The four young faces on which the firelight shone brightened at the cheerful
words, but darkened again as Jo said sadly, “We haven’t got Father,
and shall not have him for a long time.” She didn’t say
“perhaps never,” but each silently added it, thinking of Father far
away, where the fighting was.

Nobody spoke for a minute; then Meg said in an altered tone, “You know
the reason Mother proposed not having any presents this Christmas was because
it is going to be a hard winter for everyone; and she thinks we ought not to
spend money for pleasure, when our men are suffering so in the army. We
can’t do much, but we can make our little sacrifices, and ought to do it
gladly. But I am afraid I don’t,” and Meg shook her head, as she
thought regretfully of all the pretty things she wanted.

“But I don’t think the little we should spend would do any good.
We’ve each got a dollar, and the army wouldn’t be much helped by
our giving that. I agree not to expect anything from Mother or you, but I do
want to buy Undine and Sintran for myself. I’ve wanted it so
long,” said Jo, who was a bookworm.

“I planned to spend mine in new music,” said Beth, with a little
sigh, which no one heard but the hearth brush and kettle-holder.

“I shall get a nice box of Faber’s drawing pencils; I really need
them,” said Amy decidedly.

“Mother didn’t say anything about our money, and she won’t
wish us to give up everything. Let’s each buy what we want, and have a
little fun; I’m sure we work hard enough to earn it,” cried Jo,
examining the heels of her shoes in a gentlemanly manner.

“I know I do—teaching those tiresome children nearly all day, when
I’m longing to enjoy myself at home,” began Meg, in the complaining
tone again.

“You don’t have half such a hard time as I do,” said Jo.
“How would you like to be shut up for hours with a nervous, fussy old
lady, who keeps you trotting, is never satisfied, and worries you till
you’re ready to fly out the window or cry?”

“It’s naughty to fret, but I do think washing dishes and keeping
things tidy is the worst work in the world. It makes me cross, and my hands get
so stiff, I can’t practice well at all.” And Beth looked at her
rough hands with a sigh that any one could hear that time.

“I don’t believe any of you suffer as I do,” cried Amy,
“for you don’t have to go to school with impertinent girls, who
plague you if you don’t know your lessons, and laugh at your dresses, and
label your father if he isn’t rich, and insult you when your nose
isn’t nice.”

“If you mean libel, I’d say so, and not talk about labels, as if
Papa was a pickle bottle,” advised Jo, laughing.

“I know what I mean, and you needn’t be statirical about it.
It’s proper to use good words, and improve your vocabilary,”
returned Amy, with dignity.

“Don’t peck at one another, children. Don’t you wish we had
the money Papa lost when we were little, Jo? Dear me! How happy and good
we’d be, if we had no worries!” said Meg, who could remember better
times.

“You said the other day you thought we were a deal happier than the King
children, for they were fighting and fretting all the time, in spite of their
money.”

“So I did, Beth. Well, I think we are. For though we do have to work, we
make fun of ourselves, and are a pretty jolly set, as Jo would say.”

“Jo does use such slang words!” observed Amy, with a reproving look
at the long figure stretched on the rug.

Jo immediately sat up, put her hands in her pockets, and began to whistle.

“Don’t, Jo. It’s so boyish!”

“That’s why I do it.”

“I detest rude, unladylike girls!”

“I hate affected, niminy-piminy chits!”

“Birds in their little nests agree,” sang Beth, the peacemaker,
with such a funny face that both sharp voices softened to a laugh, and the
“pecking” ended for that time.

“Really, girls, you are both to be blamed,” said Meg, beginning to
lecture in her elder-sisterly fashion. “You are old enough to leave off
boyish tricks, and to behave better, Josephine. It didn’t matter so much
when you were a little girl, but now you are so tall, and turn up your hair,
you should remember that you are a young lady.”

“I’m not! And if turning up my hair makes me one, I’ll wear
it in two tails till I’m twenty,” cried Jo, pulling off her net,
and shaking down a chestnut mane. “I hate to think I’ve got to grow
up, and be Miss March, and wear long gowns, and look as prim as a China Aster!
It’s bad enough to be a girl, anyway, when I like boy’s 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 home and knit, like a poky old woman!”

And Jo shook the blue army sock till the needles rattled like castanets, and
her ball bounded across the room.

“Poor Jo! It’s too bad, but it can’t be helped. So you must
try to be contented with making your name boyish, and playing brother to us
girls,” said Beth, stroking the rough head with a hand that all the dish
washing and dusting in the world could not make ungentle in its touch.

“As for you, Amy,” continued Meg, “you are altogether too
particular and prim. Your airs are funny now, but you’ll grow up an
affected little goose, if you don’t take care. I like your nice manners
and refined ways of speaking, when you don’t try to be elegant. But your
absurd words are as bad as Jo’s slang.”

“If Jo is a tomboy and Amy a goose, what am I, please?” asked Beth,
ready to share the lecture.

“You’re a dear, and nothing else,” answered Meg warmly, and
no one contradicted her, for the ‘Mouse’ was the pet of the family.

As young readers like to know ‘how people look’, we will take this
moment to give them a little sketch of the four sisters, who sat knitting away
in the twilight, while the December snow fell quietly without, and the fire
crackled cheerfully within. It was a comfortable room, though the carpet was
faded and the furniture very plain, for a good picture or two hung on the
walls, books filled the recesses, chrysanthemums and Christmas roses bloomed in
the windows, and a pleasant atmosphere of home peace pervaded it.

Margaret, the eldest of the four, was sixteen, and very pretty, being plump and
fair, with large eyes, plenty of soft brown hair, a sweet mouth, and white
hands, of which she was rather vain. Fifteen-year-old Jo was very tall, thin,
and brown, and reminded one of a colt, for she never seemed to know what to do
with her long limbs, which were very much in her way. She had a decided mouth,
a comical nose, and sharp, gray eyes, which appeared to see everything, and
were by turns fierce, funny, or thoughtful. Her long, thick hair was her one
beauty, but it was usually bundled into a net, to be out of her way. Round
shoulders had Jo, big hands and feet, a flyaway look to her clothes, and the
uncomfortable appearance of a girl who was rapidly shooting up into a woman and
didn’t like it. Elizabeth, or Beth, as everyone called her, was a rosy,
smooth-haired, bright-eyed girl of thirteen, with a shy manner, a timid voice,
and a peaceful expression which was seldom disturbed. Her father called her
‘Little Miss Tranquility’, and the name suited her excellently, for
she seemed to live in a happy world of her own, only venturing out to meet the
few whom she trusted and loved. Amy, though the youngest, was a most important
person, in her own opinion at least. A regular snow maiden, with blue eyes, and
yellow hair curling on her shoulders, pale and slender, and always carrying
herself like a young lady mindful of her manners. What the characters of the
four sisters were we will leave to be found out.

The clock struck six and, having swept up the hearth, Beth put a pair of
slippers down to warm. Somehow the sight of the old shoes had a good effect
upon the girls, for Mother was coming, and everyone brightened to welcome her.
Meg stopped lecturing, and lighted the lamp, Amy got out of the easy chair
without being asked, and Jo forgot how tired she was as she sat up to hold the
slippers nearer to the blaze.

“They are quite worn out. Marmee must have a new pair.”

“I thought I’d get her some with my dollar,” said Beth.

“No, I shall!” cried Amy.

“I’m the oldest,” began Meg, but Jo cut in with a decided,
“I’m the man of the family now Papa is away, and I shall provide
the slippers, for he told me to take special care of Mother while he was
gone.”

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said Beth,
“let’s each get her something for Christmas, and not get anything
for ourselves.”

“That’s like you, dear! What will we get?” exclaimed Jo.

Everyone thought soberly for a minute, then Meg announced, as if the idea was
suggested by the sight of her own pretty hands, “I shall give her a nice
pair of gloves.”

“Army shoes, best to be had,” cried Jo.

“Some handkerchiefs, all hemmed,” said Beth.

“I’ll get a little bottle of cologne. She likes it, and it
won’t cost much, so I’ll have some left to buy my pencils,”
added Amy.

“How will we give the things?” asked Meg.

“Put them on the table, and bring her in and see her open the bundles.
Don’t you remember how we used to do on our birthdays?” answered
Jo.

“I used to be so frightened when it was my turn to sit in the chair with
the crown on, and see you all come marching round to give the presents, with a
kiss. I liked the things and the kisses, but it was dreadful to have you sit
looking at me while I opened the bundles,” said Beth, who was toasting
her face and the bread for tea at the same time.

“Let Marmee think we are getting things for ourselves, and then surprise
her. We must go shopping tomorrow afternoon, Meg. There is so much to do about
the play for Christmas night,” said Jo, marching up and down, with her
hands behind her back, and her nose in the air.

“I don’t mean to act any more after this time. I’m getting
too old for such things,” observed Meg, who was as much a child as ever
about ‘dressing-up’ frolics.

“You won’t stop, I know, as long as you can trail round in a white
gown with your hair down, and wear gold-paper jewelry. You are the best actress
we’ve got, and there’ll be an end of everything if you quit the
boards,” said Jo. “We ought to rehearse tonight. Come here, Amy,
and do the fainting scene, for you are as stiff as a poker in that.”

“I can’t help it. I never saw anyone faint, and I don’t
choose to make myself all black and blue, tumbling flat as you do. If I can go
down easily, I’ll drop. If I can’t, I shall fall into a chair and
be graceful. I don’t care if Hugo does come at me with a pistol,”
returned Amy, who was not gifted with dramatic power, but was chosen because
she was small enough to be borne out shrieking by the villain of the piece.

“Do it this way. Clasp your hands so, and stagger across the room, crying
frantically, ‘Roderigo! Save me! Save me!’” and away went Jo,
with a melodramatic scream which was truly thrilling.

Amy followed, but she poked her hands out stiffly before her, and jerked
herself along as if she went by machinery, and her “Ow!” was more
suggestive of pins being run into her than of fear and anguish. Jo gave a
despairing groan, and Meg laughed outright, while Beth let her bread burn as
she watched the fun with interest. “It’s no use! Do the best you
can when the time comes, and if the audience laughs, don’t blame me. Come
on, Meg.”

Then things went smoothly, for Don Pedro defied the world in a speech of two
pages without a single break. Hagar, the witch, chanted an awful incantation
over her kettleful of simmering toads, with weird effect. Roderigo rent his
chains asunder manfully, and Hugo died in agonies of remorse and arsenic, with
a wild, “Ha! Ha!”

“It’s the best we’ve had yet,” said Meg, as the dead
villain sat up and rubbed his elbows.

“I don’t see how you can write and act such splendid things, Jo.
You’re a regular Shakespeare!” exclaimed Beth, who firmly believed
that her sisters were gifted with wonderful genius in all things.

“Not quite,” replied Jo modestly. “I do think The Witches
Curse, an Operatic Tragedy is rather a nice thing, but I’d like to
try Macbeth, if we only had a trapdoor for Banquo. I always wanted to do
the killing part. ‘Is that a dagger that I see before me?” muttered
Jo, rolling her eyes and clutching at the air, as she had seen a famous
tragedian do.

“No, it’s the toasting fork, with Mother’s shoe on it instead
of the bread. Beth’s stage-struck!” cried Meg, and the rehearsal
ended in a general burst of laughter.

“Glad to find you so merry, my girls,” said a cheery voice at the
door, and actors and audience turned to welcome a tall, motherly lady with a
‘can I help you’ look about her which was truly delightful. She was
not elegantly dressed, but a noble-looking woman, and the girls thought the
gray cloak and unfashionable bonnet covered the most splendid mother in the
world.

“Well, dearies, how have you got on today? There was so much to do,
getting the boxes ready to go tomorrow, that I didn’t come home to
dinner. Has anyone called, Beth? How is your cold, Meg? Jo, you look tired to
death. Come and kiss me, baby.”

While making these maternal inquiries Mrs. March got her wet things off, her
warm slippers on, and sitting down in the easy chair, drew Amy to her lap,
preparing to enjoy the happiest hour of her busy day. The girls flew about,
trying to make things comfortable, each in her own way. Meg arranged the tea
table, Jo brought wood and set chairs, dropping, over-turning, and clattering
everything she touched. Beth trotted to and fro between parlor kitchen, quiet
and busy, while Amy gave directions to everyone, as she sat with her hands
folded.

As they gathered about the table, Mrs. March said, with a particularly happy
face, “I’ve got a treat for you after supper.”

A quick, bright smile went round like a streak of sunshine. Beth clapped her
hands, regardless of the biscuit she held, and Jo tossed up her napkin, crying,
“A letter! A letter! Three cheers for Father!”

“Yes, a nice long letter. He is well, and thinks he shall get through the
cold season better than we feared. He sends all sorts of loving wishes for
Christmas, and an especial message to you girls,” said Mrs. March,
patting her pocket as if she had got a treasure there.

“Hurry and get done! Don’t stop to quirk your little finger and
simper over your plate, Amy,” cried Jo, choking on her tea and dropping
her bread, butter side down, on the carpet in her haste to get at the treat.

Beth ate no more, but crept away to sit in her shadowy corner and brood over
the delight to come, till the others were ready.

“I think it was so splendid in Father to go as chaplain when he was too
old to be drafted, and not strong enough for a soldier,” said Meg warmly.

“Don’t I wish I could go as a drummer, a vivan—what’s
its name? Or a nurse, so I could be near him and help him,” exclaimed Jo,
with a groan.

“It must be very disagreeable to sleep in a tent, and eat all sorts of
bad-tasting things, and drink out of a tin mug,” sighed Amy.

“When will he come home, Marmee?” asked Beth, with a little quiver
in her voice.

“Not for many months, dear, unless he is sick. He will stay and do his
work faithfully as long as he can, and we won’t ask for him back a minute
sooner than he can be spared. Now come and hear the letter.”

They all drew to the fire, Mother in the big chair with Beth at her feet, Meg
and Amy perched on either arm of the chair, and Jo leaning on the back, where
no one would see any sign of emotion if the letter should happen to be
touching. Very few letters were written in those hard times that were not
touching, especially those which fathers sent home. In this one little was said
of the hardships endured, the dangers faced, or the homesickness conquered. It
was a cheerful, hopeful letter, full of lively descriptions of camp life,
marches, and military news, and only at the end did the writer’s heart
over-flow with fatherly love and longing for the little girls at home.

“Give them all of my dear love and a kiss. Tell them I think of them by
day, pray for them by night, and find my best comfort in their affection at all
times. A year seems very long to wait before I see them, but remind them that
while we wait we may all work, so that these hard days need not be wasted. I
know they will remember all I said to them, that they will be loving children
to you, will do their duty faithfully, fight their bosom enemies bravely, and
conquer themselves so beautifully that when I come back to them I may be fonder
and prouder than ever of my little women.” Everybody sniffed when they
came to that part. Jo wasn’t ashamed of the great tear that dropped off
the end of her nose, and Amy never minded the rumpling of her curls as she hid
her face on her mother’s shoulder and sobbed out, “I am a selfish
girl! But I’ll truly try to be better, so he mayn’t be disappointed
in me by-and-by.”

“We all will,” cried Meg. “I think too much of my looks and
hate to work, but won’t any more, if I can help it.”

“I’ll try and be what he loves to call me, ‘a little
woman’ and not be rough and wild, but do my duty here instead of wanting
to be somewhere else,” said Jo, thinking that keeping her temper at home
was a much harder task than facing a rebel or two down South.

Beth said nothing, but wiped away her tears with the blue army sock and began
to knit with all her might, losing no time in doing the duty that lay nearest
her, while she resolved in her quiet little soul to be all that Father hoped to
find her when the year brought round the happy coming home.

Mrs. March broke the silence that followed Jo’s words, by saying in her
cheery voice, “Do you remember how you used to play Pilgrims 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 housetop, where you had all the lovely things
you could collect to make a Celestial City.”

“What fun it was, especially going by the lions, fighting Apollyon, and
passing through the valley where the hob-goblins were,” said Jo.

“I liked the place where the bundles fell off and tumbled
downstairs,” said Meg.

“I don’t remember much about it, except that I was afraid of the
cellar and the dark entry, and always liked the cake and milk we had up at the
top. If I wasn’t too old for such things, I’d rather like to play
it over again,” said Amy, who began to talk of renouncing childish things
at the mature age of twelve.

“We never are too old for this, my dear, because it is a play we are
playing all the time in one way or another. Our burdens are here, our road is
before us, and the longing for goodness and happiness is the guide that leads
us through many troubles and mistakes to the peace which is a true Celestial
City. Now, my little pilgrims, suppose you begin again, not in play, but in
earnest, and see how far on you can get before Father comes home.”

“Really, Mother? Where are our bundles?” asked Amy, who was a very
literal young lady.

“Each of you told what your burden was just now, except Beth. I rather
think she hasn’t got any,” said her mother.

“Yes, I have. Mine is dishes and dusters, and envying girls with nice
pianos, and being afraid of people.”

Beth’s bundle was such a funny one that everybody wanted to laugh, but
nobody did, for it would have hurt her feelings very much.

“Let us do it,” said Meg thoughtfully. “It is only another
name for trying to be good, and the story may help us, for though we do want to
be good, it’s hard work and we forget, and don’t do our
best.”

“We were in the Slough of Despond tonight, and Mother came and pulled us
out as Help did in the book. We ought to have our roll of directions, like
Christian. What shall we do about that?” asked Jo, delighted with the
fancy which lent a little romance to the very dull task of doing her duty.

“Look under your pillows Christmas morning, and you will find your
guidebook,” replied Mrs. March.

They talked over the new plan while old Hannah cleared the table, then out came
the four little work baskets, and the needles flew as the girls made sheets for
Aunt March. It was uninteresting sewing, but tonight no one grumbled. They
adopted Jo’s plan of dividing the long seams into four parts, and calling
the quarters Europe, Asia, Africa, and America, and in that way got on
capitally, especially when they talked about the different countries as they
stitched their way through them.

At nine they stopped work, and sang, 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 sang. 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 spoiled the most pensive tune. They had always done this from the
time they could lisp…

Crinkle, crinkle, ’ittle ’tar,

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

CHAPTER TWO
A MERRY CHRISTMAS

Jo was the first to wake in the gray dawn of Christmas morning. No stockings
hung at the fireplace, and for a moment she felt as much disappointed as she
did long ago, when her little sock fell down because it was crammed so full of
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 guidebook for any pilgrim going on a long journey. She
woke Meg with a “Merry Christmas,” and bade her see what was under
her pillow. A green-covered book appeared, with the same picture inside, and a
few words written by their mother, which made their one present very precious
in their eyes. Presently Beth and Amy woke to rummage and find their little
books also, one dove-colored, the other blue, and all sat looking at and
talking about them, while the east grew rosy with the coming day.

In spite of her small vanities, Margaret had a sweet and pious nature, which
unconsciously influenced her sisters, especially Jo, who loved her very
tenderly, and obeyed her because her advice was so gently given.

“Girls,” said Meg seriously, looking from the tumbled head beside
her to the two little night-capped ones in the room beyond, “Mother wants
us to read and love and mind these books, and we must begin at once. We used to
be faithful about it, but since Father went away and all this war trouble
unsettled us, we have neglected many things. You can do as you please, but I
shall keep my book on the table here and read a little every morning as soon as
I wake, for I know it will do me good and help me through the day.”

Then she opened her new book and began to read. Jo put her arm round her and,
leaning cheek to cheek, read also, with the quiet expression so seldom seen on
her restless face.

“How good Meg is! Come, Amy, let’s do as they do. I’ll help
you with the hard words, and they’ll explain things if we don’t
understand,” whispered Beth, very much impressed by the pretty books and
her sisters’ example.

“I’m glad mine is blue,” said Amy. and then the rooms were
very still while the pages were softly turned, and the winter sunshine crept in
to touch the bright heads and serious faces with a Christmas greeting.

“Where is Mother?” asked Meg, as she and Jo ran down to thank her
for their gifts, half an hour later.

“Goodness only knows. Some poor creeter came a-beggin’, and your ma
went straight off to see what was needed. There never was such a woman for
givin’ away vittles and drink, clothes and firin’,” replied
Hannah, who had lived with the family since Meg was born, and was considered by
them all more as a friend than a servant.

“She will be back soon, I think, so fry your cakes, and have everything
ready,” said Meg, looking over the presents which were collected in a
basket and kept under the sofa, ready to be produced at the proper time.
“Why, where is Amy’s bottle of cologne?” she added, as the
little flask did not appear.

“She took it out a minute ago, and went off with it to put a ribbon on
it, or some such notion,” replied Jo, dancing about the room to take the
first stiffness off the new army slippers.

“How nice my handkerchiefs look, don’t they? Hannah washed and
ironed them for me, and I marked them all myself,” said Beth, looking
proudly at the somewhat uneven letters which had cost her such labor.

“Bless the child! She’s gone and put ‘Mother’ on them
instead of ‘M. March’. How funny!” cried Jo, taking one up.

“Isn’t that right? I thought it was better to do it so, because
Meg’s initials are M.M., and I don’t want anyone to use these but
Marmee,” said Beth, looking troubled.

“It’s all right, dear, and a very pretty idea, quite sensible too,
for no one can ever mistake now. It will please her very much, I know,”
said Meg, with a frown for Jo and a smile for Beth.

“There’s Mother. Hide the basket, quick!” cried Jo, as a door
slammed and steps sounded in the hall.

Amy came in hastily, and looked rather abashed when she saw her sisters all
waiting for her.

“Where have you been, and what are you hiding behind you?” asked
Meg, surprised to see, by her hood and cloak, that lazy Amy had been out so
early.

“Don’t laugh at me, Jo! I didn’t mean anyone should know till
the time came. I only meant to change the little bottle for a big one, and I
gave all my money to get it, and I’m truly trying not to be selfish any
more.”

As she spoke, Amy showed the handsome flask which replaced the cheap one, and
looked so earnest and humble in her little effort to forget herself that Meg
hugged her on the spot, and Jo pronounced her ‘a trump’, while Beth
ran to the window, and picked her finest rose to ornament the stately bottle.

“You see I felt ashamed of my present, after reading and talking about
being good this morning, so I ran round the corner and changed it the minute I
was up, and I’m so glad, for mine is the handsomest now.”

Another bang of the street door sent the basket under the sofa, and the girls
to the table, eager for breakfast.

“Merry Christmas, Marmee! Many of them! Thank you for our books. We read
some, and mean to every day,” they all cried in chorus.

“Merry Christmas, little daughters! I’m glad you began at once, and
hope you will keep on. But I want to say one word before we sit down. Not far
away from here lies a poor woman with a little newborn baby. Six children are
huddled into one bed to keep from freezing, for they have no fire. There is
nothing to eat over there, and the oldest boy came to tell me they were
suffering hunger and cold. My girls, will you give them your breakfast as a
Christmas present?”

They were all unusually hungry, having waited nearly an hour, and for a minute
no one spoke, only a minute, for Jo exclaimed impetuously, “I’m so
glad you came before we began!”

“May I go and help carry the things to the poor little children?”
asked Beth eagerly.

“I shall take the cream and the muffings,” added Amy, heroically
giving up the article she most liked.

Meg was already covering the buckwheats, and piling the bread into one big
plate.

“I thought you’d do it,” said Mrs. March, smiling as if
satisfied. “You shall all go and help me, and when we come back we will
have bread and milk for breakfast, and make it up at dinnertime.”

They were soon ready, and the procession set out. Fortunately it was early, and
they went through back streets, so few people saw them, and no one laughed at
the queer party.

A poor, bare, miserable room it was, with broken windows, no fire, ragged
bedclothes, a sick mother, wailing baby, and a group of pale, hungry children
cuddled under one old quilt, trying to keep warm.

How the big eyes stared and the blue lips smiled as the girls went in.

“Ach, mein Gott! It is good angels come to us!” said the poor
woman, crying for joy.

“Funny angels in hoods and mittens,” said Jo, and set them to
laughing.

In a few minutes it really did seem as if kind spirits had been at work there.
Hannah, who had carried wood, made a fire, and stopped up the broken panes with
old hats and her own cloak. Mrs. March gave the mother tea and gruel, and
comforted her with promises of help, while she dressed the little baby as
tenderly as if it had been her own. The girls meantime spread the table, set
the children round the fire, and fed them like so many hungry birds, laughing,
talking, and trying to understand the funny broken English.

“Das ist gut!” “Die Engel-kinder!” cried the poor
things as they ate and warmed their purple hands at the comfortable blaze. The
girls had never been called angel children before, and thought it very
agreeable, especially Jo, who had been considered a ‘Sancho’ ever
since she was born. That was a very happy breakfast, though they didn’t
get any of it. And when they went away, leaving comfort behind, I think there
were not in all the city four merrier people than the hungry little girls who
gave away their breakfasts and contented themselves with bread and milk on
Christmas morning.

“That’s loving our neighbor better than ourselves, and I like
it,” said Meg, as they set out their presents while their mother was
upstairs collecting clothes for the poor Hummels.

Not a very splendid show, but there was a great deal of love done up in the few
little bundles, and the tall vase of red roses, white chrysanthemums, and
trailing vines, which stood in the middle, gave quite an elegant air to the
table.

“She’s coming! Strike up, Beth! Open the door, Amy! Three cheers
for Marmee!” cried Jo, prancing about while Meg went to conduct Mother to
the seat of honor.

Beth played her gayest march, Amy threw open the door, and Meg enacted escort
with great dignity. Mrs. March was both surprised and touched, and smiled with
her eyes full as she examined her presents and read the little notes which
accompanied them. The slippers went on at once, a new handkerchief was slipped
into her pocket, well scented with Amy’s cologne, the rose was fastened
in her bosom, and the nice gloves were pronounced a perfect fit.

There was a good deal of laughing and kissing and explaining, in the simple,
loving fashion which makes these home festivals so pleasant at the time, so
sweet to remember long afterward, and then all fell to work.

The morning charities and ceremonies took so much time that the rest of the day
was devoted to preparations for the evening festivities. Being still too young
to go often to the theater, and not rich enough to afford any great outlay for
private performances, the girls put their wits to work, and necessity being the
mother of invention, made whatever they needed. Very clever were some of their
productions, pasteboard guitars, antique lamps made of old-fashioned butter
boats covered with silver paper, gorgeous robes of old cotton, glittering with
tin spangles from a pickle factory, and armor covered with the same useful
diamond shaped bits left in sheets when the lids of preserve pots were cut out.
The big chamber was the scene of many innocent revels.

No gentleman were admitted, so Jo played male parts to her heart’s
content and took immense satisfaction in a pair of russet leather boots given
her by a friend, who knew a lady who knew an actor. These boots, an old foil,
and a slashed doublet once used by an artist for some picture, were Jo’s
chief treasures and appeared on all occasions. The smallness of the company
made it necessary for the two principal actors to take several parts apiece,
and they certainly deserved some credit for the hard work they did in learning
three or four different parts, whisking in and out of various costumes, and
managing the stage besides. It was excellent drill for their memories, a
harmless amusement, and employed many hours which otherwise would have been
idle, lonely, or spent in less profitable society.

On Christmas night, a dozen girls piled onto the bed which was the dress
circle, and sat before the blue and yellow chintz curtains in a most flattering
state of expectancy. There was a good deal of rustling and whispering behind
the curtain, a trifle of lamp smoke, and an occasional giggle from Amy, who was
apt to get hysterical in the excitement of the moment. Presently a bell
sounded, the curtains flew apart, and the operatic tragedy began.

“A gloomy wood,” according to the one playbill, 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 slouching hat, black
beard, mysterious cloak, and the boots. After pacing to and fro in much
agitation, he struck his forehead, and burst out in a wild strain, singing of
his hatred for Roderigo, his love for Zara, and his pleasing resolution to kill
the one and win the other. The gruff tones of Hugo’s voice, with an
occasional shout when his feelings overcame him, were very impressive, and the
audience applauded the moment he paused for breath. Bowing with the air of one
accustomed to public praise, he stole to the cavern and ordered Hagar to come
forth with a commanding, “What ho, minion! I need thee!”

Out came Meg, with gray horsehair hanging about her face, a red and black robe,
a staff, and cabalistic signs upon her cloak. Hugo demanded a potion to make
Zara adore him, and one to destroy Roderigo. Hagar, in a fine dramatic melody,
promised both, and proceeded to call up the spirit who would bring the love
philter.

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

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

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

And dropping a small, gilded bottle at the witch’s feet, the spirit
vanished. Another chant from Hagar produced another apparition, not a lovely
one, for with a bang an ugly black imp appeared and, having croaked a reply,
tossed a dark bottle at Hugo and disappeared with a mocking laugh. Having
warbled his thanks and put the potions in his boots, Hugo departed, and Hagar
informed the audience that as he had killed a few of her friends in times past,
she had cursed him, and intends to thwart his plans, and be revenged on him.
Then the curtain fell, and the audience reposed and ate candy while discussing
the merits of the play.

A good deal of hammering went on before the curtain rose again, but when it
became evident what a masterpiece of stage carpentery had been got up, no one
murmured at the delay. It was truly superb. A tower rose to the ceiling,
halfway up appeared a window with a lamp burning in 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 lovelocks, a
guitar, and the boots, of course. Kneeling at the foot of the tower, he sang a
serenade in melting tones. Zara replied and, after a musical dialogue,
consented to fly. Then came the grand effect of the play. Roderigo produced a
rope ladder, with five steps to it, threw up one end, and invited Zara to
descend. Timidly she crept from her lattice, put her hand on Roderigo’s
shoulder, and was about to leap gracefully down when “Alas! Alas for
Zara!” she forgot her train. It caught in the window, the tower tottered,
leaned forward, fell with a crash, and buried the unhappy lovers in the ruins.

A universal shriek arose as the russet boots waved wildly from the wreck and a
golden head emerged, exclaiming, “I told you so! I told you so!”
With wonderful presence of mind, Don Pedro, the cruel sire, rushed in, dragged
out his daughter, with a hasty aside…

“Don’t laugh! Act as if it was all right!” and, ordering
Roderigo up, banished him from the kingdom with wrath and scorn. Though
decidedly shaken by the fall from the tower upon him, Roderigo defied the old
gentleman and refused to stir. This dauntless example fired Zara. She also
defied her sire, and he ordered them both to the deepest dungeons of the
castle. A stout little retainer came in with chains and led them away, looking
very much frightened and evidently forgetting the speech he ought to have made.

Act third was the castle hall, and here Hagar appeared, having come to free the
lovers and finish Hugo. She hears him coming and hides, sees him put the
potions into two cups of wine and bid the timid little servant, “Bear
them to the captives in their cells, and tell them I shall come anon.”
The servant takes Hugo aside to tell him something, and Hagar changes the cups
for two others which are harmless. Ferdinando, the ‘minion’,
carries them away, and Hagar puts back the cup which holds the poison meant for
Roderigo. Hugo, getting thirsty after a long warble, drinks it, loses his wits,
and after a good deal of clutching and stamping, falls flat and dies, while
Hagar informs him what she has done in a song of exquisite power and melody.

This was a truly thrilling scene, though some persons might have thought that
the sudden tumbling down of a quantity of long red hair rather marred the
effect of the villain’s death. He was called before the curtain, and with
great propriety appeared, leading Hagar, whose singing was considered more
wonderful than all the rest of the performance put together.

Act fourth displayed the despairing Roderigo on the point of stabbing himself
because he has been told that Zara has deserted him. Just as the dagger is at
his heart, a lovely song is sung under his window, informing him that Zara is
true but in danger, and he can save her if he will. A key is thrown in, which
unlocks the door, and in a spasm of rapture he tears off his chains and rushes
away to find and rescue his lady love.

Act fifth opened with a stormy scene between Zara and Don Pedro. He wishes her
to go into a convent, but she won’t hear of it, and after a touching
appeal, is about to faint when Roderigo dashes in and demands her hand. Don
Pedro refuses, because he is not rich. They shout and gesticulate tremendously
but cannot agree, and Rodrigo is about to bear away the exhausted Zara, when
the timid servant enters with a letter and a bag from Hagar, who has
mysteriously disappeared. The latter informs the party that she bequeaths
untold wealth to the young pair and an awful doom to Don Pedro, if he
doesn’t make them happy. The bag is opened, and several quarts of tin
money shower down upon the stage till it is quite glorified with the glitter.
This entirely softens the stern sire. He consents without a murmur, all join in
a joyful chorus, and the curtain falls upon the lovers kneeling to receive Don
Pedro’s blessing in attitudes of the most romantic grace.

Tumultuous applause followed but received an unexpected check, for the cot bed,
on which the dress circle was built, suddenly shut up and extinguished the
enthusiastic audience. Roderigo and Don Pedro flew to the rescue, and all were
taken out unhurt, though many were speechless with laughter. The excitement had
hardly subsided when Hannah appeared, with “Mrs. March’s
compliments, and would the ladies walk down to supper.”

This was a surprise even to the actors, and when they saw the table, they
looked at one another in rapturous amazement. It was like Marmee to get up a
little treat for them, but anything so fine as this was unheard of since the
departed days of plenty. There was ice cream, actually two dishes of it, pink
and white, and cake and fruit and distracting French bonbons and, in the middle
of the table, four great bouquets of hot house flowers.

It quite took their breath away, and they stared first at the table and then at
their mother, who looked as if she enjoyed it immensely.

“Is it fairies?” asked Amy.

“Santa Claus,” said Beth.

“Mother did it.” And Meg smiled her sweetest, in spite of her gray
beard and white eyebrows.

“Aunt March had a good fit and sent the supper,” cried Jo, with a
sudden inspiration.

“All wrong. Old Mr. Laurence sent it,” replied Mrs. March.

“The Laurence boy’s grandfather! What in the world put such a thing
into his head? We don’t know him!” exclaimed Meg.

“Hannah told one of his servants about your breakfast party. He is an odd
old gentleman, but that pleased him. He knew my father years ago, and he sent
me a polite note this afternoon, saying he hoped I would allow him to express
his friendly feeling toward my children by sending them a few trifles in honor
of the day. I could not refuse, and so you have a little feast at night to make
up for the bread-and-milk breakfast.”

“That boy put it into his head, I know he did! He’s a capital
fellow, and I wish we could get acquainted. He looks as if he’d like to
know us but he’s bashful, and Meg is so prim she won’t let me speak
to him when we pass,” said Jo, as the plates went round, and the ice
began to melt out of sight, with ohs and ahs of satisfaction.

“You mean the people who live in the big house next door, don’t
you?” asked one of the girls. “My mother knows old Mr. Laurence,
but says he’s very proud and doesn’t like to mix with his
neighbors. He keeps his grandson shut up, when he isn’t riding or walking
with his tutor, and makes him study very hard. We invited him to our party, but
he didn’t come. Mother says he’s very nice, though he never speaks
to us girls.”

“Our cat ran away once, and he brought her back, and we talked over the
fence, and were getting on capitally, all about cricket, and so on, when he saw
Meg coming, and walked off. I mean to know him some day, for he needs fun,
I’m sure he does,” said Jo decidedly.

“I like his manners, and he looks like a little gentleman, so I’ve
no objection to your knowing him, if a proper opportunity comes. He brought the
flowers himself, and I should have asked him in, if I had been sure what was
going on upstairs. He looked so wistful as he went away, hearing the frolic and
evidently having none of his own.”

“It’s a mercy you didn’t, Mother!” laughed Jo, looking
at her boots. “But we’ll have another play sometime that he can
see. Perhaps he’ll help act. Wouldn’t that be jolly?”

“I never had such a fine bouquet before! How pretty it is!” And Meg
examined her flowers with great interest.

“They are lovely. But Beth’s roses are sweeter to me,” said
Mrs. March, smelling the half-dead posy in her belt.

Beth nestled up to her, and whispered softly, “I wish I could send my
bunch to Father. I’m afraid he isn’t having such a merry Christmas
as we are.”

CHAPTER THREE
THE LAURENCE BOY

“Jo! Jo! Where are you?” cried Meg at the foot of the garret
stairs.

“Here!” answered a husky voice from above, and, running up, Meg
found her sister eating apples and crying over the Heir of Redclyffe, wrapped
up in a comforter on an old three-legged sofa by the sunny window. This was
Jo’s favorite refuge, and here she loved to retire with half a dozen
russets and a nice book, to enjoy the quiet and the society of a pet rat who
lived near by and didn’t mind her a particle. As Meg appeared, Scrabble
whisked into his hole. Jo shook the tears off her cheeks and waited to hear the
news.

“Such fun! Only see! A regular note of invitation from Mrs. Gardiner for
tomorrow night!” cried Meg, waving the precious paper and then proceeding
to read it with girlish delight.

“‘Mrs. Gardiner would be happy to see Miss March and Miss Josephine
at a little dance on New Year’s Eve.’ Marmee is willing we should
go, now what shall we wear?”

“What’s the use of asking that, when you know we shall wear our
poplins, because we haven’t got anything else?” answered Jo with
her mouth full.

“If I only had a silk!” sighed Meg. “Mother says I may when
I’m eighteen perhaps, but two years is an everlasting time to
wait.”

“I’m sure our pops look like silk, and they are nice enough for us.
Yours is as good as new, but I forgot the burn and the tear in mine. Whatever
shall I do? The burn shows badly, and I can’t take any out.”

“You must sit still all you can and keep your back out of sight. The
front is all right. I shall have a new ribbon for my hair, and Marmee will lend
me her little pearl pin, and my new slippers are lovely, and my gloves will do,
though they aren’t as nice as I’d like.”

“Mine are spoiled with lemonade, and I can’t get any new ones, so I
shall have to go without,” said Jo, who never troubled herself much about
dress.

“You must have gloves, or I won’t go,” cried Meg decidedly.
“Gloves are more important than anything else. You can’t dance
without them, and if you don’t I should be so mortified.”

“Then I’ll stay still. I don’t care much for company dancing.
It’s no fun to go sailing round. I like to fly about and cut
capers.”

“You can’t ask Mother for new ones, they are so expensive, and you
are so careless. She said when you spoiled the others that she shouldn’t
get you any more this winter. Can’t you make them do?”

“I can hold them crumpled up in my hand, so no one will know how stained
they are. That’s all I can do. No! I’ll tell you how we can manage,
each wear one good one and carry a bad one. Don’t you see?”

“Your hands are bigger than mine, and you will stretch my glove
dreadfully,” began Meg, whose gloves were a tender point with her.

“Then I’ll go without. I don’t care what people say!”
cried Jo, taking up her book.

“You may have it, you may! Only don’t stain it, and do behave
nicely. Don’t put your hands behind you, or stare, or say
‘Christopher Columbus!’ will you?”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be as prim as I can and not get
into any scrapes, if I can help it. Now go and answer your note, and let me
finish this splendid story.”

So Meg went away to ‘accept with thanks’, look over her dress, and
sing blithely as she did up her one real lace frill, while Jo finished her
story, her four apples, and had a game of romps with Scrabble.

On New Year’s Eve the parlor was deserted, for the two younger girls
played dressing maids and the two elder were absorbed in the all-important
business of ‘getting ready for the party’. Simple as the toilets
were, there was a great deal of running up and down, laughing and talking, and
at one time a strong smell of burned hair pervaded the house. Meg wanted a few
curls about her face, and Jo undertook to pinch the papered locks with a pair
of hot tongs.

“Ought they to smoke like that?” asked Beth from her perch on the
bed.

“It’s the dampness drying,” replied Jo.

“What a queer smell! It’s like burned feathers,” observed
Amy, smoothing her own pretty curls with a superior air.

“There, now I’ll take off the papers and you’ll see a cloud
of little ringlets,” said Jo, putting down the tongs.

She did take off the papers, but no cloud of ringlets appeared, for the hair
came with the papers, and the horrified hairdresser laid a row of little
scorched bundles on the bureau before her victim.

“Oh, oh, oh! What have you done? I’m spoiled! I can’t go! My
hair, oh, my hair!” wailed Meg, looking with despair at the uneven
frizzle on her forehead.

“Just my luck! You shouldn’t have asked me to do it. I always spoil
everything. I’m so sorry, but the tongs were too hot, and so I’ve
made a mess,” groaned poor Jo, regarding the little black pancakes with
tears of regret.

“It isn’t spoiled. Just frizzle it, and tie your ribbon so the ends
come on your forehead a bit, and it will look like the last fashion. I’ve
seen many girls do it so,” said Amy consolingly.

“Serves me right for trying to be fine. I wish I’d let my hair
alone,” cried Meg petulantly.

“So do I, it was so smooth and pretty. But it will soon grow out
again,” said Beth, coming to kiss and comfort the shorn sheep.

After various lesser mishaps, Meg was finished at last, and by the united
exertions of the entire family Jo’s hair was got up and her dress on.
They looked very well in their simple suits, Meg’s 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 one soiled one, and all
pronounced the effect “quite easy and fine”. Meg’s
high-heeled slippers were very tight and hurt her, though she would not own it,
and Jo’s nineteen hairpins all seemed stuck straight into her head, which
was not exactly comfortable, but, dear me, let us be elegant or die.

“Have a good time, dearies!” said Mrs. March, as the sisters went
daintily down the walk. “Don’t eat much supper, and come away at
eleven when I send Hannah for you.” As the gate clashed behind them, a
voice cried from a window…

“Girls, girls! Have you you both got nice pocket handkerchiefs?”

“Yes, yes, spandy nice, and Meg has cologne on hers,” cried Jo,
adding with a laugh as they went on, “I do believe Marmee would ask that
if we were all running away from an earthquake.”

“It is one of her aristocratic tastes, and quite proper, for a real lady
is always known by neat boots, gloves, and handkerchief,” replied Meg,
who had a good many little ‘aristocratic tastes’ of her own.

“Now don’t forget to keep the bad breadth out of sight, Jo. Is my
sash right? And does my hair look very bad?” said Meg, as she turned from
the glass in Mrs. Gardiner’s dressing room after a prolonged prink.

“I know I shall forget. If you see me doing anything wrong, just remind
me by a wink, will you?” returned Jo, giving her collar a twitch and her
head a hasty brush.

“No, winking isn’t ladylike. I’ll lift my eyebrows if any
thing is wrong, and nod if you are all right. Now hold your shoulder straight,
and take short steps, and don’t shake hands if you are introduced to
anyone. It isn’t the thing.”

“How do you learn all the proper ways? I never can. Isn’t that
music gay?”

Down they went, feeling a trifle timid, for they seldom went to parties, and
informal as this little gathering was, it was an event to them. Mrs. Gardiner,
a stately old lady, greeted them kindly and handed them over to the eldest of
her six daughters. Meg knew Sallie and was at her ease very soon, but Jo, who
didn’t care much for girls or girlish gossip, stood about, with her back
carefully against the wall, and felt as much out of place as a colt in a flower
garden. Half a dozen jovial lads were talking about skates in another part of
the room, and she longed to go and join them, for skating was one of the joys
of her life. She telegraphed her wish to Meg, but the eyebrows went up so
alarmingly that she dared not stir. No one came to talk to her, and one by one
the group dwindled away till she was left alone. She could not roam about and
amuse herself, for the burned breadth would show, so she stared at people
rather forlornly till the dancing began. Meg was asked at once, and the tight
slippers tripped about so briskly that none would have guessed the pain their
wearer suffered smilingly. Jo saw a big red headed youth approaching her
corner, and fearing he meant to engage her, she slipped into a curtained
recess, intending to peep and enjoy herself in peace. Unfortunately, another
bashful person had chosen the same refuge, for, as the curtain fell behind her,
she found herself face to face with the ‘Laurence boy’.

“Dear me, I didn’t know anyone was here!” stammered Jo,
preparing to back out as speedily as she had bounced in.

But the boy laughed and said pleasantly, though he looked a little startled,
“Don’t mind me, stay if you like.”

“Shan’t I disturb you?”

“Not a bit. I only came here because I don’t know many people and
felt rather strange at first, you know.”

“So did I. Don’t go away, please, unless you’d rather.”

The boy sat down again and looked at his pumps, till Jo said, trying to be
polite and easy, “I think I’ve had the pleasure of seeing you
before. You live near us, don’t you?”

“Next door.” And he looked up and laughed outright, for Jo’s
prim manner was rather funny when he remembered how they had chatted about
cricket when he brought the cat home.

That put Jo at her ease and she laughed too, as she said, in her heartiest way,
“We did have such a good time over your nice Christmas present.”

“Grandpa sent it.”

“But you put it into his head, didn’t you, now?”

“How is your cat, Miss March?” asked the boy, trying to look sober
while his black eyes shone with fun.

“Nicely, thank you, Mr. Laurence. But I am not Miss March, I’m only
Jo,” returned the young lady.

“I’m not Mr. Laurence, I’m only Laurie.”

“Laurie Laurence, what an odd name.”

“My first name is Theodore, but I don’t like it, for the fellows
called me Dora, so I made them say Laurie instead.”

“I hate my name, too, so sentimental! I wish every one would say Jo
instead of Josephine. How did you make the boys stop calling you Dora?”

“I thrashed ’em.”

“I can’t thrash Aunt March, so I suppose I shall have to bear
it.” And Jo resigned herself with a sigh.

“Don’t you like to dance, Miss Jo?” asked Laurie, looking as
if he thought the name suited her.

“I like it well enough if there is plenty of room, and everyone is
lively. In a place like this I’m sure to upset something, tread on
people’s toes, or do something dreadful, so I keep out of mischief and
let Meg sail about. Don’t you dance?”

“Sometimes. You see I’ve been abroad a good many years, and
haven’t been into company enough yet to know how you do things
here.”

“Abroad!” cried Jo. “Oh, tell me about it! I love dearly to
hear people describe their travels.”

Laurie didn’t seem to know where to begin, but Jo’s eager questions
soon set him going, and he told her how he had been at school in Vevay, where
the boys never wore hats and had a fleet of boats on the lake, and for holiday
fun went on walking trips about Switzerland with their teachers.

