span> 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,&mdash;for
they loved the old lady in spite of her sharp tongue,&mdash;they found
they had cause for rejoicing, for she had left Plumfield to Jo, which
made all sorts of joyful things possible.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">576</span>
"You don't mean to live there?"</p>

<p>"Yes, I do."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"He'll try his hand at it there, if I propose it."</p>

<p>"And you expect to live on the produce of the place? Well, that
sounds paradisiacal, but you'll find it desperate hard work."</p>

<p>"The crop we are going to raise is a profitable one;" and Jo
laughed.</p>

<p>"Of what is this fine crop to consist, ma'am?"</p>

<p>"Boys. I want to open a school for little lads,&mdash;a good, happy,
homelike school, with me to take care of them, and Fritz to teach
them."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I like it," said Mrs. March decidedly.</p>

<p>"So do I," added her husband, who welcomed the thought of a
chance for trying the Socratic method of education on modern youth.</p>

<p>"It will be an immense care for Jo," said Meg, stroking the head
of her one all-absorbing son.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I knew you'd stand by me, sir. Amy does too&mdash;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 <em>so</em> like to be a mother
to them!"</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">577</span>
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.</p>

<p>"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,&mdash;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, <em>I'm</em> 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,&mdash;Plumfield my own, and a wilderness of boys to
enjoy it with me!"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Now don't be a wet-blanket, Teddy. Of course I shall have rich
pupils, also,&mdash;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
<span class="pagenum2">578</span>
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,&mdash;plucky little souls,&mdash;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?"</p>

<p>"I'll testify that you tried to do it," said Laurie, with a grateful
look.</p>

<p>"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 <em>am</em> 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.'"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I do think that families are the most beautiful things in all the
<span class="pagenum2">579</span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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 round; 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.</p>

<p>It never was a fashionable school, and the Professor did not lay up
a fortune; but it <em>was</em> just what Jo intended it to be,&mdash;"a happy,
homelike place for boys, who needed teaching, care, and kindness."
<span class="pagenum2">580</span>
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-doing; 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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">581</span>
of it. Five years after Jo's wedding, one of these fruitful festivals
occurred,&mdash;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; golden-rod 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.</p>

<p>Mr. March strolled placidly about, quoting Tusser, Cowley, and
Columella to Mr. Laurence, while enjoying&mdash;</p>

<p class="center">"The gentle apple's winey juice."</p>

<p class="noindent">
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.</p>

<div class="figleft" style="width: 229px;">
<a name="b199.png" id="b199.png"></a>
<img src="images/b199.png" width="229" height="700"
alt="Teddy bore a charmed life"
title="Teddy bore a charmed life" />
</div>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">582</span>
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.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>When no one could eat any more, the
Professor proposed the first regular toast, which was always drunk at
such times,&mdash;"Aunt March, God bless her!" A toast heartily given
by the good man, who never forgot how much he owed her, and
<span class="pagenum2">583</span>
quietly drunk by the boys, who had been taught to keep her memory
green.</p>

<p>"Now, grandma's sixtieth birthday! Long life to her, with three
times three!"</p>

<p>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,&mdash;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,&mdash;"To dear Grandma, from her little Beth."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>After this, the boys dispersed for a final lark, leaving Mrs. March
and her daughters under the festival tree.</p>

<div class="figcenter">
<a name="b200.png" id="b200.png"></a>
<img class="border" src="images/b200.png" width="554" height="400"
alt="Leaving Mrs. March and her daughters under the festival tree"
title="Leaving Mrs. March and her daughters under the festival tree" /><br />
<span class="caption">
&quot;Leaving Mrs. March and her daughters under the festival tree.&quot;&mdash;Page 583</span>
</div>

<p>"I don't think I ever ought to call myself 'Unlucky Jo' again,
when my greatest wish has been so beautifully gratified," said Mrs.
<span class="pagenum2">584</span>
Bhaer, taking Teddy's little fist out of the milk-pitcher, in which he
was rapturously churning.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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
<span class="pagenum2">585</span>
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&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem1 sm">
<p class="indent30 left-indent10">
   "Into each life some rain must fall,</p>
<p class="indent25 left-indent10">
    Some days must be dark and sad and dreary."</p>
</div>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.'"</p>