“Don’t I wish I’d been there!” cried Jo. “Did you
go to Paris?”

“We spent last winter there.”

“Can you talk French?”

“We were not allowed to speak anything else at Vevay.”

“Do say some! I can read it, but can’t pronounce.”

“Quel nom a cette jeune demoiselle en les pantoufles jolis?”

“How nicely you do it! Let me see … you said, ‘Who is the young
lady in the pretty slippers’, didn’t you?”

“Oui, mademoiselle.”

“It’s my sister Margaret, and you knew it was! Do you think she is
pretty?”

“Yes, she makes me think of the German girls, she looks so fresh and
quiet, and dances like a lady.”

Jo quite glowed with pleasure at this boyish praise of her sister, and stored
it up to repeat to Meg. Both peeped and criticized and chatted till they felt
like old acquaintances. Laurie’s bashfulness soon wore off, for
Jo’s gentlemanly demeanor amused and set him at his ease, and Jo was her
merry self again, because her dress was forgotten and nobody lifted their
eyebrows at her. She liked the ‘Laurence boy’ better than ever and
took several good looks at him, so that she might describe him to the girls,
for they had no brothers, very few male cousins, and boys were almost unknown
creatures to them.

“Curly black hair, brown skin, big black eyes, handsome nose, fine teeth,
small hands and feet, taller than I am, very polite, for a boy, and altogether
jolly. Wonder how old he is?”

It was on the tip of Jo’s tongue to ask, but she checked herself in time
and, with unusual tact, tried to find out in a round-about way.

“I suppose you are going to college soon? I see you pegging away at your
books, no, I mean studying hard.” And Jo blushed at the dreadful
‘pegging’ which had escaped her.

Laurie smiled but didn’t seem shocked, and answered with a shrug.
“Not for a year or two. I won’t go before seventeen, anyway.”

“Aren’t you but fifteen?” asked Jo, looking at the tall lad,
whom she had imagined seventeen already.

“Sixteen, next month.”

“How I wish I was going to college! You don’t look as if you liked
it.”

“I hate it! Nothing but grinding or skylarking. And I don’t like
the way fellows do either, in this country.”

“What do you like?”

“To live in Italy, and to enjoy myself in my own way.”

Jo wanted very much to ask what his own way was, but his black brows looked
rather threatening as he knit them, so she changed the subject by saying, as
her foot kept time, “That’s a splendid polka! Why don’t you
go and try it?”

“If you will come too,” he answered, with a gallant little bow.

“I can’t, for I told Meg I wouldn’t, because…” There
Jo stopped, and looked undecided whether to tell or to laugh.

“Because, what?”

“You won’t tell?”

“Never!”

“Well, I have a bad trick of standing before the fire, and so I burn my
frocks, and I scorched this one, and though it’s nicely mended, it shows,
and Meg told me to keep still so no one would see it. You may laugh, if you
want to. It is funny, I know.”

But Laurie didn’t laugh. He only looked down a minute, and the expression
of his face puzzled Jo when he said very gently, “Never mind that.
I’ll tell you how we can manage. There’s a long hall out there, and
we can dance grandly, and no one will see us. Please come.”

Jo thanked him and gladly went, wishing she had two neat gloves when she saw
the nice, pearl-colored ones her partner wore. The hall was empty, and they had
a grand polka, for Laurie danced well, and taught her the German step, which
delighted Jo, being full of swing and spring. When the music stopped, they sat
down on the stairs to get their breath, and Laurie was in the midst of an
account of a students’ festival at Heidelberg when Meg appeared in search
of her sister. She beckoned, and Jo reluctantly followed her into a side room,
where she found her on a sofa, holding her foot, and looking pale.

“I’ve sprained my ankle. That stupid high heel turned and gave me a
sad wrench. It aches so, I can hardly stand, and I don’t know how
I’m ever going to get home,” she said, rocking to and fro in pain.

“I knew you’d hurt your feet with those silly shoes. I’m
sorry. But I don’t see what you can do, except get a carriage, or stay
here all night,” answered Jo, softly rubbing the poor ankle as she spoke.

“I can’t have a carriage without its costing ever so much. I dare
say I can’t get one at all, for most people come in their own, and
it’s a long way to the stable, and no one to send.”

“I’ll go.”

“No, indeed! It’s past nine, and dark as Egypt. I can’t stop
here, for the house is full. Sallie has some girls staying with her. I’ll
rest till Hannah comes, and then do the best I can.”

“I’ll ask Laurie. He will go,” said Jo, looking relieved as
the idea occurred to her.

“Mercy, no! Don’t ask or tell anyone. Get me my rubbers, and put
these slippers with our things. I can’t dance anymore, but as soon as
supper is over, watch for Hannah and tell me the minute she comes.”

“They are going out to supper now. I’ll stay with you. I’d
rather.”

“No, dear, run along, and bring me some coffee. I’m so tired I
can’t stir.”

So Meg reclined, with rubbers well hidden, and Jo went blundering away to the
dining room, which she found after going into a china closet, and opening the
door of a room where old Mr. Gardiner was taking a little private refreshment.
Making a dart at the table, she secured the coffee, which she immediately
spilled, thereby making the front of her dress as bad as the back.

“Oh, dear, what a blunderbuss I am!” exclaimed Jo, finishing
Meg’s glove by scrubbing her gown with it.

“Can I help you?” said a friendly voice. And there was Laurie, with
a full cup in one hand and a plate of ice in the other.

“I was trying to get something for Meg, who is very tired, and someone
shook me, and here I am in a nice state,” answered Jo, glancing dismally
from the stained skirt to the coffee-colored glove.

“Too bad! I was looking for someone to give this to. May I take it to
your sister?”

“Oh, thank you! I’ll show you where she is. I don’t offer to
take it myself, for I should only get into another scrape if I did.”

Jo led the way, and as if used to waiting on ladies, Laurie drew up a little
table, brought a second installment of coffee and ice for Jo, and was so
obliging that even particular Meg pronounced him a ‘nice boy’. They
had a merry time over the bonbons and mottoes, and were in the midst of a quiet
game of Buzz, with two or three other young people who had strayed in,
when Hannah appeared. Meg forgot her foot and rose so quickly that she was
forced to catch hold of Jo, with an exclamation of pain.

“Hush! Don’t say anything,” she whispered, adding aloud,
“It’s nothing. I turned my foot a little, that’s all,”
and limped upstairs to put her things on.

Hannah scolded, Meg cried, and Jo was at her wits’ end, till she decided
to take things into her own hands. Slipping out, she ran down and, finding a
servant, asked if he could get her a carriage. It happened to be a hired waiter
who knew nothing about the neighborhood and Jo was looking round for help when
Laurie, who had heard what she said, came up and offered his
grandfather’s carriage, which had just come for him, he said.

“It’s so early! You can’t mean to go yet?” began Jo,
looking relieved but hesitating to accept the offer.

“I always go early, I do, truly! Please let me take you home. It’s
all on my way, you know, and it rains, they say.”

That settled it, and telling him of Meg’s mishap, Jo gratefully accepted
and rushed up to bring down the rest of the party. Hannah hated rain as much as
a cat does so she made no trouble, and they rolled away in the luxurious close
carriage, feeling very festive and elegant. Laurie went on the box so Meg could
keep her foot up, and the girls talked over their party in freedom.

“I had a capital time. Did you?” asked Jo, rumpling up her hair,
and making herself comfortable.

“Yes, till I hurt myself. Sallie’s friend, Annie Moffat, took a
fancy to me, and asked me to come and spend a week with her when Sallie does.
She is going in the spring when the opera comes, and it will be perfectly
splendid, if Mother only lets me go,” answered Meg, cheering up at the
thought.

“I saw you dancing with the red headed man I ran away from. Was he
nice?”

“Oh, very! His hair is auburn, not red, and he was very polite, and I had
a delicious redowa with him.”

“He looked like a grasshopper in a fit when he did the new step. Laurie
and I couldn’t help laughing. Did you hear us?”

“No, but it was very rude. What were you about all that time, hidden away
there?”

Jo told her adventures, and by the time she had finished they were at home.
With many thanks, they said good night and crept in, hoping to disturb no one,
but the instant their door creaked, two little nightcaps bobbed up, and two
sleepy but eager voices cried out…

“Tell about the party! Tell about the party!”

With what Meg called ‘a great want of manners’ Jo had saved some
bonbons for the little girls, and they soon subsided, after hearing the most
thrilling events of the evening.

“I declare, it really seems like being a fine young lady, to come home
from the party in a carriage and sit in my dressing gown with a maid to wait on
me,” said Meg, as Jo bound up her foot with arnica and brushed her hair.

“I don’t believe fine young ladies enjoy themselves a bit more than
we do, in spite of our burned 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.

CHAPTER FOUR
BURDENS

“Oh, dear, how hard it does seem to take up our packs and go on,”
sighed Meg the morning after the party, for now the holidays were over, the
week of merrymaking did not fit her for going on easily with the task she never
liked.

“I wish it was Christmas or New Year’s all the time. Wouldn’t
it be fun?” answered Jo, yawning dismally.

“We shouldn’t enjoy ourselves half so much as we do now. But it
does seem so nice to have little suppers and bouquets, and go to parties, and
drive home, and read and rest, and not work. It’s like other people, you
know, and I always envy girls who do such things, I’m so fond of
luxury,” said Meg, trying to decide which of two shabby gowns was the
least shabby.

“Well, we can’t have it, so don’t let us grumble but shoulder
our bundles and trudge along as cheerfully as Marmee does. I’m sure Aunt
March is a regular Old Man of the Sea to me, but I suppose when I’ve
learned to carry her without complaining, she will tumble off, or get so light
that I shan’t mind her.”

This idea tickled Jo’s fancy and put her in good spirits, but Meg
didn’t brighten, for her burden, consisting of four spoiled children,
seemed heavier than ever. She had not heart enough even to make herself pretty
as usual by putting on a blue neck ribbon and dressing her hair in the most
becoming way.

“Where’s the use of looking nice, when no one sees me but those
cross midgets, and no one cares whether I’m pretty or not?” she
muttered, shutting her drawer with a jerk. “I shall have to toil and moil
all my days, with only little bits of fun now and then, and get old and ugly
and sour, because I’m poor and can’t enjoy my life as other girls
do. It’s a shame!”

So Meg went down, wearing an injured look, and wasn’t at all agreeable at
breakfast time. Everyone seemed rather out of sorts and inclined to croak.

Beth had a headache and lay on the sofa, trying to comfort herself with the cat
and three kittens. Amy was fretting because her lessons were not learned, and
she couldn’t find her rubbers. Jo would whistle and make a great racket
getting ready.

Mrs. March was very busy trying to finish a letter, which must go at once, and
Hannah had the grumps, for being up late didn’t suit her.

“There never was such a cross family!” cried Jo, losing her temper
when she had upset an inkstand, broken both boot lacings, and sat down upon her
hat.

“You’re the crossest person in it!” returned Amy, washing out
the sum that was all wrong with the tears that had fallen on her slate.

“Beth, if you don’t keep these horrid cats down cellar I’ll
have them drowned,” exclaimed Meg angrily as she tried to get rid of the
kitten which had scrambled up her back and stuck like a burr just out of reach.

Jo laughed, Meg scolded, Beth implored, and Amy wailed because she
couldn’t remember how much nine times twelve was.

“Girls, girls, do be quiet one minute! I must get this off by the early
mail, and you drive me distracted with your worry,” cried Mrs. March,
crossing out the third spoiled sentence in her letter.

There was a momentary lull, broken by Hannah, who stalked in, laid two hot
turnovers on the table, and stalked out again. These turnovers were an
institution, and the girls called them ‘muffs’, for they had no
others and found the hot pies very comforting to their hands on cold mornings.

Hannah never forgot to make them, no matter how busy or grumpy she might be,
for the walk was long and bleak. The poor things got no other lunch and were
seldom home before two.

“Cuddle your cats and get over your headache, Bethy. Goodbye, Marmee. We
are a set of rascals this morning, but we’ll come home regular angels.
Now then, Meg!” And Jo tramped away, feeling that the pilgrims were not
setting out as they ought to do.

They always looked back before turning the corner, for their mother was always
at the window to nod and smile, and wave her hand to them. Somehow it seemed as
if they couldn’t have got through the day without that, for whatever
their mood might be, the last glimpse of that motherly face was sure to affect
them like sunshine.

“If Marmee shook her fist instead of kissing her hand to us, it would
serve us right, for more ungrateful wretches than we are were never
seen,” cried Jo, taking a remorseful satisfaction in the snowy walk and
bitter wind.

“Don’t use such dreadful expressions,” replied Meg from the
depths of the veil in which she had shrouded herself like a nun sick of the
world.

“I like good strong words that mean something,” replied Jo,
catching her hat as it took a leap off her head preparatory to flying away
altogether.

“Call yourself any names you like, but I am neither a rascal nor a wretch
and I don’t choose to be called so.”

“You’re a blighted being, and decidedly cross today because you
can’t sit in the lap of luxury all the time. Poor dear, just wait till I
make my fortune, and you shall revel in carriages and ice cream and high-heeled
slippers, and posies, and red-headed boys to dance with.”

“How ridiculous you are, Jo!” But Meg laughed at the nonsense and
felt better in spite of herself.

“Lucky for you I am, for if I put on crushed airs and tried to be dismal,
as you do, we should be in a nice state. Thank goodness, I can always find
something funny to keep me up. Don’t croak any more, but come home jolly,
there’s a dear.”

Jo gave her sister an encouraging pat on the shoulder as they parted for the
day, each going a different way, each hugging her little warm turnover, and
each trying to be cheerful in spite of wintry weather, hard work, and the
unsatisfied desires of pleasure-loving youth.

When Mr. March lost his property in trying to help an unfortunate friend, the
two oldest girls begged to be allowed to do something toward their own support,
at least. Believing that they could not begin too early to cultivate energy,
industry, and independence, their parents consented, and both fell to work with
the hearty good will which in spite of all obstacles is sure to succeed at
last.

Margaret found a place as nursery governess and felt rich with her small
salary. As she said, she was ‘fond of luxury’, and her chief
trouble was poverty. She found it harder to bear than the others because she
could remember a time when home was beautiful, life full of ease and pleasure,
and want of any kind unknown. She tried not to be envious or discontented, but
it was very natural that the young girl should long for pretty things, gay
friends, accomplishments, and a happy life. At the Kings’ she daily saw
all she wanted, for the children’s older sisters were just out, and Meg
caught frequent glimpses of dainty ball dresses and bouquets, heard lively
gossip about theaters, concerts, sleighing parties, and merrymakings 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 everyone sometimes, for she had not yet learned to know how rich she was
in the blessings which alone can make life happy.

Jo happened to suit Aunt March, who was lame and needed an active person to
wait upon her. The childless old lady had offered to adopt one of the girls
when the troubles came, and was much offended because her offer was declined.
Other friends told the Marches that they had lost all chance of being
remembered in the rich old lady’s will, but the unworldly Marches only
said…

“We can’t give up our girls for a dozen fortunes. Rich or poor, we
will keep together and be happy in one another.”

The old lady wouldn’t speak to them for a time, but happening to meet Jo
at a friend’s, something in her comical face and blunt manners struck the
old lady’s fancy, and she proposed to take her for a companion. This did
not suit Jo at all, but she accepted the place since nothing better appeared
and, to every one’s surprise, got on remarkably well with her irascible
relative. There was an occasional tempest, and once Jo marched home, declaring
she couldn’t bear it longer, but Aunt March always cleared up quickly,
and sent for her to come back again with such urgency that she could not
refuse, for in her heart she rather liked the peppery old lady.

I suspect that the real attraction was a large library of fine books, which was
left to dust and spiders since Uncle March died. Jo remembered the kind old
gentleman, who used to let her build railroads and bridges with his big
dictionaries, tell her stories about 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 bookcases, the cozy 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 bookworm. 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 a song, or the most perilous adventure of
her traveler, a shrill voice called, “Josy-phine! Josy-phine!” and
she had to leave her paradise to wind yarn, wash the poodle, or read
Belsham’s Essays by the hour together.

Jo’s ambition was to do something very splendid. What it was, she had no
idea as yet, but left it for time to tell her, and meanwhile, found her
greatest affliction in the fact that she couldn’t read, run, and ride as
much as she liked. A quick temper, sharp tongue, and restless spirit were
always getting her into scrapes, and her life was a series of ups and downs,
which were both comic and pathetic. But the training she received at Aunt
March’s was just what she needed, and the thought that she was doing
something to support herself made her happy in spite of the perpetual
“Josy-phine!”

Beth was too bashful to go to school. It had been tried, but she suffered so
much that it was given up, and she did her lessons at home with her father.
Even when he went away, and her mother was called to devote her skill and
energy to Soldiers’ Aid Societies, Beth went faithfully on by herself and
did the best she could. She was a housewifely little creature, and helped
Hannah keep home neat and comfortable for the workers, never thinking of any
reward but to be loved. Long, quiet days she spent, not lonely nor idle, for
her little world was peopled with imaginary friends, and she was by nature a
busy bee. There were six dolls to be taken up and dressed every morning, for
Beth was a child still and loved her pets as well as ever. Not one whole or
handsome one among them, all were outcasts till Beth took them in, for when her
sisters outgrew these idols, they passed to her because Amy would have nothing
old or ugly. Beth cherished them all the more tenderly for that very reason,
and set up a hospital for infirm dolls. No pins were ever stuck into their
cotton vitals, no harsh words or blows were ever given them, no neglect ever
saddened the heart of the most repulsive, but all were fed and clothed, nursed
and caressed with an affection which never failed. One forlorn fragment of
dollanity had belonged to Jo and, having led a tempestuous life, was left a
wreck in the 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 anyone 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 fresh air, hidden under her coat, she sang it
lullabies and never went to bed without kissing its dirty face and whispering
tenderly, “I hope you’ll have a good night, my poor dear.”

Beth had her troubles as well as the others, and not being an angel but a very
human little girl, she often ‘wept a little weep’ as Jo said,
because she couldn’t take music lessons and have a fine piano. She loved
music so dearly, tried so hard to learn, and practiced away so patiently at the
jingling old instrument, that it did seem as if someone (not to hint Aunt
March) ought to help her. Nobody did, however, and nobody saw Beth wipe the
tears off the yellow keys, that wouldn’t keep in tune, when she was all
alone. She sang like a little lark about her work, never was too tired for
Marmee and the girls, and day after day said hopefully to herself, “I
know I’ll get my music some time, if I’m good.”

There are many Beths in the world, shy and quiet, sitting in corners till
needed, and living for others so cheerfully that no one sees the sacrifices
till the little cricket on the hearth stops chirping, and the sweet, sunshiny
presence vanishes, leaving silence and shadow behind.

If anybody had asked Amy what the greatest trial of her life was, she would
have answered at once, “My nose.” When she was a baby, Jo had
accidently dropped her into the coal hod, and Amy insisted that the fall had
ruined her nose forever. It was not big nor red, like poor
‘Petrea’s’, it was only rather flat, and all the pinching in
the world could not give it an aristocratic point. No one minded it but
herself, and it was doing its best to grow, but Amy felt deeply the want of a
Grecian nose, and drew whole sheets of handsome ones to console herself.

“Little Raphael,” as her sisters called her, had a decided talent
for drawing, and was never so happy as when copying flowers, designing fairies,
or illustrating stories with queer specimens of art. Her teachers complained
that instead of doing her sums she covered her slate with animals, the blank
pages of her atlas were used to copy maps on, and caricatures of the most
ludicrous description came fluttering out of all her books at unlucky moments.
She got through her lessons as well as she could, and managed to escape
reprimands by being a model of deportment. She was a great favorite with her
mates, being good-tempered and possessing the happy art of pleasing without
effort. Her little airs and graces were much admired, so were her
accomplishments, for besides her drawing, she could play twelve tunes, crochet,
and read French without mispronouncing more than two-thirds of the words. She
had a plaintive way of saying, “When Papa was rich we did
so-and-so,” which was very touching, and her long words were considered
‘perfectly elegant’ by the girls.

Amy was in a fair way to be spoiled, for everyone petted her, and her small
vanities and selfishnesses were growing nicely. One thing, however, rather
quenched the vanities. She had to wear her cousin’s clothes. Now
Florence’s mama hadn’t a particle of taste, and Amy suffered deeply
at having to wear a red instead of a blue bonnet, unbecoming gowns, and fussy
aprons that did not fit. Everything was good, well made, and little worn, but
Amy’s artistic eyes were much afflicted, especially this winter, when her
school dress was a dull purple with yellow dots and no trimming.

“My only comfort,” she said to Meg, with tears in her eyes,
“is that Mother doesn’t take tucks in my dresses whenever I’m
naughty, as Maria Parks’s mother does. My dear, it’s really
dreadful, for sometimes she is so bad her frock is up to her knees, and she
can’t come to school. When I think of this deggerredation, I feel
that I can bear even my flat nose and purple gown with yellow sky-rockets on
it.”

Meg was Amy’s confidant and monitor, and by some strange attraction of
opposites Jo was gentle Beth’s. To Jo alone did the shy child tell her
thoughts, and over her big harum-scarum sister Beth unconsciously exercised
more influence than anyone in the family. The two older girls were a great deal
to one another, but each took one of the younger sisters into her keeping and
watched over her in her own way, ‘playing mother’ they called it,
and put their sisters in the places of discarded dolls with the maternal
instinct of little women.

“Has anybody got anything to tell? It’s been such a dismal day
I’m really dying for some amusement,” said Meg, as they sat sewing
together that evening.

“I had a queer time with Aunt today, and, as I got the best of it,
I’ll tell you about it,” began Jo, who dearly loved to tell
stories. “I was reading that everlasting Belsham, and droning away as I
always do, for Aunt soon drops off, and then I take out some nice book, and
read like fury till she wakes up. I actually made myself sleepy, and before she
began to nod, I gave such a gape that she asked me what I meant by opening my
mouth wide enough to take the whole book in at once.”

“I wish I could, and be done with it,” said I, trying not to be
saucy.

“Then she gave me a long lecture on my sins, and told me to sit and think
them over while she just ‘lost’ herself for a moment. She never
finds herself very soon, so the minute her cap began to bob like a top-heavy
dahlia, I whipped the Vicar of Wakefield out of my pocket, and read
away, with one eye on him and one on Aunt. I’d just got to where they all
tumbled into the water when I forgot and laughed out loud. Aunt woke up and,
being more good-natured after her nap, told me to read a bit and show what
frivolous work I preferred to the worthy and instructive Belsham. I did my very
best, and she liked it, though she only said…

“‘I don’t understand what it’s all about. Go back and
begin it, child.’”

“Back I went, and made the Primroses as interesting as ever I could. Once
I was wicked enough to stop in a thrilling place, and say meekly,
‘I’m afraid it tires you, ma’am. Shan’t I stop
now?’”

“She caught up her knitting, which had dropped out of her hands, gave me
a sharp look through her specs, and said, in her short way, ‘Finish the
chapter, and don’t be impertinent, miss’.”

“Did she own she liked it?” asked Meg.

“Oh, bless you, no! But she let old Belsham rest, and when I ran back
after my gloves this afternoon, there she was, so hard at the Vicar that she
didn’t hear me laugh as I danced a jig in the hall because of the good
time coming. What a pleasant life she might have if only she chose! I
don’t envy her much, in spite of her money, for after all rich people
have about as many worries as poor ones, I think,” added Jo.

“That reminds me,” said Meg, “that I’ve got something
to tell. It isn’t funny, like Jo’s story, but I thought about it a
good deal as I came home. At the Kings’ today 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 and swollen their eyes were. I
didn’t ask any questions, of course, but I felt so sorry for them and was
rather glad I hadn’t any wild brothers to do wicked things and disgrace
the family.”

“I think being disgraced in school is a great deal tryinger than
anything bad boys can do,” said Amy, shaking her head, as if her
experience of life had been a deep one. “Susie Perkins came to school
today with a lovely red carnelian ring. I wanted it dreadfully, and wished I
was her with all my might. Well, she drew a picture of Mr. Davis, with a
monstrous nose and a hump, and the words, ‘Young ladies, my eye is upon
you!’ coming out of his mouth in a balloon thing. We were laughing over
it when all of a sudden his eye was on us, and he ordered Susie to bring
up her slate. She was parrylized with fright, but she went, and oh, what
do you think he did? He took her by the ear—the ear! Just fancy
how horrid!—and led her to the recitation platform, and made her stand
there half an hour, holding the slate so everyone could see.”

“Didn’t the girls laugh at the picture?” asked Jo, who
relished the scrape.

“Laugh? Not one! They sat still as mice, and Susie cried quarts, I know
she did. I didn’t envy her then, for I felt that millions of carnelian
rings wouldn’t have made me happy after that. I never, never should have
got over such a agonizing mortification.” And Amy went on with her work,
in the proud consciousness of virtue and the successful utterance of two long
words in a breath.

“I saw something 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 the fish
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 into
her arms, and thanked him over and over. He told her to ‘go along and
cook it’, and she hurried off, so happy! Wasn’t it good of him? Oh,
she did look so funny, hugging the big, slippery fish, and hoping Mr.
Laurence’s bed in heaven would be ‘aisy’.”

When they had laughed at Beth’s story, they asked their mother for one,
and after a moments thought, she said soberly, “As I sat cutting out blue
flannel jackets today at the rooms, I felt very anxious about Father, and
thought how lonely and helpless we should be, if anything happened to him. It
was not a wise thing to do, but I kept on worrying till an old man came in with
an order for some clothes. He sat down near me, and I began to talk to him, for
he looked poor and tired and anxious.

“‘Have you sons in the army?’ I asked, for the note he
brought was not to me.”

“Yes, ma’am. I had four, but two were killed, one is a prisoner,
and I’m going to the other, who is very sick in a Washington
hospital.’ he answered quietly.”

“‘You have done a great deal for your country, sir,’ I said,
feeling respect now, instead of pity.”

“‘Not a mite more than I ought, ma’am. I’d go myself,
if I was any use. As I ain’t, I give my boys, and give ’em
free.’”

“He spoke so cheerfully, looked so sincere, and seemed so glad to give
his all, that I was ashamed of myself. I’d given one man and thought it
too much, while he gave four without grudging them. I had all my girls to
comfort me at home, and his last son was waiting, miles away, to say good-by to
him, perhaps! I felt so rich, so happy thinking of my blessings, that I made
him a nice bundle, gave him some money, and thanked him heartily for the lesson
he had taught me.”

“Tell another story, Mother, one with a moral to it, like this. I like to
think about them afterward, if they are real and not too preachy,” said
Jo, after a minute’s silence.

Mrs. March smiled and began at once, for she had told stories to this little
audience for many years, and knew how to please them.

“Once upon a time, there were four girls, who had enough to eat and drink
and wear, a good many comforts and pleasures, kind friends and parents who
loved them dearly, and yet they were not contented.” (Here the listeners
stole sly looks at one another, and began to sew diligently.) “These
girls were anxious to be good and made many excellent resolutions, but they did
not keep them very well, and were constantly saying, ‘If only we had
this,’ or ‘If we could only do that,’ quite forgetting how
much they already had, and how many things they actually could do. So they
asked an old woman what spell they could use to make them happy, and she said,
‘When you feel discontented, think over your blessings, and be
grateful.’” (Here Jo looked up quickly, as if about to speak, but
changed her mind, seeing that the story was not done yet.)

“Being sensible girls, they decided to try her advice, and soon were
surprised to see how well off they were. One discovered that money
couldn’t keep shame and sorrow out of rich people’s houses, another
that, though she was poor, she was a great deal happier, with her youth,
health, and good spirits, than a certain fretful, feeble old lady who
couldn’t enjoy her comforts, a third that, disagreeable as it was to help
get dinner, it was harder still to go begging for it and the fourth, that even
carnelian rings were not so valuable as good behavior. So they agreed to stop
complaining, to enjoy the blessings already possessed, and try to deserve them,
lest they should be taken away entirely, instead of increased, and I believe
they were never disappointed or sorry that they took the old woman’s
advice.”

“Now, Marmee, that is very cunning of you to turn our own stories against
us, and give us a sermon instead of a romance!” cried Meg.

“I like that kind of sermon. It’s the sort Father used to tell
us,” said Beth thoughtfully, putting the needles straight on Jo’s
cushion.

“I don’t complain near as much as the others do, and I shall be
more careful than ever now, for I’ve had warning from Susie’s
downfall,” said Amy morally.

“We needed that lesson, and we won’t forget it. If we do so, 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.

CHAPTER FIVE
BEING NEIGHBORLY

“What in the world are you going to do now, Jo?” asked Meg one
snowy afternoon, as her sister came tramping through the hall, in rubber boots,
old sack, and hood, with a broom in one hand and a shovel in the other.

“Going out for exercise,” answered Jo with a mischievous twinkle in
her eyes.

“I should think two long walks this morning would have been enough!
It’s cold and dull out, and I advise you to stay warm and dry by the
fire, as I do,” said Meg with a shiver.

“Never take advice! Can’t keep still all day, and not being a
pussycat, I don’t like to doze by the fire. I like adventures, and
I’m going to find some.”

Meg went back to toast her feet and read Ivanhoe, and Jo began to dig
paths with great energy. The snow was light, and with her broom she soon swept
a path all round the garden, for Beth to walk in when the sun came out and the
invalid dolls needed air. Now, the garden separated the Marches’ house
from that of Mr. Laurence. Both stood in a suburb of the city, which was still
country-like, with groves and lawns, large gardens, and quiet streets. A low
hedge parted the two estates. On one side was an old, brown house, looking
rather bare and shabby, robbed of the vines that in summer covered its walls
and the flowers, which then surrounded it. On the other side was a stately
stone mansion, plainly betokening every sort of comfort and luxury, from the
big coach house and well-kept grounds to the conservatory and the glimpses of
lovely things one caught between the rich curtains.

Yet it seemed a lonely, lifeless sort of house, for no children frolicked on
the lawn, no motherly face ever smiled at the windows, and few people went in
and out, except the old gentleman and his grandson.

To Jo’s lively fancy, this fine house seemed a kind of enchanted palace,
full of splendors and delights which no one enjoyed. She had long wanted to
behold these hidden glories, and to know the Laurence boy, who looked as if he
would like to be known, if he only knew how to begin. Since the party, she had
been more eager than ever, and had planned many ways of making friends with
him, but he had not been seen lately, and Jo began to think he had gone away,
when she one day spied a brown face at an upper window, looking wistfully down
into their garden, where Beth and Amy were snow-balling one another.

“That boy is suffering for society and fun,” she said to herself.
“His grandpa does not know what’s good for him, and keeps him shut
up all alone. He needs a party of jolly boys to play with, or somebody young
and lively. I’ve a great mind to go over and tell the old gentleman
so!”

The idea amused Jo, who liked to do daring things and was always scandalizing
Meg by her queer performances. The plan of ‘going over’ was not
forgotten. And when the snowy afternoon came, Jo resolved to try what could be
done. She saw Mr. Lawrence drive off, and then sallied out to dig her way down
to the hedge, where she paused and took a survey. All quiet, curtains down at
the lower windows, servants out of sight, and nothing human visible but a curly
black head leaning on a thin hand at the upper window.

“There he is,” thought Jo, “Poor boy! All alone and sick this
dismal day. It’s a shame! I’ll toss up a snowball and make him look
out, and then say a kind word to him.”

Up went a handful of soft snow, and the head turned at once, showing a face
which lost its listless look in a minute, as the big eyes brightened and the
mouth began to smile. Jo nodded and laughed, and flourished her broom as she
called out…

“How do you do? Are you sick?”

Laurie opened the window, and croaked out as hoarsely as a raven…

“Better, thank you. I’ve had a bad cold, and been shut up a
week.”

“I’m sorry. What do you amuse yourself with?”

“Nothing. It’s dull as tombs up here.”

“Don’t you read?”

“Not much. They won’t let me.”

“Can’t somebody read to you?”

“Grandpa does sometimes, but my books don’t interest him, and I
hate to ask Brooke all the time.”

“Have someone come and see you then.”

“There isn’t anyone I’d like to see. Boys make such a row,
and my head is weak.”

“Isn’t there some nice girl who’d read and amuse you? Girls
are quiet and like to play nurse.”

“Don’t know any.”

“You know us,” began Jo, then laughed and stopped.

“So I do! Will you come, please?” cried Laurie.

“I’m not quiet and nice, but I’ll come, if Mother will let
me. I’ll go ask her. Shut the window, like a good boy, and wait till I
come.”

With that, Jo shouldered her broom and marched into the house, wondering what
they would all say to her. Laurie was in a flutter of excitement at the idea of
having company, and flew about to get ready, for as Mrs. March said, he was
‘a little gentleman’, and did honor to the coming guest by brushing
his curly pate, putting on a fresh color, and trying to tidy up the room, which
in spite of half a dozen servants, was anything but neat. Presently there came
a loud ring, then a decided voice, asking for ‘Mr. Laurie’, and a
surprised-looking servant came running up to announce a young lady.

“All right, show her up, it’s Miss Jo,” said Laurie, going to
the door of his little parlor to meet Jo, who appeared, looking rosy and quite
at her ease, with a covered dish in one hand and Beth’s three kittens in
the other.

“Here I am, bag and baggage,” she said briskly. “Mother sent
her love, and was glad if I could do anything for you. Meg wanted me to bring
some of her blanc mange, she makes it very nicely, and Beth thought her cats
would be comforting. I knew you’d laugh at them, but I couldn’t
refuse, she was so anxious to do something.”

It so happened that Beth’s funny loan was just the thing, for in laughing
over the kits, Laurie forgot his bashfulness, and grew sociable at once.

“That looks too pretty to eat,” he said, smiling with pleasure, as
Jo uncovered the dish, and showed the blanc mange, surrounded by a garland of
green leaves, and the scarlet flowers of Amy’s pet geranium.

“It isn’t anything, only they all felt kindly and wanted to show
it. Tell the girl to put it away for your tea. It’s so simple you can eat
it, and being soft, it will slip down without hurting your sore throat. What a
cozy room this is!”

“It might be if it was kept nice, but the maids are lazy, and I
don’t know how to make them mind. It worries me though.”

“I’ll right it up in two minutes, for it only needs to have the
hearth brushed, so—and the things made straight on the mantelpiece,
so—and the books put here, and the bottles there, and your sofa turned
from the light, and the pillows plumped up a bit. Now then, you’re
fixed.”

And so he was, for, as she laughed and talked, Jo had whisked things into place
and given quite a different air to the room. Laurie watched her in respectful
silence, and when she beckoned him to his sofa, he sat down with a sigh of
satisfaction, saying gratefully…

“How kind you are! Yes, that’s what it wanted. Now please take the
big chair and let me do something to amuse my company.”

“No, I came to amuse you. Shall I read aloud?” and Jo looked
affectionately toward some inviting books near by.

“Thank you! I’ve read all those, and if you don’t mind,
I’d rather talk,” answered Laurie.

“Not a bit. I’ll talk all day if you’ll only set me going.
Beth says I never know when to stop.”

“Is Beth the rosy one, who stays at home good deal and sometimes goes out
with a little basket?” asked Laurie with interest.

“Yes, that’s Beth. She’s my girl, and a regular good one she
is, too.”

“The pretty one is Meg, and the curly-haired one is Amy, I
believe?”

“How did you find that out?”

Laurie colored up, but answered frankly, “Why, you see I often hear you
calling to one another, and when I’m alone up here, I can’t help
looking over at your house, you always seem to be having such good times. I beg
your pardon for being so rude, but sometimes you forget to put down the curtain
at the window where the flowers are. And when the lamps are lighted, it’s
like looking at a picture to see the fire, and you all around the table with
your mother. Her face is right opposite, and it looks so sweet behind the
flowers, I can’t help watching it. I haven’t got any mother, you
know.” And Laurie poked the fire to hide a little twitching of the lips
that he could not control.

The solitary, hungry look in his eyes went straight to Jo’s warm heart.
She had been so simply taught that there was no nonsense in her head, and at
fifteen she was as innocent and frank as any child. Laurie was sick and lonely,
and feeling how rich she was in home and happiness, she gladly tried to share
it with him. Her face was very friendly and her sharp voice unusually gentle as
she said…

“We’ll never draw that curtain any more, and I give you leave to
look as much as you like. I just wish, though, instead of peeping, you’d
come over and see us. Mother is so splendid, she’d do you heaps of good,
and Beth would sing to you if I begged her to, and Amy would dance. Meg and I
would make you laugh over our funny stage properties, and we’d have jolly
times. Wouldn’t your grandpa let you?”

“I think he would, if your mother asked him. He’s very kind, though
he does not look so, and he lets me do what I like, pretty much, only
he’s afraid I might be a bother to strangers,” began Laurie,
brightening more and more.

“We are not strangers, we are neighbors, and you needn’t think
you’d be a bother. We want to know you, and I’ve been trying to do
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.”

“You see, Grandpa lives among his books, and doesn’t mind much what
happens outside. Mr. Brooke, my tutor, doesn’t stay here, you know, and I
have no one to go about with me, so I just stop at home and get on as I
can.”

“That’s bad. You ought to make an effort and go visiting everywhere
you are asked, then you’ll have plenty of friends, and pleasant places to
go to. Never mind being bashful. It won’t last long if you keep
going.”

Laurie turned red again, but wasn’t offended at being accused of
bashfulness, for there was so much good will in Jo it was impossible not to
take her blunt speeches as kindly as they were meant.

“Do you like your school?” asked the boy, changing the subject,
after a little pause, during which he stared at the fire and Jo looked about
her, well pleased.

“Don’t go to school, I’m a businessman—girl, I mean. I
go to wait on my great-aunt, and a dear, cross old soul she is, too,”
answered Jo.

Laurie opened his mouth to ask another question, but remembering just in time
that it wasn’t manners to make too many inquiries into people’s
affairs, he shut it again, and looked uncomfortable.

Jo liked his good breeding, and didn’t mind having a laugh at Aunt March,
so she gave him a lively description of the fidgety old lady, her fat poodle,
the parrot that talked Spanish, and the library where she reveled.

Laurie enjoyed that immensely, and when she told about the prim old gentleman
who came once to woo Aunt March, and in the middle of a fine speech, how Poll
had tweaked his wig off to his great dismay, the boy lay back and laughed till
the tears ran down his cheeks, and a maid popped her head in to see what was
the matter.

“Oh! That does me no end of good. Tell on, please,” he said, taking
his face out of the sofa cushion, red and shining with merriment.

Much elated with her success, Jo did ‘tell on’, all about their
plays and plans, their hopes and fears for Father, and the most interesting
events of the little world in which the sisters lived. Then they got to talking
about books, and to Jo’s delight, she found that Laurie loved them as
well as she did, and had read even more than herself.

“If you like them so much, come down and see ours. Grandfather is out, so
you needn’t be afraid,” said Laurie, getting up.

“I’m not afraid of anything,” returned Jo, with a toss of the
head.

“I don’t believe you are!” exclaimed the boy, looking at her
with much admiration, though he privately thought she would have good reason to
be a trifle afraid of the old gentleman, if she met him in some of his moods.

The atmosphere of the whole house being summerlike, Laurie led the way from
room to room, letting Jo stop to examine whatever struck her fancy. And so, at
last they came to the library, where she clapped her hands and pranced, as she
always did when especially delighted. It was lined with books, and there were
pictures and statues, and distracting little cabinets full of coins and
curiosities, and Sleepy Hollow chairs, and queer tables, and bronzes, and best
of all, a great open fireplace with quaint tiles all round it.

“What richness!” sighed Jo, sinking into the depth of a velour
chair and gazing about her with an air of intense satisfaction. “Theodore
Laurence, you ought to be the happiest boy in the world,” she added
impressively.

“A fellow can’t live on books,” said Laurie, shaking his head
as he perched on a table opposite.

Before he could say more, a bell rang, and Jo flew up, exclaiming with alarm,
“Mercy me! It’s your grandpa!”

“Well, what if it is? You are not afraid of anything, you know,”
returned the boy, looking wicked.

“I think I am a little bit afraid of him, but I don’t know why I
should be. Marmee said I might come, and I don’t think you’re any
the worse for it,” said Jo, composing herself, though she kept her eyes
on the door.

“I’m a great deal better for it, and ever so much obliged.
I’m only afraid you are very tired of talking to me. It was so pleasant,
I couldn’t bear to stop,” said Laurie gratefully.

“The doctor to see you, sir,” and the maid beckoned as she spoke.

“Would you mind if I left you for a minute? I suppose I must see
him,” said Laurie.

“Don’t mind me. I’m happy as a cricket here,” answered
Jo.

Laurie went away, and his guest amused herself in her own way. She was standing
before a fine portrait of the old gentleman when the door opened again, and
without turning, she said decidedly, “I’m sure now that I
shouldn’t be afraid of him, for he’s got kind eyes, though his
mouth is grim, and he looks as if he had a tremendous will of his own. He
isn’t as handsome as my grandfather, but I like him.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” said a gruff voice behind her, and there,
to her great dismay, stood old Mr. Laurence.

Poor Jo blushed till she couldn’t blush any redder, and her heart began
to beat uncomfortably fast as she thought what she had said. For a minute a
wild desire to run away possessed her, but that was cowardly, and the girls
would laugh at her, so she resolved to stay and get out of the scrape as she
could. A second look showed her that the living eyes, under the bushy 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 the dreadful pause, “So
you’re not afraid of me, hey?”

“Not much, sir.”

“And you don’t think me as handsome as your grandfather?”

“Not quite, sir.”

“And I’ve got a tremendous will, have I?”

“I only said I thought so.”

“But you like me in spite of it?”

“Yes, I do, sir.”

That answer pleased the old gentleman. He gave a short laugh, shook hands with
her, and, putting his finger under her chin, turned up her face, examined it
gravely, and let it go, saying with a nod, “You’ve got your
grandfather’s spirit, if you haven’t his face. He was a fine man,
my dear, but what is better, he was a brave and an honest one, and I was proud
to be his friend.”

“Thank you, sir,” And Jo was quite comfortable after that, for it
suited her exactly.

“What have you been doing to this boy of mine, hey?” was the next
question, sharply put.

“Only trying to be neighborly, sir.” And Jo told how her visit came
about.

“You think he needs cheering up a bit, do you?”

“Yes, sir, he seems a little lonely, and young folks would do him good
perhaps. We are only girls, but we should be glad to help if we could, for we
don’t forget the splendid Christmas present you sent us,” said Jo
eagerly.

“Tut, tut, tut! That was the boy’s affair. How is the poor
woman?”

“Doing nicely, sir.” And off went Jo, talking very fast, as she
told all about the Hummels, in whom her mother had interested richer friends
than they were.

“Just her father’s way of doing good. I shall come and see your
mother some fine day. Tell her so. There’s the tea bell, we have it early
on the boy’s account. Come down and go on being neighborly.”

“If you’d like to have me, sir.”

“Shouldn’t ask you, if I didn’t.” And Mr. Laurence
offered her his arm with old-fashioned courtesy.

“What would Meg say to this?” thought Jo, as she was marched away,
while her eyes danced with fun as she imagined herself telling the story at
home.

“Hey! Why, what the dickens has come to the fellow?” said the old
gentleman, as Laurie came running downstairs and brought up with a start of
surprise at the astounding sight of Jo arm in arm with his redoubtable
grandfather.

“I didn’t know you’d come, sir,” he began, as Jo gave
him a triumphant little glance.

“That’s evident, by the way you racket downstairs. Come to your
tea, sir, and behave like a gentleman.” And having pulled the boy’s
hair by way of a caress, Mr. Laurence walked on, while Laurie went through a
series of comic evolutions behind their backs, which nearly produced an
explosion of laughter from Jo.

The old gentleman did not say much as he drank his four cups of tea, but he
watched the young people, who soon chatted away like old friends, and the
change in his grandson did not escape him. There was color, light, and life in
the boy’s face now, vivacity in his manner, and genuine merriment in his
laugh.

“She’s right, the lad is lonely. I’ll see what these little
girls can do for him,” thought Mr. Laurence, as he looked and listened.
He liked Jo, for her odd, blunt ways suited him, and she seemed to understand
the boy almost as well as if she had been one herself.

If the Laurences had been what Jo called ‘prim and poky’, she would
not have got on at all, for such people always made her shy and awkward. But
finding them free and easy, she was so herself, and made a good impression.
When they rose she proposed to go, but Laurie said he had something more to
show her, and took her away to the conservatory, which had been lighted for her
benefit. It seemed quite fairylike to Jo, as she went up and down the walks,
enjoying the blooming walls on either side, the soft light, the damp sweet air,
and the wonderful vines and trees that hung about her, while her new friend cut
the finest flowers till his hands were full. Then he tied them up, saying, with
the happy look Jo liked to see, “Please give these to your mother, and
tell her I like the medicine she sent me very much.”

They found Mr. Laurence standing before the fire in the great drawing room, but
Jo’s attention was entirely absorbed by a grand piano, which stood open.

“Do you play?” she asked, turning to Laurie with a respectful
expression.

“Sometimes,” he answered modestly.

“Please do now. I want to hear it, so I can tell Beth.”

“Won’t you first?”

“Don’t know how. Too stupid to learn, but I love music
dearly.”

So Laurie played and Jo listened, with her nose luxuriously buried in
heliotrope and tea roses. Her respect and regard for the ‘Laurence’
boy increased very much, for he played remarkably well and didn’t put on
any airs. She wished Beth could hear him, but she did not say so, only praised
him till he was quite abashed, and his grandfather came to his rescue.

“That will do, that will do, young lady. Too many sugarplums are not good
for him. His music isn’t bad, but I hope he will do as well in more
important things. Going? well, I’m much obliged to you, and I hope
you’ll come again. My respects to your mother. Good night, Doctor
Jo.”

He shook hands kindly, but looked as if something did not please him. When they
got into the hall, Jo asked Laurie if she had said something amiss. He shook
his head.

“No, it was me. He doesn’t like to hear me play.”

“Why not?”

“I’ll tell you some day. John is going home with you, as I
can’t.”

“No need of that. I am not a young lady, and it’s only a step. Take
care of yourself, won’t you?”

“Yes, but you will come again, I hope?”

“If you promise to come and see us after you are well.”

“I will.”

“Good night, Laurie!”

“Good night, Jo, good night!”

When all the afternoon’s adventures had been told, the family felt
inclined to go visiting in a body, for each found something very attractive in
the big house on the other side of the hedge. Mrs. March wanted to talk of her
father with the old man who had not forgotten him, Meg longed to walk in the
conservatory, Beth sighed for the grand piano, and Amy was eager to see the
fine pictures and statues.

“Mother, why didn’t Mr. Laurence like to have Laurie play?”
asked Jo, who was of an inquiring disposition.

“I 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. They both died when Laurie
was a little child, and then his grandfather took him home. I fancy the boy,
who was born in Italy, is not very strong, and the old man is afraid of losing
him, which makes him so careful. Laurie comes naturally by his love of music,
for he is like his mother, and I dare say his grandfather fears that he may
want to be a musician. At any rate, his skill reminds him of the woman he did
not like, and so he ‘glowered’ as Jo said.”

“Dear me, how romantic!” exclaimed Meg.

“How silly!” said Jo. “Let him be a musician if he wants to,
and not plague his life out sending him to college, when he hates to go.”

“That’s why he has such handsome black eyes and pretty manners, I
suppose. Italians are always nice,” said Meg, who was a little
sentimental.

“What do you know about his eyes and his manners? You never spoke to him,
hardly,” cried Jo, who was not sentimental.

“I saw him at the party, and what you tell shows that he knows how to
behave. That was a nice little speech about the medicine Mother sent
him.”

“He meant the blanc mange, I suppose.”

“How stupid you are, child! He meant you, of course.”

“Did he?” And Jo opened her eyes as if it had never occurred to her
before.

“I never saw such a girl! You don’t know a compliment when you get
it,” said Meg, with the air of a young lady who knew all about the
matter.

“I think they are great nonsense, and I’ll thank you not to be
silly and spoil my fun. Laurie’s a nice boy and I like him, and I
won’t have any sentimental stuff about compliments and such rubbish.
We’ll all be good to him because he hasn’t got any mother, and he
may come over and see us, mayn’t he, Marmee?”

“Yes, Jo, your little friend is very welcome, and I hope Meg will
remember that children should be children as long as they can.”

“I don’t call myself a child, and I’m not in my teens
yet,” observed Amy. “What do you say, Beth?”

“I was thinking about our ‘Pilgrim’s
Progress’,” answered Beth, who had not heard a word. “How
we got out of the Slough and through the Wicket Gate by resolving to be good,
and up the steep hill by trying, and that maybe the house over there, full of
splendid things, is going to be our Palace Beautiful.”

“We have got to get by the lions first,” said Jo, as if she rather
liked the prospect.

CHAPTER SIX
BETH FINDS THE PALACE BEAUTIFUL

The big house did prove a Palace Beautiful, though it took some time for all to
get in, and Beth found it very hard to pass the lions. Old Mr. Laurence was the
biggest one, but after he had called, said something funny or kind to each one
of the girls, and talked over old times with their mother, nobody felt much
afraid of him, except timid Beth. The other lion was the fact that they were
poor and Laurie rich, for this made them shy of accepting favors which they
could not return. But, after a while, they found that he considered them the
benefactors, and could not do enough to show how grateful he was for Mrs.
March’s motherly welcome, their cheerful society, and the comfort he took
in that humble home of theirs. So they soon forgot their pride and interchanged
kindnesses without stopping to think which was the greater.

All sorts of pleasant things happened about that time, for the new friendship
flourished like grass in spring. Every one liked Laurie, and he privately
informed his tutor that “the Marches were regularly splendid
girls.” With the delightful enthusiasm of youth, they took the solitary
boy into their midst and made much of him, and he found something very charming
in the innocent companionship of these simple-hearted girls. Never having known
mother or sisters, he was quick to feel the influences they brought about him,
and their busy, lively ways made him ashamed of the indolent life he led. He
was tired of books, and found people so interesting now that Mr. Brooke was
obliged to make very unsatisfactory reports, for Laurie was always playing
truant and running over to the Marches’.

“Never mind, let him take a holiday, and make it up afterward,”
said the old gentleman. “The good lady next door says he is studying too
hard and needs young society, amusement, and exercise. I suspect she is right,
and that I’ve been coddling the fellow as if I’d been his
grandmother. Let him do what he likes, as long as he is happy. He can’t
get into mischief in that little nunnery over there, and Mrs. March is doing
more for him than we can.”

What good times they had, to be sure. Such plays and tableaux, such sleigh
rides and skating frolics, such pleasant evenings in the old parlor, and now
and then such gay little parties at the great house. Meg could walk in the
conservatory whenever she liked and revel in bouquets, Jo browsed over the new
library voraciously, and convulsed the old gentleman with her criticisms, Amy
copied pictures and enjoyed beauty to her heart’s content, and Laurie
played ‘lord of the manor’ in the most delightful style.

But Beth, though yearning for the grand piano, could not pluck up courage to go
to the ‘Mansion of Bliss’, as Meg called it. She went once with Jo,
but the old gentleman, not being aware of her infirmity, stared at her so hard
from under his heavy eyebrows, and said “Hey!” so loud, that he
frightened her so much her ‘feet chattered on the floor’, she never
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 excitement of
this unusual performance. Taking no more notice of her than if she had been a
fly, Mr. Laurence talked on about Laurie’s lessons and teachers. And
presently, as if the idea had just occurred to him, he said to Mrs. March…

“The boy neglects his music now, and I’m glad of it, for he was
getting too fond of it. But the piano suffers for want of use. Wouldn’t
some of your girls like to run over, and practice on it now and then, just to
keep it in tune, you know, ma’am?”

Beth took a step forward, and pressed her hands tightly together to keep from
clapping them, for this was an irresistible temptation, and the thought of
practicing on that splendid instrument quite took her breath away. Before Mrs.
March could reply, Mr. Laurence went on with an odd little nod and smile…

“They needn’t see or speak to anyone, but run in at any time. For
I’m shut up in my study at the other end of the house, Laurie is out a
great deal, and the servants are never near the drawing room after nine
o’clock.”

Here he rose, as if going, and Beth made up her mind to speak, for that last
arrangement left nothing to be desired. “Please, tell the young ladies
what I say, and if they don’t care to come, why, never mind.” Here
a little hand slipped into his, and Beth looked up at him with a face full of
gratitude, as she said, in her earnest yet timid way…

“Oh sir, they do care, very very much!”

“Are you the musical girl?” he asked, without any startling
“Hey!” as he looked down at her very kindly.

“I’m Beth. I love it dearly, and I’ll come, if you are quite
sure nobody will hear me, and be disturbed,” she added, fearing to be
rude, and trembling at her own boldness as she spoke.

“Not a soul, my dear. The house is empty half the day, so come and drum
away as much as you like, and I shall be obliged to you.”

“How kind you are, sir!”

Beth blushed like a rose under the friendly look he wore, but she was not
frightened now, and gave the hand a grateful squeeze because she had no words
to thank him for the precious gift he had given her. The old gentleman softly
stroked the hair off her forehead, and, stooping down, he kissed her, saying,
in a tone few people ever heard…

“I had a little girl once, with eyes like these. God bless you, my dear!
Good day, madam.” And away he went, in a great hurry.

Beth had a rapture with her mother, and then rushed up to impart the glorious
news to her family of invalids, as the girls were not home. How blithely she
sang that evening, and how they all laughed at her because she woke Amy in the
night by playing the piano on her face in her sleep. Next day, having seen both
the old and young gentleman out of the house, Beth, after two or three
retreats, fairly got in at the side door, and made her way as noiselessly as
any mouse to the drawing room where her idol stood. Quite by accident, of
course, some pretty, easy music lay on the piano, and with trembling fingers
and frequent stops to listen and look about, Beth at last touched the great
instrument, and straightway forgot her fear, herself, and everything else but
the unspeakable delight which the music gave her, for it was like the voice of
a beloved friend.

She stayed till Hannah came to take her home to dinner, but she had no
appetite, and could only sit and smile upon everyone in a general state of
beatitude.

After that, the little brown hood slipped through the hedge nearly every day,
and the great drawing room was haunted by a tuneful spirit that came and went
unseen. She never knew that Mr. Laurence opened his study door to hear the
old-fashioned airs he liked. She never saw Laurie mount guard in the hall to
warn the servants away. She never suspected that the exercise books and new
songs which she found in the rack were put there for her especial benefit, and
when he talked to her about music at home, she only thought how kind he was to
tell things that helped her so much. So she enjoyed herself heartily, and
found, what isn’t always the case, that her granted wish was all she had
hoped. Perhaps it was because she was so grateful for this blessing that a
greater was given her. At any rate she deserved both.

“Mother, I’m going to work Mr. Laurence a pair of slippers. He is
so kind to me, I must thank him, and I don’t know any other way. Can I do
it?” asked Beth, a few weeks after that eventful call of his.

“Yes, dear. It will please him very much, and be a nice way of thanking
him. The girls will help you about them, and I will pay for the making
up,” replied Mrs. March, who took peculiar pleasure in granting
Beth’s requests because she so seldom asked anything for herself.

After many serious discussions with Meg and Jo, the pattern was chosen, the
materials bought, and the slippers begun. A cluster of grave yet cheerful
pansies on a deeper purple ground was pronounced very appropriate and pretty,
and Beth worked away early and late, with occasional lifts over hard parts. She
was a nimble little needlewoman, and they were finished before anyone got tired
of them. Then she wrote a short, simple note, and with Laurie’s help, got
them smuggled onto the study table one morning before the old gentleman was up.

When this excitement was over, Beth waited to see what would happen. All day
passed and a part of the next before any acknowledgement arrived, and she was
beginning to fear she had offended her crochety friend. On the afternoon of the
second day, she went out to do an errand, and give poor Joanna, the invalid
doll, her daily exercise. As she came up the street, on her return, she saw
three, yes, four heads popping in and out of the parlor windows, and the moment
they saw her, several hands were waved, and several joyful voices screamed…

“Here’s a letter from the old gentleman! Come quick, and read
it!”

“Oh, Beth, he’s sent you…” began Amy, gesticulating with
unseemly energy, but she got no further, for Jo quenched her by slamming down
the window.

Beth hurried on in a flutter of suspense. At the door her sisters seized and
bore her to the parlor in a triumphal procession, all pointing and all saying
at once, “Look there! Look there!” Beth did look, and turned pale
with delight and surprise, for there stood a little cabinet piano, with a
letter lying on the glossy lid, directed like a sign board to “Miss
Elizabeth March.”

“For me?” gasped Beth, holding onto Jo and feeling as if she should
tumble down, it was such an overwhelming thing altogether.

“Yes, all for you, my precious! Isn’t it splendid of him?
Don’t you think he’s the dearest old man in the world? Here’s
the key in the letter. We didn’t open it, but we are dying to know what
he says,” cried Jo, hugging her sister and offering the note.

“You read it! I can’t, I feel so queer! Oh, it is too
lovely!” and Beth hid her face in Jo’s apron, quite upset by her
present.

Jo opened the paper and began to laugh, for the first words she saw were…

“Miss March: “Dear Madam—”

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

“‘I have had many pairs of slippers in my life, but I never had any
that suited me so well as yours,’” continues 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 grand daughter he lost. With hearty thanks and best wishes, I remain
“‘Your grateful friend and humble servant, ‘JAMES
LAURENCE’.”

“There, Beth, that’s an honor to be proud of, I’m sure!
Laurie told me how fond Mr. Laurence used to be of the child who died, and how
he kept all her little things carefully. Just think, he’s given you her
piano. That comes of having big blue eyes and loving music,” said Jo,
trying to soothe Beth, who trembled and looked more excited than she had ever
been before.

“See the cunning brackets to hold candles, and the nice green silk,
puckered up, with a gold rose in the middle, and the pretty rack and stool, all
complete,” added Meg, opening the instrument and displaying its beauties.

“‘Your humble servant, James Laurence’. Only think of his
writing that to you. I’ll tell the girls. They’ll think it’s
splendid,” said Amy, much impressed by the note.

“Try it, honey. Let’s hear the sound of the baby pianny,”
said Hannah, who always took a share in the family joys and sorrows.

So Beth tried it, and everyone 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 lay in the happiest of all happy
faces which leaned over it, as Beth lovingly touched the beautiful black and
white keys and pressed the bright pedals.

“You’ll have to go and thank him,” said Jo, by way of a joke,
for the idea of the child’s really going never entered her head.

“Yes, I mean to. I guess I’ll go now, before I get frightened
thinking about it.” And, to the utter amazement of the assembled family,
Beth walked deliberately down the garden, through the hedge, and in at the
Laurences’ door.

“Well, I wish I may die if it ain’t the queerest thing I ever see!
The pianny has turned her head! She’d never have gone in her right
mind,” cried Hannah, staring after her, while the girls were rendered
quite speechless by the miracle.

They would have been still more amazed if they had seen what Beth did
afterward. If you will believe me, she went and knocked at the study door
before she gave herself time to think, and when a gruff voice called out,
“come in!” she did go in, right up to Mr. Laurence, who looked
quite taken aback, and held out her hand, saying, with only a small quaver in
her voice, “I came to thank you, sir, for…” But she didn’t
finish, for he looked so friendly that she forgot her speech and, only
remembering that he had lost the little girl he loved, she put both arms round
his neck and kissed him.

If the roof of the house had suddenly flown off, the old gentleman
wouldn’t have been more astonished. But he liked it. Oh, dear, yes, he
liked it amazingly! And was so touched and pleased by that confiding little
kiss that all his crustiness vanished, and he just set her on his knee, and
laid his wrinkled cheek against her rosy one, feeling as if he had got his own
little granddaughter back again. Beth ceased to fear him from that moment, and
sat there talking to him as cozily as if she had known him all her life, for
love casts out fear, and gratitude can conquer pride. When she went home, he
walked with her to her own gate, shook hands cordially, and touched his hat as
he marched back again, looking very stately and erect, like a handsome,
soldierly old gentleman, as he was.

When the girls saw that performance, Jo began to dance a jig, by way of
expressing her satisfaction, Amy nearly fell out of the window in her surprise,
and Meg exclaimed, with up-lifted hands, “Well, I do believe the world is
coming to an end.”

CHAPTER SEVEN
AMY’S VALLEY OF HUMILIATION

“That boy is a perfect cyclops, isn’t he?” said Amy one day,
as Laurie clattered by on horseback, with a flourish of his whip as he passed.

“How dare you say so, when he’s got both his eyes? And very
handsome ones they are, too,” cried Jo, who resented any slighting
remarks about her friend.

“I didn’t say anything about his eyes, and I don’t see why
you need fire up when I admire his riding.”

“Oh, my goodness! That little goose means a centaur, and she called him a
Cyclops,” exclaimed Jo, with a burst of laughter.

“You needn’t be so rude, it’s only a ‘lapse of
lingy’, as Mr. Davis says,” retorted Amy, finishing Jo with her
Latin. “I just wish I had a little of the money Laurie spends on that
horse,” she added, as if to herself, yet hoping her sisters would hear.

“Why?” asked Meg kindly, for Jo had gone off in another laugh at
Amy’s second blunder.

“I need it so much. I’m dreadfully in debt, and it won’t be
my turn to have the rag money for a month.”

“In debt, Amy? What do you mean?” And Meg looked sober.

“Why, I owe at least a dozen pickled limes, and I can’t pay them,
you know, till I have money, for Marmee forbade my having anything charged at
the shop.”

“Tell me all about it. Are limes the fashion now? It used to be pricking
bits of rubber to make balls.” And Meg tried to keep her countenance, Amy
looked so grave and important.

“Why, you see, the girls are always buying them, and unless you want to
be thought mean, you must do it too. It’s nothing but limes now, for
everyone is sucking them in their desks in schooltime, 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 doesn’t offer even a suck. They treat by turns, and
I’ve had ever so many but haven’t returned them, and I ought for
they are debts of honor, you know.”

“How much will pay them off and restore your credit?” asked Meg,
taking out her purse.

“A quarter would more than do it, and leave a few cents over for a treat
for you. Don’t you like limes?”

“Not much. You may have my share. Here’s the money. Make it last as
long as you can, for it isn’t very plenty, you know.”

“Oh, thank you! It must be so nice to have pocket money! I’ll have
a grand feast, for I haven’t tasted a lime this week. I felt delicate
about taking any, as I couldn’t return them, and I’m actually
suffering for one.”

Next day Amy was rather late at school, but could not resist the temptation of
displaying, with pardonable pride, a moist brown-paper parcel, before she
consigned it to the inmost recesses of her desk. During the next few minutes
the rumor that Amy March had got twenty-four delicious limes (she ate one on
the way) and was going to treat circulated through her ‘set’, and
the attentions of her friends became quite overwhelming. Katy Brown invited her
to her next party on the spot. Mary Kingsley insisted on lending her her watch
till recess, and Jenny Snow, a satirical young lady, who had basely twitted Amy
upon her limeless state, promptly buried the hatchet and offered to furnish
answers to certain appalling sums. But Amy had not forgotten Miss Snow’s
cutting remarks about ‘some persons whose noses were not too flat to
smell other people’s limes, and stuck-up people who were not too proud to
ask for them’, and she instantly crushed ‘that Snow
girl’s’ hopes by the withering telegram, “You needn’t
be so polite all of a sudden, for you won’t get any.”

A distinguished personage happened to visit the school that morning, and
Amy’s beautifully drawn maps received praise, which honor to her foe
rankled in the soul of Miss Snow, and caused Miss March to assume the airs of a
studious young peacock. But, alas, alas! Pride goes before a fall, and the
revengeful Snow turned the tables with disastrous success. No sooner had the
guest paid the usual stale compliments and bowed himself out, than Jenny, under
pretense of asking an important question, informed Mr. Davis, the teacher, that
Amy March had pickled limes in her desk.

Now Mr. Davis had declared limes a contraband article, and solemnly vowed to
publicly ferrule the first person who was found breaking the law. This
much-enduring man had succeeded in banishing chewing gum after a long and
stormy war, had made a bonfire of the confiscated novels and newspapers, had
suppressed a private post office, had forbidden distortions of the face,
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 schoolgirl, “He was as nervous as a witch and as cross as a
bear”. The word ‘limes’ was like fire to powder, his yellow
face flushed, and he rapped on his desk with an energy which made Jenny skip to
her seat with unusual rapidity.

“Young ladies, attention, if you please!”

At the stern order the buzz ceased, and fifty pairs of blue, black, gray, and
brown eyes were obediently fixed upon his awful countenance.

“Miss March, come to the desk.”

Amy rose to comply with outward composure, but a secret fear oppressed her, for
the limes weighed upon her conscience.

“Bring with you the limes you have in your desk,” was the
unexpected command which arrested her before she got out of her seat.

“Don’t take all.” whispered her neighbor, a young lady of
great presence of mind.

Amy hastily shook out half a dozen and laid the rest down before Mr. Davis,
feeling that any man possessing a human heart would relent when that delicious
perfume met his nose. Unfortunately, Mr. Davis particularly detested the odor
of the fashionable pickle, and disgust added to his wrath.

“Is that all?”

“Not quite,” stammered Amy.

“Bring the rest immediately.”

With a despairing glance at her set, she obeyed.

“You are sure there are no more?”

“I never lie, sir.”

“So I see. Now take these disgusting things two by two, and throw them
out of the window.”

There was a simultaneous sigh, which created quite a little gust, as the last
hope fled, and the treat was ravished from their longing lips. Scarlet with
shame and anger, Amy went to and fro six dreadful times, and as each doomed
couple, looking oh, so plump and juicy, fell from her reluctant hands, a shout
from the street completed the anguish of the girls, for it told them that their
feast was being exulted over by the little Irish children, who were their sworn
foes. This—this was too much. All flashed indignant or appealing glances
at the inexorable Davis, and one passionate lime lover burst into tears.

As Amy returned from her last trip, Mr. Davis gave a portentous
“Hem!” and said, in his most impressive manner…

“Young ladies, you remember what I said to you a week ago. I am sorry
this has happened, but I never allow my rules to be infringed, and I never
break my word. Miss March, hold out your hand.”

Amy started, and put both hands behind her, turning on him an imploring look
which pleaded for her better than the words she could not utter. She was rather
a favorite with ‘old Davis’, as, of course, he was called, and
it’s my private belief that he would have broken his word if the
indignation of one irrepressible young lady had not found vent in a hiss. That
hiss, faint as it was, irritated the irascible gentleman, and sealed the
culprit’s fate.

“Your hand, Miss March!” was the only answer her mute appeal
received, and too proud to cry or beseech, Amy set her teeth, threw back her
head defiantly, and bore without flinching several tingling blows on her little
palm. They were neither many nor heavy, but that made no difference to her. For
the first time in her life she had been struck, and the disgrace, in her eyes,
was as deep as if he had knocked her down.

“You will now stand on the platform till recess,” said Mr. Davis,
resolved to do the thing thoroughly, since he had begun.

That was dreadful. It would have been bad enough to go to her seat, and see the
pitying faces of her friends, or the satisfied ones of her few enemies, but to
face the whole school, with that shame fresh upon her, seemed impossible, and
for a second she felt as if she could only drop down where she stood, and break
her heart with crying. A bitter sense of wrong and the thought of Jenny Snow
helped her to bear it, and, taking the ignominious place, she fixed her eyes on
the stove funnel above what now seemed a sea of faces, and stood there, so
motionless and white that the girls found it hard to study with that pathetic
figure before them.

During the fifteen minutes that followed, the proud and sensitive little girl
suffered a shame and pain which she never forgot. To others it might seem a
ludicrous or trivial affair, but to her it was a hard experience, for during
the twelve years of her life she had been governed by love alone, and a blow of
that sort had never touched her before. The smart of her hand and the ache of
her heart were forgotten in the sting of the thought, “I shall have to
tell at home, and they will be so disappointed in me!”

The fifteen minutes seemed an hour, but they came to an end at last, and the
word ‘Recess!’ had never seemed so welcome to her before.

“You can go, Miss March,” said Mr. Davis, looking, as he felt,
uncomfortable.

He did not soon forget the reproachful glance Amy gave him, as she went,
without a word to anyone, straight into the anteroom, snatched her things, and
left the place “forever,” as she passionately declared to herself.
She was in a sad state when she got home, and when the older girls arrived,
some time later, an indignation meeting was held at once. Mrs. March did not
say much but looked disturbed, and comforted her afflicted little daughter in
her tenderest manner. Meg bathed the insulted hand with glycerine and tears,
Beth felt that even her beloved kittens would fail as a balm for griefs like
this, Jo wrathfully proposed that Mr. Davis be arrested without delay, and
Hannah shook her fist at the ‘villain’ and pounded potatoes for
dinner as if she had him under her pestle.

No notice was taken of Amy’s flight, except by her mates, but the
sharp-eyed demoiselles discovered that Mr. Davis was quite benignant in the
afternoon, also unusually nervous. Just before school closed, Jo appeared,
wearing a grim expression as she stalked up to the desk, and delivered a letter
from her mother, then collected Amy’s property, and departed, carefully
scraping the mud from her boots on the door mat, as if she shook the dust of
the place off her feet.

“Yes, you can have a vacation from school, but I want you to study a
little every day with Beth,” said Mrs. March that evening. “I
don’t approve of corporal punishment, especially for girls. I dislike Mr.
Davis’s manner of teaching and don’t think the girls you associate
with are doing you any good, so I shall ask your father’s advice before I
send you anywhere else.”

“That’s good! I wish all the girls would leave, and spoil his old
school. It’s perfectly maddening to think of those lovely limes,”
sighed Amy, with the air of a martyr.

“I am not sorry you lost them, for you broke the rules, and deserved some
punishment for disobedience,” was the severe reply, which rather
disappointed the young lady, who expected nothing but sympathy.

“Do you mean you are glad I was disgraced before the whole school?”
cried Amy.

“I should not have chosen that way of mending a fault,” replied her
mother, “but I’m not sure that it won’t do you more good than
a bolder method. You are getting to be rather conceited, my dear, and it is
quite time you set about correcting it. You have a good many little gifts and
virtues, but there is no need of parading them, for conceit spoils the finest
genius. There is not much danger that real talent or goodness will be
overlooked long, even if it is, the consciousness of possessing and using it
well should satisfy one, and the great charm of all power is modesty.”

“So it is!” cried Laurie, who was playing chess in a corner with
Jo. “I knew a girl once, who had a really remarkable talent for music,
and she didn’t know it, never guessed what sweet little things she
composed when she was alone, and wouldn’t have believed it if anyone had
told her.”

“I wish I’d known that nice girl. Maybe she would have helped me,
I’m so stupid,” said Beth, who stood beside him, listening eagerly.

“You do know her, and she helps you better than anyone else could,”
answered Laurie, looking at her with such mischievous meaning in his merry
black eyes that Beth suddenly turned very red, and hid her face in the sofa
cushion, quite overcome by such an unexpected discovery.

Jo let Laurie win the game to pay for that praise of her Beth, who could not be
prevailed upon to play for them after her compliment. So Laurie did his best,
and sang 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 evening, said suddenly, as if busy over some new idea,
“Is Laurie an accomplished boy?”

“Yes, he has had an excellent education, and has much talent. He will
make a fine man, if not spoiled by petting,” replied her mother.

“And he isn’t conceited, is he?” asked Amy.

“Not in the least. That is why he is so charming and we all like him so
much.”

“I see. It’s nice to have accomplishments and be elegant, but not
to show off or get perked up,” said Amy thoughtfully.

“These things are always seen and felt in a person’s manner and
conversations, if modestly used, but it is not necessary to display
them,” said Mrs. March.

“Any more than it’s proper to wear all your bonnets and gowns and
ribbons at once, that folks may know you’ve got them,” added Jo,
and the lecture ended in a laugh.

CHAPTER EIGHT
JO MEETS APOLLYON

“Girls, where are you going?” asked Amy, coming into their room one
Saturday afternoon, and finding them getting ready to go out with an air of
secrecy which excited her curiosity.

“Never mind. Little girls shouldn’t ask questions,” returned
Jo sharply.

Now if there is anything mortifying to our feelings when we are young, it is to
be told that, and to be bidden to “run away, dear” is still more
trying to us. Amy bridled up at this insult, and determined to find out the
secret, if she teased for an hour. Turning to Meg, who never refused her
anything very long, she said coaxingly, “Do tell me! I should think you
might let me go, too, for Beth is fussing over her piano, and I haven’t
got anything to do, and am so lonely.”

“I can’t, dear, because you aren’t invited,” began Meg,
but Jo broke in impatiently, “Now, Meg, be quiet or you will spoil it
all. You can’t go, Amy, so don’t be a baby and whine about
it.”

“You are going somewhere with Laurie, I know you are. You were whispering
and laughing together on the sofa last night, and you stopped when I came in.
Aren’t you going with him?”

“Yes, we are. Now do be still, and stop bothering.”

Amy held her tongue, but used her eyes, and saw Meg slip a fan into her pocket.

“I know! I know! You’re going to the theater to see the Seven
Castles!” she cried, adding resolutely, “and I shall go, for
Mother said I might see it, and I’ve got my rag money, and it was mean
not to tell me in time.”

“Just listen to me a minute, and be a good child,” said Meg
soothingly. “Mother doesn’t wish you to go this week, because your
eyes are not well enough yet to bear the light of this fairy piece. Next week
you can go with Beth and Hannah, and have a nice time.”

“I don’t like that half as well as going with you and Laurie.
Please let me. I’ve been sick with this cold so long, and shut up,
I’m dying for some fun. Do, Meg! I’ll be ever so good,”
pleaded Amy, looking as pathetic as she could.

“Suppose we take her. I don’t believe Mother would mind, if we
bundle her up well,” began Meg.

“If she goes I shan’t, and if I don’t, Laurie won’t
like it, and it will be very rude, after he invited only us, to go and drag in
Amy. I should think she’d hate to poke herself where she isn’t
wanted,” said Jo crossly, for she disliked the trouble of overseeing a
fidgety child when she wanted to enjoy herself.

Her tone and manner angered Amy, who began to put her boots on, saying, in her
most aggravating way, “I shall go. Meg says I may, and if I pay for
myself, Laurie hasn’t anything to do with it.”

“You can’t sit with us, for our seats are reserved, and you
mustn’t sit alone, so Laurie will give you his place, and that will spoil
our pleasure. Or he’ll get another seat for you, and that isn’t
proper when you weren’t asked. You shan’t stir a step, so you may
just stay where you are,” scolded Jo, crosser than ever, having just
pricked her finger in her hurry.

Sitting on the floor with one boot on, Amy began to cry and Meg to reason with
her, when Laurie called from below, and the two girls hurried down, leaving
their sister wailing. For now and then she forgot her grown-up ways and acted
like a spoiled child. Just as the party was setting out, Amy called over the
banisters in a threatening tone, “You’ll be sorry for this, Jo
March, see if you ain’t.”

“Fiddlesticks!” returned Jo, slamming the door.

They had a charming time, for The Seven Castles Of The Diamond Lake was
as brilliant and wonderful as heart could wish. But in spite of the comical red
imps, sparkling elves, and the 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 semioccasional explosions occurred, of which both were much
ashamed afterward. Although the oldest, Jo had the least self-control, and had
hard times trying to curb the fiery spirit which was continually getting her
into trouble. Her anger never lasted long, and having humbly confessed her
fault, she sincerely repented and tried to do better. Her sisters used to say
that they rather liked to get Jo into a fury because she was such an angel
afterward. Poor Jo tried desperately to be good, but her bosom enemy was always
ready to flame up and defeat her, and it took years of patient effort to subdue
it.

When they got home, they found Amy reading in the parlor. She assumed an
injured air as they came in, never lifted her eyes from her book, or asked a
single question. Perhaps curiosity might have conquered resentment, if Beth had
not been there to inquire and receive a glowing description of the play. On
going up to put away her best hat, Jo’s first look was toward the bureau,
for in their last quarrel Amy had soothed her feelings by turning Jo’s
top drawer upside down on the floor. Everything was in its place, however, and
after a hasty glance into her various closets, bags, and boxes, Jo decided that
Amy had forgiven and forgotten her wrongs.

There Jo was mistaken, for next day she made a discovery which produced a
tempest. Meg, Beth, and Amy were sitting together, late in the afternoon, when
Jo burst into the room, looking excited and demanding breathlessly, “Has
anyone taken my book?”

Meg and Beth said, “No.” at once, and looked surprised. Amy poked
the fire and said nothing. Jo saw her color rise and was down upon her in a
minute.

“Amy, you’ve got it!”

“No, I haven’t.”

“You know where it is, then!”

“No, I don’t.”

“That’s a fib!” cried Jo, taking her by the shoulders, and
looking fierce enough to frighten a much braver child than Amy.

“It isn’t. I haven’t got it, don’t know where it is
now, and don’t care.”

“You know something about it, and you’d better tell at once, or
I’ll make you.” And Jo gave her a slight shake.

“Scold as much as you like, you’ll never see your silly old book
again,” cried Amy, getting excited in her turn.

“Why not?”

“I burned it up.”

“What! My little book I was so fond of, and worked over, and meant to
finish before Father got home? Have you really burned it?” said Jo,
turning very pale, while her eyes kindled and her hands clutched Amy nervously.

“Yes, I did! I told you I’d make you pay for being so cross
yesterday, and I have, so…”

Amy got no farther, for Jo’s hot temper mastered her, and she shook Amy
till her teeth chattered in her head, crying in a passion of grief and anger…

“You wicked, wicked girl! I never can write it again, and I’ll
never forgive you as long as I live.”

Meg flew to rescue Amy, and Beth to pacify Jo, but Jo was quite beside herself,
and with a parting box on her sister’s ear, she rushed out of the room up
to the old sofa in the garret, and finished her fight alone.

The storm cleared up below, for Mrs. March came home, and, having heard the
story, soon brought Amy to a sense of the wrong she had done her sister.
Jo’s book was the pride of her heart, and was regarded by her family as a
literary sprout of great promise. It was only half a dozen little fairy tales,
but Jo had worked over them patiently, putting her whole heart into her work,
hoping to make something good enough to print. She had just copied them with
great care, and had destroyed the old manuscript, so that Amy’s bonfire
had consumed the loving work of several years. It seemed a small loss to
others, but to Jo it was a dreadful calamity, and she felt that it never could
be made up to her. Beth mourned as for a departed kitten, and Meg refused to
defend her pet. Mrs. March looked grave and grieved, and Amy felt that no one
would love her till she had asked pardon for the act which she now regretted
more than any of them.

When the tea bell rang, Jo appeared, looking so grim and unapproachable that it
took all Amy’s courage to say meekly…

“Please forgive me, Jo. I’m very, very sorry.”

“I never shall forgive you,” was Jo’s stern answer, and from
that moment she ignored Amy entirely.

No one spoke of the great trouble, not even Mrs. March, for all had learned by
experience that when Jo was in that mood words were wasted, and the wisest
course was to wait till some little accident, or her own generous nature,
softened Jo’s resentment and healed the breach. It was not a happy
evening, for though they sewed as usual, while their mother read aloud from
Bremer, Scott, or Edgeworth, something was wanting, and the sweet home peace
was disturbed. They felt this most when singing time came, for Beth could only
play, Jo stood dumb as a stone, and Amy broke down, so Meg and Mother sang
alone. But in spite of their efforts to be as cheery as larks, the flutelike
voices did not seem to chord as well as usual, and all felt out of tune.

As Jo received her good-night kiss, Mrs. March whispered gently, “My
dear, don’t let the sun go down upon your anger. Forgive each other, help
each other, and begin again tomorrow.”

Jo wanted to lay her head down on that motherly bosom, and cry her grief and
anger all away, but tears were an unmanly weakness, and she felt so deeply
injured that she really couldn’t quite forgive yet. So she winked hard,
shook her head, and said gruffly because Amy was listening, “It was an
abominable thing, and she doesn’t deserve to be forgiven.”

With that she marched off to bed, and there was no merry or confidential gossip
that night.

Amy was much offended that her overtures of peace had been repulsed, and began
to wish she had not humbled herself, to feel more injured than ever, and to
plume herself on her superior virtue in a way which was particularly
exasperating. Jo still looked like a thunder cloud, and nothing went well all
day. It was bitter cold in the morning, she dropped her precious turnover in
the gutter, Aunt March had an attack of the fidgets, Meg was sensitive, Beth
would look grieved and wistful when she got home, and Amy kept making remarks
about people who were always talking about being good and yet wouldn’t
even try when other people set them a virtuous example.

“Everybody is so hateful, I’ll ask Laurie to go skating. He is
always kind and jolly, and will put me to rights, I know,” said Jo to
herself, and off she went.

Amy heard the clash of skates, and looked out with an impatient exclamation.

“There! She promised I should go next time, for this is the last ice we
shall have. But it’s no use to ask such a crosspatch to take me.”

“Don’t say that. You were very naughty, and it is hard to forgive
the loss of her precious little book, but I think she might do it now, and I
guess she will, if you try her at the right minute,” said Meg. “Go
after them. Don’t say anything till Jo has got good-natured with Laurie,
than take a quiet minute and just kiss her, or do some kind thing, and
I’m sure she’ll be friends again with all her heart.”

“I’ll try,” said Amy, for the advice suited her, and after a
flurry to get ready, she ran after the friends, who were just disappearing over
the hill.

It was not far to the river, but both were ready before Amy reached them. Jo
saw her coming, and turned her back. Laurie did not see, for he was carefully
skating along the shore, sounding the ice, for a warm spell had preceded the
cold snap.

“I’ll go on to the first bend, and see if it’s all right
before we begin to race,” Amy heard him say, as he shot away, looking
like a young Russian in his fur-trimmed coat and cap.

Jo heard Amy panting after her run, stamping her feet and blowing on her
fingers as she tried to put her skates on, but Jo never turned and went slowly
zigzagging down the river, taking a bitter, unhappy sort of satisfaction in her
sister’s troubles. She had cherished her anger till it grew strong and
took possession of her, as evil thoughts and feelings always do unless cast out
at once. As Laurie turned the bend, he shouted back…

“Keep near the shore. It isn’t safe in the middle.” Jo heard,
but Amy was struggling to her feet and did not catch a word. Jo glanced over
her shoulder, and the little demon she was harboring said in her ear…

“No matter whether she heard or not, let her take care of herself.”

Laurie had vanished round the bend, Jo was just at the turn, and Amy, far
behind, striking out toward the smoother ice in the middle of the river. For a
minute Jo stood still with a strange feeling in 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 a sudden crash of rotten ice, the splash of
water, and a cry that made Jo’s heart stand still with fear. She tried to
call Laurie, but her voice was gone. She tried to rush forward, but her feet
seemed to have no strength in them, and for a second, she could only stand
motionless, staring with a terror-stricken face at the little blue hood above
the black water. Something rushed swiftly by her, and Laurie’s voice
cried out…

“Bring a rail. Quick, quick!”

How she did it, she never knew, but for the next few minutes she worked as if
possessed, blindly obeying Laurie, who was quite self-possessed, and lying
flat, held Amy up by his arm and hockey stick till Jo dragged a rail from the
fence, and together they got the child out, more frightened than hurt.

“Now then, we must walk her home as fast as we can. Pile our things on
her, while I get off these confounded skates,” cried Laurie, wrapping his
coat round Amy, and tugging away at the straps which never seemed so intricate
before.

Shivering, dripping, and crying, they got Amy home, and after an exciting time
of it, she fell asleep, rolled in blankets before a hot fire. During the bustle
Jo had scarcely spoken but flown about, looking pale and wild, with her things
half off, her dress torn, and her hands cut and bruised by ice and rails and
refractory buckles. When Amy was comfortably asleep, the house quiet, and Mrs.
March sitting by the bed, she called Jo to her and began to bind up the hurt
hands.

“Are you sure she is safe?” whispered Jo, looking remorsefully at
the golden head, which might have been swept away from her sight forever under
the treacherous ice.

“Quite safe, dear. She is not hurt, and won’t even take cold, I
think, you were so sensible in covering and getting her home quickly,”
replied her mother cheerfully.

“Laurie did it all. I only let her go. Mother, if she should die, it
would be my fault.” And Jo dropped down beside the bed in a passion of
penitent tears, telling all that had happened, bitterly condemning her hardness
of heart, and sobbing out her gratitude for being spared the heavy punishment
which might have come upon her.

“It’s my dreadful temper! I try to cure it, I think I have, and
then it breaks out worse than ever. Oh, Mother, what shall I do? What shall I
do?” cried poor Jo, in despair.

“Watch and pray, dear, never get tired of trying, and never think it is
impossible to conquer your fault,” said Mrs. March, drawing the blowzy
head to her shoulder and kissing the wet cheek so tenderly that Jo cried even
harder.

“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 anyone and enjoy it. I’m afraid I shall do something dreadful some
day, and spoil my life, and make everybody hate me. Oh, Mother, help me, do
help me!”

“I will, my child, I will. Don’t cry so bitterly, but remember this
day, and resolve with all your soul that you will never know another like it.
Jo, dear, we all have our temptations, some far greater than yours, and it
often takes us all our lives to conquer them. You think your temper is the
worst in the world, but mine used to be just like it.”

“Yours, Mother? Why, you are never angry!” And for the moment Jo
forgot remorse in surprise.

“I’ve been trying to cure it for forty years, and have only
succeeded in controlling it. I am angry nearly every day of my life, Jo, but I
have learned not to show it, and I still hope to learn not to feel it, though
it may take me another forty years to do so.”

The patience and the humility of the face she loved so well was a better lesson
to Jo than the wisest lecture, the sharpest reproof. She felt comforted at once
by the sympathy and confidence given her. The knowledge that her mother had a
fault like hers, and tried to mend it, made her own easier to bear and
strengthened her resolution to cure it, though forty years seemed rather a long
time to watch and pray to a girl of fifteen.

“Mother, are you angry when you fold your lips tight together and go out
of the room sometimes, when Aunt March scolds or people worry you?” asked
Jo, feeling nearer and dearer to her mother than ever before.

“Yes, I’ve learned to check the hasty words that rise to my lips,
and when I feel that they mean to break out against my will, I just go away for
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 disheveled hair.

“How did you learn to keep still? That is what troubles me, for the sharp
words fly out before I know what I’m about, and the more I say the worse
I get, till it’s a pleasure to hurt people’s feelings and say
dreadful things. Tell me how you do it, Marmee dear.”

“My good mother used to help me…”

“As you do us…” interrupted Jo, with a grateful kiss.

“But I lost her when I was a little older than you are, and for years had
to struggle on alone, for I was too proud to confess my weakness to anyone
else. I had a hard time, Jo, and shed a good many bitter tears over my
failures, for in spite of my efforts I never seemed to get on. Then your father
came, and I was so happy that I found it easy to be good. But by-and-by, when I
had four little daughters round me and we were poor, then the old trouble began
again, for I am not patient by nature, and it tried me very much to see my
children wanting anything.”

“Poor Mother! What helped you then?”

“Your father, Jo. He never loses patience, never doubts or complains, but
always hopes, and works and waits so cheerfully that one is ashamed to do
otherwise before him. He helped and comforted me, and showed me that I must try
to practice 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.”

“Oh, Mother, if I’m ever half as good as you, I shall be
satisfied,” cried Jo, much touched.

“I hope you will be a great deal better, dear, but you must keep watch
over your ‘bosom enemy’, as father calls it, or it may sadden, if
not spoil your life. You have had a warning. Remember it, and try with heart
and soul to master this quick temper, before it brings you greater sorrow and
regret than you have known today.”

“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 and went away. Was he reminding you then?” asked Jo
softly.

“Yes. I asked him to help me so, and he never forgot it, but saved me
from many a sharp word by that little gesture and kind look.”

Jo saw that her mother’s eyes filled and her lips trembled as she spoke,
and fearing that she had said too much, she whispered anxiously, “Was it
wrong to watch you and to speak of it? I didn’t mean to be rude, but
it’s so comfortable to say all I think to you, and feel so safe and happy
here.”

“My Jo, you may say anything to your mother, for it is my greatest
happiness and pride to feel that my girls confide in me and know how much I
love them.”

“I thought I’d grieved you.”

“No, dear, but speaking of Father reminded me how much I miss him, how
much I owe him, and how faithfully I should watch and work to keep his little
daughters safe and good for him.”

“Yet you told him to go, Mother, and didn’t cry when he went, and
never complain now, or seem as if you needed any help,” said Jo,
wondering.

“I gave my best to the country I love, and kept my tears till he was
gone. Why should I complain, when we both have merely done our duty and will
surely be the happier for it in the end? If I don’t seem to need help, it
is because I have a better friend, even than Father, to comfort and sustain me.
My child, the troubles and temptations of your life are beginning and may be
many, but you can overcome and outlive them all if you learn to feel the
strength and tenderness of your Heavenly Father as you do that of your earthly
one. The more you love and trust Him, the nearer you will feel to Him, and the
less you will depend on human power and wisdom. His love and care never tire or
change, can never be taken from you, but may become the source of lifelong
peace, happiness, and strength. Believe this heartily, and go to God with all
your little cares, and hopes, and sins, and sorrows, as freely and confidingly
as you come to your mother.”

Jo’s only answer was to hold her mother close, and in the silence which
followed the sincerest prayer she had ever prayed left her heart without words.
For in that sad yet happy hour, she had learned not only the bitterness of
remorse and despair, but the sweetness of self-denial and self-control, and led
by her mother’s hand, she had drawn nearer to the Friend who always
welcomes every child with a love stronger than that of any father, tenderer
than that of any mother.

Amy stirred and sighed in her sleep, and as if eager to begin at once to mend
her fault, Jo looked up with an expression on her face which it had never worn
before.

“I let the sun go down on my anger. I wouldn’t forgive her, and
today, if it hadn’t been for Laurie, it might have been too late! How
could I be so wicked?” said Jo, half aloud, as she leaned over her sister
softly stroking the wet hair scattered on the pillow.

As if she heard, Amy opened her eyes, and held out her arms, with a smile that
went straight to Jo’s heart. Neither said a word, but they hugged one
another close, in spite of the blankets, and everything was forgiven and
forgotten in one hearty kiss.

CHAPTER NINE
MEG GOES TO VANITY FAIR

“I do think it was the most fortunate thing in the world that those
children should have the measles just now,” said Meg, one April day, as
she stood packing the ‘go abroady’ trunk in her room, surrounded by
her sisters.

“And so nice of Annie Moffat not to forget her promise. A whole fortnight
of fun will be regularly splendid,” replied Jo, looking like a windmill
as she folded skirts with her long arms.

“And such lovely weather, I’m so glad of that,” added Beth,
tidily sorting neck and hair ribbons in her best box, lent for the great
occasion.

“I wish I was going to have a fine time and wear all these nice
things,” said Amy with her mouth full of pins, as she artistically
replenished her sister’s cushion.

“I wish you were all going, but as you can’t, I shall keep my
adventures to tell you when I come back. I’m sure it’s the least I
can do when you have been so kind, lending me things and helping me get
ready,” said Meg, glancing round the room at the very simple outfit,
which seemed nearly perfect in their eyes.