<p>"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 <em>will</em> 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."</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"I hope there will be more wheat and fewer tares every year," said
Amy softly.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum2">586</span>
"A large sheaf, but I know there's room in your heart for it, Marmee
dear," added Meg's tender voice.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;</p>

<p>"O, my girls, however long you may live, I never can wish you a
greater happiness than this!"</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 700px;">
<a name="b201.png" id="b201.png"></a>
<img src="images/b201.png" width="700" height="230"
alt="Tail-piece"
title="Tail-piece" />
</div>

<p><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></p>



<p><span class="pagenum2">587</span>
   <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 200px;">
<a name="b202.png" id="b202.png"></a>
<img src="images/b202.png" width="200" height="174"
alt="Little Brown Logo"
title="Little Brown Logo" />
</div>

<hr class="hr2" />

<h2>The Works of Louisa May Alcott</h2>
<p class="h2"><span class="pagenum2">589</span>Louisa M. Alcott's Writings</p>

<hr class="hr3" />
<div id="alcottContents">
<ul>
<li><span class="title">THE LITTLE WOMEN SERIES.</span>
<dl>
<dt><a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/514">Little Women;</a></dt>
<dd>or Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy.</dd>
<dd>Illustrated. 16mo. $1.50.</dd>
<dt><a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2788">Little Men.</a></dt>
<dd>Life at Plumfield with Jo's Boys.</dd>
<dd>Illustrated. 16mo. $1.50.</dd>
<dt><a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3499">Jo's Boys and How They Turned Out.</a></dt> 
<dd>A Sequel to "Little Men."</dd>
<dd>Portrait of Author. 16mo. $1.50.</dd>
<dt><a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2787">An Old-Fashioned Girl.</a></dt>
<dd>Illustrated. 16mo. $1.50.</dd>
<dt><a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2726">Eight Cousins;</a></dt>
<dd>or, The Aunt-Hill.</dd>
<dd>Illustrated. 16mo. $1.50.</dd>
<dt><a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2804">Rose in Bloom.</a></dt>
<dd>A Sequel to "Eight Cousins."</dd>
<dd>Illustrated. 16mo. $1.50.</dd>
<dt><a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3795">Under the Lilacs.</a></dt> 
<dd>Illustrated. 16mo. $1.50.</dd>
<dt><a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2786">Jack and Jill.</a></dt>
<dd>A Village Story.</dd>
<dd>Illustrated. 16mo. $1.50.</dd>
</dl>
<p>The above eight volumes, uniformly bound in cloth, gilt, in box, $12.00.</p>
</li>
<li><span class="title">THE LITTLE WOMEN SERIES.</span> 
    <i>New Illustrated Edition.</i>
<p>Printed from new plates with new cover designs, and illustrated with
84 full-page plates from drawings especially made for this edition by
Reginald B. Birch, Alice Barber Stephens, Jessie Willcox Smith, and
Harriet Roosevelt Richards. 8 vols. Crown 8vo. Decorated cloth,
gilt, in box. $16.00. Separately, $2.00.</p>
</li>
<li><span class="title">THE SPINNING-WHEEL SERIES</span>
<ul>
<li><a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/36221">Spinning-Wheel Stories.</a></li>
<li><a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/34920">Silver Pitchers.</a></li>
<li><a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10360">Proverb Stories.</a></li>
<li><a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/5830">A Garland for Girls.</a></li>
</ul>
<p>4 vols. 16mo. Each, $1.25. In box, $5.00.</p>
</li>
<li><span class="title">THE SPINNING-WHEEL SERIES.</span> 
<i>New Illustrated Edition.</i>
<p>Uniform in size with the Illustrated Edition of the Little Women
Series. With 36 full-page plates by well-known artists. 4 vols. Crown
8vo. Decorated cloth. In box, $6.00. Separately, $1.50.</p>
</li>