“What did Mother give you out of the treasure box?” asked Amy, who
had not been present at the opening of a certain cedar chest in which Mrs.
March kept a few relics of past splendor, as gifts for her girls when the
proper time came.

“A pair of silk stockings, that pretty carved fan, and a lovely blue
sash. I wanted the violet silk, but there isn’t time to make it over, so
I must be contented with my old tarlaton.”

“It will look nice over my new muslin skirt, and the sash will set it off
beautifully. I wish I hadn’t smashed my coral bracelet, for you might
have had it,” said Jo, who loved to give and lend, but whose possessions
were usually too dilapidated to be of much use.

“There is a lovely old-fashioned pearl set in the treasure chest, 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, just curl up the feather in my
hat, Beth, then my poplin for Sunday and the small party, it looks heavy for
spring, doesn’t it? The violet silk would be so nice. Oh, dear!”

“Never mind, you’ve got the tarlaton for the big party, and you
always look like an angel in white,” said Amy, brooding over the little
store of finery in which her soul delighted.

“It isn’t low-necked, and it doesn’t sweep enough, but it
will have to do. My blue housedress looks so well, turned and freshly trimmed,
that I feel as if I’d got a new one. My silk sacque isn’t a bit the
fashion, and my bonnet doesn’t look like Sallie’s. I didn’t
like to say anything, but I was sadly disappointed in my umbrella. I told
Mother black with a white handle, but she forgot and bought a green one with a
yellowish handle. It’s strong and neat, so I ought not to complain, but I
know I shall feel ashamed of it beside Annie’s silk one with a gold
top,” sighed Meg, surveying the little umbrella with great disfavor.

“Change it,” advised Jo.

“I won’t be so silly, or hurt Marmee’s feelings, when she
took so much pains to get my things. It’s a nonsensical notion of mine,
and I’m not going to give up to it. My silk stockings and two pairs of
new gloves are my comfort. You are a dear to lend me yours, Jo. I feel so rich
and sort of elegant, with two new pairs, and the old ones cleaned up for
common.” And Meg took a refreshing peep at her glove box.

“Annie Moffat has blue and pink bows on her nightcaps. Would you put some
on mine?” she asked, as Beth brought up a pile of snowy muslins, fresh
from Hannah’s hands.

“No, I wouldn’t, for the smart caps won’t match the plain
gowns without any trimming on them. Poor folks shouldn’t rig,” said
Jo decidedly.

“I wonder if I shall ever be happy enough to have real lace on my clothes
and bows on my caps?” said Meg impatiently.

“You said the other day that you’d be perfectly happy if you could
only go to Annie Moffat’s,” observed Beth in her quiet way.

“So I did! Well, I am happy, and I won’t fret, but it does seem as
if the more one gets the more one wants, doesn’t it? There now, the trays
are ready, and everything in but my ball dress, which I shall leave for Mother
to pack,” said Meg, cheering up, as she glanced from the half-filled
trunk to the many times pressed and mended white tarlaton, which she called her
‘ball dress’ with an important air.

The next day was fine, and Meg departed in style for a fortnight of novelty and
pleasure. Mrs. March had consented to the visit rather reluctantly, fearing
that Margaret would come back more discontented than she went. But she begged
so hard, and Sallie had promised to take good care of her, and a little
pleasure seemed so delightful after a winter of irksome work that the mother
yielded, and the daughter went to take her first taste of fashionable life.

The Moffats were very fashionable, and simple Meg was rather daunted, at first,
by the splendor of the house and the elegance of its occupants. But they were
kindly people, in spite of the frivolous life they led, and soon put their
guest at her ease. Perhaps Meg felt, without understanding why, that they were
not particularly cultivated or intelligent people, and that all their gilding
could not quite conceal the ordinary material of which they were made. It
certainly was agreeable to fare sumptuously, drive in a fine carriage, wear her
best frock every day, and do nothing but enjoy herself. It suited her exactly,
and soon she began to imitate the manners and conversation of those about her,
to put on little airs and graces, use French phrases, crimp her hair, take in
her dresses, and talk about the fashions as well as she could. The more she saw
of Annie Moffat’s pretty things, the more she envied her and sighed to be
rich. Home now looked bare and dismal as she thought of it, work grew harder
than ever, and she felt that she was a very destitute and much-injured girl, in
spite of the new gloves and silk stockings.

She had not much time for repining, however, for the three young girls were
busily employed in ‘having a good time’. They shopped, walked,
rode, and called all day, went to theaters and operas or frolicked at home in
the evening, for Annie had many friends and knew how to entertain them. Her
older sisters were very fine young ladies, and one was engaged, which was
extremely interesting and romantic, Meg thought. Mr. Moffat was a fat, jolly
old gentleman, who knew her father, and Mrs. Moffat, a fat, jolly old lady, who
took as great a fancy to Meg as her daughter had done. Everyone petted her, and
‘Daisey’, as they called her, was in a fair way to have her head
turned.

When the evening for the small party came, she found that the poplin
wouldn’t do at all, for the other girls were putting on thin dresses and
making themselves very fine indeed. So out came the tarlatan, looking older,
limper, and shabbier than ever beside Sallie’s crisp new one. Meg saw the
girls glance at it and then at one another, and her cheeks began to burn, for
with all her gentleness she was very proud. No one said a word about it, but
Sallie offered to dress her hair, and Annie to tie her sash, and Belle, the
engaged sister, praised her white arms. But in their kindness Meg saw only pity
for her poverty, and her heart felt very heavy as she stood by herself, while
the others laughed, chattered, and flew about like gauzy butterflies. The hard,
bitter feeling was getting pretty bad, when the maid brought in a box of
flowers. Before she could speak, Annie had the cover off, and all were
exclaiming at the lovely roses, heath, and fern within.

“It’s for Belle, of course, George always sends her some, but these
are altogether ravishing,” cried Annie, with a great sniff.

“They are for Miss March, the man said. And here’s a note,”
put in the maid, holding it to Meg.

“What fun! Who are they from? Didn’t know you had a lover,”
cried the girls, fluttering about Meg in a high state of curiosity and
surprise.

“The note is from Mother, and the flowers from Laurie,” said Meg
simply, yet much gratified that he had not forgotten her.

“Oh, indeed!” said Annie with a funny look, as Meg slipped the note
into her pocket as a sort of talisman against envy, vanity, and false pride,
for the few loving words had done her good, and the flowers cheered her up by
their beauty.

Feeling almost happy again, she laid by a few ferns and roses for herself, and
quickly made up the rest in dainty bouquets for the breasts, hair, or skirts of
her friends, offering them so prettily that Clara, the elder sister, told her
she was ‘the sweetest little thing she ever saw’, and they looked
quite charmed with her small attention. Somehow the kind act finished her
despondency, and when all the rest went to show themselves to Mrs. Moffat, she
saw a happy, bright-eyed face in the mirror, as she laid her ferns against her
rippling hair and fastened the roses in the dress that didn’t strike her
as so very shabby now.

She enjoyed herself very much that evening, for she danced to her heart’s
content. Everyone was very kind, and she had three compliments. Annie made her
sing, and some one said she had a remarkably fine voice. Major Lincoln asked
who ‘the fresh little girl with the beautiful eyes’ was, and Mr.
Moffat insisted on dancing with her because she ‘didn’t dawdle, but
had some spring in her’, as he gracefully expressed it. So altogether she
had a very nice time, till she overheard a bit of conversation, which disturbed
her extremely. She was sitting just inside the conservatory, waiting for her
partner to bring her an ice, when she heard a voice ask on the other side of
the flowery wall…

“How old is he?”

“Sixteen or seventeen, I should say,” replied another voice.

“It would be a grand thing for one of those girls, wouldn’t it?
Sallie says they are very intimate now, and the old man quite dotes on
them.”

“Mrs. M. has made her plans, I dare say, and will play her cards well,
early as it is. The girl evidently doesn’t think of it yet,” said
Mrs. Moffat.

“She told that fib about her momma, as if she did know, and colored up
when the flowers came quite prettily. Poor thing! She’d be so nice if she
was only got up in style. Do you think she’d be offended if we offered to
lend her a dress for Thursday?” asked another voice.

“She’s proud, but I don’t believe she’d mind, for that
dowdy tarlaton is all she has got. She may tear it tonight, and that will be a
good excuse for offering a decent one.”

Here Meg’s partner appeared, to find her looking much flushed and rather
agitated. She was proud, and her pride was useful just then, for it helped her
hide her mortification, anger, and disgust at what she had just heard. For,
innocent and unsuspicious as she was, she could not help understanding the
gossip of her friends. She tried to forget it, but could not, and kept
repeating to herself, “Mrs. M. has made her plans,” “that fib
about her mamma,” and “dowdy tarlaton,” till she was ready to
cry and rush home to tell her troubles and ask for advice. As that was
impossible, she did her best to seem gay, and being rather excited, she
succeeded so well that no one dreamed what an effort she was making. She was
very glad when it was all over and she was quiet in her bed, where she could
think and wonder and fume till her head ached and her hot cheeks were cooled by
a few natural tears. Those foolish, yet well meant words, had opened a new
world to Meg, and much disturbed the peace of the old one in which till now she
had lived as happily as a child. Her innocent friendship with Laurie was
spoiled by the silly speeches she had overheard. Her faith in her mother was a
little shaken by the worldly plans attributed to her by Mrs. Moffat, who judged
others by herself, and the sensible resolution to be contented with the simple
wardrobe which suited a poor man’s daughter was weakened by the
unnecessary pity of girls who thought a shabby dress one of the greatest
calamities under heaven.

Poor Meg had a restless night, and got up heavy-eyed, unhappy, half resentful
toward her friends, and half ashamed of herself for not speaking out frankly
and setting everything right. Everybody dawdled that morning, and it was noon
before the girls found energy enough even to take up their worsted work.
Something in the manner of her friends struck Meg at once. They treated her
with more respect, she thought, took quite a tender interest in what she said,
and looked at her with eyes that plainly betrayed curiosity. All this surprised
and flattered her, though she did not understand it till Miss Belle looked up
from her writing, and said, with a sentimental air…

“Daisy, dear, I’ve sent an invitation to your friend, Mr. Laurence,
for Thursday. We should like to know him, and it’s only a proper
compliment to you.”

Meg colored, but a mischievous fancy to tease the girls made her reply
demurely, “You are very kind, but I’m afraid he won’t
come.”

“Why not, Cherie?” asked Miss Belle.

“He’s too old.”

“My child, what do you mean? What is his age, I beg to know!” cried
Miss Clara.

“Nearly seventy, I believe,” answered Meg, counting stitches to
hide the merriment in her eyes.

“You sly creature! Of course we meant the young man,” exclaimed
Miss Belle, laughing.

“There isn’t any, Laurie is only a little boy.” And Meg
laughed also at the queer look which the sisters exchanged as she thus
described her supposed lover.

“About your age,” Nan said.

“Nearer my sister Jo’s; I am seventeen in August,” returned
Meg, tossing her head.

“It’s very nice of him to send you flowers, isn’t it?”
said Annie, looking wise about nothing.

“Yes, he often does, to all of us, for their house is full, and we are so
fond of them. My mother and old Mr. Laurence are friends, you know, so it is
quite natural that we children should play together,” and Meg hoped they
would say no more.

“It’s evident Daisy isn’t out yet,” said Miss Clara to
Belle with a nod.

“Quite a pastoral state of innocence all round,” returned Miss
Belle with a shrug.

“I’m going out to get some little matters for my girls. Can I do
anything for you, young ladies?” asked Mrs. Moffat, lumbering in like an
elephant in silk and lace.

“No, thank you, ma’am,” replied Sallie. “I’ve got
my new pink silk for Thursday and don’t want a thing.”

“Nor I…” began Meg, but stopped because it occurred to her that
she did want several things and could not have them.

“What shall you wear?” asked Sallie.

“My old white one again, if I can mend it fit to be seen, it got sadly
torn last night,” said Meg, trying to speak quite easily, but feeling
very uncomfortable.

“Why don’t you send home for another?” said Sallie, who was
not an observing young lady.

“I haven’t got any other.” It cost Meg an effort to say that,
but Sallie did not see it and exclaimed in amiable surprise, “Only that?
How funny…” She did not finish her speech, for Belle shook her head at
her and broke in, saying kindly…

“Not at all. Where is the use of having a lot of dresses when she
isn’t out yet? There’s no need of sending home, Daisy, even if you
had a dozen, for I’ve got a sweet blue silk laid away, which I’ve
outgrown, and you shall wear it to please me, won’t you, dear?”

“You are very kind, but I don’t mind my old dress if you
don’t, it does well enough for a little girl like me,” said Meg.

“Now do let me please myself by dressing you up in style. I admire to do
it, and you’d be a regular little beauty with a touch here and there. I
shan’t let anyone see you till you are done, and then we’ll burst
upon them like Cinderella and her godmother going to the ball,” said
Belle in her persuasive tone.

Meg couldn’t refuse the offer so kindly made, for a desire to see if she
would be ‘a little beauty’ after touching up caused her to accept
and forget all her former uncomfortable feelings toward the Moffats.

On the Thursday evening, Belle shut herself up with her maid, and between them
they turned Meg into a fine lady. They crimped and curled her hair, they
polished her neck and arms with some fragrant powder, touched her lips with
coralline salve to make them redder, and Hortense would have added ‘a
soupcon of rouge’, if Meg had not rebelled. They laced her into a
sky-blue dress, which was so tight she could hardly breathe and so low in the
neck that modest Meg blushed at herself in the mirror. A set of silver filagree
was added, bracelets, necklace, brooch, and even earrings, for Hortense tied
them on with a bit of pink silk which did not show. A cluster of tea-rose buds
at the bosom, and a ruche, reconciled Meg to the display of her pretty, white
shoulders, and a pair of high-heeled silk boots satisfied the last wish of her
heart. A lace handkerchief, a plumy fan, and a bouquet in a shoulder holder
finished her off, and Miss Belle surveyed her with the satisfaction of a little
girl with a newly dressed doll.

“Mademoiselle is charmante, tres jolie, is she not?” cried
Hortense, clasping her hands in an affected rapture.

“Come and show yourself,” said Miss Belle, leading the way to the
room where the others were waiting.

As Meg went rustling after, with her long skirts trailing, her earrings
tinkling, her curls waving, and her heart beating, she felt as if her fun had
really begun at last, for the mirror had plainly told her that she was ‘a
little beauty’. Her friends repeated the pleasing phrase
enthusiastically, and for several minutes she stood, like a jackdaw in the
fable, enjoying her borrowed plumes, while the rest chattered like a party of
magpies.

“While I dress, do you drill her, Nan, in the management of her skirt and
those French heels, or she will trip herself up. Take your silver butterfly,
and catch up that long curl on the left side of her head, Clara, and
don’t any of you disturb the charming work of my hands,” said
Belle, as she hurried away, looking well pleased with her success.

“You don’t look a bit like yourself, but you are very nice.
I’m nowhere beside you, for Belle has heaps of taste, and you’re
quite French, I assure you. Let your flowers hang, don’t be so careful of
them, and be sure you don’t trip,” returned Sallie, trying not to
care that Meg was prettier than herself.

Keeping that warning carefully in mind, Margaret got safely down stairs and
sailed into the drawing rooms where the Moffats and a few early guests were
assembled. She very soon discovered that there is a charm about fine clothes
which attracts a certain class of people and secures their respect. Several
young ladies, who had taken no notice of her before, were very affectionate all
of a sudden. Several young gentlemen, who had only stared at her at the other
party, now not only stared, but asked to be introduced, and said all manner of
foolish but agreeable things to her, and several old ladies, who sat on the
sofas, and criticized the rest of the party, inquired who she was with an air
of interest. She heard Mrs. Moffat reply to one of them…

“Daisy March—father a colonel in the army—one of our first
families, but reverses of fortune, you know; intimate friends of the Laurences;
sweet creature, I assure you; my Ned is quite wild about her.”

“Dear me!” said the old lady, putting up her glass for another
observation of Meg, who tried to look as if she had not heard and been rather
shocked at Mrs. Moffat’s fibs. The ‘queer feeling’ did not
pass away, but she imagined herself acting the new part of fine lady and so got
on pretty well, though the tight dress gave her a side-ache, the train kept
getting under her feet, and she was in constant fear lest her earrings should
fly off and get lost or broken. She was flirting her fan and laughing at the
feeble jokes of a young gentleman who tried to be witty, when she suddenly
stopped laughing and looked confused, for just opposite, she saw Laurie. He was
staring at her with undisguised surprise, and disapproval also, she thought,
for though he bowed and smiled, yet something in his honest eyes made her blush
and wish she had her old dress on. To complete her confusion, she saw Belle
nudge Annie, and both glance from her to Laurie, who, she was happy to see,
looked unusually boyish and shy.

“Silly creatures, to put such thoughts into my head. I won’t care
for it, or let it change me a bit,” thought Meg, and rustled across the
room to shake hands with her friend.

“I’m glad you came, I was afraid you wouldn’t.” she
said, with her most grown-up air.

“Jo wanted me to come, and tell her how you looked, so I did,”
answered Laurie, without turning his eyes upon her, though he half smiled at
her maternal tone.

“What shall you tell her?” asked Meg, full of curiosity to know his
opinion of her, yet feeling ill at ease with him for the first time.

“I shall say I didn’t know you, for you look so grown-up and unlike
yourself, I’m quite afraid of you,” he said, fumbling at his glove
button.

“How absurd of you! The girls dressed me up for fun, and I rather like
it. Wouldn’t Jo stare if she saw me?” said Meg, bent on making him
say whether he thought her improved or not.

“Yes, I think she would,” returned Laurie gravely.

“Don’t you like me so?” asked Meg.

“No, I don’t,” was the blunt reply.

“Why not?” in an anxious tone.

He glanced at her frizzled head, bare shoulders, and fantastically trimmed
dress with an expression that abashed her more than his answer, which had not a
particle of his usual politeness in it.

“I don’t like fuss and feathers.”

That was altogether too much from a lad younger than herself, and Meg walked
away, saying petulantly, “You are the rudest boy I ever saw.”

Feeling very much ruffled, she went and stood at a quiet window to cool her
cheeks, for the tight dress gave her an uncomfortably brilliant color. As she
stood there, Major Lincoln passed by, and a minute after she heard him saying
to his mother…

“They are making a fool of that little girl. I wanted you to see her, but
they have spoiled her entirely. She’s nothing but a doll tonight.”

“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 of myself.”

She leaned her forehead on the cool pane, and stood half hidden by the
curtains, never minding that her favorite waltz had begun, till some one
touched her, and turning, she saw Laurie, looking penitent, as he said, with
his very best bow and his hand out…

“Please forgive my rudeness, and come and dance with me.”

“I’m afraid it will be too disagreeable to you,” said Meg,
trying to look offended and failing entirely.

“Not a bit of it, I’m dying to do it. Come, I’ll be good. I
don’t like your gown, but I do think you are just splendid.” And he
waved his hands, as if words failed to express his admiration.

Meg smiled and relented, and whispered as they stood waiting to catch the time,
“Take care my skirt doesn’t trip you up. It’s the plague of
my life and I was a goose to wear it.”

“Pin it round your neck, and then it will be useful,” said Laurie,
looking down at the little blue boots, which he evidently approved of.

Away they went fleetly and gracefully, for having practiced at home, they were
well matched, and the blithe young couple were a pleasant sight to see, as they
twirled merrily round and round, feeling more friendly than ever after their
small tiff.

“Laurie, I want you to do me a favor, will you?” said Meg, as he
stood fanning her when her breath gave out, which it did very soon though she
would not own why.

“Won’t I!” said Laurie, with alacrity.

“Please don’t tell them at home about my dress tonight. They
won’t understand the joke, and it will worry Mother.”

“Then why did you do it?” said Laurie’s eyes, so plainly that
Meg hastily added…

“I shall tell them myself all about it, and ‘fess’ to Mother
how silly I’ve been. But I’d rather do it myself. So you’ll
not tell, will you?”

“I give you my word I won’t, only what shall I say when they ask
me?”

“Just say I looked pretty well and was having a good time.”

“I’ll say the first with all my heart, but how about the other? You
don’t look as if you were having a good time. Are you?” And Laurie
looked at her with an expression which made her answer in a whisper…

“No, not just now. Don’t think I’m horrid. I only wanted a
little fun, but this sort doesn’t pay, I find, and I’m getting
tired of it.”

“Here comes Ned Moffat. What does he want?” said Laurie, knitting
his black brows as if he did not regard his young host in the light of a
pleasant addition to the party.

“He put his name down for three dances, and I suppose he’s coming
for them. What a bore!” said Meg, assuming a languid air which amused
Laurie immensely.

He did not speak to her again till suppertime, when he saw her drinking
champagne with Ned and his friend Fisher, who were behaving ‘like a pair
of fools’, as Laurie said to himself, for he felt a brotherly sort of
right to watch over the Marches and fight their battles whenever a defender was
needed.

“You’ll have a splitting headache tomorrow, if you drink much of
that. I wouldn’t, Meg, your mother doesn’t like it, you
know,” he whispered, leaning over her chair, as Ned turned to refill her
glass and Fisher stooped to pick up her fan.

“I’m not Meg tonight, I’m ‘a doll’ who does all
sorts of crazy things. Tomorrow I shall put away my ‘fuss and
feathers’ and be desperately good again,” she answered with an
affected little laugh.

“Wish tomorrow was here, then,” muttered Laurie, walking off,
ill-pleased at the change he saw in her.

Meg danced and flirted, chattered and giggled, as the other girls did. After
supper she undertook the German, and blundered through it, nearly upsetting her
partner with her long skirt, and romping in a way that scandalized Laurie, who
looked on and meditated a lecture. But he got no chance to deliver it, for Meg
kept away from him till he came to say good night.

“Remember!” she said, trying to smile, for the splitting headache
had already begun.

“Silence a la mort,” replied Laurie, with a melodramatic flourish,
as he went away.

This little bit of byplay excited Annie’s curiosity, but Meg was too
tired for gossip and went to bed, feeling as if she had been to a masquerade
and hadn’t enjoyed herself as much as she expected. She was sick all the
next day, and on Saturday went home, quite used up with her fortnight’s
fun and feeling that she had ‘sat in the lap of luxury’ long
enough.

“It does seem pleasant to be quiet, and not have company manners on all
the time. Home is a nice place, though it isn’t splendid,” said
Meg, looking about her with a restful expression, as she sat with her mother
and Jo on the Sunday evening.

“I’m glad to hear you say so, dear, for I was afraid home would
seem dull and poor to you after your fine quarters,” replied her mother,
who had given her many anxious looks that day. For motherly eyes are quick to
see any change in children’s faces.

Meg had told her adventures gayly and said over and over what a charming time
she had had, but something still seemed to weigh upon her spirits, and when the
younger girls were gone to bed, she sat thoughtfully staring at the fire,
saying little and looking worried. As the clock struck nine and Jo proposed
bed, Meg suddenly left her chair and, taking Beth’s stool, leaned her
elbows on her mother’s knee, saying bravely…

“Marmee, I want to ‘fess’.”

“I thought so. What is it, dear?”

“Shall I go away?” asked Jo discreetly.

“Of course not. Don’t I always tell you everything? I was ashamed
to speak of it before the younger children, but I want you to know all the
dreadful things I did at the Moffats’.”

“We are prepared,” said Mrs. March, smiling but looking a little
anxious.

“I told you they dressed me up, but I didn’t tell you that they
powdered and squeezed and frizzled, and made me look like a fashion-plate.
Laurie thought I wasn’t proper. I know he did, though he didn’t say
so, and one man called me ‘a doll’. I knew it was silly, but they
flattered me and said I was a beauty, and quantities of nonsense, so I let them
make a fool of me.”

“Is that all?” asked Jo, as Mrs. March looked silently at the
downcast face of her pretty daughter, and could not find it in her heart to
blame her little follies.

“No, I drank champagne and romped and tried to flirt, and was altogether
abominable,” said Meg self-reproachfully.

“There is something more, I think.” And Mrs. March smoothed the
soft cheek, which suddenly grew rosy as Meg answered slowly…

“Yes. It’s very silly, but I want to tell it, because I hate to
have people say and think such things about us and Laurie.”

Then she told the various bits of gossip she had heard at the Moffats’,
and as she spoke, Jo saw her mother fold her lips tightly, as if ill pleased
that such ideas should be put into Meg’s innocent mind.

“Well, if that isn’t the greatest rubbish I ever heard,”
cried Jo indignantly. “Why didn’t you pop out and tell them so on
the spot?”

“I couldn’t, it was so embarrassing for me. I couldn’t help
hearing at first, and then I was so angry and ashamed, I didn’t remember
that I ought to go away.”

“Just wait till I see Annie Moffat, and I’ll show you how to settle
such ridiculous stuff. The idea of having ‘plans’ and being kind to
Laurie because he’s rich and may marry us by-and-by! Won’t he shout
when I tell him what those silly things say about us poor children?” And
Jo laughed, as if on second thoughts the thing struck her as a good joke.

“If you tell Laurie, I’ll never forgive you! She mustn’t,
must she, Mother?” said Meg, looking distressed.

“No, never repeat that foolish gossip, and forget it as soon as you
can,” said Mrs. March gravely. “I was very unwise to let you go
among people of whom I know so little, kind, I dare say, but worldly, ill-bred,
and full of these vulgar ideas about young people. I am more sorry than I can
express for the mischief this visit may have done you, Meg.”

“Don’t be sorry, I won’t let it hurt me. I’ll forget
all the bad and remember only the good, for I did enjoy a great deal, and thank
you very much for letting me go. I’ll not be sentimental or dissatisfied,
Mother. I know I’m a silly little girl, and I’ll stay with you till
I’m fit to take care of myself. But it is nice to be praised and admired,
and I can’t help saying I like it,” said Meg, looking half ashamed
of the confession.

“That is perfectly natural, and quite harmless, if the liking does not
become a passion and lead one to do foolish or unmaidenly things. Learn to know
and value the praise which is worth having, and to excite the admiration of
excellent people by being modest as well as pretty, Meg.”

Margaret sat thinking a moment, while Jo stood with her hands behind her,
looking both interested and a little perplexed, for it was a new thing to see
Meg blushing and talking about admiration, lovers, and things of that sort. And
Jo felt as if during that fortnight her sister had grown up amazingly, and was
drifting away from her into a world where she could not follow.

“Mother, do you have ‘plans’, as Mrs. Moffat said?”
asked Meg bashfully.

“Yes, my dear, I have a great many, all mothers do, but mine differ
somewhat from Mrs. Moffat’s, I suspect. I will tell you some of them, for
the time has come when a word may set this romantic little head and heart of
yours right, on a very serious subject. You are young, Meg, but not too young
to understand me, and mothers’ lips are the fittest to speak of such
things to girls like you. Jo, your turn will come in time, perhaps, so listen
to my ‘plans’ and help me carry them out, if they are good.”

Jo went and sat on one arm of the chair, looking as if she thought they were
about to join in some very solemn affair. Holding a hand of each, and watching
the two young faces wistfully, Mrs. March said, in her serious yet cheery
way…

“I want my daughters to be beautiful, accomplished, and good. To be
admired, loved, and respected. To have a happy youth, to be well and wisely
married, and to lead useful, pleasant lives, with as little care and sorrow to
try them as God sees fit to send. To be loved and chosen by a good man is the
best and sweetest thing which can happen to a woman, and I sincerely hope my
girls may know this beautiful experience. It is natural to think of it, Meg,
right to hope and wait for it, and wise to prepare for it, so that when the
happy time comes, you may feel ready for the duties and worthy of the joy. My
dear girls, I am ambitious for you, but not to have you make a dash in the
world, marry rich men merely because they are rich, or have splendid houses,
which are not homes because love is wanting. Money is a needful and precious
thing, and when well used, a noble thing, but I never want you to think it is
the first or only prize to strive for. I’d rather see you poor
men’s wives, if you were happy, beloved, contented, than queens on
thrones, without self-respect and peace.”

“Poor girls don’t stand any chance, Belle says, unless they put
themselves forward,” sighed Meg.

“Then we’ll be old maids,” said Jo stoutly.

“Right, Jo. Better be happy old maids than unhappy wives, or unmaidenly
girls, running about to find husbands,” said Mrs. March decidedly.
“Don’t be troubled, Meg, poverty seldom daunts a sincere lover.
Some of the best and most honored women I know were poor girls, but so
love-worthy that they were not allowed to be old maids. Leave these things to
time. Make this home happy, so that you may be fit for homes of your own, if
they are offered you, and contented here if they are not. One thing remember,
my girls. Mother is always ready to be your confidant, Father to be your
friend, and both of us hope and trust that our daughters, whether married or
single, will be the pride and comfort of our lives.”

“We will, Marmee, we will!” cried both, with all their hearts, as
she bade them good night.

CHAPTER TEN
THE P.C. AND P.O.

As spring came on, a new set of amusements became the fashion, and the
lengthening days gave long afternoons for work and play of all sorts. The
garden had to be put in order, and each sister had a quarter of the little plot
to do what she liked with. Hannah used to say, “I’d know which each
of them gardings belonged to, ef I see ’em in Chiny,” and so she
might, for the girls’ tastes differed as much as their characters.
Meg’s had roses and heliotrope, myrtle, and a little orange tree in it.
Jo’s bed was never alike two seasons, for she was always trying
experiments. This year it was to be a plantation of sun flowers, the seeds of
which cheerful and aspiring plant were to feed Aunt Cockle-top and her family
of chicks. Beth had old-fashioned fragrant flowers in her garden, sweet peas
and mignonette, larkspur, pinks, pansies, and southernwood, with chickweed for
the birds and catnip for the pussies. Amy had a bower in hers, rather small and
earwiggy, but very pretty to look at, with honeysuckle and morning-glories
hanging their colored horns and bells in graceful wreaths all over it, tall
white lilies, delicate ferns, and as many brilliant, picturesque plants as
would consent to blossom there.

Gardening, walks, rows on the river, and flower hunts employed the fine days,
and for rainy ones, they had house diversions, some old, some new, all more or
less original. One of these was the ‘P.C.’, for as secret societies
were the fashion, it was thought proper to have one, and as all of the girls
admired Dickens, they called themselves the Pickwick Club. With a few
interruptions, they had kept this up for a year, and met every Saturday evening
in the big garret, on which occasions the ceremonies were as follows: Three
chairs were arranged in a row before a table on which was a lamp, also four
white badges, with a big ‘P.C.’ in different colors on each, and
the weekly newspaper called, The Pickwick Portfolio, to which all contributed
something, while Jo, who reveled in pens and ink, was the editor. At seven
o’clock, the four members ascended to the clubroom, tied their badges
round their heads, and took their seats with great solemnity. Meg, as the
eldest, was Samuel Pickwick, Jo, being of a literary turn, Augustus Snodgrass,
Beth, because she was round and rosy, Tracy Tupman, and Amy, who was always
trying to do what she couldn’t, was Nathaniel Winkle. Pickwick, the
president, read the paper, which was filled with original tales, poetry, local
news, funny advertisements, and hints, in which they good-naturedly reminded
each other of their faults and short comings. On one occasion, Mr. Pickwick put
on a pair of spectacles without any glass, rapped upon the table, hemmed, and
having stared hard at Mr. Snodgrass, who was tilting back in his chair, till he
arranged himself properly, began to read:

“THE PICKWICK PORTFOLIO”

MAY 20, 18—

POET’S CORNER

ANNIVERSARY ODE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A. SNODGRASS

THE MASKED MARRIAGE
(A Tale Of Venice)

Gondola after gondola swept up to the marble steps, and left its lovely load to
swell the brilliant throng that filled the stately halls of Count Adelon.
Knights and ladies, elves and pages, monks and flower girls, all mingled gaily
in the dance. Sweet voices and rich melody filled the air, and so with mirth
and music the masquerade went on. “Has your Highness seen the Lady Viola
tonight?” asked a gallant troubadour of the fairy queen who floated down
the hall upon his arm.

“Yes, is she not lovely, though so sad! Her dress is well chosen, too,
for in a week she weds Count Antonio, whom she passionately hates.”

“By my faith, I envy him. Yonder he comes, arrayed like a bridegroom,
except the black mask. When that is off we shall see how he regards the fair
maid whose heart he cannot win, though her stern father bestows her
hand,” returned the troubadour.

“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. 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 on the gay throng, and not a sound, but the dash of
fountains or the rustle of orange groves sleeping in the moonlight, broke the
hush, as Count de Adelon spoke thus:

“My lords and ladies, pardon the ruse by which I have gathered you here
to witness the marriage of my daughter. Father, we wait your services.”
All eyes turned toward the bridal party, and a murmur of amazement went through
the throng, for neither bride nor groom removed their masks. Curiosity and
wonder possessed all hearts, but respect restrained all tongues till the holy
rite was over. Then the eager spectators gathered round the count, demanding an
explanation.

“Gladly would I give it if I could, but I only know that it was the whim
of my timid Viola, and I yielded to it. Now, my children, let the play end.
Unmask and receive my blessing.”

But neither bent the knee, for the young bridegroom replied in a tone that
startled all listeners as the mask fell, disclosing the noble face of Ferdinand
Devereux, the artist lover, and leaning on the breast where now flashed the
star of an English earl was the lovely Viola, radiant with joy and beauty.

“My lord, you scornfully bade me claim your daughter when I could boast
as high a name and vast a fortune as the Count Antonio. I can do more, for even
your ambitious soul cannot refuse the Earl of Devereux and De Vere, when he
gives his ancient name and boundless wealth in return for the beloved hand of
this fair lady, now my wife.”

The count stood like one changed to stone, and turning to the bewildered crowd,
Ferdinand added, with a gay smile of triumph, “To you, my gallant
friends, I can only wish that your wooing may prosper as mine has done, and
that you may all win as fair a bride as I have by this masked marriage.”

S. PICKWICK

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

THE HISTORY OF A SQUASH

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

T. TUPMAN

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

Yours respectably,
N. WINKLE

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

A SAD ACCIDENT

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

ED.

THE PUBLIC BEREAVEMENT

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

A sympathizing friend sends the following gem:

A LAMENT
FOR S. B. PAT PAW

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

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

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

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

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

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

A.S.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
EXPERIMENTS

“The first of June! The Kings are off to the seashore tomorrow, and
I’m free. Three months’ vacation—how I shall enjoy it!”
exclaimed Meg, coming home one warm day to find Jo laid upon the sofa in an
unusual state of exhaustion, while Beth took off her dusty boots, and Amy made
lemonade for the refreshment of the whole party.

“Aunt March went today, 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 of, she popped out her
head, saying, ‘Josyphine, won’t you—?’ I didn’t
hear any more, for I basely turned and fled. I did actually run, and whisked
round the corner where I felt safe.”

“Poor old Jo! She came in looking as if bears were after her,” said
Beth, as she cuddled her sister’s feet with a motherly air.

“Aunt March is a regular samphire, is she not?” observed Amy,
tasting her mixture critically.

“She means vampire, not seaweed, but it doesn’t matter. It’s
too warm to be particular about one’s parts of speech,” murmured
Jo.

“What shall you do all your vacation?” asked Amy, changing the
subject with tact.

“I shall lie abed late, and do nothing,” replied Meg, from the
depths of the rocking chair. “I’ve been routed up early all winter
and had to spend my days working for other people, so now I’m going to
rest and revel to my heart’s content.”

“No,” said Jo, “that dozy way wouldn’t suit me.
I’ve laid in a heap of books, and I’m going to improve my shining
hours reading on my perch in the old apple tree, when I’m not having
l——”

“Don’t say ‘larks!’” implored Amy, as a return
snub for the ‘samphire’ correction.

“I’ll say ‘nightingales’ then, with Laurie.
That’s proper and appropriate, since he’s a warbler.”

“Don’t let us do any lessons, Beth, for a while, but play all the
time and rest, as the girls mean to,” proposed Amy.

“Well, I will, if Mother doesn’t mind. I want to learn some new
songs, and my children need fitting up for the summer. They are dreadfully out
of order and really suffering for clothes.”

“May we, Mother?” asked Meg, turning to Mrs. March, who sat sewing
in what they called ‘Marmee’s corner’.

“You may try your experiment for a week and see how you like it. I think
by Saturday night you will find that all play and no work is as bad as all work
and no play.”

“Oh, dear, no! It will be delicious, I’m sure,” said Meg
complacently.

“I now propose a toast, as my ‘friend and pardner, Sairy
Gamp’, says. Fun forever, and no grubbing!” cried Jo, rising, glass
in hand, as the lemonade went round.

They all drank it merrily, and began the experiment by lounging for the rest of
the day. Next morning, Meg did not appear till ten o’clock. Her solitary
breakfast did not taste good, 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 to 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
honeysuckle, hoping someone would see and inquire who the young artist was. As
no one appeared but an inquisitive daddy-longlegs, who examined her work with
interest, she went to walk, got caught in a shower, and came home dripping.

At teatime 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
burned 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 reveling’ process. The days kept getting longer
and longer, the weather was unusually variable and so were tempers; an
unsettled feeling possessed everyone, 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 a la Moffat. Jo read till her eyes
gave out and she was sick of books, got so fidgety that even good-natured
Laurie had a quarrel with her, and so reduced in spirits that she desperately
wished she had gone with Aunt March. Beth got on pretty well, for she was
constantly forgetting that it was to be all play and no work, and fell back
into her old ways now and then. But something in the air affected her, and more
than once her tranquility 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 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 traveling, the
summer would be delightful, but to stay at home with three selfish sisters and
a grown-up boy was enough to try the patience of a Boaz,” complained Miss
Malaprop, after several days devoted to pleasure, fretting, and ennui.

No one would own that they were tired of the experiment, but by Friday night
each acknowledged to herself that she was glad the week was nearly done. Hoping
to impress the lesson more deeply, Mrs. March, who had a good deal of humor,
resolved to finish off the trial in an appropriate manner, so she gave Hannah a
holiday and let the girls enjoy the full effect of the play system.

When they got up on Saturday morning, there was no fire in the kitchen, no
breakfast in the dining room, and no mother anywhere to be seen.

“Mercy on us! What has happened?” cried Jo, staring about her in
dismay.

Meg ran upstairs and soon came back again, looking relieved but rather
bewildered, and a little ashamed.

“Mother isn’t sick, only very tired, and she says she is going to
stay quietly in her room all day and let us do the best we can. It’s a
very queer thing for her to do, she doesn’t act a bit like herself. But
she says it has been a hard week for her, so we mustn’t grumble but take
care of ourselves.”

“That’s easy enough, and I like the idea, I’m aching for
something to do, that is, some new amusement, you know,” added Jo
quickly.

In fact it was an immense relief to them all to have a little work, and they
took hold with a will, but soon realized the truth of Hannah’s saying,
“Housekeeping ain’t no joke.” There was plenty of food in the
larder, and while Beth and Amy set the table, Meg and Jo got breakfast,
wondering as they did why servants ever talked about hard work.

“I shall take some up to Mother, though she said we were not to think of
her, for she’d take care of herself,” said Meg, who presided and
felt quite matronly behind the teapot.

So a tray was fitted out before anyone began, and taken up with the
cook’s compliments. The boiled tea was very bitter, the omelet scorched,
and the biscuits speckled with saleratus, but Mrs. March received her repast
with thanks and laughed heartily over it after Jo was gone.

“Poor little souls, they will have a hard time, I’m afraid, but
they won’t suffer, and it will do them good,” she said, producing
the more palatable viands with which she had provided herself, and disposing of
the bad breakfast, so that their feelings might not be hurt, a motherly little
deception for which they were grateful.

Many were the complaints below, and great the chagrin of the head cook at her
failures. “Never mind, I’ll get the dinner and be servant, you be
mistress, keep your hands nice, see company, and give orders,” said Jo,
who knew still less than Meg about culinary affairs.

This obliging offer was gladly accepted, 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.

“You’d better see what you have got before you think of having
company,” said Meg, when informed of the hospitable but rash act.

“Oh, there’s corned beef and plenty of potatoes, and I shall get
some asparagus and a lobster, ‘for a relish’, as Hannah says.
We’ll have lettuce and make a salad. I don’t know how, but the book
tells. I’ll have blanc mange and strawberries for dessert, and coffee
too, if you want to be elegant.”

“Don’t try too many messes, Jo, for you can’t make anything
but gingerbread and molasses candy fit to eat. I wash my hands of the dinner
party, and since you have asked Laurie on your own responsibility, you may just
take care of him.”

“I don’t want you to do anything but be civil to him and help to
the pudding. You’ll give me your advice if I get in a muddle, won’t
you?” asked Jo, rather hurt.

“Yes, but I don’t know much, except about bread and a few trifles.
You had better ask Mother’s leave before you order anything,”
returned Meg prudently.

“Of course I shall. I’m not a fool.” And Jo went off in a
huff at the doubts expressed of her powers.

“Get what you like, and don’t disturb me. I’m going out to
dinner and can’t worry about things at home,” said Mrs. March, when
Jo spoke to her. “I never enjoyed housekeeping, and I’m going to
take a vacation today, and read, write, go visiting, and amuse myself.”

The unusual spectacle of her busy mother rocking comfortably and reading early
in the morning made Jo feel as if some unnatural phenomenon had occurred, for
an eclipse, an earthquake, or a volcanic eruption would hardly have seemed
stranger.

“Everything is out of sorts, somehow,” she said to herself, going
downstairs. “There’s Beth crying, that’s a sure sign that
something is wrong in this family. If Amy is bothering, I’ll shake
her.”

Feeling very much out of sorts herself, Jo hurried into the parlor to find Beth
sobbing over Pip, the canary, who lay dead in the cage with his little claws
pathetically extended, as if imploring the food for want of which he had died.

“It’s all my fault, I forgot him, there isn’t a seed or a
drop left. Oh, Pip! Oh, Pip! How could I be so cruel to you?” cried Beth,
taking the poor thing in her hands and trying to restore him.

Jo peeped into his half-open eye, felt his little heart, and finding him stiff
and cold, shook her head, and offered her domino box for a coffin.

“Put him in the oven, and maybe he will get warm and revive,” said
Amy hopefully.

“He’s been starved, and he shan’t be baked now he’s
dead. I’ll make him a shroud, and he shall be buried in the garden, and
I’ll never have another bird, never, my Pip! for I am too bad to own
one,” murmured Beth, sitting on the floor with her pet folded in her
hands.

“The funeral shall be this afternoon, and we will all go. Now,
don’t cry, Bethy. It’s a pity, but nothing goes right this week,
and Pip has had the worst of the experiment. Make the shroud, and lay him in my
box, and after the dinner party, we’ll have a nice little funeral,”
said Jo, beginning to feel as if she had undertaken a good deal.

Leaving the others to console Beth, she departed to the kitchen, which was in a
most discouraging state of confusion. Putting on a big apron, she fell to work
and got the dishes piled up ready for washing, when she discovered that the
fire was out.

“Here’s a sweet prospect!” muttered Jo, slamming the stove
door open, and poking vigorously among the cinders.

Having rekindled the fire, she thought she would go to market while the water
heated. The walk revived her spirits, and flattering herself that she had made
good bargains, she trudged home again, after buying a very young lobster, some
very old asparagus, and two boxes of acid strawberries. By the time she got
cleared up, the dinner arrived and the stove was red-hot. Hannah had left a pan
of bread to rise, Meg had worked it up early, set it on the hearth for a second
rising, and forgotten it. Meg was entertaining Sallie Gardiner in the parlor,
when the door flew open and a floury, crocky, flushed, and disheveled figure
appeared, demanding tartly…

“I say, isn’t bread ‘riz’ enough when it runs over the
pans?”

Sallie began to laugh, but Meg nodded and lifted her eyebrows as high as they
would go, which caused the apparition to vanish and put the sour bread into the
oven without further delay. Mrs. March went out, after peeping here and there
to see how matters went, also saying a word of comfort to Beth, who sat making
a winding sheet, while the dear departed lay in state in the domino box. A
strange sense of helplessness fell upon the girls as the gray bonnet vanished
round the corner, and despair seized them when a few minutes later Miss Crocker
appeared, and said she’d come to dinner. Now this lady was a thin, yellow
spinster, with a sharp nose and inquisitive eyes, who saw everything and
gossiped about all she saw. They disliked her, but had been taught to be kind
to her, simply because she was old and poor and had few friends. So Meg gave
her the easy chair and tried to entertain her, while she asked questions,
criticized everything, and told stories of the people whom she knew.

Language cannot describe the anxieties, experiences, and exertions which Jo
underwent that morning, and the dinner she served up became a standing joke.
Fearing to ask any more advice, she did her best alone, and discovered that
something more than energy and good will is necessary to make a cook. She
boiled the asparagus for an hour and was grieved to find the heads cooked off
and the stalks harder than ever. The bread burned black; for the salad dressing
so aggravated her 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 meager 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 the
last. The blanc mange was lumpy, and the strawberries not as ripe as they
looked, having been skilfully ‘deaconed’.

“Well, they can eat beef and bread and butter, if they are hungry, only
it’s mortifying to have to spend your whole morning for nothing,”
thought Jo, as she rang the bell half an hour later than usual, and stood, hot,
tired, and dispirited, surveying the feast spread before Laurie, accustomed to
all sorts of elegance, and Miss Crocker, whose tattling tongue would report
them far and wide.

Poor Jo would gladly have gone under the table, as one thing after another was
tasted and left, while Amy giggled, Meg looked distressed, Miss Crocker pursed
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 everyone 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 refused, thinking there might not be enough, for they
dwindled sadly after the picking over, glanced at Laurie, but he was eating
away manfully, though there was a slight pucker about his mouth and he kept his
eye fixed on his plate. Amy, who was fond of delicate fare, took a heaping
spoonful, choked, hid her face in her napkin, and left the table precipitately.