<li><span class="title">AUNT JO'S SCRAP-BAG</span>
<ul>
<li><a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/26041">My Boys.</a></li>
<li><a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/22022">Shawl-Straps.</a></li>
<li>Cupid and Chow-Chow.</li>
<li>My Girls.</li>
<li><a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/22234">Jimmy's Cruise in the Pinafore.</a></li>
<li><a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/27567">An Old-Fashioned Thanksgiving.</a></li>
</ul>
<p>6 vols. 16mo. Illustrated. Each, $1.00. In box, $6.00.</p>
</li>

<li><span class="title">LULU'S LIBRARY</span>
<ul>
<li><a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/40682">Volume 1</a></li>
<li><a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/32357">Volume 2</a></li>
<li><a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/40683">Volume 3</a></li>
</ul>
<p>3 vols. Each, $1.00. The set uniformly bound in cloth, gilt, in box, $3.00.</p>
</li>

<li><span class="title">NOVELS, ETC.</span>
<ul>
<li><a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3837">Hospital Sketches.</a></li>
<li><a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/4770">Work.</a></li>
<li><a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/33986">Comic Tragedies.</a></li>
<li><a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/28203">Moods.</a></li>
<li><a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/54212">A Modern Mephistopheles.</a></li>
<li><a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/38049">Life of Louisa May Alcott.</a></li>
</ul>
<p>6 vols. 16mo. Each, $1.50.</p>
</li>
</ul>

</div>

<hr class="hr3"  />

<p class="h2a">LITTLE, BROWN, &amp; COMPANY</p>

<p class="center"><i>Publishers</i>, 254 WASHINGTON STREET, BOSTON, MASS.</p>

<hr />

<h3>The Little Women Series</h3>
<p class="h3"><span class="pagenum2">591</span>
    The Little Women Series<br />
    By LOUISA M. ALCOTT</p>

<hr class="hr2" />

<div id="alcottLittleWomen">

<ol>
<li><span class="title">LITTLE WOMEN;</span> or Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy
<p>Illustrated. 16mo. $1.50.</p>
<p>A simple story of the home life of four girls. A portrayal of child life, natural, wholesome,
and inspiring. One of the best and most popular children's books ever written.</p>
</li>
<li><span class="title">LITTLE MEN:</span> Life at Plumfield with Jo's Boys
<p>Illustrated. 16mo. $1.50.</p>
<p>Gives delightful pictures of boy life at old Plumfield, and is brimful of activity, merriment,
health, and happiness.</p>
</li>
<li><span class="title">JO'S BOYS,</span> and How They Turned Out
<p>Illustrated. 16mo. $1.50.</p>
<p>This sequel to "Little Men" takes up the story and carries Jo's boys through the home
struggles and adventures in the outside world until they are fairly launched on the sea of
manhood.</p>
</li>
<li><span class="title">AN OLD-FASHIONED GIRL</span>
<p>Illustrated. 16mo. $1.50.</p>
<p>The heroine of this book is shown as a possible improvement upon the girl of the period,
who seems sadly ignorant or ashamed of the good old fashions which made women truly
beautiful and honored.</p>
</li>
<li><span class="title">EIGHT COUSINS;</span> or, the Aunt-Hill
<p>Illustrated. 16mo. $1.50.</p>
<p>The story of a pretty-faced and sunny-tempered little girl, obliged by the death of her
parents to live with her uncle and her aunts, thereby coming in contact with seven cousins&mdash;all
boys.</p>
</li>
<li><span class="title">ROSE IN BLOOM</span>
<p>Illustrated. 16mo. $1.50.</p>
<p>This sequel to "Eight Cousins" carries on the story of Rose and the cousins, and is full of
vivacity, fresh and stirring incident, and brilliant character painting.</p>
</li>
<li><span class="title">UNDER THE LILACS</span>
<p>Illustrated. 16mo. $1.50.</p>
<p>Ben and his dog Sancho run away from a circus and find a home with Bob and Betty in
the old house under the lilacs. Told in Miss Alcott's best style.</p>
</li>
<li><span class="title">JACK AND JILL</span>
<p>Illustrated. 16mo. $1.50.</p>
<p>A vivid yet natural portrayal of home and school life in a New England village, full of the
sympathetic quality which lends such a charm to Miss Alcott's writings. It is a lively and
jolly narrative.</p>
</li>
</ol>