“Oh, what is it?” exclaimed Jo, trembling.

“Salt instead of sugar, and the cream is sour,” replied Meg with a
tragic gesture.

Jo uttered a groan and fell back in her chair, remembering that she had given a
last hasty powdering to the berries out of one of the two boxes on the kitchen
table, and had neglected to put the milk in the refrigerator. She turned
scarlet and was on the verge of crying, when she met Laurie’s eyes, which
would look merry in spite of his heroic efforts. The comical side of the affair
suddenly struck her, and she laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. So did
everyone else, even ‘Croaker’ as the girls called the old lady, and
the unfortunate dinner ended gaily, with bread and butter, olives and fun.

“I haven’t strength of mind enough to clear up now, so we will
sober ourselves with a funeral,” said Jo, as they rose, and Miss Crocker
made ready to go, being eager to tell the new story at another friend’s
dinner table.

They did sober themselves for Beth’s sake. Laurie dug a grave under the
ferns in the grove, little Pip was laid in, with many tears by his
tender-hearted mistress, and covered with moss, while a wreath of violets and
chickweed was hung on the stone which bore his epitaph, composed by Jo while
she struggled with the dinner.

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

At the conclusion of the ceremonies, Beth retired to her room, overcome with
emotion and lobster, but there was no place of repose, for the beds were not
made, and she found her grief much assuaged by beating up the pillows and
putting things in order. Meg helped Jo clear away the remains of the feast,
which took half the afternoon and left them so tired that they agreed to be
contented with tea and toast for supper.

Laurie took Amy to drive, which was a deed of charity, for the sour cream
seemed to have had a bad effect upon her temper. Mrs. March came home to find
the three older girls hard at work in the middle of the afternoon, and a glance
at the closet gave her an idea of the success of one part of the experiment.

Before the housewives could rest, several people called, and there was a
scramble to get ready to see them. Then tea must be got, errands done, and one
or two necessary bits of sewing neglected until the last minute. As twilight
fell, dewy and still, one by one they gathered on the porch where the June
roses were budding beautifully, and each groaned or sighed as she sat down, as
if tired or troubled.

“What a dreadful day this has been!” began Jo, usually the first to
speak.

“It has seemed shorter than usual, but so uncomfortable,” said Meg.

“Not a bit like home,” added Amy.

“It can’t seem so without Marmee and little Pip,” sighed
Beth, glancing with full eyes at the empty cage above her head.

“Here’s Mother, dear, and you shall have another bird tomorrow, if
you want it.”

As she spoke, Mrs. March came and took her place among them, looking as if her
holiday had not been much pleasanter than theirs.

“Are you satisfied with your experiment, girls, or do you want another
week of it?” she asked, as Beth nestled up to her and the rest turned
toward her with brightening faces, as flowers turn toward the sun.

“I don’t!” cried Jo decidedly.

“Nor I,” echoed the others.

“You think then, that it is better to have a few duties and live a little
for others, do you?”

“Lounging and larking doesn’t pay,” observed Jo, shaking her
head. “I’m tired of it and mean to go to work at something right
off.”

“Suppose you learn plain cooking. That’s a useful accomplishment,
which no woman should be without,” said Mrs. March, laughing inaudibly at
the recollection of Jo’s dinner party, for she had met Miss Crocker and
heard her account of it.

“Mother, did you go away and let everything be, just to see how
we’d get on?” cried Meg, who had had suspicions all day.

“Yes, I wanted you to see how the comfort of all depends on each doing
her share faithfully. While Hannah and I did your work, you got on pretty well,
though I don’t think you were very happy or amiable. So I thought, as a
little lesson, I would show you what happens when everyone thinks only of
herself. Don’t you feel that it is pleasanter to help one another, to
have daily duties which make leisure sweet when it comes, and to bear and
forbear, that home may be comfortable and lovely to us all?”

“We do, Mother, we do!” cried the girls.

“Then let me advise you to take up your little burdens again, for though
they seem heavy sometimes, they are good for us, and lighten as we learn to
carry them. Work is wholesome, and there is plenty for everyone. It keeps us
from ennui and mischief, is good for health and spirits, and gives us a sense
of power and independence better than money or fashion.”

“We’ll work like bees, and love it too, see if we
don’t,” said Jo. “I’ll learn plain cooking for my
holiday task, and the next dinner party I have shall be a success.”

“I’ll make the set of shirts for father, instead of letting you do
it, Marmee. I can and I will, though I’m not fond of sewing. That will be
better than fussing over my own things, which are plenty nice enough as they
are.” said Meg.

“I’ll do my lessons every day, and not spend so much time with my
music and dolls. I am a stupid thing, and ought to be studying, not
playing,” was Beth’s resolution, while Amy followed their example
by heroically declaring, “I shall learn to make buttonholes, and attend
to my parts of speech.”

“Very good! Then I am quite satisfied with the experiment, and fancy that
we shall not have to repeat it, only don’t go to the other extreme and
delve like slaves. Have regular hours for work and play, make each day both
useful and pleasant, and prove that you understand the worth of time by
employing it well. Then youth will be delightful, old age will bring few
regrets, and life become a beautiful success, in spite of poverty.”

“We’ll remember, Mother!” and they did.

CHAPTER TWELVE
CAMP LAURENCE

Beth was postmistress, for, being most at home, she could attend to it
regularly, and dearly liked the daily task of unlocking the little door and
distributing the mail. One July day she came in with her hands full, and went
about the house leaving letters and parcels like the penny post.

“Here’s your posy, Mother! Laurie never forgets that,” she
said, putting the fresh nosegay in the vase that stood in ‘Marmee’s
corner’, and was kept supplied by the affectionate boy.

“Miss Meg March, one letter and a glove,” continued Beth,
delivering the articles to her sister, who sat near her mother, stitching
wristbands.

“Why, I left a pair over there, and here is only one,” said Meg,
looking at the gray cotton glove. “Didn’t you drop the other in the
garden?”

“No, I’m sure I didn’t, for there was only one in the
office.”

“I hate to have odd gloves! Never mind, the other may be found. My letter
is only a translation of the German song I wanted. I think Mr. Brooke did it,
for this isn’t Laurie’s writing.”

Mrs. March glanced at Meg, who was looking very pretty in her gingham morning
gown, with the little curls blowing about her forehead, and very womanly, as
she sat sewing at her little worktable, full of tidy white rolls, so
unconscious of the thought in her mother’s mind as she sewed and sang,
while her fingers flew and her thoughts were busied with girlish fancies as
innocent and fresh as the pansies in her belt, that Mrs. March smiled and was
satisfied.

“Two letters for Doctor Jo, a book, and a funny old hat, which covered
the whole post office and stuck outside,” said Beth, laughing as she went
into the study where Jo sat writing.

“What a sly fellow Laurie is! I said I wished bigger hats were the
fashion, because I burn my face every hot day. He said, ‘Why mind the
fashion? Wear a big hat, and be comfortable!’ I said I would if I had
one, and he has sent me this, to try me. I’ll wear it for fun, and show
him I don’t care for the fashion.” And hanging the antique
broad-brim on a bust of Plato, Jo read her letters.

One from her mother made her cheeks glow and her eyes fill, for it said to
her…

My Dear:

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

Mother

“That does me good! That’s worth millions of money and pecks of
praise. Oh, Marmee, I do try! I will keep on trying, and not get tired, since I
have you to help me.”

Laying her head on her arms, Jo wet her little romance with a few happy tears,
for she had thought that no one saw and appreciated her efforts to be good, and
this assurance was doubly precious, doubly encouraging, because unexpected and
from the person whose commendation she most valued. Feeling stronger than ever
to meet and subdue her Apollyon, she pinned the note inside her frock, as a
shield and a reminder, lest she be taken unaware, and proceeded to open her
other letter, quite ready for either good or bad news. In a big, dashing hand,
Laurie wrote…

Dear Jo, What ho!

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

In a tearing hurry, Yours ever, Laurie.

“Here’s richness!” cried Jo, flying in to tell the news to
Meg.

“Of course we can go, Mother? It will be such a help to Laurie, for I can
row, and Meg see to the lunch, and the children be useful in some way.”

“I hope the Vaughns are not fine grown-up people. Do you know anything
about them, Jo?” asked Meg.

“Only that there are four of them. Kate is older than you, Fred and Frank
(twins) about my age, and a little girl (Grace), who is nine or ten. Laurie
knew them abroad, and liked the boys. I fancied, from the way he primmed up his
mouth in speaking of her, that he didn’t admire Kate much.”

“I’m so glad my French print is clean, it’s just the thing
and so becoming!” observed Meg complacently. “Have you anything
decent, Jo?”

“Scarlet and gray boating suit, good enough for me. I shall row and tramp
about, so I don’t want any starch to think of. You’ll come,
Betty?”

“If you won’t let any boys talk to me.”

“Not a boy!”

“I like to please Laurie, and I’m not afraid of Mr. Brooke, he is
so kind. But I don’t want to play, or sing, or say anything. I’ll
work hard and not trouble anyone, and you’ll take care of me, Jo, so
I’ll go.”

“That’s my good girl. You do try to fight off your shyness, and I
love you for it. Fighting faults isn’t easy, as I know, and a cheery word
kind of gives a lift. Thank you, Mother,” And Jo gave the thin cheek a
grateful kiss, more precious to Mrs. March than if it had given back the rosy
roundness of her youth.

“I had a box of chocolate drops, and the picture I wanted to copy,”
said Amy, showing her mail.

“And I got a note from Mr. Laurence, asking me to come over and play to
him tonight, before the lamps are lighted, and I shall go,” added Beth,
whose friendship with the old gentleman prospered finely.

“Now let’s fly round, and do double duty today, so that we can play
tomorrow with free minds,” said Jo, preparing to replace her pen with a
broom.

When the sun peeped into the girls’ room early next morning to promise
them a fine day, he saw a comical sight. Each had made such preparation for the
fete as seemed necessary and proper. Meg had an extra row of little curlpapers
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 clothespin 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 it was now being put. This funny spectacle appeared to amuse the
sun, for he burst out with such radiance that Jo woke up and roused her sisters
by a hearty laugh at Amy’s ornament.

Sunshine and laughter were good omens for a pleasure party, and soon a lively
bustle began in both houses. Beth, who was ready first, kept reporting what
went on next door, and enlivened her sisters’ toilets by frequent
telegrams from the window.

“There goes the man with the tent! I see Mrs. Barker doing up the lunch
in a hamper and a great basket. Now Mr. Laurence is looking up at the sky and
the weathercock. I wish he would go too. There’s Laurie, looking like a
sailor, nice boy! Oh, mercy me! Here’s a carriage full of people, a tall
lady, a little girl, and two dreadful boys. One is lame, poor thing, he’s
got a crutch. Laurie didn’t tell us that. Be quick, girls! It’s
getting late. Why, there is Ned Moffat, I do declare. Meg, isn’t that the
man who bowed to you one day when we were shopping?”

“So it is. How queer that he should come. I thought he was at the
mountains. There is Sallie. I’m glad she got back in time. Am I all
right, Jo?” cried Meg in a flutter.

“A regular daisy. Hold up your dress and put your hat on straight, it
looks sentimental tipped that way and will fly off at the first puff. Now then,
come on!”

“Oh, Jo, you are not going to wear that awful hat? It’s too absurd!
You shall not make a guy of yourself,” remonstrated Meg, as Jo tied down
with a red ribbon the broad-brimmed, old-fashioned leghorn Laurie had sent for
a joke.

“I just will, though, for it’s capital, so shady, light, and big.
It will make fun, and I don’t mind being a guy if I’m
comfortable.” With that Jo marched straight away and the rest followed, a
bright little band of sisters, all looking their best in summer suits, with
happy faces under the jaunty hatbrims.

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
who 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 standoff-don’t-touch-me air,
which contrasted strongly with the free and easy demeanor of the other girls.
Beth took an observation of the new boys and decided that the lame one was not
‘dreadful’, but gentle and feeble, and she would be kind to him on
that account. Amy found Grace a well-mannered, merry, little person, and after
staring dumbly at one another for a few minutes, they suddenly became very good
friends.

Tents, lunch, and croquet utensils having been sent on beforehand, the party
was soon embarked, and the two boats pushed off together, leaving Mr. Laurence
waving his hat on the shore. Laurie and Jo rowed one boat, Mr. Brooke and Ned
the other, while Fred Vaughn, the riotous twin, did his best to upset both by
paddling about in a wherry like a disturbed water bug. Jo’s funny hat
deserved a vote of thanks, for it was of general utility. It broke the ice in
the beginning by producing a laugh, it created quite a refreshing breeze,
flapping to and fro as she rowed, and would make an excellent umbrella for the
whole party, if a shower came up, she said. Miss Kate decided that she was
‘odd’, but rather clever, and smiled upon her from afar.

Meg, in the other boat, was delightfully situated, face to face with the
rowers, who both admired the prospect and feathered their oars with uncommon
‘skill and dexterity’. Mr. Brooke was a grave, silent young man,
with handsome brown eyes and a pleasant voice. Meg liked his quiet manners and
considered him a walking encyclopedia of useful knowledge. He never talked to
her much, but he looked at her a good deal, and she felt sure that he did not
regard her with aversion. Ned, being in college, of course put on all the airs
which freshmen think it their bounden duty to assume. He was not very wise, but
very good-natured, and altogether an excellent person to carry on a picnic.
Sallie Gardiner was absorbed in keeping her white pique dress clean and
chattering with the ubiquitous Fred, who kept Beth in constant terror by his
pranks.

It was not far to Longmeadow, but the tent was pitched and the wickets down by
the time they arrived. A pleasant green field, with three wide-spreading oaks
in the middle and a smooth strip of turf for croquet.

“Welcome to Camp Laurence!” said the young host, as they landed
with exclamations of delight.

“Brooke is commander in chief, I am commissary general, the other fellows
are staff officers, and you, ladies, are company. The tent is for your especial
benefit and that oak is your drawing room, this is the messroom and the third
is the camp kitchen. Now, let’s have a game before it gets hot, and then
we’ll see about dinner.”

Frank, Beth, Amy, and Grace sat down to watch the game played by the other
eight. Mr. Brooke chose Meg, Kate, and Fred. Laurie took Sallie, Jo, and Ned.
The English played well, but the Americans played better, and contested every
inch of the ground as strongly as if the spirit of ’76 inspired them. Jo
and Fred had several skirmishes and once narrowly escaped high words. Jo was
through the last wicket and had missed the stroke, which failure ruffled her a
good deal. Fred was close behind her and his turn came before hers. He gave a
stroke, his ball hit the wicket, and stopped an inch on the wrong side. No one
was very near, and running up to examine, he gave it a sly nudge with his toe,
which put it just an inch on the right side.

“I’m through! Now, Miss Jo, I’ll settle you, and get in
first,” cried the young gentleman, swinging his mallet for another blow.

“You pushed it. I saw you. It’s my turn now,” said Jo
sharply.

“Upon my word, I didn’t move it. It rolled a bit, perhaps, but that
is allowed. So, stand off please, and let me have a go at the stake.”

“We don’t cheat in America, but you can, if you choose,” said
Jo angrily.

“Yankees are a deal the most tricky, everybody knows. There you
go!” returned Fred, croqueting her ball far away.

Jo opened her lips to say something rude, but checked herself in time, colored
up to her forehead and stood a minute, hammering down a wicket with all her
might, while Fred hit the stake and declared himself out with much exultation.
She went off to get her ball, and was a long time finding it among the bushes,
but she came back, looking cool and quiet, and waited her turn patiently. It
took several strokes to regain the place she had lost, and when she got there,
the other side had nearly won, for Kate’s ball was the last but one and
lay near the stake.

“By George, it’s all up with us! Goodbye, Kate. Miss Jo owes me
one, so you are finished,” cried Fred excitedly, as they all drew near to
see the finish.

“Yankees have a trick of being generous to their enemies,” said Jo,
with a look that made the lad redden, “especially when they beat
them,” she added, as, leaving Kate’s ball untouched, she won the
game by a clever stroke.

Laurie threw up his hat, then remembered that it wouldn’t do to exult
over the defeat of his guests, and stopped in the middle of the cheer to
whisper to his friend, “Good for you, Jo! He did cheat, I saw him. We
can’t tell him so, but he won’t do it again, take my word for
it.”

Meg drew her aside, under pretense of pinning up a loose braid, and said
approvingly, “It was dreadfully provoking, but you kept your temper, and
I’m so glad, Jo.”

“Don’t praise me, Meg, for I could box his ears this minute. I
should certainly have boiled over if I hadn’t stayed among the nettles
till I got my rage under control enough to hold my tongue. It’s simmering
now, so I hope he’ll keep out of my way,” returned Jo, biting her
lips as she glowered at Fred from under her big hat.

“Time for lunch,” said Mr. Brooke, looking at his watch.
“Commissary general, will you make the fire and get water, while Miss
March, Miss Sallie, and I spread the table? Who can make good coffee?”

“Jo can,” said Meg, glad to recommend her sister. So Jo, feeling
that her late lessons in cookery were to do her honor, went to preside over the
coffeepot, while the children collected dry sticks, and the boys made a fire
and got water from a spring near by. Miss Kate sketched and Frank talked to
Beth, who was making little mats of braided rushes to serve as plates.

The commander in chief and his aides soon spread the tablecloth with an
inviting array of eatables and drinkables, prettily decorated with green
leaves. Jo announced that the coffee was ready, and everyone 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 in the milk, little black ants partook of
the refreshments without being invited, and fuzzy caterpillars swung down from
the tree to see what was going on. Three white-headed children peeped over the
fence, and an objectionable dog barked at them from the other side of the river
with all his might and main.

“There’s salt here,” said Laurie, as he handed Jo a saucer of
berries.

“Thank you, I prefer spiders,” she replied, fishing up two unwary
little ones who had gone to a creamy death. “How dare you remind me of
that horrid dinner party, when yours is so nice in every way?” added Jo,
as they both laughed and ate out of one plate, the china having run short.

“I had an uncommonly good time that day, and haven’t got over it
yet. This is no credit to me, you know, I don’t do anything. It’s
you and Meg and Brooke who make it all go, and I’m no end obliged to you.
What shall we do when we can’t eat anymore?” asked Laurie, feeling
that his trump card had been played when lunch was over.

“Have games till it’s cooler. I brought Authors, and I dare say
Miss Kate knows something new and nice. Go and ask her. She’s company,
and you ought to stay with her more.”

“Aren’t you company too? I thought she’d suit Brooke, but he
keeps talking to Meg, and Kate just stares at them through that ridiculous
glass of hers. I’m going, so you needn’t try to preach propriety,
for you can’t do it, Jo.”

Miss Kate did know several new games, and as the girls would not, and the boys
could not, eat any more, they all adjourned to the drawing room to play
Rig-marole.

“One person begins a story, any nonsense you like, and tells as long as
he pleases, only taking care to stop short at some exciting point, when the
next takes it up and does the same. It’s very funny when well done, and
makes a perfect jumble of tragical comical stuff to laugh over. Please start
it, Mr. Brooke,” said Kate, with a commanding air, which surprised Meg,
who treated the tutor with as much respect as any other gentleman.

Lying on the grass at the feet of the two young ladies, Mr. Brooke obediently
began the story, with the handsome brown eyes steadily fixed upon the sunshiny
river.

“Once on a time, a knight went out into the world to seek his fortune,
for he had nothing but his sword and his shield. He traveled 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 anyone who could tame
and train a fine but unbroken colt, of which he was very fond. The knight
agreed to try, and got on slowly but surely, for the colt was a gallant fellow,
and soon learned to love his new master, though he was freakish and wild. Every
day, when he gave his lessons to this pet of the king’s, the knight rode
him through the city, and as he rode, he looked everywhere for a certain
beautiful face, which he had seen many times in his dreams, but never found.
One day, as he went prancing down a quiet street, he saw at the window of a
ruinous castle the lovely face. He was delighted, inquired who lived in this
old castle, and was told that several captive princesses were kept there by a
spell, and spun all day to lay up money to buy their liberty. The knight wished
intensely that he could free them, but he was poor and could only go by each
day, watching for the sweet face and longing to see it out in the sunshine. At
last he resolved to get into the castle and ask how he could help them. He went
and knocked. The great door flew open, and he beheld…”

“A ravishingly lovely lady, who exclaimed, with a cry of rapture,
‘At last! At last!’” continued Kate, who had read French
novels, and admired the style. “’Tis she!’ cried Count
Gustave, and fell at her feet in an ecstasy of joy. ‘Oh, rise!’ she
said, extending a hand of marble fairness. ‘Never! Till you tell me how I
may rescue you,’ swore the knight, still kneeling. ‘Alas, my cruel
fate condemns me to remain here till my tyrant is destroyed.’
‘Where is the villain?’ ‘In the mauve salon. Go, brave heart,
and save me from despair.’ ‘I obey, and return victorious or
dead!’ With these thrilling words he rushed away, and flinging open the
door of the mauve salon, was about to enter, when he received…”

“A stunning blow from the big Greek lexicon, which an old fellow in a
black gown fired at him,” said Ned. “Instantly, Sir
What’s-his-name recovered himself, pitched the tyrant out of the window,
and turned to join the lady, victorious, but with a bump on his brow, found the
door locked, tore up the curtains, made a rope ladder, got halfway down when
the ladder broke, and he went headfirst into the moat, sixty feet below. Could
swim like a duck, paddled round the castle till he came to a little door
guarded by two stout fellows, knocked their heads together till they cracked
like a couple of nuts, then, by a trifling exertion of his prodigious strength,
he smashed in the door, went up a pair of stone steps covered with dust a foot
thick, toads as big as your fist, and spiders that would frighten you into
hysterics, Miss March. At the top of these steps he came plump upon a sight
that took his breath away and chilled his blood…”

“A tall figure, all in white with a veil over its face and a lamp in its
wasted hand,” went on Meg. “It beckoned, gliding noiselessly before
him down a corridor as dark and cold as any tomb. Shadowy effigies in armor
stood on either side, a dead silence reigned, the lamp burned blue, and the
ghostly figure ever and anon turned its face toward him, showing the glitter of
awful eyes through its white veil. They reached a curtained door, behind which
sounded lovely music. He sprang forward to enter, but the specter plucked him
back, and waved threateningly before him a…”

“Snuffbox,” 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 keyhole at the
princesses spinning away for dear life, the evil spirit picked up her victim
and put him in a large tin box, where there were eleven other knights packed
together without their heads, like sardines, who all rose and began
to…”

“Dance a hornpipe,” cut in Fred, as Jo paused for breath,
“and, as they danced, the rubbishy old castle turned to a man-of-war in
full sail. ‘Up with the jib, reef the tops’l halliards, helm hard
alee, 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 began. Of
course the British beat—they always do.”

“No, they don’t!” cried Jo, aside.

“Having taken the pirate captain prisoner, sailed slap over the schooner,
whose decks were piled high with dead and whose lee scuppers ran blood, for the
order had been ‘Cutlasses, and die hard!’ ‘Bosun’s
mate, take a bight of the flying-jib sheet, and start this villain if he
doesn’t confess his sins double quick,’ said the British captain.
The Portuguese held his tongue like a brick, and walked the plank, while the
jolly tars cheered like mad. But the sly dog dived, came up under the
man-of-war, scuttled her, and down she went, with all sail set, ‘To the
bottom of the sea, sea, sea’ where…”

“Oh, gracious! What shall I say?” cried Sallie, as Fred ended his
rigmarole, in which he had jumbled together pell-mell nautical phrases and
facts out of one of his favorite books. “Well, they went to the bottom,
and a nice mermaid welcomed them, but was much grieved on finding the box of
headless knights, and kindly pickled them in brine, hoping to discover the
mystery about them, for being a woman, she was curious. By-and-by a diver came
down, and the mermaid said, ‘I’ll give you a box of pearls if you
can take it up,’ for she wanted to restore the poor things to life, and
couldn’t raise the heavy load herself. So the diver hoisted it up, and
was much disappointed on opening it to find no pearls. He left it in a great
lonely field, where it was found by a…”

“Little goose girl, who kept a hundred fat geese in the field,”
said Amy, when Sallie’s invention gave out. “The little girl was
sorry for them, and asked an old woman what she should do to help them.
‘Your geese will tell you, they know everything.’ said the old
woman. So she asked what she should use for new heads, since the old ones were
lost, and all the geese opened their hundred mouths and screamed…”

“‘Cabbages!’” continued Laurie promptly.
“‘Just the thing,’ said the girl, and ran to get twelve fine
ones from her garden. She put them on, the knights revived at once, thanked
her, and went on their way rejoicing, never knowing the difference, for there
were so many other heads like them in the world that no one thought anything of
it. The knight in whom I’m interested went back to find the pretty face,
and learned that the princesses had spun themselves free and all gone and
married, but one. He was in a great state of mind at that, and mounting the
colt, who stood by him through thick and thin, rushed to the castle to see
which was left. Peeping over the hedge, he saw the queen of his affections
picking flowers in her garden. ‘Will you give me a rose?’ said he.
‘You must come and get it. I can’t come to you, it isn’t
proper,’ said she, as sweet as honey. He tried to climb over the hedge,
but it seemed to grow higher and higher. Then he tried to push through, but it
grew thicker and thicker, and he was in despair. So he patiently broke twig
after twig till he had made a little hole through which he peeped, saying
imploringly, ‘Let me in! Let me in!’ But the pretty princess did
not seem to understand, for she picked her roses quietly, and left him to fight
his way in. Whether he did or not, Frank will tell you.”

“I can’t. I’m not playing, I never do,” said Frank,
dismayed at the sentimental predicament out of which he was to rescue the
absurd couple. Beth had disappeared behind Jo, and Grace was asleep.

“So the poor knight is to be left sticking in the hedge, is he?”
asked Mr. Brooke, still watching the river, and playing with the wild rose in
his buttonhole.

“I guess the princess gave him a posy, and opened the gate after a
while,” said Laurie, smiling to himself, as he threw acorns at his tutor.

“What a piece of nonsense we have made! With practice we might do
something quite clever. Do you know Truth?”

“I hope so,” said Meg soberly.

“The game, I mean?”

“What is it?” said Fred.

“Why, you pile up your hands, choose a number, and draw out in turn, and
the person who draws at the number has to answer truly any question put by the
rest. It’s great fun.”

“Let’s try it,” said Jo, who liked new experiments.

Miss Kate and Mr. Brooke, Meg, and Ned declined, but Fred, Sallie, Jo, and
Laurie piled and drew, and the lot fell to Laurie.

“Who are your heroes?” asked Jo.

“Grandfather and Napoleon.”

“Which lady here do you think prettiest?” said Sallie.

“Margaret.”

“Which do you like best?” from Fred.

“Jo, of course.”

“What silly questions you ask!” And Jo gave a disdainful shrug as
the rest laughed at Laurie’s matter-of-fact tone.

“Try again. Truth isn’t a bad game,” said Fred.

“It’s a very good one for you,” retorted Jo in a low voice.
Her turn came next.

“What is your greatest fault?” asked Fred, by way of testing in her
the virtue he lacked himself.

“A quick temper.”

“What do you most wish for?” said Laurie.

“A pair of boot lacings,” returned Jo, guessing and defeating his
purpose.

“Not a true answer. You must say what you really do want most.”

“Genius. Don’t you wish you could give it to me, Laurie?” And
she slyly smiled in his disappointed face.

“What virtues do you most admire in a man?” asked Sallie.

“Courage and honesty.”

“Now my turn,” said Fred, as his hand came last.

“Let’s give it to him,” whispered Laurie to Jo, who nodded
and asked at once…

“Didn’t you cheat at croquet?”

“Well, yes, a little bit.”

“Good! Didn’t you take your story out of The Sea
Lion?” said Laurie.

“Rather.”

“Don’t you think the English nation perfect in every
respect?” asked Sallie.

“I should be ashamed of myself if I didn’t.”

“He’s a true John Bull. Now, Miss Sallie, you shall have a chance
without waiting to draw. I’ll harrrow up your feelings first by asking if
you don’t think you are something of a flirt,” said Laurie, as Jo
nodded to Fred as a sign that peace was declared.

“You impertinent boy! Of course I’m not,” exclaimed Sallie,
with an air that proved the contrary.

“What do you hate most?” asked Fred.

“Spiders and rice pudding.”

“What do you like best?” asked Jo.

“Dancing and French gloves.”

“Well, I think Truth is a very silly play. Let’s have a sensible
game of Authors to refresh our minds,” proposed Jo.

Ned, Frank, and the little girls joined in this, and while it went on, the
three elders sat apart, talking. Miss Kate took out her sketch again, and
Margaret watched her, while Mr. Brooke lay on the grass with a book, which he
did not read.

“How beautifully you do it! I wish I could draw,” said Meg, with
mingled admiration and regret in her voice.

“Why don’t you learn? I should think you had taste and talent for
it,” replied Miss Kate graciously.

“I haven’t time.”

“Your mamma prefers other accomplishments, I fancy. So did mine, but I
proved to her that I had talent by taking a few lessons privately, and then she
was quite willing I should go on. Can’t you do the same with your
governess?”

“I have none.”

“I forgot young ladies in America go to school more than with us. Very
fine schools they are, too, Papa says. You go to a private one, I
suppose?”

“I don’t go at all. I am a governess myself.”

“Oh, indeed!” said Miss Kate, but she might as well have said,
“Dear me, how dreadful!” for her tone implied it, and something in
her face made Meg color, and wish she had not been so frank.

Mr. Brooke looked up and said quickly, “Young ladies in America love
independence as much as their ancestors did, and are admired and respected for
supporting themselves.”

“Oh, yes, of course it’s very nice and proper in them to do so. We
have many most respectable and worthy young women who do the same and are
employed by the nobility, because, being the daughters of gentlemen, they are
both well bred and accomplished, you know,” said Miss Kate in a
patronizing tone that hurt Meg’s pride, and made her work seem not only
more distasteful, but degrading.

“Did the German song suit, Miss March?” inquired Mr. Brooke,
breaking an awkward pause.

“Oh, yes! It was very sweet, and I’m much obliged to whoever
translated it for me.” And Meg’s downcast face brightened as she
spoke.

“Don’t you read German?” asked Miss Kate with a look of
surprise.

“Not very well. My father, who taught me, is away, and I don’t get
on very fast alone, for I’ve no one to correct my pronunciation.”

“Try a little now. Here is Schiller’s Mary Stuart and a tutor who
loves to teach.” And Mr. Brooke laid his book on her lap with an inviting
smile.

“It’s so hard I’m afraid to try,” said Meg, grateful,
but bashful in the presence of the accomplished young lady beside her.

“I’ll read a bit to encourage you.” And Miss Kate read one of
the most beautiful passages in a perfectly correct but perfectly expressionless
manner.

Mr. Brooke made no comment as she returned the book to Meg, who said
innocently, “I thought it was poetry.”

“Some of it is. Try this passage.”

There was a queer smile about Mr. Brooke’s mouth as he opened at poor
Mary’s lament.

Meg obediently following the long grass-blade which her new tutor used to point
with, read slowly and timidly, unconsciously making poetry of the hard words by
the soft intonation of her musical voice. Down the page went the green guide,
and presently, forgetting her listener in the beauty of the sad scene, Meg read
as if alone, giving a little touch of tragedy to the words of the unhappy
queen. If she had seen the brown eyes then, she would have stopped short, but
she never looked up, and the lesson was not spoiled for her.

“Very well indeed!” said Mr. Brooke, as she paused, quite ignoring
her many mistakes, and looking as if he did indeed love to teach.

Miss Kate put up her glass, and, having taken a survey of the little tableau
before her, shut her sketch book, saying with condescension,
“You’ve a nice accent and in time will be a clever reader. I advise
you to learn, for German is a valuable accomplishment to teachers. I must look
after Grace, she is romping.” And Miss Kate strolled away, adding to
herself with a shrug, “I didn’t come to chaperone a governess,
though she is young and pretty. What odd people these Yankees are. I’m
afraid Laurie will be quite spoiled among them.”

“I forgot that English people rather turn up their noses at governesses
and don’t treat them as we do,” said Meg, looking after the
retreating figure with an annoyed expression.

“Tutors also have rather a hard time of it there, as I know to my sorrow.
There’s no place like America for us workers, Miss Margaret.” And
Mr. Brooke looked so contented and cheerful that Meg was ashamed to lament her
hard lot.

“I’m glad I live in it then. I don’t like my work, but I get
a good deal of satisfaction out of it after all, so I won’t complain. I
only wished I liked teaching as you do.”

“I think you would if you had Laurie for a pupil. I shall be very sorry
to lose him next year,” said Mr. Brooke, busily punching holes in the
turf.

“Going to college, I suppose?” Meg’s lips asked the question,
but her eyes added, “And what becomes of you?”

“Yes, it’s high time he went, for he is ready, and as soon as he is
off, I shall turn soldier. I am needed.”

“I am glad of that!” exclaimed Meg. “I should think every
young man would want to go, though it is hard for the mothers and sisters who
stay at home,” she added sorrowfully.

“I have neither, and very few friends to care whether I live or
die,” said Mr. Brooke rather bitterly as he absently put the dead rose in
the hole he had made and covered it up, like a little grave.

“Laurie and his grandfather would care a great deal, and we should all be
very sorry to have any harm happen to you,” said Meg heartily.

“Thank you, that sounds pleasant,” began Mr. Brooke, looking
cheerful again, but before he could finish his speech, Ned, mounted on the old
horse, came lumbering up to display his equestrian skill before the young
ladies, and there was no more quiet that day.

“Don’t you love to ride?” asked Grace of Amy, as they stood
resting after a race round the field with the others, led by Ned.

“I dote upon it. My sister, Meg, used to ride when Papa was rich, but we
don’t keep any horses now, except Ellen Tree,” added Amy, laughing.

“Tell me about Ellen Tree. Is it a donkey?” asked Grace curiously.

“Why, you see, Jo is crazy about horses and so am I, but we’ve only
got an old sidesaddle and no horse. Out in our garden is an apple tree that has
a nice low branch, so Jo put the saddle on it, fixed some reins on the part
that turns up, and we bounce away on Ellen Tree whenever we like.”

“How funny!” laughed Grace. “I have a pony at home, and ride
nearly every day in the park with Fred and Kate. It’s very nice, for my
friends go too, and the Row is full of ladies and gentlemen.”

“Dear, how charming! I hope I shall go abroad some day, but I’d
rather go to Rome than the Row,” said Amy, who had not the remotest idea
what the Row was and wouldn’t have asked for the world.

Frank, sitting just behind the little girls, heard what they were saying, and
pushed his crutch away from him with an impatient gesture as he watched the
active lads going through all sorts of comical gymnastics. Beth, who was
collecting the scattered Author cards, looked up and said, in her shy yet
friendly way, “I’m afraid you are tired. Can I do anything for
you?”

“Talk to me, please. It’s dull, sitting by myself,” answered
Frank, who had evidently been used to being made much of at home.

If he asked her to deliver a Latin oration, it would not have seemed a more
impossible task to bashful Beth, but there was no place to run to, no Jo to
hide behind now, and the poor boy looked so wistfully at her that she bravely
resolved to try.

“What do you like to talk about?” she asked, fumbling over the
cards and dropping half as she tried to tie them up.

“Well, I like to hear about cricket and boating and hunting,” said
Frank, who had not yet learned to suit his amusements to his strength.

My heart! What shall I do? I don’t know anything about them, thought
Beth, and forgetting the boy’s misfortune in her flurry, she said, hoping
to make him talk, “I never saw any hunting, but I suppose you know all
about it.”

“I did once, but I can never hunt again, for I got hurt leaping a
confounded five-barred gate, so there are no more horses and hounds for
me,” said Frank with a sigh that made Beth hate herself for her innocent
blunder.

“Your deer are much prettier than our ugly buffaloes,” she said,
turning to the prairies for help and feeling glad that she had read one of the
boys’ books in which Jo delighted.

Buffaloes proved soothing and satisfactory, and in her eagerness to amuse
another, Beth forgot herself, and was quite unconscious of her sisters’
surprise and delight at the unusual spectacle of Beth talking away to one of
the dreadful boys, against whom she had begged protection.

“Bless her heart! She pities him, so she is good to him,” said Jo,
beaming at her from the croquet ground.

“I always said she was a little saint,” added Meg, as if there
could be no further doubt of it.

“I haven’t heard Frank laugh so much for ever so long,” said
Grace to Amy, as they sat discussing dolls and making tea sets out of the acorn
cups.

“My sister Beth is a very fastidious girl, when she likes to be,”
said Amy, well pleased at Beth’s success. She meant
‘facinating’, but as Grace didn’t know the exact meaning of
either word, fastidious sounded well and made a good impression.

An impromptu circus, fox and geese, and an amicable game of croquet finished
the afternoon. At sunset the tent was struck, hampers packed, wickets pulled
up, boats loaded, and the whole party floated down the river, singing at the
tops of their voices. Ned, getting sentimental, warbled a serenade with the
pensive refrain…

Alone, alone, ah! Woe, alone,

and at the lines…

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

he looked at Meg with such a lackadaisical expression that she laughed outright
and spoiled his song.

“How can you be so cruel to me?” he whispered, under cover of a
lively chorus. “You’ve kept close to that starched-up Englishwoman
all day, and now you snub me.”

“I didn’t mean to, but you looked so funny I really couldn’t
help it,” replied Meg, passing over the first part of his reproach, for
it was quite true that she had shunned him, remembering the Moffat party and
the talk after it.

Ned was offended and turned to Sallie for consolation, saying to her rather
pettishly, “There isn’t a bit of flirt in that girl, is
there?”

“Not a particle, but she’s a dear,” returned Sallie,
defending her friend even while confessing her shortcomings.

“She’s not a stricken deer anyway,” said Ned, trying to be
witty, and succeeding as well as very young gentlemen usually do.

On the lawn where it had gathered, the little party separated with cordial good
nights and good-byes, for the Vaughns were going to Canada. As the four sisters
went home through the garden, Miss Kate looked after them, saying, without the
patronizing tone in her voice, “In spite of their demonstrative manners,
American girls are very nice when one knows them.”

“I quite agree with you,” said Mr. Brooke.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CASTLES IN THE AIR

Laurie lay luxuriously swinging to and fro in his hammock one warm September
afternoon, wondering what his neighbors were about, but too lazy to go and find
out. He was in one of his moods, for the day had been both unprofitable and
unsatisfactory, and he was wishing he could live it over again. The hot weather
made him indolent, and he had shirked his studies, tried Mr. Brooke’s
patience to the utmost, displeased his grandfather by practicing half the
afternoon, frightened the maidservants half out of their wits by mischievously
hinting that one of his dogs was going mad, and, after high words with the
stableman about some fancied neglect of his horse, he had flung himself into
his hammock to fume over the stupidity of the world in general, till the peace
of the lovely day quieted him in spite of himself. Staring up into the green
gloom of the horse-chestnut trees above him, he dreamed dreams of all sorts,
and was just imagining himself tossing on the ocean in a voyage round the
world, when the sound of voices brought him ashore in a flash. Peeping through
the meshes of the hammock, he saw the Marches coming out, as if bound on some
expedition.

“What in the world are those girls about now?” thought Laurie,
opening his sleepy eyes to take a good look, for there was something rather
peculiar in the appearance of his neighbors. Each wore a large, flapping hat, a
brown linen pouch slung over one shoulder, and carried a long staff. Meg had a
cushion, Jo a book, Beth a basket, and Amy a portfolio. All walked quietly
through the garden, out at the little back gate, and began to climb the hill
that lay between the house and river.

“Well, that’s cool,” said Laurie to himself, “to have a
picnic and never ask me! They can’t be going in the boat, for they
haven’t got the key. Perhaps they forgot it. I’ll take it to them,
and see what’s going on.”

Though possessed of half a dozen hats, it took him some time to find one, then
there was a hunt for the key, which was at last discovered in his pocket, so
that the girls were quite out of sight when he leaped the fence and ran after
them. Taking the shortest way to the boathouse, he waited for them to appear,
but no one came, and he went up the hill to take an observation. A grove of
pines covered one part of it, and from the heart of this green spot came a
clearer sound than the soft sigh of the pines or the drowsy chirp of the
crickets.

“Here’s a landscape!” thought Laurie, peeping through the
bushes, and looking wide-awake and good-natured already.

It was a rather pretty little picture, for the sisters sat together in the
shady nook, with sun and shadow flickering over them, the aromatic wind lifting
their hair and cooling their hot cheeks, and all the little wood people going
on with their affairs as if these were no strangers but old friends. Meg sat
upon her cushion, sewing daintily with her white hands, and looking as fresh
and sweet as a rose in her pink dress among the green. Beth was sorting the
cones that lay thick under the hemlock near by, for she made pretty things with
them. Amy was sketching a group of ferns, and Jo was knitting as she read
aloud. A shadow passed over the boy’s face as he watched them, feeling
that he ought to go away because uninvited; yet lingering because home seemed
very lonely and this quiet party in the woods most attractive to his restless
spirit. He stood so still that a squirrel, busy with its harvesting, ran down a
pine close beside him, saw him suddenly and skipped back, scolding so shrilly
that Beth looked up, espied the wistful face behind the birches, and beckoned
with a reassuring smile.

“May I come in, please? Or shall I be a bother?” he asked,
advancing slowly.

Meg lifted her eyebrows, but Jo scowled at her defiantly and said at once,
“Of course you may. We should have asked you before, only we thought you
wouldn’t care for such a girl’s game as this.”

“I always like your games, but if Meg doesn’t want me, I’ll
go away.”

“I’ve no objection, if you do something. It’s against the
rules to be idle here,” replied Meg gravely but graciously.

“Much obliged. I’ll do anything if you’ll let me stop a bit,
for it’s as dull as the Desert of Sahara down there. Shall I sew, read,
cone, draw, or do all at once? Bring on your bears. I’m ready.” And
Laurie sat down with a submissive expression delightful to behold.

“Finish this story while I set my heel,” said Jo, handing him the
book.

“Yes’m.” was the meek answer, as he began, doing his best to
prove his gratitude for the favor of admission into the ‘Busy Bee
Society’.

The story was not a long one, and when it was finished, he ventured to ask a
few questions as a reward of merit.

“Please, ma’am, could I inquire if this highly instructive and
charming institution is a new one?”

“Would you tell him?” asked Meg of her sisters.

“He’ll laugh,” said Amy warningly.

“Who cares?” said Jo.

“I guess he’ll like it,” added Beth.

“Of course I shall! I give you my word I won’t laugh. Tell away,
Jo, and don’t be afraid.”

“The idea of being afraid of you! Well, you see we used to play
Pilgrim’s Progress, and we have been going on with it in earnest, all
winter and summer.”

“Yes, I know,” said Laurie, nodding wisely.

“Who told you?” demanded Jo.

“Spirits.”

“No, I did. I wanted to amuse him one night when you were all away, and
he was rather dismal. He did like it, so don’t scold, Jo,” said
Beth meekly.

“You can’t keep a secret. Never mind, it saves trouble now.”

“Go on, please,” said Laurie, as Jo became absorbed in her work,
looking a trifle displeased.

“Oh, didn’t she tell you about this new plan of ours? Well, we have
tried not to waste our holiday, but each has had a task and worked at it with a
will. The vacation is nearly over, the stints are all done, and we are ever so
glad that we didn’t dawdle.”

“Yes, I should think so,” and Laurie thought regretfully of his own
idle days.

“Mother likes to have us out-of-doors as much as possible, so we bring
our work here and have nice times. For the fun of it we bring our things in
these bags, wear the old hats, use poles to climb the hill, and play pilgrims,
as we used to do years ago. We call this hill the Delectable Mountain, for we
can look far away and see the country where we hope to live some time.”

Jo pointed, and Laurie sat up to examine, for through an opening in the wood
one could look cross 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 hilltops, and rising high into the
ruddy light were silvery white peaks that shone like the airy spires of some
Celestial City.

“How beautiful that is!” said Laurie softly, for he was quick to
see and feel beauty of any kind.

“It’s often so, and we like to watch it, for it is never the same,
but always splendid,” replied Amy, wishing she could paint it.

“Jo talks about the country where we hope to live sometime—the real
country, she means, with pigs and chickens and haymaking. It would be nice, but
I wish the beautiful country up there was real, and we could ever go to
it,” said Beth musingly.

“There is a lovelier country even than that, where we shall go,
by-and-by, when we are good enough,” answered Meg with her sweetest
voice.

“It seems so long to wait, so hard to do. I want to fly away at once, as
those swallows fly, and go in at that splendid gate.”

“You’ll get there, Beth, sooner or later, no fear of that,”
said Jo. “I’m the one that will have to fight and work, and climb
and wait, and maybe never get in after all.”

“You’ll have me for company, if that’s any comfort. I shall
have to do a deal of traveling before I come in sight of your Celestial City.
If I arrive late, you’ll say a good word for me, won’t you,
Beth?”

Something in the boy’s face troubled his little friend, but she said
cheerfully, with her quiet eyes on the changing clouds, “If people really
want to go, and really try all their lives, I think they will get in, for I
don’t believe there are any locks on that door or any guards at the gate.
I always imagine it is as it is in the picture, where the shining ones stretch
out their hands to welcome poor Christian as he comes up from the river.”

“Wouldn’t it be fun if all the castles in the air which we make
could come true, and we could live in them?” said Jo, after a little
pause.

“I’ve made such quantities it would be hard to choose which
I’d have,” said Laurie, lying flat and throwing cones at the
squirrel who had betrayed him.

“You’d have to take your favorite one. What is it?” asked
Meg.

“If I tell mine, will you tell yours?”

“Yes, if the girls will too.”

“We will. Now, Laurie.”

“After I’d seen as much of the world as I want to, I’d like
to settle in Germany and have just as much music as I choose. I’m to be a
famous musician myself, and all creation is to rush to hear me. And I’m
never to be bothered about money or business, but just enjoy myself and live
for what I like. That’s my favorite castle. What’s yours,
Meg?”

Margaret seemed to find it a little hard to tell hers, and waved a brake before
her face, as if to disperse imaginary gnats, while she said slowly, “I
should like a lovely house, full of all sorts of luxurious things—nice
food, pretty clothes, handsome furniture, pleasant people, and heaps of money.
I am to be mistress of it, and manage it as I like, with plenty of servants, so
I never need work a bit. How I should enjoy it! For I wouldn’t be idle,
but do good, and make everyone love me dearly.”

“Wouldn’t you have a master for your castle in the air?”
asked Laurie slyly.

“I said ‘pleasant people’, you know,” and Meg carefully
tied up her shoe as she spoke, so that no one saw her face.

“Why don’t you say you’d have a splendid, wise, good husband
and some angelic little children? You know your castle wouldn’t be
perfect without,” said blunt Jo, who had no tender fancies yet, and
rather scorned romance, except in books.

“You’d have nothing but horses, inkstands, and novels in
yours,” answered Meg petulantly.

“Wouldn’t I though? I’d have a stable full of Arabian steeds,
rooms piled high with books, and I’d write out of a magic inkstand, so
that my works should be as famous as Laurie’s music. I want to do
something splendid before I go into my castle, something heroic or wonderful
that won’t be forgotten after I’m dead. I don’t know what,
but I’m on the watch for it, and mean to astonish you all some day. I
think I shall write books, and get rich and famous, that would suit me, so that
is my favorite dream.”

“Mine is to stay at home safe with Father and Mother, and help take care
of the family,” said Beth contentedly.

“Don’t you wish for anything else?” asked Laurie.

“Since I had my little piano, I am perfectly satisfied. I only wish we
may all keep well and be together, nothing else.”

“I have ever so many wishes, but the pet one is to be an artist, and go
to Rome, and do fine pictures, and be the best artist in the whole
world,” was Amy’s modest desire.

“We’re an ambitious set, aren’t we? Every one of us, but
Beth, wants to be rich and famous, and gorgeous in every respect. I do wonder
if any of us will ever get our wishes,” said Laurie, chewing grass like a
meditative calf.

“I’ve got the key to my castle in the air, but whether I can unlock
the door remains to be seen,” observed Jo mysteriously.

“I’ve got the key to mine, but I’m not allowed to try it.
Hang college!” muttered Laurie with an impatient sigh.

“Here’s mine!” and Amy waved her pencil.

“I haven’t got any,” said Meg forlornly.

“Yes, you have,” said Laurie at once.

“Where?”

“In your face.”

“Nonsense, that’s of no use.”

“Wait and see if it doesn’t bring you something worth
having,” replied the boy, laughing at the thought of a charming little
secret which he fancied he knew.

Meg colored behind the brake, but asked no questions and looked across the
river with the same expectant expression which Mr. Brooke had worn when he told
the story of the knight.

“If we are all alive ten years hence, let’s meet, and see how many
of us have got our wishes, or how much nearer we are then than now,” said
Jo, always ready with a plan.

“Bless me! How old I shall be, twenty-seven!” exclaimed Meg, who
felt grown up already, having just reached seventeen.

“You and I will be twenty-six, Teddy, Beth twenty-four, and Amy
twenty-two. What a venerable party!” said Jo.

“I hope I shall have done something to be proud of by that time, but
I’m such a lazy dog, I’m afraid I shall dawdle, Jo.”

“You need a motive, Mother says, and when you get it, she is sure
you’ll work splendidly.”

“Is she? By Jupiter, I will, if I only get the chance!” cried
Laurie, sitting up with sudden energy. “I ought to be satisfied to please
Grandfather, and I do try, but it’s working against the grain, you see,
and comes hard. He wants me to be an India merchant, as he was, and I’d
rather be shot. I hate tea and silk and spices, and every sort of rubbish his
old ships bring, and I don’t care how soon they go to the bottom when I
own them. Going to college ought to satisfy him, for if I give him four years
he ought to let me off from the business. But he’s set, and I’ve
got to do just as he did, unless I break away and please myself, as my father
did. If there was anyone left to stay with the old gentleman, I’d do it
tomorrow.”

Laurie spoke excitedly, and looked ready to carry his threat into execution on
the slightest provocation, for he was growing up very fast and, in spite of his
indolent ways, had a young man’s hatred of subjection, a young
man’s restless longing to try the world for himself.

“I advise you to sail away in one of your ships, and never come home
again till you have tried your own way,” said Jo, whose imagination was
fired by the thought of such a daring exploit, and whose sympathy was excited
by what she called ‘Teddy’s Wrongs’.

“That’s not right, Jo. You mustn’t talk in that way, and
Laurie mustn’t take your bad advice. You should do just what your
grandfather wishes, my dear boy,” said Meg in her most maternal tone.
“Do your best at college, and when he sees that you try to please him,
I’m sure he won’t be hard on you or unjust to you. As you say,
there is no one else to stay with and love him, and you’d never forgive
yourself if you left him without his permission. Don’t be dismal or fret,
but do your duty and you’ll get your reward, as good Mr. Brooke has, by
being respected and loved.”

“What do you know about him?” asked Laurie, grateful for the good
advice, but objecting to the lecture, and glad to turn the conversation from
himself after his unusual outbreak.

“Only what your grandpa told us about him, how he took good care of his
own mother till she died, and wouldn’t go abroad as tutor to some nice
person because he wouldn’t leave her. And how he provides now for an old
woman who nursed his mother, and never tells anyone, but is just as generous
and patient and good as he can be.”

“So he is, dear old fellow!” said Laurie heartily, as Meg paused,
looking flushed and earnest with her story. “It’s like Grandpa to
find out all about him without letting him know, and to tell all his goodness
to others, so that they might like him. Brooke couldn’t understand why
your mother was so kind to him, asking him over with me and treating him in her
beautiful friendly way. He thought she was just perfect, and talked about it
for days and days, and went on about you all in flaming style. If ever I do get
my wish, you see what I’ll do for Brooke.”

“Begin to do something now by not plaguing his life out,” said Meg
sharply.

“How do you know I do, Miss?”

“I can always tell by his face when he goes away. If you have been good,
he looks satisfied and walks briskly. If you have plagued him, he’s sober
and walks slowly, as if he wanted to go back and do his work better.”

“Well, I like that? So you keep an account of my good and bad marks in
Brooke’s face, do you? I see him bow and smile as he passes your window,
but I didn’t know you’d got up a telegraph.”

“We haven’t. Don’t be angry, and oh, don’t tell him I
said anything! It was only to show that I cared how you get on, and what is
said here is said in confidence, you know,” cried Meg, much alarmed at
the thought of what might follow from her careless speech.

“I don’t tell tales,” replied Laurie, with his ‘high
and mighty’ air, as Jo called a certain expression which he occasionally
wore. “Only if Brooke is going to be a thermometer, I must mind and have
fair weather for him to report.”

“Please don’t be offended. I didn’t mean to preach or tell
tales or be silly. I only thought Jo was encouraging you in a feeling which
you’d be sorry for by-and-by. You are so kind to us, we feel as if you
were our brother and say just what we think. Forgive me, I meant it
kindly.” And Meg offered her hand with a gesture both affectionate and
timid.

Ashamed of his momentary pique, Laurie squeezed the kind little hand, and said
frankly, “I’m the one to be forgiven. I’m cross and have been
out of sorts all day. I like to have you tell me my faults and be sisterly, so
don’t mind if I am grumpy sometimes. I thank you all the same.”

Bent on showing that he was not offended, he made himself as agreeable as
possible, wound cotton for Meg, recited poetry to please Jo, shook down cones
for Beth, and helped Amy with her ferns, proving himself a fit person to belong
to the ‘Busy Bee Society’. In the midst of an animated discussion
on the domestic habits of turtles (one of those amiable creatures having
strolled up from the river), the faint sound of a bell warned them that Hannah
had put the tea ‘to draw’, and they would just have time to get
home to supper.

“May I come again?” asked Laurie.

“Yes, if you are good, and love your book, as the boys in the primer are
told to do,” said Meg, smiling.

“I’ll try.”

“Then you may come, and I’ll teach you to knit as the Scotchmen do.
There’s a demand for socks just now,” added Jo, waving hers like a
big blue worsted banner as they parted at the gate.

That night, when Beth played to Mr. Laurence in the twilight, Laurie, standing
in the shadow of the curtain, listened to the little David, whose simple music
always quieted his moody spirit, and watched the old man, who sat with his gray
head on his hand, thinking tender thoughts of the dead child he had loved so
much. Remembering the conversation of the afternoon, the boy said to himself,
with the resolve to make the sacrifice cheerfully, “I’ll let my
castle go, and stay with the dear old gentleman while he needs me, for I am all
he has.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
SECRETS

Jo was very busy in the garret, for the October days began to grow chilly, and
the afternoons were short. For two or three hours the sun lay warmly in the
high window, showing Jo seated on the old sofa, writing busily, with her papers
spread out upon a trunk before her, while Scrabble, the pet rat, promenaded the
beams overhead, accompanied by his oldest son, a fine young fellow, who was
evidently very proud of his whiskers. Quite absorbed in her work, Jo scribbled
away till the last page was filled, when she signed her name with a flourish
and threw down her pen, exclaiming…

“There, I’ve done my best! If this won’t suit I shall have to
wait till I can do better.”

Lying back on the sofa, she read the manuscript carefully through, making
dashes here and there, and putting in many exclamation points, which looked
like little balloons. Then she tied it up with a smart red ribbon, and sat a
minute looking at it with a sober, wistful expression, which plainly showed how
earnest her work had been. Jo’s desk up here was an old tin kitchen which
hung against the wall. In it she kept her papers, and a few books, safely shut
away from Scrabble, who, being likewise of a literary turn, was fond of making
a circulating library of such books as were left in his way by eating the
leaves. From this tin receptacle Jo produced another manuscript, and putting
both in her pocket, crept quietly downstairs, leaving her friends to nibble on
her pens and taste her ink.

She put on her hat and jacket as noiselessly as possible, and going to the back
entry window, got out upon the roof of a low porch, swung herself down to the
grassy bank, and took a roundabout way to the road. Once there, she composed
herself, hailed a passing omnibus, and rolled away to town, looking very merry
and mysterious.

If anyone had been watching her, he would have thought her movements decidedly
peculiar, for on alighting, she went off at a great pace till she reached a
certain number in a certain busy street. Having found the place with some
difficulty, she went into the doorway, looked up the dirty stairs, and after
standing stock still a minute, suddenly dived into the street and walked away
as rapidly as she came. This maneuver she repeated several times, to the great
amusement of a black-eyed young gentleman lounging in the window of a building
opposite. On returning for the third time, Jo gave herself a shake, pulled her
hat over her eyes, and walked up the stairs, looking as if she were going to
have all her teeth out.

There was a dentist’s sign, among others, which adorned the entrance, and
after staring a moment at the pair of artificial jaws which slowly opened and
shut to draw attention to a fine set of teeth, the young gentleman put on his
coat, took his hat, and went down to post himself in the opposite doorway,
saying with a smile and a shiver, “It’s like her to come alone, but
if she has a bad time she’ll need someone to help her home.”

In ten minutes Jo came running downstairs with a very red face and the general
appearance of a person who had just passed through a trying ordeal of some
sort. When she saw the young gentleman she looked anything but pleased, and
passed him with a nod. But he followed, asking with an air of sympathy,
“Did you have a bad time?”

“Not very.”

“You got through quickly.”

“Yes, thank goodness!”

“Why did you go alone?”

“Didn’t want anyone to know.”

“You’re the oddest fellow I ever saw. How many did you have
out?”

Jo looked at her friend as if she did not understand him, then began to laugh
as if mightily amused at something.

“There are two which I want to have come out, but I must wait a
week.”

“What are you laughing at? You are up to some mischief, Jo,” said
Laurie, looking mystified.

“So are you. What were you doing, sir, up in that billiard saloon?”

“Begging your pardon, ma’am, it wasn’t a billiard saloon, but
a gymnasium, and I was taking a lesson in fencing.”

“I’m glad of that.”

“Why?”

“You can teach me, and then when we play Hamlet, you can be
Laertes, and we’ll make a fine thing of the fencing scene.”

Laurie burst out with a hearty boy’s laugh, which made several passers-by
smile in spite of themselves.

“I’ll teach you whether we play Hamlet or not. It’s
grand fun and will straighten you up capitally. But I don’t believe that
was your only reason for saying ‘I’m glad’ in that decided
way, was it now?”

“No, I was glad that you were not in the saloon, because I hope you never
go to such places. Do you?”

“Not often.”

“I wish you wouldn’t.”

“It’s no harm, Jo. I have billiards at home, but it’s no fun
unless you have good players, so, as I’m fond of it, I come sometimes and
have a game with Ned Moffat or some of the other fellows.”

“Oh, dear, I’m so sorry, for you’ll get to liking it better
and better, and will waste time and money, and grow like those dreadful boys. I
did hope you’d stay respectable and be a satisfaction to your
friends,” said Jo, shaking her head.

“Can’t a fellow take a little innocent amusement now and then
without losing his respectability?” asked Laurie, looking nettled.

“That depends upon how and where he takes it. I don’t like Ned and
his set, and wish you’d keep out of it. Mother won’t let us have
him at our house, though he wants to come. And if you grow like him she
won’t be willing to have us frolic together as we do now.”

“Won’t she?” asked Laurie anxiously.

“No, she can’t bear fashionable young men, and she’d shut us
all up in bandboxes rather than have us associate with them.”

“Well, she needn’t get out her bandboxes yet. I’m not a
fashionable party and don’t mean to be, but I do like harmless larks now
and then, don’t you?”

“Yes, nobody minds them, so lark away, but don’t get wild, will
you? Or there will be an end of all our good times.”

“I’ll be a double distilled saint.”

“I can’t bear saints. Just be a simple, honest, respectable boy,
and we’ll never desert you. I don’t know what I should do if you
acted like Mr. King’s son. He had plenty of money, but didn’t know
how to spend it, and got tipsy and gambled, and ran away, and forged his
father’s name, I believe, and was altogether horrid.”

“You think I’m likely to do the same? Much obliged.”

“No, I don’t—oh, dear, no!—but I hear people talking
about money being such a temptation, and I sometimes wish you were poor. I
shouldn’t worry then.”

“Do you worry about me, Jo?”

“A little, when you look moody and discontented, as you sometimes do, for
you’ve got such a strong will, if you once get started wrong, I’m
afraid it would be hard to stop you.”

Laurie walked in silence a few minutes, and Jo watched him, wishing she had
held her tongue, for his eyes looked angry, though his lips smiled as if at her
warnings.

“Are you going to deliver lectures all the way home?” he asked
presently.

“Of course not. Why?”

“Because if you are, I’ll take a bus. If you’re not,
I’d like to walk with you and tell you something very interesting.”

“I won’t preach any more, and I’d like to hear the news
immensely.”

“Very well, then, come on. It’s a secret, and if I tell you, you
must tell me yours.”

“I haven’t got any,” began Jo, but stopped suddenly,
remembering that she had.

“You know you have—you can’t hide anything, so up and
’fess, or I won’t tell,” cried Laurie.

“Is your secret a nice one?”

“Oh, isn’t it! All about people you know, and such fun! You ought
to hear it, and I’ve been aching to tell it this long time. Come, you
begin.”

“You’ll not say anything about it at home, will you?”

“Not a word.”

“And you won’t tease me in private?”

“I never tease.”

“Yes, you do. You get everything you want out of people. I don’t
know how you do it, but you are a born wheedler.”

“Thank you. Fire away.”

“Well, I’ve left two stories with a newspaperman, and he’s to
give his answer next week,” whispered Jo, in her confidant’s ear.

“Hurrah for Miss March, the celebrated American authoress!” cried
Laurie, throwing up his hat and catching it again, to the great delight of two
ducks, four cats, five hens, and half a dozen Irish children, for they were out
of the city now.

“Hush! It won’t come to anything, I dare say, but I couldn’t
rest till I had tried, and I said nothing about it because I didn’t want
anyone else to be disappointed.”

“It won’t fail. Why, Jo, your stories are works of Shakespeare
compared to half the rubbish that is published every day. Won’t it be fun
to see them in print, and shan’t we feel proud of our authoress?”

Jo’s eyes sparkled, for it is always pleasant to be believed in, and a
friend’s praise is always sweeter than a dozen newspaper puffs.

“Where’s your secret? Play fair, Teddy, or I’ll never believe
you again,” she said, trying to extinguish the brilliant hopes that
blazed up at a word of encouragement.

“I may get into a scrape for telling, but I didn’t promise not to,
so I will, for I never feel easy in my mind till I’ve told you any plummy
bit of news I get. I know where Meg’s glove is.”

“Is that all?” said Jo, looking disappointed, as Laurie nodded and
twinkled with a face full of mysterious intelligence.

“It’s quite enough for the present, as you’ll agree when I
tell you where it is.”

“Tell, then.”

Laurie bent, and whispered three words in Jo’s ear, which produced a
comical change. She stood and stared at him for a minute, looking both
surprised and displeased, then walked on, saying sharply, “How do you
know?”

“Saw it.”

“Where?”

“Pocket.”

“All this time?”

“Yes, isn’t that romantic?”

“No, it’s horrid.”

“Don’t you like it?”

“Of course I don’t. It’s ridiculous, it won’t be
allowed. My patience! What would Meg say?”

“You are not to tell anyone. Mind that.”

“I didn’t promise.”

“That was understood, and I trusted you.”

“Well, I won’t for the present, anyway, but I’m disgusted,
and wish you hadn’t told me.”

“I thought you’d be pleased.”

“At the idea of anybody coming to take Meg away? No, thank you.”

“You’ll feel better about it when somebody comes to take you
away.”

“I’d like to see anyone try it,” cried Jo fiercely.

“So should I!” and Laurie chuckled at the idea.

“I don’t think secrets agree with me, I feel rumpled up in my mind
since you told me that,” said Jo rather ungratefully.

“Race down this hill with me, and you’ll be all right,”
suggested Laurie.

No one was in sight, the smooth road sloped invitingly before her, and finding
the temptation irresistible, Jo darted away, soon leaving hat and comb behind
her and scattering hairpins as she ran. Laurie reached the goal first and was
quite satisfied with the success of his treatment, for his Atlanta came panting
up with flying hair, bright eyes, ruddy cheeks, and no signs of dissatisfaction
in her face.

“I wish I was a horse, then I could run for miles in this splendid air,
and not lose my breath. It was capital, but see what a guy it’s made me.
Go, pick up my things, like a cherub, as you are,” said Jo, dropping down
under a maple tree, which was carpeting the bank with crimson leaves.

Laurie leisurely departed to recover the lost property, and Jo bundled up her
braids, hoping no one would pass by till she was tidy again. But someone did
pass, and who should it be but Meg, looking particularly ladylike in her state
and festival suit, for she had been making calls.

“What in the world are you doing here?” she asked, regarding her
disheveled sister with well-bred surprise.

“Getting leaves,” meekly answered Jo, sorting the rosy handful she
had just swept up.

“And hairpins,” added Laurie, throwing half a dozen into Jo’s
lap. “They grow on this road, Meg, so do combs and brown straw
hats.”

“You have been running, Jo. How could you? When will you stop such
romping ways?” said Meg reprovingly, as she settled her cuffs and
smoothed her hair, with which the wind had taken liberties.

“Never till I’m stiff and old and have to use a crutch. Don’t
try to make me grow up before my time, Meg. It’s hard enough to have you
change all of a sudden. Let me be a little girl as long as I can.”

As she spoke, Jo bent over the leaves to hide the trembling of her lips, for
lately she had felt that Margaret was fast getting to be a woman, and
Laurie’s secret made her dread the separation which must surely come some
time and now seemed very near. He saw the trouble in her face and drew
Meg’s attention from it by asking quickly, “Where have you been
calling, all so fine?”

“At the Gardiners’, and Sallie has been telling me all about Belle
Moffat’s wedding. It was very splendid, and they have gone to spend the
winter in Paris. Just think how delightful that must be!”

“Do you envy her, Meg?” said Laurie.

“I’m afraid I do.”

“I’m glad of it!” muttered Jo, tying on her hat with a jerk.

“Why?” asked Meg, looking surprised.

“Because if you care much about riches, you will never go and marry a
poor man,” said Jo, frowning at Laurie, who was mutely warning her to
mind what she said.

“I shall never ‘go and marry’ anyone,” observed
Meg, walking on with great dignity while the others followed, laughing,
whispering, skipping stones, and ‘behaving like children’, as Meg
said to herself, though she might have been tempted to join them if she had not
had her best dress on.

For a week or two, Jo behaved so queerly that her sisters were quite
bewildered. She rushed to the door when the postman rang, was rude to Mr.
Brooke whenever they met, would sit looking at Meg with a woe-begone face,
occasionally jumping up to shake and then kiss her in a very mysterious manner.
Laurie and she were always making signs to one another, and talking about
‘Spread Eagles’ till the girls declared they had both lost their
wits. On the second Saturday after Jo got out of the window, Meg, as she sat
sewing at her window, was scandalized by the sight of Laurie chasing Jo all
over the garden and finally capturing her in Amy’s bower. What went on
there, Meg could not see, but shrieks of laughter were heard, followed by the
murmur of voices and a great flapping of newspapers.

“What shall we do with that girl? She never will behave like a
young lady,” sighed Meg, as she watched the race with a disapproving
face.

“I hope she won’t. She is so funny and dear as she is,” said
Beth, who had never betrayed that she was a little hurt at Jo’s having
secrets with anyone but her.

“It’s very trying, but we never can make her commy la
fo,” added Amy, who sat making some new frills for herself, with her
curls tied up in a very becoming way, two agreeable things that made her feel
unusually elegant and ladylike.

In a few minutes Jo bounced in, laid herself on the sofa, and affected to read.

“Have you anything interesting there?” asked Meg, with
condescension.

“Nothing but a story, won’t amount to much, I guess,”
returned Jo, carefully keeping the name of the paper out of sight.

“You’d better read it aloud. That will amuse us and keep you out of
mischief,” said Amy in her most grown-up tone.

“What’s the name?” asked Beth, wondering why Jo kept her face
behind the sheet.

“The Rival Painters.”

“That sounds well. Read it,” said Meg.

With a loud “Hem!” and a long breath, Jo began to read very fast.
The girls listened with interest, for the tale was romantic, and somewhat
pathetic, as most of the characters died in the end. “I like that about
the splendid picture,” was Amy’s approving remark, as Jo paused.

“I prefer the lovering part. Viola and Angelo are two of our favorite
names, isn’t that queer?” said Meg, wiping her eyes, for the
lovering part was tragical.

“Who wrote it?” asked Beth, who had caught a glimpse of Jo’s
face.

The reader suddenly sat up, cast away the paper, displaying a flushed
countenance, and with a funny mixture of solemnity and excitement replied in a
loud voice, “Your sister.”

“You?” cried Meg, dropping her work.

“It’s very good,” said Amy critically.

“I knew it! I knew it! Oh, my Jo, I am so proud!” and Beth ran to
hug her sister and exult over this splendid success.

Dear me, how delighted they all were, to be sure! How Meg wouldn’t
believe it till she saw the words. “Miss Josephine March,” actually
printed in the paper. How graciously Amy criticized the artistic parts of the
story, and offered hints for a sequel, which unfortunately couldn’t be
carried out, as the hero and heroine were dead. How Beth got excited, and
skipped and sang with joy. How Hannah came in to exclaim, “Sakes alive,
well I never!” in great astonishment at ‘that Jo’s
doin’s’. How proud Mrs. March was when she knew it. How Jo laughed,
with tears in her eyes, as she declared she might as well be a peacock and done
with it, and how the ‘Spread Eagle’ might be said to flap his wings
triumphantly over the House of March, as the paper passed from hand to hand.

“Tell us about it.” “When did it come?” “How much
did you get for it?” “What will Father say?”
“Won’t Laurie laugh?” cried the family, all in one breath as
they clustered about Jo, for these foolish, affectionate people made a jubilee
of every little household joy.

“Stop jabbering, girls, and I’ll tell you everything,” said
Jo, wondering if Miss Burney felt any grander over her Evelina than she did
over her ‘Rival Painters’. Having told how she disposed of her
tales, Jo added, “And when I went to get my answer, the man said he liked
them both, but didn’t pay beginners, only let them print in his paper,
and noticed the stories. It was good practice, he said, and when the beginners
improved, anyone would pay. So I let him have the two stories, and today this
was sent to me, and Laurie caught me with it and insisted on seeing it, so I
let him. And he said it was good, and I shall write more, and he’s going
to get the next paid for, and I am so happy, for in time I may be able to
support myself and help the girls.”

Jo’s breath gave out here, and wrapping her head in the paper, she
bedewed her little story with a few natural tears, for to be independent and
earn the praise of those she loved were the dearest wishes of her heart, and
this seemed to be the first step toward that happy end.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A TELEGRAM

“November is the most disagreeable month in the whole year,” said
Margaret, standing at the window one dull afternoon, looking out at the
frostbitten garden.

“That’s the reason I was born in it,” observed Jo pensively,
quite unconscious of the blot on her nose.

“If something very pleasant should happen now, we should think it a
delightful month,” said Beth, who took a hopeful view of everything, even
November.

“I dare say, but nothing pleasant ever does happen in this family,”
said Meg, who was out of sorts. “We go grubbing along day after day,
without a bit of change, and very little fun. We might as well be in a
treadmill.”

“My patience, how blue we are!” cried Jo. “I don’t much
wonder, poor dear, for you see other girls having splendid times, while you
grind, grind, year in and year out. Oh, don’t I wish I could manage
things for you as I do for my heroines! You’re pretty enough and good
enough already, so I’d have some rich relation leave you a fortune
unexpectedly. Then you’d dash out as an heiress, scorn everyone who has
slighted you, go abroad, and come home my Lady Something in a blaze of splendor
and elegance.”

“People don’t have fortunes left them in that style nowadays, men
have to work and women marry for money. It’s a dreadfully unjust
world,” said Meg bitterly.

“Jo and I are going to make fortunes for you all. Just wait ten years,
and see if we don’t,” said Amy, who sat in a corner making mud
pies, as Hannah called her little clay models of birds, fruit, and faces.

“Can’t wait, and I’m afraid I haven’t much faith in ink
and dirt, though I’m grateful for your good intentions.”

Meg sighed, and turned to the frostbitten garden again. Jo groaned and leaned
both elbows on the table in a despondent attitude, but Amy spatted away
energetically, and Beth, who sat at the other window, said, smiling, “Two
pleasant things are going to happen right away. Marmee is coming down the
street, and Laurie is tramping through the garden as if he had something nice
to tell.”

In they both came, Mrs. March with her usual question, “Any letter from
Father, girls?” and Laurie to say in his persuasive way,
“Won’t some of you come for a drive? I’ve been working away
at mathematics till my head is in a muddle, and I’m going to freshen my
wits by a brisk turn. It’s a dull day, but the air isn’t bad, and
I’m going to take Brooke home, so it will be gay inside, if it
isn’t out. Come, Jo, you and Beth will go, won’t you?”

“Of course we will.”

“Much obliged, but I’m busy.” And Meg whisked out her
workbasket, for she had agreed with her mother that it was best, for her at
least, not to drive too often with the young gentleman.

“We three will be ready in a minute,” cried Amy, running away to
wash her hands.

“Can I do anything for you, Madam Mother?” asked Laurie, leaning
over Mrs. March’s chair with the affectionate look and tone he always
gave her.

“No, thank you, except call at the office, if you’ll be so kind,
dear. It’s our day for a letter, and the postman hasn’t been.
Father is as regular as the sun, but there’s some delay on the way,
perhaps.”

A sharp ring interrupted her, and a minute after Hannah came in with a letter.

“It’s one of them horrid telegraph things, mum,” she said,
handling it as if she was afraid it would explode and do some damage.

At the word ‘telegraph’, Mrs. March snatched it, read the two lines
it contained, and dropped back into her chair as white as if the little paper
had sent a bullet to her heart. Laurie dashed downstairs for water, while Meg
and Hannah supported her, and Jo read aloud, in a frightened voice…

Mrs. March:
Your husband is very ill. Come at once.
S. HALE
Blank Hospital, Washington.

How still the room was as they listened breathlessly, how strangely the day
darkened outside, and how suddenly the whole world seemed to change, as the
girls gathered about their mother, feeling as if all the happiness and support
of their lives was about to be taken from them.

Mrs. March was herself again directly, read the message over, and stretched out
her arms to her daughters, saying, in a tone they never forgot, “I shall
go at once, but it may be too late. Oh, children, children, help me to bear
it!”

For several minutes there was nothing but the sound of sobbing in the room,
mingled with broken words of comfort, tender assurances of help, and hopeful
whispers that died away in tears. Poor Hannah was the first to recover, and
with unconscious wisdom she set all the rest a good example, for with her, work
was panacea for most afflictions.

“The Lord keep the dear man! I won’t waste no time a-cryin’,
but git your things ready right away, mum,” she said heartily, as she
wiped her face on her apron, gave her mistress a warm shake of the hand with
her own hard one, and went away to work like three women in one.

“She’s right, there’s no time for tears now. Be calm, girls,
and let me think.”

They tried to be calm, poor things, as their mother sat up, looking pale but
steady, and put away her grief to think and plan for them.

“Where’s Laurie?” she asked presently, when she had collected
her thoughts and decided on the first duties to be done.

“Here, ma’am. Oh, let me do something!” cried the boy,
hurrying from the next room whither he had withdrawn, feeling that their first
sorrow was too sacred for even his friendly eyes to see.

“Send a telegram saying I will come at once. The next train goes early in
the morning. I’ll take that.”

“What else? The horses are ready. I can go anywhere, do anything,”
he said, looking ready to fly to the ends of the earth.

“Leave a note at Aunt March’s. Jo, give me that pen and
paper.”

Tearing off the blank side of one of her newly copied pages, Jo drew the table
before her mother, well knowing that money for the long, sad journey must be
borrowed, and feeling as if she could do anything to add a little to the sum
for her father.

“Now go, dear, but don’t kill yourself driving at a desperate pace.
There is no need of that.”

Mrs. March’s warning was evidently thrown away, for five minutes later
Laurie tore by the window on his own fleet horse, riding as if for his life.

“Jo, run to the rooms, and tell Mrs. King that I can’t come. On the
way get these things. I’ll put them down, they’ll be needed and I
must go prepared for nursing. Hospital stores are not always good. Beth, go and
ask Mr. Laurence for a couple of bottles of old wine. I’m not too proud
to beg for Father. He shall have the best of everything. Amy, tell Hannah to
get down the black trunk, and Meg, come and help me find my things, for
I’m half bewildered.”

Writing, thinking, and directing all at once might well bewilder the poor lady,
and Meg begged her to sit quietly in her room for a little while, and let them
work. Everyone scattered like leaves before a gust of wind, and the quiet,
happy household was broken up as suddenly as if the paper had been an evil
spell.

Mr. Laurence came hurrying back with Beth, bringing every comfort the kind old
gentleman could think of for the invalid, and friendliest promises of
protection for the girls during the mother’s absence, which comforted her
very much. There was nothing he didn’t offer, from his own dressing gown
to himself as escort. But the 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 traveling.
He saw the look, knit his heavy eyebrows, rubbed his hands, and marched
abruptly away, saying he’d be back directly. No one had time to think of
him again till, as Meg ran through the entry, with a pair of rubbers in one
hand and a cup of tea in the other, she came suddenly upon Mr. Brooke.

“I’m very sorry to hear of this, Miss March,” he said, in the
kind, quiet tone which sounded very pleasantly to her perturbed spirit.
“I came to offer myself as escort to your mother. Mr. Laurence has
commissions for me in Washington, and it will give me real satisfaction to be
of service to her there.”

Down dropped the rubbers, and the tea was very near following, as Meg put out
her hand, with a face so full of gratitude that Mr. Brooke would have felt
repaid for a much greater sacrifice than the trifling one of time and comfort
which he was about to take.

“How kind you all are! Mother will accept, I’m sure, and it will be
such a relief to know that she has someone to take care of her. Thank you very,
very much!”

Meg spoke earnestly, and forgot herself entirely till something in the brown
eyes looking down at her made her remember the cooling tea, and lead the way
into the parlor, saying she would call her mother.

Everything was arranged by the time Laurie returned with a note from Aunt
March, enclosing the desired sum, and a few lines repeating what she had often
said before, that she had always told them it was absurd for March to go into
the army, always predicted that no good would come of it, and she hoped they
would take her advice the next time. Mrs. March put the note in the fire, the
money in her purse, and went on with her preparations, with her lips folded
tightly in a way which Jo would have understood if she had been there.

The short afternoon wore away. All other errands were done, and Meg and her
mother busy at some necessary needlework, while Beth and Amy got tea, and
Hannah finished her ironing with what she called a ‘slap and a
bang’, but still Jo did not come. They began to get anxious, and Laurie
went off to find her, for no one 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 toward making Father comfortable and bringing him home!”

“My dear, where did you get it? Twenty-five dollars! Jo, I hope you
haven’t done anything rash?”

“No, it’s mine honestly. I didn’t beg, borrow, or steal it. I
earned it, and I don’t think you’ll blame me, for I only sold what
was my own.”

As she spoke, Jo took off her bonnet, and a general outcry arose, for all her
abundant hair was cut short.

“Your hair! Your beautiful hair!” “Oh, Jo, how could you?
Your one beauty.” “My dear girl, there was no need of this.”
“She doesn’t look like my Jo any more, but I love her dearly for
it!”

As everyone exclaimed, and Beth hugged the cropped head tenderly, Jo assumed an
indifferent air, which did not deceive anyone a particle, and said, rumpling up
the brown bush and trying to look as if she liked it, “It doesn’t
affect the fate of the nation, so don’t wail, Beth. It will be good for
my vanity, I was getting too proud of my wig. It will do my brains good to have
that mop taken off. My head feels deliciously light and cool, and the barber
said I could soon have a curly crop, which will be boyish, becoming, and easy
to keep in order. I’m satisfied, so please take the money and let’s
have supper.”

“Tell me all about it, Jo. I am not quite satisfied, but I can’t
blame you, for I know how willingly you sacrificed your vanity, as you call it,
to your love. But, my dear, it was not necessary, and I’m afraid you will
regret it one of these days,” said Mrs. March.

“No, I won’t!” returned Jo stoutly, feeling much relieved
that her prank was not entirely condemned.

“What made you do it?” asked Amy, who would as soon have thought of
cutting off her head as her pretty hair.

“Well, I was wild to do something for Father,” replied Jo, as they
gathered about the table, for healthy young people can eat even in the midst of
trouble. “I hate to borrow as much as Mother does, and I knew Aunt March
would croak, she always does, if you ask for a ninepence. Meg gave all her
quarterly salary toward the rent, and I only got some clothes with mine, so I
felt wicked, and was bound to have some money, if I sold the nose off my face
to get it.”

“You needn’t feel wicked, my child! You had no winter things and
got the simplest with your own hard earnings,” said Mrs. March with a
look that warmed Jo’s heart.

“I hadn’t the least idea of selling my hair at first, but as I went
along I kept thinking what I could do, and feeling as if I’d like to dive
into some of the rich stores and help myself. In a barber’s window I saw
tails of hair with the prices marked, and one black tail, not so thick as mine,
was forty dollars. It came to me all of a sudden that I had one thing to make
money out of, and without stopping to think, I walked in, asked if they bought
hair, and what they would give for mine.”

“I don’t see how you dared to do it,” said Beth in a tone of
awe.

“Oh, he was a little man who looked as if he merely lived to oil his
hair. He rather stared at first, as if he wasn’t used to having girls
bounce into his shop and ask him to buy their hair. He said he didn’t
care about mine, it wasn’t the fashionable color, and he never paid much
for it in the first place. The work put into it made it dear, and so on. It was
getting late, and I was afraid if it wasn’t done right away that I
shouldn’t have it done at all, and you know when I start to do a thing, I
hate to give it up. So I begged him to take it, and told him why I was in such
a hurry. It was silly, I dare say, but it changed his mind, for I got rather
excited, and told the story in my topsy-turvy way, and his wife heard, and said
so kindly, ‘Take it, Thomas, and oblige the young lady. I’d do as
much for our Jimmy any day if I had a spire of hair worth selling.”

“Who was Jimmy?” asked Amy, who liked to have things explained as
they went along.

“Her son, she said, who was in the army. How friendly such things make
strangers feel, don’t they? She talked away all the time the man clipped,
and diverted my mind nicely.”

“Didn’t you feel dreadfully when the first cut came?” asked
Meg, with a shiver.

“I took a last look at my hair while the man got his things, and that was
the end of it. I never snivel over trifles like that. I will confess, though, I
felt queer when I saw the dear old hair laid out on the table, and felt only
the short rough ends of my head. It almost seemed as if I’d an arm or leg
off. The woman saw me look at it, and picked out a long lock for me to keep.
I’ll give it to you, Marmee, just to remember past glories by, for a crop
is so comfortable I don’t think I shall ever have a mane again.”

Mrs. March folded the wavy chestnut lock, and laid it away with a short gray
one in her desk. She only said, “Thank you, deary,” but something
in her face made the girls change the subject, and talk as cheerfully as they
could about Mr. Brooke’s kindness, the prospect of a fine day tomorrow,
and the happy times they would have when Father came home to be nursed.

No one wanted to go to bed when at ten o’clock Mrs. March put by the last
finished job, and said, “Come girls.” Beth went to the piano and
played the father’s favorite hymn. All began bravely, but broke down one
by one till Beth was left alone, singing with all her heart, for to her music
was always a sweet consoler.

“Go to bed and don’t talk, for we must be up early and shall need
all the sleep we can get. Good night, my darlings,” said Mrs. March, as
the hymn ended, for no one cared to try another.

They kissed her quietly, and went to bed as silently as if the dear invalid lay
in the next room. Beth and Amy soon fell asleep in spite of the great trouble,
but Meg lay awake, thinking the most serious thoughts she had ever known in her
short life. Jo lay motionless, and her sister fancied that she was asleep, till
a stifled sob made her exclaim, as she touched a wet cheek…

“Jo, dear, what is it? Are you crying about father?”

“No, not now.”

“What then?”

“My… My hair!” burst out poor Jo, trying vainly to smother her
emotion in the pillow.

It did not seem at all comical to Meg, who kissed and caressed the afflicted
heroine in the tenderest manner.

“I’m not sorry,” protested Jo, with a choke. “I’d
do it again tomorrow, if I could. It’s only the vain part of me that goes
and cries in this silly way. Don’t tell anyone, it’s all over now.
I thought you were asleep, so I just made a little private moan for my one
beauty. How came you to be awake?”

“I can’t sleep, I’m so anxious,” said Meg.

“Think about something pleasant, and you’ll soon drop off.”

“I tried it, but felt wider awake than ever.”

“What did you think of?”

“Handsome faces—eyes particularly,” answered Meg, smiling to
herself in the dark.

“What color do you like best?”

“Brown, that is, sometimes. Blue are lovely.”

Jo laughed, and Meg sharply ordered her not to talk, then amiably promised to
make her hair curl, and fell asleep to dream of living in her castle in the
air.

The clocks were striking midnight and the rooms were very still as a figure
glided quietly from bed to bed, smoothing a coverlet here, settling a pillow
there, and pausing to look long and tenderly at each unconscious face, to kiss
each with lips that mutely blessed, and to pray the fervent prayers which only
mothers utter. As she lifted the curtain to look out into the dreary night, the
moon broke suddenly from behind the clouds and shone upon her like a bright,
benignant face, which seemed to whisper in the silence, “Be comforted,
dear soul! There is always light behind the clouds.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
LETTERS

In the cold gray dawn the sisters lit their lamp and read their chapter with an
earnestness never felt before. For now the shadow of a real trouble had come,
the little books were full of help and comfort, and as they dressed, they
agreed to say goodbye cheerfully and hopefully, and send their mother on her
anxious journey unsaddened by tears or complaints from them. Everything seemed
very strange when they went down, so dim and still outside, so full of light
and bustle within. Breakfast at that early hour seemed odd, and even
Hannah’s familiar face looked unnatural as she flew about her kitchen
with her nightcap on. The big trunk stood ready in the hall, Mother’s
cloak and bonnet lay on the sofa, and Mother herself sat trying to eat, but
looking so pale and worn with sleeplessness and anxiety that the girls found it
very hard to keep their resolution. Meg’s eyes kept filling in spite of
herself, Jo was obliged to hide her face in the kitchen roller more than once,
and the little girls wore a grave, troubled expression, as if sorrow was a new
experience to them.

Nobody talked much, but as the time drew very near and they sat waiting for the
carriage, Mrs. March said to the girls, who were all busied about her, one
folding her shawl, another smoothing out the strings of her bonnet, a third
putting on her overshoes, and a fourth fastening up her travelling bag…

“Children, I leave you to Hannah’s care and Mr. Laurence’s
protection. Hannah is faithfulness itself, and our good neighbor will guard you
as if you were his own. I have no fears for you, yet I am anxious that you
should take this trouble rightly. Don’t grieve and fret when I am gone,
or think that you can be idle and comfort yourselves by being idle and trying
to forget. Go on with your work as usual, for work is a blessed solace. Hope
and keep busy, and whatever happens, remember that you never can be
fatherless.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Meg, dear, be prudent, watch over your sisters, consult Hannah, and in
any perplexity, go to Mr. Laurence. Be patient, Jo, don’t get despondent
or do rash things, write to me often, and be my brave girl, ready to help and
cheer all. Beth, comfort yourself with your music, and be faithful to the
little home duties, and you, Amy, help all you can, be obedient, and keep happy
safe at home.”

“We will, Mother! We will!”

The rattle of an approaching carriage made them all start and listen. That was
the hard minute, but the girls stood it well. No one cried, no one ran away or
uttered a lamentation, though their hearts were very heavy as they sent loving
messages to Father, remembering, as they spoke that it might be too late to
deliver them. They kissed their mother quietly, clung about her tenderly, and
tried to wave their hands cheerfully when she drove away.

Laurie and his grandfather came over to see her off, and Mr. Brooke looked so
strong and sensible and kind that the girls christened him ‘Mr.
Greatheart’ on the spot.

“Good-by, my darlings! God bless and keep us all!” whispered Mrs.
March, as she kissed one dear little face after the other, and hurried into the
carriage.

As she rolled away, the sun came out, and looking back, she saw it shining on
the group at the gate like a good omen. They saw it also, and smiled and waved
their hands, and the last thing she beheld as she turned the corner was the
four bright faces, and behind them like a bodyguard, old Mr. Laurence, faithful
Hannah, and devoted Laurie.

“How kind everyone is to us!” she said, turning to find fresh proof
of it in the respectful sympathy of the young man’s face.

“I don’t see how they can help it,” returned Mr. Brooke,
laughing so infectiously that Mrs. March could not help smiling. And so the
journey began with the good omens of sunshine, smiles, and cheerful words.

“I feel as if there had been an earthquake,” said Jo, as their
neighbors went home to breakfast, leaving them to rest and refresh themselves.

“It seems as if half the house was gone,” added Meg forlornly.

Beth opened her lips to say something, but could only point to the pile of
nicely mended hose which lay on Mother’s table, showing that even in her
last hurried moments she had thought and worked for them. It was a little
thing, but it went straight to their hearts, and in spite of their brave
resolutions, they all broke down and cried bitterly.

Hannah wisely allowed them to relieve their feelings, and when the shower
showed signs of clearing up, she came to the rescue, armed with a coffeepot.

“Now, my dear young ladies, remember what your ma said, and don’t
fret. Come and have a cup of coffee all round, and then let’s fall to
work and be a credit to the family.”

Coffee was a treat, and Hannah showed great tact in making it that morning. No
one could resist her persuasive nods, or the fragrant invitation issuing from
the nose of the coffee pot. They drew up to the table, exchanged their
handkerchiefs for napkins, and in ten minutes were all right again.

“‘Hope and keep busy’, that’s the motto for us, so
let’s see who will remember it best. I shall go to Aunt March, as usual.
Oh, won’t she lecture though!” said Jo, as she sipped with
returning spirit.

“I shall go to my Kings, though I’d much rather stay at home and
attend to things here,” said Meg, wishing she hadn’t made her eyes
so red.

“No need of that. Beth and I can keep house perfectly well,” put in
Amy, with an important air.

“Hannah will tell us what to do, and we’ll have everything nice
when you come home,” added Beth, getting out her mop and dish tub without
delay.

“I think anxiety is very interesting,” observed Amy, eating sugar
pensively.

The girls couldn’t help laughing, and felt better for it, though Meg
shook her head at the young lady who could find consolation in a sugar bowl.

The sight of the turnovers made Jo sober again; and when the two went out to
their daily tasks, they looked sorrowfully back at the window where they were
accustomed to see their mother’s face. It was gone, but Beth had
remembered the little household ceremony, and there she was, nodding away at
them like a rosyfaced mandarin.

“That’s so like my Beth!” said Jo, waving her hat, with a
grateful face. “Goodbye, Meggy, I hope the Kings won’t strain
today. Don’t fret about Father, dear,” she added, as they parted.

“And I hope Aunt March won’t croak. Your hair is becoming, and it
looks very boyish and nice,” returned Meg, trying not to smile at the
curly head, which looked comically small on her tall sister’s shoulders.

“That’s my only comfort.” And, touching her hat a la Laurie,
away went Jo, feeling like a shorn sheep on a wintry day.