<p><span class="smc">the above eight volumes, uniformly bound, in box, $12.00</span></p>
<p><br /></p>
<p><i>Uniform with "The Little Women Series."</i></p>
<dl>
<dt>COMIC TRAGEDIES</dt>
<dd>Written by "Jo" and "Meg," and acted by the "Little Women," with a 
Foreword by "Meg." Portraits, etc. 16mo. $1.50.</dd>
<dt>LOUISA MAY ALCOTT</dt>
<dd>Her Life, Letters, and Journals. Edited by Ednah D. Cheney. With photogravure
portraits, etc. 16mo. $1.50.</dd>
</dl>

</div>

<hr />


<h3>Other Alcott Collections.</h3>
<p class="h3"><span class="pagenum2">592</span>
   Other Stories by LOUISA M. ALCOTT</p>
<hr class="hr2" />

<div id="alcottCollections">
<ul>
<li><span class="title">SPINNING-WHEEL STORIES</span>

<p>Four volumes of healthy and hearty short stories so told as to fascinate the young
people, while inculcating sturdy courage and kindness to the weak in the boys, and
in the girls those virtues which fit them for filling a woman's place in the home.</p>

<ol>
<li>SPINNING-WHEEL STORIES<p>With twelve initial illustrations. 16mo. $1.25.</p></li>
<li>SILVER PITCHERS: and Independence<p>16mo. $1.25.</p></li>
<li>PROVERB STORIES<p>16mo. $1.25.</p></li>
<li>A GARLAND FOR GIRLS<p>With illustrations. 16mo. $1.25.</p></li>
</ol>

<p>The above four volumes, uniformly bound in cloth, gilt, in box, $5.00.</p>
<p><br /></p>
</li>
<li><span class="title">AUNT JO'S SCRAP BAG</span>

<p>Six books of jolly, readable stories told in Miss Alcott's best style and sure to
please young people.</p>

<ol>
<li>MY BOYS<p>Illustrated. 16mo. $1.00.</p></li>
<li>SHAWL-STRAPS<p>Illustrated. Story of a voyage abroad. 16mo. $1.00</p></li>
<li>CUPID AND CHOW-CHOW<p>Illustrated. 16mo. $1.00.</p></li>
<li>MY GIRLS<p>Illustrated. 16mo. $1.00.</p></li>
<li>JIMMY'S CRUISE IN THE PINAFORE, ETC.<p>Illustrated. 16mo. $1.00.</p></li>
<li>AN OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING<p>Illustrated. 16mo. $1.00.</p>
<p>The above six volumes, uniformly bound in cloth, gilt, in box, $6.00.</p>
</li>
</ol>
</li>

<li><span class="title">LULU'S LIBRARY</span>
<p>Delightful short stories, many of them founded on incidents from Miss Alcott's
life. Told so as to attract children, and all showing the spirit of cheerful accomplishment
in the face of discouragements.</p>

<p>Three volumes. Each, $1.00. The set, uniformly bound in cloth, gilt, in box, $3.00.</p>
<p><br /></p>
</li>

<li><span class="title">MISS ALCOTT'S NOVELS</span>
<ul>
<li>HOSPITAL SKETCHES
<p>and Camp and Fireside Stories. With illustrations. 16mo. $1.50.</p>
</li>
<li>WORK
<p>A Story of Experience. Illustrated by Sol Eytinge. 16mo. $1.50.</p>
</li>
<li>MOODS
<p>A Novel. 16mo. $1.50.</p>
</li>
<li>A MODERN MEPHISTOPHELES
<p>and a Whisper in the Dark. 16mo. $1.50.</p>
</li>
</ul>
</li>
</ul>

</div>

<hr />

<h3>The Children's Friend Series.</h3>
<p class="h3"><span class="pagenum2">593</span>
   Other Stories by LOUISA M. ALCOTT</p>