News from their father comforted the girls very much, for though dangerously
ill, the presence of the best and tenderest of nurses had already done him
good. Mr. Brooke sent a bulletin every day, and as the head of the family, Meg
insisted on reading the dispatches, which grew more cheerful as the week
passed. At first, everyone was eager to write, and plump envelopes were
carefully poked into the letter box by one or other of the sisters, who felt
rather important with their Washington correspondence. As one of these packets
contained characteristic notes from the party, we will rob an imaginary mail,
and read them.

My dearest Mother:

It is impossible to tell you how happy your last letter made us, for the news
was so good we couldn’t help laughing and crying over it. How very kind
Mr. Brooke is, and how fortunate that Mr. Laurence’s business detains him
near you so long, since he is so useful to you and Father. The girls are all as
good as gold. Jo helps me with the sewing, and insists on doing all sorts of
hard jobs. I should be afraid she might overdo, if I didn’t know 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 buttonholes and mend her stockings. She tries very hard, and I know
you will be pleased with her improvement when you come. Mr. Laurence watches
over us like a motherly old hen, as Jo says, and Laurie is very kind and
neighborly. He and Jo keep us merry, for we get pretty blue sometimes, and feel
like orphans, with you so far away. Hannah is a perfect saint. She does not
scold at all, and always calls me Miss Margaret, which is quite proper, you
know, and treats me with respect. We are all well and busy, but we long, day
and night, to have you back. Give my dearest love to Father, and believe me,
ever your own…

MEG

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

My precious Marmee:

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

I made a ‘pome’ yesterday, when I was helping Hannah wash, and as
Father likes my silly little things, I put it in to amuse him. Give him my
lovingest hug that ever was, and kiss yourself a dozen times for your…

TOPSY-TURVY JO

A SONG FROM THE SUDS

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

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

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

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

Dear Mother,

There is only room for me to send my love, and some pressed pansies from the
root I have been keeping safe in the house for Father to see. I read every
morning, try to be good all day, and sing myself to sleep with Father’s
tune. I can’t sing ‘LAND OF THE LEAL’ now, it makes me cry.
Everyone is very kind, and we are as happy as we can be without you. Amy wants
the rest of the page, so I must stop. I didn’t forget to cover the
holders, and I wind the clock and air the rooms every day.

Kiss dear Father on the cheek he calls mine. Oh, do come soon to your loving…

LITTLE BETH

Ma Chere Mamma,

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

AMY CURTIS MARCH

Dear Mis March,

I jes drop a line to say we git on fust rate. The girls is clever and fly round
right smart. Miss Meg is going to make a proper good housekeeper. She hes the
liking for it, and gits the hang of things surprisin quick. Jo doos beat all
for goin ahead, but she don’t stop to cal’k’late fust, and
you never know where she’s like to bring up. She done out a tub of
clothes on Monday, but she starched ’em afore they was wrenched, and
blued a pink calico dress till I thought I should a died a laughin. Beth is the
best of little creeters, and a sight of help to me, bein so forehanded and
dependable. She tries to learn everything, and really goes to market beyond her
years, likewise keeps accounts, with my help, quite wonderful. We have got on
very economical so fur. I don’t let the girls hev coffee only once a
week, accordin to your wish, and keep em on plain wholesome vittles. Amy does
well without 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 the girls, so I let em hev full swing. The old gentleman sends heaps
of things, and is rather wearin, but means wal, and it aint my place to say
nothin. My bread is riz, so no more at this time. I send my duty to Mr. March,
and hope he’s seen the last of his Pewmonia.

Yours respectful,
Hannah Mullet

Head Nurse of Ward No. 2,

All serene on the Rappahannock, troops in fine condition, commisary department
well conducted, the Home Guard under Colonel Teddy always on duty, Commander in
Chief General Laurence reviews the army daily, Quartermaster Mullet keeps order
in camp, and Major Lion does picket duty at night. A salute of twenty-four guns
was fired on receipt of good news from Washington, and a dress parade took
place at headquarters. Commander in chief sends best wishes, in which he is
heartily joined by…

COLONEL TEDDY

Dear Madam:

The little girls are all well. Beth and my boy report daily. Hannah is a model
servant, and guards pretty Meg like a dragon. Glad the fine weather holds. Pray
make Brooke useful, and draw on me for funds if expenses exceed your estimate.
Don’t let your husband want anything. Thank God he is mending.

Your sincere friend and servant, JAMES LAURENCE

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
LITTLE FAITHFUL

For a week the amount of virtue in the old house would have supplied the
neighborhood. It was really amazing, for everyone 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 old ways. They did not forget their motto,
but hoping and keeping busy seemed to grow easier, and after such tremendous
exertions, they felt that Endeavor deserved a holiday, and gave it a good many.

Jo caught a bad cold through neglect to cover the shorn head enough, and was
ordered to stay at home till she was better, for Aunt March didn’t like
to hear people read with colds in their heads. Jo liked this, and after an
energetic rummage from garret to cellar, subsided on the sofa to nurse her cold
with arsenicum and books. Amy found that housework and art did not go well
together, and returned to her mud pies. Meg went daily to her pupils, and
sewed, or thought she did, at home, but much time was spent in writing long
letters to her mother, or reading the Washington dispatches 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 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 everyone felt how sweet and helpful Beth was, and fell into a way of going
to her for comfort or advice in their small affairs.

All were unconscious that this experience was a test of character, and when the
first excitement was over, felt that they had done well and deserved praise. So
they did, but their mistake was in ceasing to do well, and they learned this
lesson through much anxiety and regret.

“Meg, I wish you’d go and see the Hummels. You know Mother told us
not to forget them.” said Beth, ten days after Mrs. March’s
departure.

“I’m too tired to go this afternoon,” replied Meg, rocking
comfortably as she sewed.

“Can’t you, Jo?” asked Beth.

“Too stormy for me with my cold.”

“I thought it was almost well.”

“It’s well enough for me to go out with Laurie, but not well enough
to go to the Hummels’,” said Jo, laughing, but looking a little
ashamed of her inconsistency.

“Why don’t you go yourself?” asked Meg.

“I have been every day, but the baby is sick, and I don’t know what
to do for it. Mrs. Hummel goes away to work, and Lottchen takes care of it. But
it gets sicker and sicker, and I think you or Hannah ought to go.”

Beth spoke earnestly, and Meg promised she would go tomorrow.

“Ask Hannah for some nice little mess, and take it round, Beth, the air
will do you good,” said Jo, adding apologetically, “I’d go
but I want to finish my writing.”

“My head aches and I’m tired, so I thought maybe some of you would
go,” said Beth.

“Amy will be in presently, and she will run down for us,” suggested
Meg.

So Beth lay down on the sofa, the others returned to their work, and the
Hummels were forgotten. An hour passed. Amy did not come, Meg went to her room
to try on a new dress, Jo was absorbed in her story, and Hannah was sound
asleep before the kitchen fire, when Beth quietly put on her hood, filled her
basket with odds and ends for the poor children, and went out into the chilly
air with a heavy head and a grieved look in her patient eyes. It was late when
she came back, and no one saw her creep upstairs and shut herself into her
mother’s room. Half an hour after, Jo went to ‘Mother’s
closet’ for something, and there found little Beth sitting on the
medicine chest, looking very grave, with red eyes and a camphor bottle in her
hand.

“Christopher Columbus! What’s the matter?” cried Jo, as Beth
put out her hand as if to warn her off, and asked quickly. . .

“You’ve had the scarlet fever, haven’t you?”

“Years ago, when Meg did. Why?”

“Then I’ll tell you. Oh, Jo, the baby’s dead!”

“What baby?”

“Mrs. Hummel’s. It died in my lap before she got home,” cried
Beth with a sob.

“My poor dear, how dreadful for you! I ought to have gone,” said
Jo, taking her sister in her arms as she sat down in her mother’s big
chair, with a remorseful face.

“It wasn’t dreadful, Jo, only so sad! I saw in a minute 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 if gave a little cry and
trembled, and then lay very still. I tried to warm its feet, and Lotty gave it
some milk, but it didn’t stir, and I knew it was dead.”

“Don’t cry, dear! What did you do?”

“I just sat and held it softly till Mrs. Hummel came with the doctor. He
said it was dead, and looked at Heinrich and Minna, who have sore throats.
‘Scarlet fever, ma’am. Ought to have called me before,’ he
said crossly. Mrs. Hummel told him she was poor, and had tried to cure baby
herself, but now it was too late, and she could only ask him to help the others
and trust to charity for his pay. He smiled then, and was kinder, but it was
very sad, and I cried with them till he turned round all of a sudden, and told
me to go home and take belladonna right away, or I’d have the
fever.”

“No, you won’t!” cried Jo, hugging her close, with a
frightened look. “Oh, Beth, if you should be sick I never could forgive
myself! What shall we do?”

“Don’t be frightened, I guess I shan’t have it badly. I
looked in Mother’s book, and saw that it begins with headache, sore
throat, and queer feelings like mine, so I did take some belladonna, and I feel
better,” said Beth, laying her cold hands on her hot forehead and trying
to look well.

“If Mother was only at home!” exclaimed Jo, seizing the book, and
feeling that Washington was an immense way off. She read a page, looked at
Beth, felt her head, peeped into her throat, and then said gravely,
“You’ve been over the baby every day for more than a week, and
among the others who are going to have it, so I’m afraid you are going to
have it, Beth. I’ll call Hannah, she knows all about sickness.”

“Don’t let Amy come. She never had it, and I should hate to give it
to her. Can’t you and Meg have it over again?” asked Beth,
anxiously.

“I guess not. Don’t care if I do. Serve me right, selfish pig, to
let you go, and stay writing rubbish myself!” muttered Jo, as she went to
consult Hannah.

The good soul was wide awake in a minute, and took the lead at once, assuring
that there was no need to worry; every one had scarlet fever, and if rightly
treated, nobody died, all of which Jo believed, and felt much relieved as they
went up to call Meg.

“Now I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said Hannah, when
she had examined and questioned Beth, “we will have Dr. Bangs, just to
take a look at you, dear, and see that we start right. Then we’ll send
Amy off to Aunt March’s for a spell, to keep her out of harm’s way,
and one of you girls can stay at home and amuse Beth for a day or two.”

“I shall stay, of course, I’m oldest,” began Meg, looking
anxious and self-reproachful.

“I shall, because it’s my fault she is sick. I told Mother
I’d do the errands, and I haven’t,” said Jo decidedly.

“Which will you have, Beth? There ain’t no need of but one,”
aid Hannah.

“Jo, please.” And Beth leaned her head against her sister with a
contented look, which effectually settled that point.

“I’ll go and tell Amy,” said Meg, feeling a little hurt, yet
rather relieved on the whole, for she did not like nursing, and Jo did.

Amy rebelled outright, and passionately declared that she had rather have the
fever than go to Aunt March. Meg reasoned, pleaded, and commanded, all in vain.
Amy protested that she would not go, and Meg left her in despair to ask Hannah
what should be done. Before she came back, Laurie walked into the parlor to
find Amy sobbing, with her head in the sofa cushions. She told her story,
expecting to be consoled, but Laurie only put his hands in his pockets and
walked about the room, whistling softly, as he knit his brows in deep thought.
Presently he sat down beside her, and said, in his most wheedlesome tone,
“Now be a sensible little woman, and do as they say. No, don’t cry,
but hear what a jolly plan I’ve got. You go to Aunt March’s, and
I’ll come and take you out every day, driving or walking, and we’ll
have capital times. Won’t that be better than moping here?”

“I don’t wish to be sent off as if I was in the way,” began
Amy, in an injured voice.

“Bless your heart, child, it’s to keep you well. You don’t
want to be sick, do you?”

“No, I’m sure I don’t, but I dare say I shall be, for
I’ve been with Beth all the time.”

“That’s the very reason you ought to go away at once, so that you
may escape it. Change of air and care will keep you well, I dare say, or if it
does not entirely, you will have the fever more lightly. I advise you to be off
as soon as you can, for scarlet fever is no joke, miss.”

“But it’s dull at Aunt March’s, and she is so cross,”
said Amy, looking rather frightened.

“It won’t be dull with me popping in every day to tell you how Beth
is, and take you out gallivanting. The old lady likes me, and I’ll be as
sweet as possible to her, so she won’t peck at us, whatever we do.”

“Will you take me out in the trotting wagon with Puck?”

“On my honor as a gentleman.”

“And come every single day?”

“See if I don’t!”

“And bring me back the minute Beth is well?”

“The identical minute.”

“And go to the theater, truly?”

“A dozen theaters, if we may.”

“Well—I guess I will,” said Amy slowly.

“Good girl! Call Meg, and tell her you’ll give in,” said
Laurie, with an approving pat, which annoyed Amy more than the ‘giving
in’.

Meg and Jo came running down to behold the miracle which had been wrought, and
Amy, feeling very precious and self-sacrificing, promised to go, if the doctor
said Beth was going to be ill.

“How is the little dear?” asked Laurie, for Beth was his especial
pet, and he felt more anxious about her than he liked to show.

“She is lying down on Mother’s bed, and feels better. The
baby’s death troubled her, but I dare say she has only got cold. Hannah
says she thinks so, but she looks worried, and that makes me fidgety,”
answered Meg.

“What a trying world it is!” said Jo, rumpling up her hair in a
fretful way. “No sooner do we get out of one trouble than down comes
another. There doesn’t seem to be anything to hold on to when
Mother’s gone, so I’m all at sea.”

“Well, don’t make a porcupine of yourself, it isn’t becoming.
Settle your wig, Jo, and tell me if I shall telegraph to your mother, or do
anything?” asked Laurie, who never had been reconciled to the loss of his
friend’s one beauty.

“That is what troubles me,” said Meg. “I think we ought to
tell her if Beth is really ill, but Hannah says we mustn’t, for Mother
can’t leave Father, and it will only make them anxious. Beth won’t
be sick long, and Hannah knows just what to do, and Mother said we were to mind
her, so I suppose we must, but it doesn’t seem quite right to me.”

“Hum, well, I can’t say. Suppose you ask Grandfather after the
doctor has been.”

“We will. Jo, go and get Dr. Bangs at once,” commanded Meg.
“We can’t decide anything till he has been.”

“Stay where you are, Jo. I’m errand boy to this
establishment,” said Laurie, taking up his cap.

“I’m afraid you are busy,” began Meg.

“No, I’ve done my lessons for the day.”

“Do you study in vacation time?” asked Jo.

“I follow the good example my neighbors set me,” was Laurie’s
answer, as he swung himself out of the room.

“I have great hopes for my boy,” observed Jo, watching him fly over
the fence with an approving smile.

“He does very well, for a boy,” was Meg’s somewhat ungracious
answer, for the subject did not interest her.

Dr. Bangs came, said Beth had symptoms of the fever, but he thought she would
have it lightly, though he looked sober over the Hummel story. Amy was ordered
off at once, and provided with something to ward off danger, she departed in
great state, with Jo and Laurie as escort.

Aunt March received them with her usual hospitality.

“What do you want now?” she asked, looking sharply over her
spectacles, while the parrot, sitting on the back of her chair, called out…

“Go away. No boys allowed here.”

Laurie retired to the window, and Jo told her story.

“No more than I expected, if you are allowed to go poking about among
poor folks. Amy can stay and make herself useful if she isn’t sick, which
I’ve no doubt she will be, looks like it now. Don’t cry, child, it
worries me to hear people sniff.”

Amy was on the point of crying, but Laurie slyly pulled the parrot’s
tail, which caused Polly to utter an astonished croak and call out,
“Bless my boots!” in such a funny way, that she laughed instead.

“What do you hear from your mother?” asked the old lady gruffly.

“Father is much better,” replied Jo, trying to keep sober.

“Oh, is he? Well, that won’t last long, I fancy. March never had
any stamina,” was the cheerful reply.

“Ha, ha! Never say die, take a pinch of snuff, goodbye, goodbye!”
squalled Polly, dancing on her perch, and clawing at the old lady’s cap
as Laurie tweaked him in the rear.

“Hold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird! And, Jo, you’d
better go at once. It isn’t proper to be gadding about so late with a
rattlepated boy like…”

“Hold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird!” cried Polly,
tumbling off the chair with a bounce, and running to peck the
‘rattlepated’ boy, who was shaking with laughter at the last
speech.

“I don’t think I can bear it, but I’ll try,” thought
Amy, as she was left alone with Aunt March.

“Get along, you fright!” screamed Polly, and at that rude speech
Amy could not restrain a sniff.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DARK DAYS

Beth did have the fever, and was much sicker than anyone 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 her own way, and busy Dr.
Bangs did his best, but left a good deal to the excellent nurse. Meg stayed at
home, lest she should infect the Kings, and kept house, feeling very anxious
and a little guilty when she wrote letters in which no mention was made of
Beth’s illness. She could not think it right to deceive her mother, but
she had been bidden to mind Hannah, and Hannah wouldn’t hear of
‘Mrs. March bein’ told, and worried just for sech a trifle.’

Jo devoted herself to Beth day and night, not a hard task, for Beth was very
patient, and bore her pain uncomplainingly as long as she could control
herself. But there came a time when during the fever fits she began to talk in
a hoarse, broken voice, to play on the coverlet as if on her beloved little
piano, and try to sing with a throat so swollen that there was no music left, a
time when she did not know the familiar faces around her, but addressed them by
wrong names, and called imploringly for her mother. Then Jo grew frightened,
Meg begged to be allowed to write the truth, and even Hannah said she
‘would think of it, though there was no danger yet’. A letter from
Washington added to their trouble, for Mr. March had had a relapse, and could
not think of coming home for a long while.

How dark the days seemed now, how sad and lonely the house, and how heavy were
the hearts of the sisters as they worked and waited, while the shadow of death
hovered over the once happy home. Then it was that Margaret, sitting alone with
tears dropping often on her work, felt how rich she had been in things more
precious than any luxuries money could buy—in love, protection, peace,
and health, the real blessings of life. Then it was that Jo, living in the
darkened room, with that suffering little sister always before her eyes and
that pathetic voice sounding in her ears, learned to see the beauty and the
sweetness of Beth’s nature, to feel how deep and tender a place she
filled in all hearts, and to acknowledge the worth of Beth’s unselfish
ambition to live for others, and make home happy by that 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.
Everyone missed Beth. The milkman, baker, grocer, and butcher inquired how she
did, poor Mrs. Hummel came to beg pardon for her thoughtlessness and to get a
shroud for Minna, the neighbors sent all sorts of comforts and good wishes, and
even those who knew her best were surprised to find how many friends shy little
Beth had made.

Meanwhile she lay on her bed with old Joanna at her side, for even in her
wanderings she did not forget her forlorn protege. She longed for her cats, but
would not have them brought, lest they should get sick, and in her quiet hours
she was full of anxiety about Jo. She sent loving messages to Amy, bade them
tell her mother that she would write soon, and often begged for pencil and
paper to try to say a word, that Father might not think she had neglected him.
But soon even these intervals of consciousness ended, and she lay hour after
hour, tossing to and fro, with incoherent words on her lips, or sank into a
heavy sleep which brought her no refreshment. Dr. Bangs came twice a day,
Hannah sat up at night, Meg kept a telegram in her desk all ready to send off
at any minute, and Jo never stirred from Beth’s side.

The first of December was a wintry day indeed to them, for a bitter wind blew,
snow fell fast, and the year seemed getting ready for its death. When Dr. Bangs
came that morning, he looked long at Beth, held the hot hand in both his own
for a minute, and laid it gently down, saying, in a low voice to Hannah,
“If Mrs. March can leave her husband she’d better be sent
for.”

Hannah nodded without speaking, for her lips twitched nervously, Meg dropped
down into a chair as the strength seemed to go out of her limbs at the sound of
those words, and Jo, standing with a pale face for a minute, ran to the parlor,
snatched up the telegram, and throwing on her things, rushed out into the
storm. She was soon back, and while noiselessly taking off her cloak, Laurie
came in with a letter, saying that Mr. March was mending again. Jo read it
thankfully, but the heavy weight did not seem lifted off her heart, and her
face was so full of misery that Laurie asked quickly, “What is it? Is
Beth worse?”

“I’ve sent for Mother,” said Jo, tugging at her rubber boots
with a tragic expression.

“Good for you, Jo! Did you do it on your own responsibility?” asked
Laurie, as he seated her in the hall chair and took off the rebellious boots,
seeing how her hands shook.

“No. The doctor told us to.”

“Oh, Jo, it’s not so bad as that?” cried Laurie, with a
startled face.

“Yes, it is. She doesn’t know us, she doesn’t even talk about
the flocks of green doves, as she calls the 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.”

As the tears streamed fast down poor Jo’s cheeks, she stretched out her
hand in a helpless sort of way, as if groping in the dark, and Laurie took it
in his, whispering as well as he could with a lump in his throat,
“I’m here. Hold on to me, Jo, dear!”

She could not speak, but she did ‘hold on’, and the warm grasp of
the friendly human hand comforted her sore heart, and seemed to lead her nearer
to the Divine arm which alone could uphold her in her trouble.

Laurie longed to say something tender and comfortable, but no fitting words
came to him, so he stood silent, gently stroking her bent head as her mother
used to do. It was the best thing he could have done, far more soothing than
the most eloquent words, for Jo felt the unspoken sympathy, and in the silence
learned the sweet solace which affection administers to sorrow. Soon she dried
the tears which had relieved her, and looked up with a grateful face.

“Thank you, Teddy, I’m better now. I don’t feel so forlorn,
and will try to bear it if it comes.”

“Keep hoping for the best, that will help you, Jo. Soon your mother will
be here, and then everything will be all right.”

“I’m so glad Father is better. Now she won’t feel so bad
about leaving him. Oh, me! It does seem as if all the troubles came in a heap,
and I got the heaviest part on my shoulders,” sighed Jo, spreading her
wet handkerchief over her knees to dry.

“Doesn’t Meg pull fair?” asked Laurie, looking indignant.

“Oh, yes, she tries to, but she can’t love Bethy as I do, and she
won’t miss her as I shall. Beth is my conscience, and I can’t give
her up. I can’t! I can’t!”

Down went Jo’s face into the wet handkerchief, and she cried
despairingly, for she had kept up bravely till now and never shed a tear.
Laurie drew his hand across his eyes, but could not speak till he had subdued
the choky feeling in his throat and steadied his lips. It might be unmanly, but
he couldn’t help it, and I am glad of it. Presently, as Jo’s sobs
quieted, he said hopefully, “I don’t think she will die.
She’s so good, and we all love her so much, I don’t believe God
will take her away yet.”

“The good and dear people always do die,” groaned Jo, but she
stopped crying, for her friend’s words cheered her up in spite of her own
doubts and fears.

“Poor girl, you’re worn out. It isn’t like you to be forlorn.
Stop a bit. I’ll hearten you up in a jiffy.”

Laurie went off two stairs at a time, and Jo laid her wearied head down on
Beth’s little brown hood, which no one had thought of moving from the
table where she left it. It must have possessed some magic, for the submissive
spirit of its gentle owner seemed to enter into Jo, and when Laurie came
running down with a glass of wine, she took it with a smile, and said bravely,
“I drink— Health to my Beth! You are a good doctor, Teddy, and such
a comfortable friend. How can I ever pay you?” she added, as the wine
refreshed her body, as the kind words had done her troubled mind.

“I’ll send my bill, by-and-by, and tonight I’ll give you
something that will warm the cockles of your heart better than quarts of
wine,” said Laurie, beaming at her with a face of suppressed satisfaction
at something.

“What is it?” cried Jo, forgetting her woes for a minute in her
wonder.

“I telegraphed to your mother yesterday, and Brooke answered she’d
come at once, and she’ll be here tonight, and everything will be all
right. Aren’t you glad I did it?”

Laurie spoke very fast, and turned red and excited all in a minute, for he had
kept his plot a secret, for fear of disappointing the girls or harming Beth. Jo
grew quite white, flew out of her chair, and the moment he stopped speaking she
electrified him by throwing her arms round his neck, and crying out, with a
joyful cry, “Oh, Laurie! Oh, Mother! I am so glad!” She did not
weep again, but laughed hysterically, and trembled and clung to her friend as
if she was a little bewildered by the sudden news.

Laurie, though decidedly amazed, behaved with great presence of mind. He patted
her back soothingly, and finding that she was recovering, followed it up by a
bashful kiss or two, which brought Jo round at once. Holding on to the
banisters, she put him gently away, saying breathlessly, “Oh,
don’t! I didn’t mean to, it was dreadful of me, but you were such a
dear to go and do it in spite of Hannah that I couldn’t help flying at
you. Tell me all about it, and don’t give me wine again, it makes me act
so.”

“I don’t mind,” laughed Laurie, as he settled his tie.
“Why, you see I got fidgety, and so did Grandpa. We thought Hannah was
overdoing the authority business, and your mother ought to know. She’d
never forgive us if Beth… Well, if anything happened, you know. So I got
grandpa to say it was high time we did something, and off I pelted to the
office yesterday, for the doctor looked sober, and Hannah most took my head off
when I proposed a telegram. I never can bear to be ‘lorded over’,
so that settled my mind, and I did it. Your mother will come, I know, and the
late train is in at two A.M. I shall go for her, and you’ve only got to
bottle up your rapture, and keep Beth quiet till that blessed lady gets
here.”

“Laurie, you’re an angel! How shall I ever thank you?”

“Fly at me again. I rather liked it,” said Laurie, looking
mischievous, a thing he had not done for a fortnight.

“No, thank you. I’ll do it by proxy, when your grandpa comes.
Don’t tease, but go home and rest, for you’ll be up half the night.
Bless you, Teddy, bless you!”

Jo had backed into a corner, and as she finished her speech, she vanished
precipitately into the kitchen, where she sat down upon a dresser and told the
assembled cats that she was “happy, oh, so happy!” while Laurie
departed, feeling that he had made a rather neat thing of it.

“That’s the interferingest chap I ever see, but I forgive him and
do hope Mrs. March is coming right away,” said Hannah, with an air of
relief, when Jo told the good news.

Meg had a quiet rapture, and then brooded over the letter, while Jo set the
sickroom in order, and Hannah “knocked up a couple of pies in case of
company unexpected”. A breath of fresh air seemed to blow through the
house, and something better than sunshine brightened the quiet rooms.
Everything appeared to feel the hopeful change. Beth’s bird began to
chirp again, and a half-blown rose was discovered on Amy’s bush in the
window. The fires seemed to burn with unusual cheeriness, and every time the
girls met, their pale faces broke into smiles as they hugged one another,
whispering encouragingly, “Mother’s coming, dear! Mother’s
coming!” Every one rejoiced but Beth. She lay in that heavy stupor, alike
unconscious of hope and joy, doubt and danger. It was a piteous sight, the once
rosy face so changed and vacant, the once busy hands so weak and wasted, the
once smiling lips quite dumb, and the once pretty, well-kept hair scattered
rough and tangled on the pillow. All day she lay so, only rousing now and then
to mutter, “Water!” with lips so parched they could hardly shape
the word. All day Jo and Meg hovered over her, watching, waiting, hoping, and
trusting in God and Mother, and all day the snow fell, the bitter wind raged,
and the hours dragged slowly by. But night came at last, and every time the
clock struck, the sisters, still sitting on either side of the bed, looked at
each other with brightening eyes, for each hour brought help nearer. The doctor
had been in to say that some change, for better or worse, would probably take
place about midnight, at which time he would return.

Hannah, quite worn out, lay down on the sofa at the bed’s foot and fell
fast asleep, Mr. Laurence marched to and fro in the parlor, feeling that he
would rather face a rebel battery than Mrs. March’s countenance as she
entered. Laurie lay on the rug, pretending to rest, but staring into the fire
with the thoughtful look which made his black eyes beautifully soft and clear.

The girls never forgot that night, for no sleep came to them as they kept their
watch, with that dreadful sense of powerlessness which comes to us in hours
like those.

“If God spares Beth, I never will complain again,” whispered Meg
earnestly.

“If God spares Beth, I’ll try to love and serve Him all my
life,” answered Jo, with equal fervor.

“I wish I had no heart, it aches so,” sighed Meg, after a pause.

“If life is often as hard as this, I don’t see how we ever shall
get through it,” added her sister despondently.

Here the clock struck twelve, and both forgot themselves in watching Beth, for
they fancied a change passed over her wan face. The house was still as death,
and nothing but the wailing of the wind broke the deep hush. Weary Hannah slept
on, and no one but the sisters saw the pale shadow which seemed to fall upon
the little bed. An hour went by, and nothing happened except Laurie’s
quiet departure for the station. Another hour, still no one came, and anxious
fears of delay in the storm, or accidents by the way, or, worst of all, a great
grief at Washington, haunted the girls.

It was past two, when Jo, who stood at the window thinking how dreary the world
looked in its winding sheet of snow, heard a movement by the bed, and turning
quickly, saw Meg kneeling before their mother’s easy chair with her face
hidden. A dreadful fear passed coldly over Jo, as she thought, “Beth is
dead, and Meg is afraid to tell me.”

She was back at her post in an instant, and to her excited eyes a great change
seemed to have taken place. The fever flush and the look of pain were gone, and
the beloved little face looked so pale and peaceful in its utter repose that Jo
felt no desire to weep or to lament. Leaning low over this dearest of her
sisters, she kissed the damp forehead with her heart on her lips, and softly
whispered, “Good-by, my Beth. Good-by!”

As if awaked by the stir, Hannah started out of her sleep, hurried to the bed,
looked at Beth, felt her hands, listened at her lips, and then, throwing her
apron over her head, sat down to rock to and fro, exclaiming, under her breath,
“The fever’s turned, she’s sleepin’ nat’ral, her
skin’s damp, and she breathes easy. Praise be given! Oh, my goodness
me!”

Before the girls could believe the happy truth, the doctor came to confirm it.
He was a homely man, but they thought his face quite heavenly when he smiled
and said, with a fatherly look at them, “Yes, my dears, I think the
little girl will pull through this time. Keep the house quiet, let her sleep,
and when she wakes, give her…”

What they were to give, neither heard, for both crept into the dark hall, and,
sitting on the stairs, held each other close, rejoicing with hearts too full
for words. When they went back to be kissed and cuddled by faithful Hannah,
they found Beth lying, as she used to do, with her cheek pillowed on her hand,
the dreadful pallor gone, and breathing quietly, as if just fallen asleep.

“If Mother would only come now!” said Jo, as the winter night began
to wane.

“See,” said Meg, coming up with a white, half-opened rose, “I
thought this would hardly be ready to lay in Beth’s hand tomorrow if
she—went away from us. But it has blossomed in the night, and now I mean
to put it in my vase here, so that when the darling wakes, the first thing she
sees will be the little rose, and Mother’s face.”

Never had the sun risen so beautifully, and never had the world seemed so
lovely as it did to the heavy eyes of Meg and Jo, as they looked out in the
early morning, when their long, sad vigil was done.

“It looks like a fairy world,” said Meg, smiling to herself, as she
stood behind the curtain, watching the dazzling sight.

“Hark!” cried Jo, starting to her feet.

Yes, there was a sound of bells at the door below, a cry from Hannah, and then
Laurie’s voice saying in a joyful whisper, “Girls, she’s
come! She’s come!”

CHAPTER NINETEEN
AMY’S WILL

While these things were happening at home, Amy was having hard times at Aunt
March’s. She felt her exile deeply, and for the first time in her life,
realized how much she was beloved and petted at home. Aunt March never petted
any one; she did not approve of it, but she meant to be kind, for the
well-behaved little girl pleased her very much, and Aunt March had a soft place
in her old heart for her nephew’s children, though she didn’t think
it proper to confess it. She really did her best to make Amy happy, but, dear
me, what mistakes she made. Some old people keep young at heart in spite of
wrinkles and gray hairs, can sympathize with children’s little cares and
joys, make them feel at home, and can hide wise lessons under pleasant plays,
giving and receiving friendship in the sweetest way. But Aunt March had not
this gift, and she worried Amy very much with her rules and orders, her prim
ways, and long, prosy talks. Finding the child more docile and amiable than her
sister, the old lady felt it her duty to try and counteract, as far as
possible, the bad effects of home freedom and indulgence. So she took Amy by
the hand, and taught her as she herself had been taught sixty years ago, a
process which carried dismay to Amy’s soul, and made her feel like a fly
in the web of a very strict spider.

She had to wash the cups every morning, and polish up the old-fashioned spoons,
the fat silver teapot, and the glasses till they shone. Then she must dust the
room, and what a trying job that was. Not a speck escaped Aunt March’s
eye, and all the furniture had claw legs and much carving, which was never
dusted to suit. Then Polly had to be fed, the lap dog combed, and a dozen trips
upstairs and down to get things or deliver orders, for the old lady was very
lame and seldom left her big chair. After these tiresome labors, she must do
her lessons, which was a daily trial of every virtue she possessed. Then she
was allowed one hour for exercise or play, and didn’t she enjoy it?

Laurie came every day, and wheedled Aunt March till Amy was allowed to go out
with him, when they walked and rode and had capital times. After dinner, she
had to read aloud, and sit still while the old lady slept, which she usually
did for an hour, as she dropped off over the first page. Then patchwork or
towels appeared, and Amy sewed with outward meekness and inward rebellion till
dusk, when she was allowed to amuse herself as she liked till teatime. The
evenings were the worst of all, for Aunt March fell to telling long stories
about her youth, which were so unutterably dull that Amy was always ready to go
to bed, intending to cry over her hard fate, but usually going to sleep before
she had squeezed out more than a tear or two.

If it had not been for Laurie, and old Esther, the maid, she felt that she
never could have got through that dreadful time. The parrot alone was enough to
drive her distracted, for he soon felt that she did not admire him, and
revenged himself by being as mischievous as possible. He pulled her hair
whenever she came near him, upset his bread and milk to plague her when she had
newly cleaned his cage, made Mop bark by pecking at him while Madam dozed,
called her names before company, and behaved in all respects like an
reprehensible old bird. Then she could not endure the dog, a fat, cross beast
who snarled and yelped at her when she made his toilet, and who lay on his back
with all his legs in the air and a most idiotic expression of countenance when
he wanted something to eat, which was about a dozen times a day. The cook was
bad-tempered, the old coachman was deaf, and Esther the only one who ever took
any notice of the young lady.

Esther was a Frenchwoman, who had lived with ‘Madame’, as she
called her mistress, for many years, and who rather tyrannized over the old
lady, who could not get along without her. Her real name was Estelle, but Aunt
March ordered her to change it, and she obeyed, on condition that she was never
asked to change her religion. She took a fancy to Mademoiselle, and amused her
very much with odd stories of her life in France, when Amy sat with her while
she got up Madame’s laces. She also allowed her to roam about the great
house, and examine the curious and pretty things stored away in the big
wardrobes and the ancient chests, for Aunt March hoarded like a magpie.
Amy’s chief delight was an Indian cabinet, full of queer drawers, little
pigeonholes, and secret places, in which were kept all sorts of ornaments, some
precious, some merely curious, all more or less antique. To examine and arrange
these things gave Amy great satisfaction, especially the jewel cases, in which
on velvet cushions reposed the ornaments which had adorned a belle forty years
ago. There was the garnet set which Aunt March wore when she came out, the
pearls her father gave her on her wedding day, her lover’s diamonds, the
jet mourning rings and pins, the queer lockets, with portraits of dead friends
and weeping willows made of hair inside, the baby bracelets her one little
daughter had worn, Uncle March’s big watch, with the red seal so many
childish hands had played with, and in a box all by itself lay Aunt
March’s wedding ring, too small now for her fat finger, but put carefully
away like the most precious jewel of them all.

“Which would Mademoiselle choose if she had her will?” asked
Esther, who always sat near to watch over and lock up the valuables.

“I like the diamonds best, but there is no necklace among them, and
I’m fond of necklaces, they are so becoming. I should choose this if I
might,” replied Amy, looking with great admiration at a string of gold
and ebony beads from which hung a heavy cross of the same.

“I, too, covet that, but not as a necklace. Ah, no! To me it is a rosary,
and as such I should use it like a good catholic,” said Esther, eyeing
the handsome thing wistfully.

“Is it meant to use as you use the string of good-smelling wooden beads
hanging over your glass?” asked Amy.

“Truly, yes, to pray with. It would be pleasing to the saints if one used
so fine a rosary as this, instead of wearing it as a vain bijou.”

“You seem to take a great deal of comfort in your prayers, Esther, and
always come down looking quiet and satisfied. I wish I could.”

“If Mademoiselle was a Catholic, she would find true comfort, but as that
is not to be, it would be well if you went apart each day to meditate and pray,
as did the good mistress whom I served before Madame. She had a little chapel,
and in it found solacement for much trouble.”

“Would it be right for me to do so too?” asked Amy, who in her
loneliness felt the need of help of some sort, and found that she was apt to
forget her little book, now that Beth was not there to remind her of it.

“It would be excellent and charming, and I shall gladly arrange the
little dressing room for you if you like it. Say nothing to Madame, but when
she sleeps go you and sit alone a while to think good thoughts, and pray the
dear God preserve your sister.”

Esther was truly pious, and quite sincere in her advice, for she had an
affectionate heart, and felt much for the sisters in their anxiety. Amy liked
the idea, and gave her leave to arrange the light closet next her room, hoping
it would do her good.

“I wish I knew where all these pretty things would go when Aunt March
dies,” she said, as she slowly replaced the shining rosary and shut the
jewel cases one by one.

“To you and your sisters. I know it, Madame confides in me. I witnessed
her will, and it is to be so,” whispered Esther smiling.

“How nice! But I wish she’d let us have them now. Procrastination
is not agreeable,” observed Amy, taking a last look at the diamonds.

“It is too soon yet for the young ladies to wear these things. The first
one who is affianced will have the pearls, Madame has said it, and I have a
fancy that the little turquoise ring will be given to you when you go, for
Madame approves your good behavior and charming manners.”

“Do you think so? Oh, I’ll be a lamb, if I can only have that
lovely ring! It’s ever so much prettier than Kitty Bryant’s. I do
like Aunt March after all.” And Amy tried on the blue ring with a
delighted face and a firm resolve to earn it.

From that day she was a model of obedience, and the old lady complacently
admired the success of her training. Esther fitted up the closet with a little
table, placed a footstool before it, and over it a picture taken from one of
the shut-up rooms. She thought it was of no great value, but, being
appropriate, she borrowed it, well knowing that Madame would never know it, nor
care if she did. It was, however, a very valuable copy of one of the famous
pictures of the world, and Amy’s beauty-loving eyes were never tired of
looking up at the sweet face of the Divine Mother, while her tender thoughts of
her own were busy at her heart. On the table she laid her little testament and
hymnbook, kept a vase always full of the best flowers Laurie brought her, and
came every day to ‘sit alone’ thinking good thoughts, and praying
the dear God to preserve her sister. Esther had given her a rosary of black
beads with a silver cross, but Amy hung it up and did not use it, feeling
doubtful as to its fitness for Protestant prayers.

The little girl was very sincere in all this, for being left alone outside the
safe home nest, she felt the need of some kind hand to hold by so sorely that
she instinctively turned to the strong and tender Friend, whose fatherly love
most closely surrounds His little children. She missed her mother’s help
to understand and rule herself, but having been taught where to look, she did
her best to find the way and walk in it confidingly. But, Amy was a young
pilgrim, and just now her burden seemed very heavy. She tried to forget
herself, to keep cheerful, and be satisfied with doing right, though no one saw
or praised her for it. In her first effort at being very, very good, she
decided to make her will, as Aunt March had done, so that if she did fall ill
and die, her possessions might be justly and generously divided. It cost her a
pang even to think of giving up the little treasures which in her eyes were as
precious as the old lady’s jewels.

During one of her play hours she wrote out the important document as well as
she could, with some help from Esther as to certain legal terms, and when the
good-natured Frenchwoman had signed her name, Amy felt relieved and laid it by
to show Laurie, whom she wanted as a second witness. As it was a rainy day, she
went upstairs to amuse herself in one of the large chambers, and took Polly
with her for company. In this room there was a wardrobe full of old-fashioned
costumes with which Esther allowed her to play, and it was her favorite
amusement to array herself in the faded brocades, and parade up and down before
the long mirror, making stately curtsies, and sweeping her train about with a
rustle which delighted her ears. So busy was she on this day that she did not
hear Laurie’s ring nor see his face peeping in at her as she gravely
promenaded to and fro, flirting her fan and tossing her head, on which she wore
a great pink turban, contrasting oddly with her blue brocade dress and yellow
quilted petticoat. She was obliged to walk carefully, for she had on
high-heeled shoes, and, as Laurie told Jo afterward, it was a comical sight to
see her mince along in her gay suit, with Polly sidling and bridling just
behind her, imitating her as well as he could, and occasionally stopping to
laugh or exclaim, “Ain’t we fine? Get along, you fright! Hold your
tongue! Kiss me, dear! Ha! Ha!”

Having with difficulty restrained an explosion of merriment, lest it should
offend her majesty, Laurie tapped and was graciously received.

“Sit down and rest while I put these things away, then I want to consult
you about a very serious matter,” said Amy, when she had shown her
splendor and driven Polly into a corner. “That bird is the trial of my
life,” she continued, removing the pink mountain from her head, while
Laurie seated himself astride a chair.

“Yesterday, when Aunt was asleep and I was trying to be as still as a
mouse, Polly began to squall and flap about in his cage, so I went to let him
out, and found a big spider there. I poked it out, and it ran under the
bookcase. Polly marched straight after it, stooped down and peeped under the
bookcase, saying, in his funny way, with a cock of his eye, ‘Come out and
take a walk, my dear.’ I couldn’t help laughing, which made Poll
swear, and Aunt woke up and scolded us both.”

“Did the spider accept the old fellow’s invitation?” asked
Laurie, yawning.

“Yes, out it came, and away ran Polly, frightened to death, and scrambled
up on Aunt’s chair, calling out, ‘Catch her! Catch her! Catch
her!’ as I chased the spider.”

“That’s a lie! Oh, lor!” cried the parrot, pecking at
Laurie’s toes.

“I’d wring your neck if you were mine, you old torment,”
cried Laurie, shaking his fist at the bird, who put his head on one side and
gravely croaked, “Allyluyer! bless your buttons, dear!”

“Now I’m ready,” said Amy, shutting the wardrobe and taking a
piece of paper out of her pocket. “I want you to read that, please, and
tell me if it is legal and right. I felt I ought to do it, for life is
uncertain and I don’t want any ill feeling over my tomb.”

Laurie bit his lips, and turning a little from the pensive speaker, read the
following document, with praiseworthy gravity, considering the spelling:

MY LAST WILL AND TESTIMENT

I, Amy Curtis March, being in my sane mind, go give and bequeethe all my
earthly property—viz. to wit:—namely

To my father, my best pictures, sketches, maps, and works of art, including
frames. Also my $100, to do what he likes with.

To my mother, all my clothes, except the blue apron with pockets—also my
likeness, and my medal, with much love.

To my dear sister Margaret, I give my turkquoise ring (if I get it), also my
green box with the doves on it, also my piece of real lace for her neck, and my
sketch of her as a memorial of her ‘little girl’.

To Jo I leave my breastpin, the one mended with sealing wax, also my bronze
inkstand—she lost the cover—and my most precious plaster rabbit,
because I am sorry I burned up her story.

To Beth (if she lives after me) I give my dolls and the little bureau, my fan,
my linen collars and my new slippers if she can wear them being thin when she
gets well. And I herewith also leave her my regret that I ever made fun of old
Joanna.

To my friend and neighbor Theodore Laurence I bequeethe my paper mashay
portfolio, my clay model of a horse though he did say it hadn’t any neck.
Also in return for his great kindness in the hour of affliction any one of my
artistic works he likes, Noter Dame is the best.

To our venerable benefactor Mr. Laurence I leave my purple box with a looking
glass in the cover which will be nice for his pens and remind him of the
departed girl who thanks him for his favors to her family, especially Beth.

I wish my favorite playmate Kitty Bryant to have the blue silk apron and my
gold-bead ring with a kiss.

To Hannah I give the bandbox she wanted and all the patchwork I leave hoping
she ‘will remember me, when it you see’.

And now having disposed of my most valuable property I hope all will be
satisfied and not blame the dead. I forgive everyone, and trust we may all meet
when the trump shall sound. Amen.

To this will and testiment I set my hand and seal on this 20th day of Nov. Anni
Domino 1861.

Amy Curtis March

Witnesses:

Estelle Valnor, Theodore Laurence.

The last name was written in pencil, and Amy explained that he was to rewrite
it in ink and seal it up for her properly.

“What put it into your head? Did anyone tell you about Beth’s
giving away her things?” asked Laurie soberly, as Amy laid a bit of red
tape, with sealing wax, a taper, and a standish before him.

She explained and then asked anxiously, “What about Beth?”

“I’m sorry I spoke, but as I did, I’ll tell you. She felt so
ill one day that she told Jo she wanted to give her piano to Meg, her cats to
you, and the poor old doll to Jo, who would love it for her sake. She was sorry
she had so little to give, and left locks of hair to the rest of us, and her
best love to Grandpa. She never thought of a will.”

Laurie was signing and sealing as he spoke, and did not look up till a great
tear dropped on the paper. Amy’s face was full of trouble, but she only
said, “Don’t people put sort of postscripts to their wills,
sometimes?”

“Yes, ‘codicils’, they call them.”

“Put one in mine then, that I wish all my curls cut off, and given round
to my friends. I forgot it, but I want it done though it will spoil my
looks.”

Laurie added it, smiling at Amy’s last and greatest sacrifice. Then he
amused her for an hour, and was much interested in all her trials. But when he
came to go, Amy held him back to whisper with trembling lips, “Is there
really any danger about Beth?”