<hr class="hr2" />

<div id="alcottStories">
<dl>
<dt>A HOLE IN THE WALL.</dt>
<dd>Illustrated. 12mo. 50 cents.</dd>
<dd>An account of a poor boy's admiration for a beautiful garden to which he is invited by a little
girl friend. ("How They Camped Out" in same volume.)</dd>
<dt><a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/5352">MARJORIE'S THREE GIFTS.</a></dt>
<dd>Illustrated. 12mo. 50 cents.</dd>
<dd>A fairy tale told Marjorie comes true, and there enter into her life 
three good fairies: Industry, Cheerfulness, and Love. ("Roses and 
Forget-me-nots" in same volume.)</dd>
<dt><a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/37981">MAY FLOWERS.</a></dt>
<dd>Illustrated. 12mo. 50 cents.</dd>
<dd>The experiences of six earnest young girls who try to make the sad 
    lives about them happier. Full of sensible hints as to wisest methods 
		of charity.</dd>
<dt>A CHRISTMAS DREAM.</dt>
<dd>Illustrated. 12mo. 50 cents.</dd>
<dd>A rather spoiled child gets her first real enjoyment of Christmas 
by making others happy. ("Baa! Baa!" in same volume.)</dd>
<dt><a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/25165">THE CANDY COUNTRY</a></dt>
<dd>Illustrated. 12mo. 50 cents.</dd>
<dd>A quaint little fable in which the young heroine visits Candy-land and 
is finally contented to return to Bread-land. ("How They Ran Away" in same 
volume.)</dd>
<dt>LITTLE BUTTON ROSE.</dt>
<dd>Illustrated. 12mo. 50 cents.</dd>
<dd>A bright, vivacious child visits her maiden aunts. Her influence on the 
somewhat narrow characters about her is delightfully described.</dd>
<dt>POPPIES AND WHEAT.</dt>
<dd>Illustrated. 12mo. 50 cents.</dd>
<dd>Two girls travel through Europe. The frivolous Ethel learns the 
advantages of culture and simple dignity from her companion.</dd>
<dt><a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/37807">MOUNTAIN-LAUREL AND MAIDENHAIR.</a></dt>
<dd>Illustrated. 12mo. 50 cents.</dd>
<dd>The story of a New Hampshire farmer's daughter who is fond of writing 
verses.</dd>
<dt>PANSIES AND WATER-LILIES.</dt>
<dd>Illustrated. 12mo. 50 cents.</dd>
<dd>"Pansies" is a story of a girls' discussion of books; "Water-Lilies"  
a romance by the sea-shore.</dd>
<dt>THE DOLLS' JOURNEY.</dt>
<dd>Illustrated. 12mo. 50 cents.</dd>
<dd>A droll account of the travels of two dolls. ("Shadow-Children" 
and "The Moss People" in same volume.)</dd>
<dt>MORNING GLORIES AND QUEEN ASTOR.</dt>
<dd>Illustrated. 12mo. 50 cents.</dd>
<dd>Aunt Wee changes Daisy from a petulant to a cheerful girl by interesting 
her in the wonderful world of nature which Daisy has never before learned to 
appreciate justly.</dd>
<dt>THE LITTLE MEN PLAY.</dt>
<dt>THE LITTLE WOMEN PLAY.</dt>
<dd>Adapted from Miss Alcott's famous stories, "Little Men" and "Little Women,"
by Elizabeth L. Gould.</dd>
<dd>Illustrated. 12mo. Price 50 cents each.</dd>
<dd>Two forty-five minute plays of two acts each, for eight or ten little 
people. They will prove a source of limitless delight.</dd>
</dl>
</div>

<hr class="hr3"  />

<p class="h2a">LITTLE, BROWN, &amp; COMPANY, Publishers</p>

<p class="center">254 Washington St., Boston, Mass.</p>



<hr class="hr2" />
<h2>Transcriber's Notes</h2>
<div class="tnote">

<p class="h2a">Transcriber's Notes:</p>

<hr />

<p><span class="smc">Project Gutenberg</span> has two versions of
Little Women by Louisa May Alcott.</p>

<ul>
   <li><a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/514">Original Edition</a></li>
   <li><a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/37106">Illustrated Edition</a></li>
</ul>

<p>Welcome to the <span class="smc">Project Gutenberg</span> Illustrated 
Edition of Little Women by Louisa May Alcott, published by Little, Brown,
and Company.  Some versions of the book, such as this one, use the full 
title of the book from the title page, <i>Little Women; Or Meg, Jo, Beth, 
and Amy.</i></p>

<p>We used the version of the book from Little, Brown, and Company: 
copyright 1896, for this transcription.  A scanned copy of this book is 
available through the internet archive, courtesy of the New York Public 
Library. </p>

<p>A copy of the first version of the novel, published in 1869, was 
consulted for emendations, the proper rendering of words hyphenated 
and split between two lines for spacing, and other issues in 
transcribing the novel.  We are not trying to change this version
of the novel back to the 1869 novel, but correct the errors that
were made in re-transcribing and updating the text.</p>

<p>Throughout the dialogues, words were used to mimic accents of 
the speakers. Those words were retained as-is.</p>

<p>Errors in punctuations and hyphenation were not corrected unless
otherwise noted below.</p>

<p>The illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up
paragraphs and so that they are next to the text that they illustrate.  
The page number of the illustration might not match the page number in the
List of Illustrations.</p>

<p>On page vii, in the Table of Contents, change page 7 to 1 for the
beginning of Chapter One.</p>

<p>In the List of Illustrations, for the illustration on page 147,
"postmistress" was replaced with "post-mistress".</p>

<p>In the List of Illustrations, for the illustration on page 235,
"tea-pot" was replaced with "teapot".</p>

<p>On page 30, the punctuation after 'stained they are' may be a 
colon, but on page 41 of the 1869 book, it is a semicolon.   We 
used the semi-colon. </p>

<p>On page 34, transcribe red-headed with the hyphen. See page 44 of the
1869 novel.</p>

<p>On page 40, a period was added after "room where old Mr".  See page
50 of the 1869 novel.</p>

<p>On page 41, the semicolon after "Laurie went on the box" was replaced
with a comma.  See page 52 of the 1869 novel.</p>

<p>On page 62, mantel-piece was transcribed with the hyphen.  See Page 75
of the 1869 novel. </p>

<p>On page 63, checked the clause "and I've been trying to do it this ever 
so long."  It is written the same way on page 77 of the 1869 book.
No change was made.</p>

<p>On page 64, add period after "red and shining with merriment." See page 
79 of the 1869 book.</p>

<p>On page 68, changed weet to sweet in 'the damp weet air.' See page 84
of the 1869 novel.</p>

<p>On page 79, add comma after I remain in the letter.  See page 95 of the 
1869 novel.</p>

<p>On page 84, ferrule was an adjustment from the 1869 book, which only 
used one r in spelling the word (see page 101). Webster's dictionary 
spells ferrule with two rs.  </p>

<p>On page 109, a period was added after "and the old man quite dotes on 
them".  See page 130 of the 1869 novel.</p>

<p>On page 109, a period was added after "asked another voice". See page 131
of the 1869 novel.</p>

<p>On page 112, change colon to semicolon after "if you don't;"&mdash;see
page 134 of the 1869 novel.</p>

<p>On page 113, transcribe ear-rings with the hyphen.  See page 135 of the
1869 novel.</p>

<p>On Page 123, "One thing remember, my girls:" is written as it appears
in the 1896 novel. A comma instead of a colon was used after my girls
in the 1869 novel (see page 146).  "One thing <strong>to</strong> 
remember," may work better today, or even "Remember one thing," but we left 
this as Ms. Alcott wrote it.</p>

<p>On Page 124, the P. C. is the Pickwick Club from a novel by Charles 
Dickens.  Samuel Pickwick, Tracy Tupman, Augustus Snodgrass, and Nathaniel 
Winkle were introdued by Charles Dickens in the first chapter of <i>The 
Pickwick Papers</i>.  	Samuel Weller makes his first appearance
in Chapter Ten of that novel.</p>

<p>On page 128, in the Pickwick Portfolio, there is no period after
"it is nearly school time" in N.&nbsp;Winkle's letter.  This period was
also missing on page 151 of the 1869 novel.  The missing period was
intentional.</p>

<p>On page 135, the ambiguous punctuation after "Oh, dear, no!" is an
exclamation point.  See page 160 of the 1869 novel.</p>

<p>On page 146, change buttonholes to button-holes.  On page 173 of the
1869 novel, this word was hyphenated and split between two lines for
spacing.  Transcribing the word with the hyphen matches seven other 
occurrences of button-hole or botton-holes in the novel.  We therefore 
used the hyphen.</p>

<p>On page 150, "Betty" was replaced with "Bethy".  This error was also made
in the 1869 novel&mdash;see page 177.  The character addressed is Beth. 
</p>

<p>On page 158, a period was added after "still kneeling".  See page 187
of the 1869 novel.</p>

<p>On page 160, "hard a lee" is spelled the same way in the 1869 novel (see
page 189) and this novel.  We left this as is.</p>

<p>On page 166, a comma was added after "Meg" in "Meg obediently following".
See page 195 of the 1869 book.</p>

<p>On page 185, "receptable" was replaced with "receptacle".  See page
217 of the 1869 novel.</p>

<p>On page 185, transcribe door-way with the hyphen.  See page 217 of the
1869 novel. Also, change doorway to door-way a few lines down the same 
page.  See page 218 of the 1869 novel.</p>

<p>On page 189, the comma after "published every day" was replaced with a
period. See page 225 of 1869 book.</p>

<p>On page 198, the clause: "Beth, go and ask Mr. Laurence for a couple of 
bottles of old wine:" was written as it appeared in the 1896 novel.  The
clause ended in with a semi-colon in the 1869 book (see page 234). </p>

<p>On page 200, change needlework to needle-work. See page 236 of the 
1869 novel.</p>

<p>On page 209, "turnovers" was replaced with "turn-overs". See page 
246 of the 1869 novel.</p>

<p>On page 214, the single quotation mark before "Head Nurse of Ward" was
replaced with a double quotation mark. See page 252 of the 1869 novel.</p>

<p>On page 218, "Year's ago" was replaced with "Years ago". See page 257
of the 1869 novel.</p>

<p>On page 219, "ask him so help" was replaced with "ask him to help".
See page 257 of the 1869 novel.</p>

<p>On page 219, add period after "give it to her." See page 258 of the 
1869 novel. </p>

<p>On page 230, "two, A.M." is spelled the same way, with the comma, in 
this book and in the 1869 novel (on page 272).  The comma was retained.</p>

<p>On page 244, "postscrips" was replaced with "postscripts". See page
287 of the 1869 novel.</p>

<p>On page 279, place exclamation point after won't in 'No, I won't!'  
See page 329 in the 1869 novel.</p>

<p>On page 286, "actingly" was replaced with "acting". See page 337 of the 
1869 novel.</p>

<p>On page 288, add comma after mankind in the clause "who felt at peace 
with all mankind even his mischievous pupil."  See page 339 of the 1869 
novel.</p>

<p>On page 294, transcribe gray-headed with the hyphen.  See page 5 of 
the 1869 novel.</p>

<p>On page 295, add a comma after salary in the phrase "with an 
honestly-earned salary."  See page 7 of the 1869 book.</p>

<p>Checked the clause "But once get used to these slight blemishes" on
page 297.  The sentence appears the same way on page 10 of the 1869 novel.
</p>

<p>Checked the clause "People who hire all these things done for them 
never know what they lose" on page 298.  The sentence has a comma after
them, but is otherwise written the same way on page 11 of the 1869 novel.</p>

<p>On page 299, transcribe door-handles with the hyphen.  See page 13
of the 1869 novel.</p>

<p>On page 339, "shortcomings" was replaced with "short-comings". See
page 62 of the 1869 novel.</p>

<p>On page 345, "furbelows and notions" was written "furbelows and 
quinny-dingles" in the 1869 novel.  See page 59 of the 1869 novel.
We made no change, and only point this out because quinny-dingles
is such a memorable word that those intimate with the novel may 
notice the change.</p>

<p>On page 353, change snowbank to snow-bank.  See page 79 of the 1869 
novel.</p>

<p>On page 363, a double quotation mark was added before "Cross-patch, draw
the latch". See page 91 of the 1869 book.</p>

<p>On page 379, change period after Jo to a comma in the clause "as for Jo. 
she would have gone up". See page 109 of the 1869 book.</p>

<p>On page 380, a comma was added after "all lying down". See page 111
of the 1869 book.</p>

<p>On page 393, the punctuation after 'but so was everybody's' is
difficult to read.  It could be a colon or semicolon.  In the 1869 novel,
the mark is a semi-colon (see page 126).  We used the semi-colon.</p>

<p>On page 396, the second line of the verse beginning with "'Out upon you,"
is indented.  In the 1869 version, the capital B of "Bold-faced jig!'"
is lined-up under Out.  We aligned the verse as the 1869 version of
the novel--see page 131.</p>

<p>On page 404, add period after heaviness.  See page 140 of the 1869
novel.</p>

<p>On page 405, transcribe needle-work with the hyphen.   See page 141 
of the 1869 book.</p>

<p>On Page 411, a letter is curiously addressed to Betsey, both here and on 
page 148 of the 1869 book.  </p>

<p>On Page 413, removed double quotes around Yes in "Yes," they say to one 
another, these so kind ladies.  Instead, place a single quote in front of 
Yes, because Bhaer is resuming his quote.  The resumed quote concludes with 
a single quote after me and mine.  See page 151 of the 1869 novel.  The 
double quote before 'he is a stupid old fellow' is actually a triple-nested 
quote, ending in make themselves.</p> 

<p>On page 417, transcribe Teddy-ism as Teddyism.  See page 155 of the 
1869 novel.</p>

<p>On page 451, a period was added after "I can't let you go". See page
196 of the 1869 novel.</p>

<p>On page 463, "Tarantula" was used as the name of a dance, but the
author might have meant "Tarantella," which is the name of an Italian
dance about tarantulas.</p>

<p>On page 468, transcribe chess-board with the hyphen.  See page
218 of the 1869 novel.</p>

<p>On page 512, a period was added after "she said softly".  If you see
page 272 of the 1869 novel, you will also notice a comma in 'she said,
softly.'   We added the period but not the comma.</p>

<p>On page 514, the 1869 novel did not have a comma after oar in the sentence:
"I'm not tired; but you may take an oar, if you like. See page 525 of the
1869 novel.  We did not remove the comma.</p>

<p>On page 527, 'the "the best nevvy in the world."' was replaced with 
"the best nevvy in the world."  See page 290 of the 1869 novel.</p>

<p>On page 527, change he to the in 'like Jenny and <strong>he</strong> 
ballad'. See page 291 of the 1869 novel.</p>

<p>On page 531, David and Peggotty refer to two characters from the novel 
"David Copperfield" by Charles Dickens.</p>

<p>On page 534, change of to off in the clause: Daisy found it impossible 
to keep her eyes <strong>of</strong> her "pitty aunty," ... see page
300 of the 1869 novel.</p> 

<p>On page 541, "know'st thou the land where the citron blooms," was
broken into two stanzas in the book for spacing.  We transcribed this
as one line.  See page 308 in 1869 novel. </p>

<p>On page 551, transcribe Dove-cote with the hyphen.  See page 319 of 
the 1869 novel.</p>

<p>On the first page of ads, a period was added after "THE LITTLE WOMEN
SERIES. <i>New Illustrated Edition</i>".</p>

<p>On the second page of ads, in the blurb for the book Comic Tragedies,
a period as placed after "Portraits, etc".</p>

<p>After the novel is a list of The Works of Louisa May Alcott.  
The list is not complete: for example, there are no listings for her work 
as Flora Fairfield or A.&nbsp;M. Barnard. Nevertheless, the pages are
a fine structured outline of Ms. Alcott's best work.</p>

<p>Most of the novels and stories in these four pages are published by 
<span class="smc">Project Gutenberg.</span>  We included links to these 
titles for the reader's convenience.  A change had to be made for
one item.  We had to list each of the three volumes of Lulu's Library
to provide the links to that book.  All links will only work in the 
HTML document.</p>
<p>The final page is a listing of eleven stories originally published in 
other volumes, such as <i>Jo's Scrap-Bag</i>, <i>Lulu's Library</i>, and 
<i>A Garland for Girls.</i>  These works were subsequently published 
separately in small volumes, generally less than 100 pages, in 
<i>The Children's Friend Series</i>.  
</p>


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