“I’m afraid there is, but we must hope for the best, so don’t
cry, dear.” And Laurie put his arm about her with a brotherly gesture
which was very comforting.

When he had gone, she went to her little chapel, and sitting in the twilight,
prayed for Beth, with streaming tears and an aching heart, feeling that a
million turquoise rings would not console her for the loss of her gentle little
sister.

CHAPTER TWENTY
CONFIDENTIAL

I don’t think I have any words in which to tell the meeting of the mother
and daughters. Such hours are beautiful to live, but very hard to describe, so
I will leave it to the imagination of my readers, merely saying that the house
was full of genuine happiness, and that Meg’s tender hope was realized,
for when Beth woke from that long, healing sleep, the first objects on which
her eyes fell were the little rose and Mother’s face. Too weak to wonder
at anything, she only smiled and nestled close in 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 traveler,
finding it impossible to vent her excitement in any other way, and Meg and Jo
fed their mother like dutiful young storks, while they listened to her
whispered account of Father’s state, Mr. Brooke’s promise to stay
and nurse him, the delays which the storm occasioned on the homeward journey,
and the unspeakable comfort Laurie’s hopeful face had given her when she
arrived, worn out with fatigue, anxiety, and cold.

What a strange yet pleasant day that was. So brilliant and gay without, for all
the world seemed abroad to welcome the first snow. So quiet and reposeful
within, for everyone slept, spent with watching, and a Sabbath stillness
reigned through the house, while nodding Hannah mounted guard at the door. With
a blissful sense of burdens lifted off, Meg and Jo closed their weary eyes, and
lay at rest, like storm-beaten boats safe at anchor in a quiet harbor. Mrs.
March would not leave Beth’s side, but rested in the big chair, waking
often to look at, touch, and brood over her child, like a miser over some
recovered treasure.

Laurie meanwhile posted off to comfort Amy, and told his story so well that
Aunt March actually ‘sniffed’ herself, and never once said “I
told you so”. Amy came out so strong on this occasion that I think the
good thoughts in the little chapel really began to bear fruit. She dried her
tears quickly, restrained her impatience to see her mother, and never even
thought of the turquoise ring, when the old lady heartily agreed in
Laurie’s opinion, that she behaved ‘like a capital little
woman’. Even Polly seemed impressed, for he called her a good girl,
blessed her buttons, and begged her to “come and take a walk,
dear”, in his most affable tone. She would very gladly have gone out to
enjoy the bright wintry weather, but discovering that Laurie was dropping with
sleep in spite of manful efforts to conceal the fact, she persuaded him to rest
on the sofa, while she wrote a note to her mother. She was a long time about
it, and when she returned, he was stretched out with both arms under his head,
sound asleep, while Aunt March had pulled down the curtains and sat doing
nothing in an unusual fit of benignity.

After a while, they began to think he was not going to wake up till night, and
I’m not sure that he would, had he not been effectually roused by
Amy’s cry of joy at sight of her mother. There probably were a good many
happy little girls in and about the city that day, but it is my private opinion
that Amy was the happiest of all, when she sat in her mother’s lap and
told her trials, receiving consolation and compensation in the shape of
approving smiles and fond caresses. They were alone together in the chapel, to
which her mother did not object when its purpose was explained to her.

“On the contrary, I like it very much, dear,” looking from the
dusty rosary to the well-worn little book, and the lovely picture with its
garland of evergreen. “It is an excellent plan to have some place where
we can go to be quiet, when things vex or grieve us. There are a good many hard
times in this life of ours, but we can always bear them if we ask help in the
right way. I think my little girl is learning this.”

“Yes, Mother, and when I go home I mean to have a corner in the big
closet to put my books and the copy of that picture which I’ve tried to
make. The woman’s face is not good, it’s too beautiful for me to
draw, but the baby is done better, and I love it very much. I like to think He
was a little child once, for then I don’t seem so far away, and that
helps me.”

As Amy pointed to the smiling Christ child on his Mother’s knee, Mrs.
March saw something on the lifted hand that made her smile. She said nothing,
but Amy understood the look, and after a minute’s pause, she added
gravely, “I wanted to speak to you about this, but I forgot it. Aunt gave
me the ring today. She called me to her and kissed me, and put it on my finger,
and said I was a credit to her, and she’d like to keep me always. She
gave that funny guard to keep the turquoise on, as it’s too big.
I’d like to wear them Mother, can I?”

“They are very pretty, but I think you’re rather too young for such
ornaments, Amy,” said Mrs. March, looking at the plump little hand, with
the band of sky-blue stones on the forefinger, and the quaint guard formed of
two tiny golden hands clasped together.

“I’ll try not to be vain,” said Amy. “I don’t
think I like it only because it’s so pretty, but I want to wear it as the
girl in the story wore her bracelet, to remind me of something.”

“Do you mean Aunt March?” asked her mother, laughing.

“No, to remind me not to be selfish.” Amy looked so earnest and
sincere about it that her mother stopped laughing, and listened respectfully to
the little plan.

“I’ve thought a great deal lately about my ‘bundle of
naughties’, and being selfish is the largest one in it, so I’m
going to try hard to cure it, if I can. Beth isn’t selfish, and
that’s the reason everyone loves her and feels so bad at the thoughts of
losing her. People wouldn’t feel 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 we try this way?”

“Yes, but I have more faith in the corner of the big closet. Wear your
ring, dear, and do your best. I think you will prosper, for the sincere wish to
be good is half the battle. Now I must go back to Beth. Keep up your heart,
little daughter, and we will soon have you home again.”

That evening while Meg was writing to her father to report the traveler’s
safe arrival, Jo slipped upstairs into Beth’s room, and finding her
mother in her usual place, stood a minute twisting her fingers in her hair,
with a worried gesture and an undecided look.

“What is it, deary?” asked Mrs. March, holding out her hand, with a
face which invited confidence.

“I want to tell you something, Mother.”

“About Meg?”

“How quickly you guessed! Yes, it’s about her, and though
it’s a little thing, it fidgets me.”

“Beth is asleep. Speak low, and tell me all about it. That Moffat
hasn’t been here, I hope?” asked Mrs. March rather sharply.

“No. I should have shut the door in his face if he had,” said Jo,
settling herself on the floor at her mother’s feet. “Last summer
Meg left a pair of gloves over at the Laurences’ and only one was
returned. We forgot about it, till Teddy told me that Mr. Brooke owned that he
liked Meg but didn’t dare say so, she was so young and he so poor. Now,
isn’t it a dreadful state of things?”

“Do you think Meg cares for him?” asked Mrs. March, with an anxious
look.

“Mercy me! I don’t know anything about love and such
nonsense!” cried Jo, with a funny mixture of interest and contempt.
“In novels, the girls show it by starting and blushing, fainting away,
growing thin, and acting like fools. Now Meg does not do anything of the sort.
She eats and drinks and sleeps like a sensible creature, she looks straight in
my face when I talk about that man, and only blushes a little bit when Teddy
jokes about lovers. I forbid him to do it, but he doesn’t mind me as he
ought.”

“Then you fancy that Meg is not interested in John?”

“Who?” cried Jo, staring.

“Mr. Brooke. I call him ‘John’ now. We fell into the way of
doing so at the hospital, and he likes it.”

“Oh, dear! I know you’ll take his part. He’s been good to
Father, and you won’t send him away, but let Meg marry him, if she wants
to. Mean thing! To go petting Papa and helping you, just to wheedle you into
liking him.” And Jo pulled her hair again with a wrathful tweak.

“My dear, don’t get angry about it, and I will tell you how it
happened. John went with me at Mr. Laurence’s request, and was so devoted
to poor Father that we couldn’t help getting fond of him. He was
perfectly open and honorable about Meg, for he told us he loved her, but would
earn a comfortable home before he asked her to marry him. He only wanted our
leave to love her and work for her, and the right to make her love him if he
could. He is a truly excellent young man, and we could not refuse to listen to
him, but I will not consent to Meg’s engaging herself so young.”

“Of course not. It would be idiotic! I 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.”

This odd arrangement made Mrs. March smile, but she said gravely, “Jo, I
confide in you and don’t wish you to say anything to Meg yet. When John
comes back, and I see them together, I can judge better of her feelings toward
him.”

“She’ll see those handsome eyes that she talks about, and then it
will be all up with her. She’s got such a soft heart, it will melt like
butter in the sun if anyone looks sentimentlly 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 cozy times together. I see it all! They’ll go lovering around the
house, and we shall have to dodge. Meg will be absorbed and no good to me any
more. Brooke will scratch up a fortune somehow, carry her off, and make a hole
in the family, and I shall break my heart, and everything will be abominably
uncomfortable. Oh, dear me! Why weren’t we all boys, then there
wouldn’t be any bother.”

Jo leaned her chin on her knees in a disconsolate attitude and shook her fist
at the reprehensible John. Mrs. March sighed, and Jo looked up with an air of
relief.

“You don’t like it, Mother? I’m glad of it. Let’s send
him about his business, and not tell Meg a word of it, but all be happy
together as we always have been.”

“I did wrong to sigh, Jo. It is natural and right you should all go to
homes of your own in time, but I do want to keep my girls as long as I can, and
I am sorry that this happened so soon, for Meg is only seventeen and it will be
some years before John can make a home for her. Your father and I have agreed
that she shall not bind herself in any way, nor be married, before twenty. If
she and John love one another, they can wait, and test the love by doing so.
She is conscientious, and I have no fear of her treating him unkindly. My
pretty, tender hearted girl! I hope things will go happily with her.”

“Hadn’t you rather have her marry a rich man?” asked Jo, as
her mother’s voice faltered a little over the last words.

“Money is a good and useful thing, Jo, and I hope my girls will never
feel the need of it too bitterly, nor be tempted by too much. I should like to
know that John was firmly established in some good business, which gave him an
income large enough to keep free from debt and make Meg comfortable. I’m
not ambitious for a splendid fortune, a fashionable position, or a great name
for my girls. If rank and money come with love and virtue, also, I should
accept them gratefully, and enjoy your good fortune, but I know, by experience,
how much genuine happiness can be had in a plain little house, where the daily
bread is earned, and some privations give sweetness to the few pleasures. I am
content to see Meg begin humbly, for if I am not mistaken, she will be rich in
the possession of a good man’s heart, and that is better than a
fortune.”

“I understand, Mother, and quite agree, but I’m disappointed about
Meg, for I’d planned to have her marry Teddy by-and-by and sit in the lap
of luxury all her days. Wouldn’t it be nice?” asked Jo, looking up
with a brighter face.

“He is younger than she, you know,” began Mrs. March, but Jo broke
in…

“Only a little, he’s old for his age, and tall, and can be quite
grown-up in his manners if he likes. Then he’s rich and generous and
good, and loves us all, and I say it’s a pity my plan is spoiled.”

“I’m afraid Laurie is hardly grown-up enough for Meg, and
altogether too much of a weathercock just now for anyone to depend on.
Don’t make plans, Jo, but let time and their own hearts mate your
friends. We can’t meddle safely in such matters, and had better not get
‘romantic rubbish’ as you call it, into our heads, lest it spoil
our friendship.”

“Well, I won’t, but I hate to see things going all crisscross and
getting snarled up, when a pull here and a snip there would straighten it out.
I wish wearing flatirons on our heads would keep us from growing up. But buds
will be roses, and kittens cats, more’s the pity!”

“What’s that about flatirons and cats?” asked Meg, as she
crept into the room with the finished letter in her hand.

“Only one of my stupid speeches. I’m going to bed. Come,
Peggy,” said Jo, unfolding herself like an animated puzzle.

“Quite right, and beautifully written. Please add that I send my love to
John,” said Mrs. March, as she glanced over the letter and gave it back.

“Do you call him ‘John’?” asked Meg, smiling, with her
innocent eyes looking down into her mother’s.

“Yes, he has been like a son to us, and we are very fond of him,”
replied Mrs. March, returning the look with a keen one.

“I’m glad of that, he is so lonely. Good night, Mother, dear. It is
so inexpressibly comfortable to have you here,” was Meg’s answer.

The kiss her mother gave her was a very tender one, and as she went away, Mrs.
March said, with a mixture of satisfaction and regret, “She does not love
John yet, but will soon learn to.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
LAURIE MAKES MISCHIEF, AND JO MAKES PEACE

Jo’s face was a study next day, for the secret rather weighed upon her,
and she found it hard not to look mysterious and important. Meg observed it,
but did not trouble herself to make inquiries, for she had learned that the
best way to manage Jo was by the law of contraries, so she felt sure of being
told everything if she did not ask. She was rather surprised, therefore, when
the silence remained unbroken, and Jo assumed a patronizing air, which
decidedly aggravated Meg, who in turn assumed an air of dignified reserve and
devoted herself to her mother. This left Jo to her own devices, for Mrs. March
had taken her place as nurse, and bade her rest, exercise, and amuse herself
after her long confinement. Amy being gone, Laurie was her only refuge, and
much as she enjoyed his society, she rather dreaded him just then, for he was
an incorrigible tease, and she feared he would coax the secret from her.

She was quite right, for the mischief-loving lad no sooner suspected a mystery
than he set himself to find it out, and led Jo a trying life of it. He
wheedled, bribed, ridiculed, threatened, and scolded; affected indifference,
that he might surprise the truth from her; declared he knew, then that he
didn’t care; and at last, by dint of perseverance, he satisfied himself
that it concerned Meg and Mr. Brooke. Feeling indignant that he was not taken
into his tutor’s confidence, he set his wits to work to devise some
proper retaliation for the slight.

Meg meanwhile had apparently forgotten the matter and was absorbed in
preparations for her father’s return, but all of a sudden a change seemed
to come over her, and, for a day or two, she was quite unlike herself. She
started when spoken to, blushed when looked at, was very quiet, and sat over
her sewing, with a timid, troubled look on her face. To her mother’s
inquiries she answered that she was quite well, and Jo’s she silenced by
begging to be let alone.

“She feels it in the air—love, I mean—and she’s going
very fast. She’s got most of the symptoms—is twittery and cross,
doesn’t eat, lies awake, and mopes in corners. I caught her singing that
song he gave her, and once she said ‘John’, as you do, and then
turned as red as a poppy. Whatever shall we do?” said Jo, looking ready
for any measures, however violent.

“Nothing but wait. Let her alone, be kind and patient, and Father’s
coming will settle everything,” replied her mother.

“Here’s a note to you, Meg, all sealed up. How odd! Teddy never
seals mine,” said Jo next day, as she distributed the contents of the
little post office.

Mrs. March and Jo were deep in their own affairs, when a sound from Meg made
them look up to see her staring at her note with a frightened face.

“My child, what is it?” cried her mother, running to her, while Jo
tried to take the paper which had done the mischief.

“It’s all a mistake, he didn’t send it. Oh, Jo, how could you
do it?” and Meg hid her face in her hands, crying as if her heart were
quite broken.

“Me! I’ve done nothing! What’s she talking about?”
cried Jo, bewildered.

Meg’s mild eyes kindled with anger as she pulled a crumpled note from her
pocket and threw it at Jo, saying reproachfully, “You wrote it, and that
bad boy helped you. How could you be so rude, so mean, and cruel to us
both?”

Jo hardly heard her, for she and her mother were reading the note, which was
written in a peculiar hand.

“My Dearest Margaret,

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

“Your devoted John.”

“Oh, the little villain! That’s the way he meant to pay me for
keeping my word to Mother. I’ll give him a hearty scolding and bring him
over to beg pardon,” cried Jo, burning to execute immediate justice. But
her mother held her back, saying, with a look she seldom wore…

“Stop, Jo, you must clear yourself first. You have played so many pranks
that I am afraid you have had a hand in this.”

“On my word, Mother, I haven’t! I never saw that note before, and
don’t know anything about it, as true as I live!” said Jo, so
earnestly that they believed her. “If I had taken part in it I’d
have done it better than this, and have written a sensible note. I should think
you’d have known Mr. Brooke wouldn’t write such stuff as
that,” she added, scornfully tossing down the paper.

“It’s like his writing,” faltered Meg, comparing it with the
note in her hand.

“Oh, Meg, you didn’t answer it?” cried Mrs. March quickly.

“Yes, I did!” and Meg hid her face again, overcome with shame.

“Here’s a scrape! Do let me bring that wicked boy over to explain
and be lectured. I can’t rest till I get hold of him.” And Jo made
for the door again.

“Hush! Let me handle this, for it is worse than I thought. Margaret, tell
me the whole story,” commanded Mrs. March, sitting down by Meg, yet
keeping hold of Jo, lest she should fly off.

“I received the first letter from Laurie, who didn’t look as if he
knew anything about it,” began Meg, without looking up. “I was
worried at first and meant to tell you, then I remembered how you liked Mr.
Brooke, so I thought you wouldn’t mind if I kept my little secret for a
few days. I’m so silly that I liked to think no one knew, and while I was
deciding what to say, I felt like the girls in books, who have such things to
do. Forgive me, Mother, I’m paid for my silliness now. I never can look
him in the face again.”

“What did you say to him?” asked Mrs. March.

“I only said I was too young to do anything about it yet, that I
didn’t wish to have secrets from you, and he must speak to father. I was
very grateful for his kindness, and would be his friend, but nothing more, for
a long while.”

Mrs. March smiled, as if well pleased, and Jo clapped her hands, exclaiming,
with a laugh, “You are almost equal to Caroline Percy, who was a pattern
of prudence! Tell on, Meg. What did he say to that?”

“He writes in a different way entirely, telling me that he never sent any
love letter at all, and is very sorry that my roguish sister, Jo, should take
liberties with our names. It’s very kind and respectful, but think how
dreadful for me!”

Meg leaned against her mother, looking the image of despair, and Jo tramped
about the room, calling Laurie names. All of a sudden she stopped, caught up
the two notes, and after looking at them closely, said decidedly, “I
don’t believe Brooke ever saw either of these letters. Teddy wrote both,
and keeps yours to crow over me with because I wouldn’t tell him my
secret.”

“Don’t have any secrets, Jo. Tell it to Mother and keep out of
trouble, as I should have done,” said Meg warningly.

“Bless you, child! Mother told me.”

“That will do, Jo. I’ll comfort Meg while you go and get Laurie. I
shall sift the matter to the bottom, and put a stop to such pranks at
once.”

Away ran Jo, and Mrs. March gently told Meg Mr. Brooke’s real feelings.
“Now, dear, what are your own? Do you love him enough to wait till he can
make a home for you, or will you keep yourself quite free for the
present?”

“I’ve been so scared and worried, I don’t want to have
anything to do with lovers for a long while, perhaps never,” answered Meg
petulantly. “If John doesn’t know anything about this nonsense,
don’t tell him, and make Jo and Laurie hold their tongues. I won’t
be deceived and plagued and made a fool of. It’s a shame!”

Seeing 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.

When they were called in, Laurie was standing by their mother with such a
penitent face that Jo forgave him on the spot, but did not think it wise to
betray the fact. Meg received his humble apology, and was much comforted by the
assurance that Brooke knew nothing of the joke.

“I’ll never tell him to my dying day, wild horses shan’t drag
it out of me, so you’ll forgive me, Meg, and I’ll do anything to
show how out-and-out sorry I am,” he added, looking very much ashamed of
himself.

“I’ll try, but it was a very ungentlemanly thing to do, I
didn’t think you could be so sly and malicious, Laurie,” replied
Meg, trying to hide her maidenly confusion under a gravely reproachful air.

“It was altogether abominable, and I don’t deserve to be spoken to
for a month, but you will, though, won’t you?” And Laurie folded
his hands together with such and imploring gesture, as he spoke in his
irresistibly persuasive tone, that it was impossible to frown upon him in spite
of his scandalous behavior.

Meg pardoned him, and Mrs. March’s grave face relaxed, in spite of her
efforts to keep sober, when she heard him declare that he would atone for his
sins by all sorts of penances, and abase himself like a worm before the injured
damsel.

Jo stood aloof, meanwhile, trying to harden her heart against him, and
succeeding only in primming up her face into an expression of entire
disapprobation. Laurie looked at her once or twice, but as she showed no sign
of relenting, he felt injured, and turned his back on her till the others were
done with him, when he made her a low bow and walked off without a word.

As soon as he had gone, she wished she had been more forgiving, and when Meg
and her mother went upstairs, she felt lonely and longed for Teddy. After
resisting for some time, she yielded to the impulse, and armed with a book to
return, went over to the big house.

“Is Mr. Laurence in?” asked Jo, of a housemaid, who was coming
downstairs.

“Yes, Miss, but I don’t believe he’s seeable just yet.”

“Why not? Is he ill?”

“La, no Miss, but he’s had a scene with Mr. Laurie, who is in one
of his tantrums about something, which vexes the old gentleman, so I
dursn’t go nigh him.”

“Where is Laurie?”

“Shut up in his room, and he won’t answer, though I’ve been
a-tapping. I don’t know what’s to become of the dinner, for
it’s ready, and there’s no one to eat it.”

“I’ll go and see what the matter is. I’m not afraid of either
of them.”

Up went Jo, and knocked smartly on the door of Laurie’s little study.

“Stop that, or I’ll open the door and make you!” called out
the young gentleman in a threatening tone.

Jo immediately knocked again. The door flew open, and in she bounced before
Laurie could recover from his surprise. Seeing that he really was out of
temper, Jo, who knew how to manage him, assumed a contrite expression, and
going artistically down upon her knees, said meekly, “Please forgive me
for being so cross. I came to make it up, and can’t go away till I
have.”

“It’s all right. Get up, and don’t be a goose, Jo,” was
the cavalier reply to her petition.

“Thank you, I will. Could I ask what’s the matter? You don’t
look exactly easy in your mind.”

“I’ve been shaken, and I won’t bear it!” growled Laurie
indignantly.

“Who did it?” demanded Jo.

“Grandfather. If it had been anyone else I’d have…” And the
injured youth finished his sentence by an energetic gesture of the right arm.

“That’s nothing. I often shake you, and you don’t
mind,” said Jo soothingly.

“Pooh! You’re a girl, and it’s fun, but I’ll allow no
man to shake me!”

“I don’t think anyone would care to try it, if you looked as much
like a thundercloud as you do now. Why were you treated so?”

“Just because I wouldn’t say what your mother wanted me for.
I’d promised not to tell, and of course I wasn’t going to break my
word.”

“Couldn’t you satisfy your grandpa in any other way?”

“No, he would have the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
I’d have told my part of the scrape, if I could without bringing Meg in.
As I couldn’t, I held my tongue, and bore the scolding till the old
gentleman collared me. Then I bolted, for fear I should forget myself.”

“It wasn’t nice, but he’s sorry, I know, so go down and make
up. I’ll help you.”

“Hanged if I do! I’m not going to be lectured and pummelled by
everyone, just for a bit of a frolic. I was sorry about Meg, and begged pardon
like a man, but I won’t do it again, when I wasn’t in the
wrong.”

“He didn’t know that.”

“He ought to trust me, and not act as if I was a baby. It’s no use,
Jo, he’s got to learn that I’m able to take care of myself, and
don’t need anyone’s apron string to hold on by.”

“What pepper pots you are!” sighed Jo. “How do you mean to
settle this affair?”

“Well, he ought to beg pardon, and believe me when I say I can’t
tell him what the fuss’s about.”

“Bless you! He won’t do that.”

“I won’t go down till he does.”

“Now, Teddy, be sensible. Let it pass, and I’ll explain what I can.
You can’t stay here, so what’s the use of being
melodramatic?”

“I don’t intend to stay here long, anyway. I’ll slip off and
take a journey somewhere, and when Grandpa misses me he’ll come round
fast enough.”

“I dare say, but you ought not to go and worry him.”

“Don’t preach. I’ll go to Washington and see Brooke.
It’s gay there, and I’ll enjoy myself after the troubles.”

“What fun you’d have! I wish I could run off too,” said Jo,
forgetting her part of mentor in lively visions of martial life at the capital.

“Come on, then! Why not? You go and surprise your father, and I’ll
stir up old Brooke. It would be a glorious joke. Let’s do it, Jo.
We’ll leave a letter saying we are all right, and trot off at once.
I’ve got money enough. It will do you good, and no harm, as you go to
your father.”

For a moment Jo looked as if she would agree, for wild as the plan was, it just
suited her. She was tired of care and confinement, longed for change, and
thoughts of her father blended temptingly with the novel charms of camps and
hospitals, liberty and fun. Her eyes kindled as they turned wistfully toward
the window, but they fell on the old house opposite, and she shook her head
with sorrowful decision.

“If I was a boy, we’d run away together, and have a capital time,
but as I’m a miserable girl, I must be proper and stop at home.
Don’t tempt me, Teddy, it’s a crazy plan.”

“That’s the fun of it,” began Laurie, who had got a willful
fit on him and was possessed to break out of bounds in some way.

“Hold your tongue!” cried Jo, covering her ears.
“‘Prunes and prisms’ are my doom, and I may as well make up
my mind to it. I came here to moralize, not to hear things that make me skip to
think of.”

“I know Meg would wet-blanket such a proposal, but I thought you had more
spirit,” began Laurie insinuatingly.

“Bad boy, be quiet! Sit down and think of your own sins, don’t go
making me add to mine. If I get your grandpa to apologize for the shaking, will
you give up running away?” asked Jo seriously.

“Yes, but you won’t do it,” answered Laurie, who wished to
make up, but felt that his outraged dignity must be appeased first.

“If I can manage the young one, I can the old one,” muttered Jo, as
she walked away, leaving Laurie bent over a railroad map with his head propped
up on both hands.

“Come in!” and Mr. Laurence’s gruff voice sounded gruffer
than ever, as Jo tapped at his door.

“It’s only me, Sir, come to return a book,” she said blandly,
as she entered.

“Want any more?” asked the old gentleman, looking grim and vexed,
but trying not to show it.

“Yes, please. I like old Sam so well, I think I’ll try the second
volume,” returned Jo, hoping to propitiate him by accepting a second dose
of Boswell’s Johnson, as he had recommended that lively work.

The shaggy eyebrows unbent a little as he rolled the steps toward the shelf
where the Johnsonian literature was placed. Jo skipped up, and sitting on the
top step, affected to be searching for her book, but was really wondering how
best to introduce the dangerous object of her visit. Mr. Laurence seemed to
suspect that something was brewing in her mind, for after taking several brisk
turns about the room, he faced round on her, speaking so abruptly that Rasselas
tumbled face downward on the floor.

“What has that boy been about? Don’t try to shield him. I know he
has been in mischief by the way he acted when he came home. I can’t get a
word from him, and when I threatened to shake the truth out of him he bolted
upstairs and locked himself into his room.”

“He did wrong, but we forgave him, and all promised not to say a word to
anyone,” began Jo reluctantly.

“That won’t do. He shall not shelter himself behind a promise from
you softhearted girls. If he’s done anything amiss, he shall confess, beg
pardon, and be punished. Out with it, Jo. I won’t be kept in the
dark.”

Mr. Laurence looked so alarming and spoke so sharply that Jo would have gladly
run away, if she could, but she was perched aloft on the steps, and he stood at
the foot, a lion in the path, so she had to stay and brave it out.

“Indeed, Sir, I cannot tell. Mother forbade it. Laurie has confessed,
asked pardon, and been punished quite enough. We don’t keep silence to
shield him, but someone else, and it will make more trouble if you interfere.
Please don’t. It was partly my fault, but it’s all right now. So
let’s forget it, and talk about the Rambler or something
pleasant.”

“Hang the Rambler! Come down and give me your word that this
harum-scarum boy of mine hasn’t done anything ungrateful or impertinent.
If he has, after all your kindness to him, I’ll thrash him with my own
hands.”

The threat sounded awful, but did not alarm Jo, for she knew the irascible old
gentleman would never lift a finger against his grandson, whatever he might say
to the contrary. She obediently descended, and made as light of the prank as
she could without betraying Meg or forgetting the truth.

“Hum… ha… well, if the boy held his tongue because he promised, and
not from obstinacy, I’ll forgive him. He’s a stubborn fellow and
hard to manage,” said Mr. Laurence, rubbing up his hair till it looked as
if he had been out in a gale, and smoothing the frown from his brow with an air
of relief.

“So am I, but a kind word will govern me when all the king’s horses
and all the king’s men couldn’t,” said Jo, trying to say a
kind word for her friend, who seemed to get out of one scrape only to fall into
another.

“You think I’m not kind to him, hey?” was the sharp answer.

“Oh, dear no, Sir. You are rather too kind sometimes, and then just a
trifle hasty when he tries your patience. Don’t you think you are?”

Jo was determined to have it out now, and tried to look quite placid, though
she quaked a little after her bold speech. To her great relief and surprise,
the old gentleman only threw his spectacles onto the table with a rattle and
exclaimed frankly, “You’re right, girl, I am! I love the boy, but
he tries my patience past bearing, and I know how it will end, if we go on
so.”

“I’ll tell you, he’ll run away.” Jo was sorry for that
speech the minute it was made. She meant to warn him that Laurie would not bear
much restraint, and hoped he would be more forebearing with the lad.

Mr. Laurence’s ruddy face changed suddenly, and he sat down, with a
troubled glance at the picture of a handsome man, which hung over his table. It
was Laurie’s father, who had run away in his youth, and married against
the imperious old man’s will. Jo fancied he remembered and regretted the
past, and she wished she had held her tongue.

“He won’t do it unless he is very much worried, and only threatens
it sometimes, when he gets tired of studying. I often think I should like to,
especially since my hair was cut, so if you ever miss us, you may advertise for
two boys and look among the ships bound for India.”

She laughed as she spoke, and Mr. Laurence looked relieved, evidently taking
the whole as a joke.

“You hussy, how dare you talk in that way? Where’s your respect for
me, and your proper bringing up? Bless the boys and girls! What torments they
are, yet we can’t do without them,” he said, pinching her cheeks
good-humoredly. “Go and bring that boy down to his dinner, tell him
it’s all right, and advise him not to put on tragedy airs with his
grandfather. I won’t bear it.”

“He won’t come, Sir. He feels badly because you didn’t
believe him when he said he couldn’t tell. I think the shaking hurt his
feelings very much.”

Jo tried to look pathetic but must have failed, for Mr. Laurence began to
laugh, and she knew the day was won.

“I’m sorry for that, and ought to thank him for not shaking me, I
suppose. What the dickens does the fellow expect?” and the old gentleman
looked a trifle ashamed of his own testiness.

“If I were you, I’d write him an apology, Sir. He says he
won’t come down till he has one, and talks about Washington, and goes on
in an absurd way. A formal apology will make him see how foolish he is, and
bring him down quite amiable. Try it. He likes fun, and this way is better than
talking. I’ll carry it up, and teach him his duty.”

Mr. Laurence gave her a sharp look, and put on his spectacles, saying slowly,
“You’re a sly puss, but I don’t mind being managed by you and
Beth. Here, give me a bit of paper, and let us have done with this
nonsense.”

The note was written in the terms which one gentleman would use to another
after offering some deep insult. Jo dropped a kiss on the top of Mr.
Laurence’s bald head, and ran up to slip the apology under Laurie’s
door, advising him through the keyhole to be submissive, decorous, and a few
other agreeable impossibilities. Finding the door locked again, she left the
note to do its work, and was going quietly away, when the young gentleman slid
down the banisters, and waited for her at the bottom, saying, with his most
virtuous expression of countenance, “What a good fellow you are, Jo! Did
you get blown up?” he added, laughing.

“No, he was pretty mild, on the whole.”

“Ah! I got it all round. Even you cast me off over there, and I felt just
ready to go to the deuce,” he began apologetically.

“Don’t talk that way, turn over a new leaf and begin again, Teddy,
my son.”

“I keep turning over new leaves, and spoiling them, as I used to spoil my
copybooks, and I make so many beginnings there never will be an end,” he
said dolefully.

“Go and eat your dinner, you’ll feel better after it. Men always
croak when they are hungry,” and Jo whisked out at the front door after
that.

“That’s a ‘label’ on my ‘sect’,”
answered Laurie, quoting Amy, as he went to partake of humble pie dutifully
with his grandfather, who was quite saintly in temper and overwhelmingly
respectful in manner all the rest of the day.

Everyone 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.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
PLEASANT MEADOWS

Like sunshine after a 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 behind-hand. Her once active limbs were so stiff
and feeble that Jo took her for a daily airing about the house in her strong
arms. Meg cheerfully blackened and burned her white hands cooking delicate
messes for ‘the dear’, while Amy, a loyal slave of the ring,
celebrated her return by giving away as many of her treasures as she could
prevail on her sisters to accept.

As Christmas approached, the usual mysteries began to haunt the house, and Jo
frequently convulsed the family by proposing utterly impossible or
magnificently absurd ceremonies, in honor of this unusually merry Christmas.
Laurie was equally impracticable, and would have had bonfires, skyrockets, and
triumphal arches, if he had had his own way. After many skirmishes and
snubbings, the ambitious pair were considered effectually quenched and went
about with forlorn faces, which were rather belied by explosions of laughter
when the two got together.

Several days of unusually mild weather fitly ushered in a splendid Christmas
Day. Hannah ‘felt in her bones’ that it was going to be an
unusually fine day, and she proved herself a true prophetess, for everybody and
everything seemed bound to produce a grand success. To begin with, Mr. March
wrote that he should soon be with them, then Beth felt uncommonly well that
morning, and, being dressed in her mother’s gift, a soft crimson merino
wrapper, was borne in high 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 music in the other, a perfect
rainbow of an Afghan round her chilly shoulders, and a Christmas carol issuing
from her lips on a pink paper streamer.

THE JUNGFRAU TO BETH

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

Here’s fruit to feed our busy bee,
And flowers for her nose.
Here’s music for her pianee,
An afghan for her toes,

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

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

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

How Beth laughed when she saw it, how Laurie ran up and down to bring in the
gifts, and what ridiculous speeches Jo made as she presented them.

“I’m so full of happiness, that if Father was only here, I
couldn’t hold one drop more,” said Beth, quite sighing with
contentment as Jo carried her off to the study to rest after the excitement,
and to refresh herself with some of the delicious grapes the
‘Jungfrau’ had sent her.

“So am I,” added Jo, slapping the pocket wherein reposed the
long-desired Undine and Sintram.

“I’m sure I am,” echoed Amy, poring over the engraved copy of
the Madonna and Child, which her mother had given her in a pretty frame.

“Of course I am!” cried Meg, smoothing the silvery folds of her
first silk dress, for Mr. Laurence had insisted on giving it. “How can I
be otherwise?” said Mrs. March gratefully, as her eyes went from her
husband’s letter to Beth’s smiling face, and her hand caressed the
brooch made of gray and golden, chestnut and dark brown hair, which the girls
had just fastened on her breast.

Now and then, in this workaday world, things do happen in the delightful
storybook fashion, and what a comfort it is. Half an hour after everyone 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 everyone jumped up, though he only said, in a queer, breathless voice,
“Here’s another Christmas present for the March family.”

Before the words were well out of his mouth, he was whisked away somehow, and
in his place appeared a tall man, muffled up to the eyes, leaning on the arm of
another tall man, who tried to say something and couldn’t. Of course
there was a general stampede, and for several minutes everybody seemed to lose
their wits, for the strangest things were done, and no one said a word.

Mr. March became invisible in the embrace of four pairs of loving arms. Jo
disgraced herself by nearly fainting away, and had to be doctored by Laurie in
the china closet. Mr. Brooke kissed Meg entirely by mistake, as he somewhat
incoherently explained. And Amy, the dignified, tumbled over a stool, and never
stopping to get up, hugged and cried over her father’s boots in the most
touching manner. Mrs. March was the first to recover herself, and held up her
hand with a warning, “Hush! Remember Beth.”

But it was too late. The study door flew open, the little red wrapper appeared
on the threshold, joy put strength into the feeble limbs, and Beth ran straight
into her father’s arms. Never mind what happened just after that, for the
full hearts overflowed, washing away the bitterness of the past and leaving
only the sweetness of the present.

It was not at all romantic, but a hearty laugh set everybody straight again,
for Hannah was discovered behind the door, sobbing over the fat turkey, which
she had forgotten to put down when she rushed up from the kitchen. As the laugh
subsided, Mrs. March began to thank Mr. Brooke for his faithful care of her
husband, at which Mr. Brooke suddenly remembered that Mr. March needed rest,
and seizing Laurie, he precipitately retired. Then the two invalids were
ordered to repose, which they did, by both sitting in one big chair and talking
hard.

Mr. March told how he had longed to surprise them, and how, when the fine
weather came, he had been allowed by his doctor to take advantage of it, how
devoted Brooke had been, and how he was altogether a most estimable and upright
young man. Why Mr. March paused a minute just there, and after a glance at Meg,
who was violently poking the fire, looked at his wife with an inquiring lift of
the eyebrows, I leave you to imagine. Also why Mrs. March gently nodded her
head and asked, rather abruptly, if he wouldn’t like to have something to
eat. Jo saw and understood the look, and she stalked grimly away to get wine
and beef tea, muttering to herself as she slammed the door, “I hate
estimable young men with brown eyes!”

There never was such a Christmas dinner as they had that day. The fat turkey
was a sight to behold, when Hannah sent him up, stuffed, browned, and
decorated. So was the plum pudding, which melted in one’s mouth, likewise
the jellies, in which Amy reveled like a fly in a honeypot. Everything turned
out well, which was a mercy, Hannah said, “For my mind was that
flustered, Mum, that it’s a merrycle I didn’t roast the pudding,
and stuff the turkey with raisins, let alone bilin’ of it in a
cloth.”

Mr. Laurence and his grandson dined with them, also Mr. Brooke, at whom Jo
glowered darkly, to Laurie’s infinite amusement. Two easy chairs stood
side by side at the head of the table, in which sat Beth and her father,
feasting modestly on chicken and a little fruit. They drank healths, told
stories, sang songs, ‘reminisced’, as the old folks say, and had a
thoroughly good time. A sleigh ride had been planned, but the girls would not
leave their father, so the guests departed early, and as twilight gathered, the
happy family sat together round the fire.

“Just a year ago we were groaning over the dismal Christmas we expected
to have. Do you remember?” asked Jo, breaking a short pause which had
followed a long conversation about many things.

“Rather a pleasant year on the whole!” said Meg, smiling at the
fire, and congratulating herself on having treated Mr. Brooke with dignity.

“I think it’s been a pretty hard one,” observed Amy, watching
the light shine on her ring with thoughtful eyes.

“I’m glad it’s over, because we’ve got you back,”
whispered Beth, who sat on her father’s knee.

“Rather a rough road for you to travel, my little pilgrims, especially
the latter part of it. But you have got on bravely, and I think the burdens are
in a fair way to tumble off very soon,” said Mr. March, looking with
fatherly satisfaction at the four young faces gathered round him.

“How do you know? Did Mother tell you?” asked Jo.

“Not much. Straws show which way the wind blows, and I’ve made
several discoveries today.”

“Oh, tell us what they are!” cried Meg, who sat beside him.

“Here is one.” And taking up the hand which lay on the arm of his
chair, he pointed to the roughened forefinger, a burn on the back, and two or
three little hard spots on the palm. “I remember a time when this hand
was white and smooth, and your first care was to keep it so. It was very pretty
then, but to me it is much prettier now, for in this seeming blemishes I read a
little history. A burnt offering has been made to vanity, this hardened palm
has earned something better than blisters, and I’m sure the sewing done
by these pricked fingers will last a long time, so much good will went into the
stitches. Meg, my dear, I value the womanly skill which keeps home happy more
than white hands or fashionable accomplishments. I’m proud to shake this
good, industrious little hand, and hope I shall not soon be asked to give it
away.”

If Meg had wanted a reward for hours of patient labor, she received it in the
hearty pressure of her father’s hand and the approving smile he gave her.

“What about Jo? Please say something nice, for she has tried so hard and
been so very, very good to me,” said Beth in her father’s ear.

He laughed and looked across at the tall girl who sat opposite, with an
unusually mild expression in her face.

“In spite of the curly crop, I don’t see the ‘son Jo’
whom I left a year ago,” said Mr. March. “I see a young lady who
pins her collar straight, laces her boots neatly, and neither whistles, talks
slang, nor lies on the rug as she used to do. Her face is rather thin and pale
just now, with watching and anxiety, but I like to look at it, for it has grown
gentler, and her voice is lower. She doesn’t bounce, but moves quietly,
and takes care of a certain little person in a motherly way which delights me.
I rather miss my wild girl, but if I get a strong, helpful, tenderhearted 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 my good girl sent me.”

Jo’s keen eyes were rather dim for a minute, and her thin face grew rosy
in the firelight as she received her father’s praise, feeling that she
did deserve a portion of it.

“Now, Beth,” said Amy, longing for her turn, but ready to wait.

“There’s so little of her, I’m afraid to say much, for fear
she will slip away altogether, though she is not so shy as she used to
be,” began their father cheerfully. But recollecting how nearly he had
lost her, he held her close, saying tenderly, with her cheek against his own,
“I’ve got you safe, my Beth, and I’ll keep you so, please
God.”

After a minute’s silence, he looked down at Amy, who sat on the cricket
at his feet, and said, with a caress of the shining hair…

“I observed that Amy took drumsticks at dinner, ran errands for her
mother all the afternoon, gave Meg her place tonight, and has waited on every
one with patience and good humor. I also observe that she does not fret much
nor look in the glass, and has not even mentioned a very pretty ring which she
wears, so I conclude that she has learned to think of other people more and of
herself less, and has decided to try and mold her character as carefully as she
molds 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.”

“What are you thinking of, Beth?” asked Jo, when Amy had thanked
her father and told about her ring.

“I read in Pilgrim’s Progress today how, after many
troubles, Christian and Hopeful came to a pleasant green meadow where lilies
bloomed all 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 to the instrument,
“It’s singing time now, and I want to be in my old place.
I’ll try to sing the song of the shepherd boy which the Pilgrims heard. I
made the music for Father, because he likes the verses.”

So, sitting at the dear little piano, Beth softly touched the keys, and in the
sweet voice they had never thought to hear again, sang to her own accompaniment
the quaint hymn, which was a singularly fitting song for her.

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

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

Fulness to them a burden is,
That go on pilgrimage.
Here little, and hereafter bliss,
Is best from age to age!

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
AUNT MARCH SETTLES THE QUESTION

Like bees swarming after their queen, mother and daughters hovered about Mr.
March the next day, neglecting everything to look at, wait upon, and listen to
the new invalid, who was in a fair way to be killed by kindness. As he sat
propped up in a big chair by Beth’s sofa, with the other three close by,
and Hannah popping in her head now and then ‘to peek at the dear
man’, nothing seemed needed to complete their happiness. But something
was needed, and the elder ones felt it, though none confessed the fact. Mr. and
Mrs. March looked at one another with an anxious expression, as their eyes
followed Meg. Jo had sudden fits of sobriety, and was seen to shake her fist at
Mr. Brooke’s umbrella, which had been left in the hall. Meg was
absent-minded, shy, and silent, started when the bell rang, and colored when
John’s name was mentioned. Amy said, “Everyone seemed waiting for
something, and couldn’t settle down, which was queer, since Father was
safe at home,” and Beth innocently wondered why their neighbors
didn’t run over as usual.

Laurie went by in the afternoon, and seeing Meg at the window, seemed suddenly
possessed with a melodramatic fit, for he fell down on one knee in the snow,
beat his breast, tore his hair, and clasped his hands imploringly, as if
begging some boon. And when Meg told him to behave himself and go away, he
wrung imaginary tears out of his handkerchief, and staggered round the corner
as if in utter despair.

“What does the goose mean?” said Meg, laughing and trying to look
unconscious.

“He’s showing you how your John will go on by-and-by. Touching,
isn’t it?” answered Jo scornfully.

“Don’t say my John, it isn’t proper or true,” but
Meg’s voice lingered over the words as if they sounded pleasant to her.
“Please don’t plague me, Jo, I’ve told you I don’t care
much about him, and there isn’t to be anything said, but we are all to be
friendly, and go on as before.”

“We can’t, for something has been said, and Laurie’s mischief
has spoiled you for me. I see it, and so does Mother. You are not like your old
self a bit, and seem ever so far away from me. I don’t mean to plague you
and will bear it like a man, but I do wish it was all settled. I hate to wait,
so if you mean ever to do it, make haste and have it over quickly,” said
Jo pettishly.

“I can’t say anything till he speaks, and he won’t, because
Father said I was too young,” began Meg, bending over her work with a
queer little smile, which suggested that she did not quite agree with her
father on that point.

“If he did speak, you wouldn’t know what to say, but would cry or
blush, or let him have his own way, instead of giving a good, decided
no.”

“I’m not so silly and weak as you think. I know just what I should
say, for I’ve planned it all, so I needn’t be taken unawares.
There’s no knowing what may happen, and I wished to be prepared.”

Jo couldn’t help smiling at the important air which Meg had unconsciously
assumed and which was as becoming as the pretty color varying in her cheeks.

“Would you mind telling me what you’d say?” asked Jo more
respectfully.

“Not at all. You are sixteen now, quite old enough to be my confidant,
and my experience will be useful to you by-and-by, perhaps, in your own affairs
of this sort.”

“Don’t mean to have any. It’s fun to watch other people
philander, but I should feel like a fool doing it myself,” said Jo,
looking alarmed at the thought.

“I think not, if you liked anyone very much, and he liked you.” Meg
spoke as if to herself, and glanced out at the lane where she had often seen
lovers walking together in the summer twilight.

“I thought you were going to tell your speech to that man,” said
Jo, rudely shortening her sister’s little reverie.

“Oh, I should merely say, quite calmly and decidedly, ‘Thank you,
Mr. Brooke, you are very kind, but I agree with Father that I am too young to
enter into any engagement at present, so please say no more, but let us be
friends as we were.’”

“Hum, that’s stiff and cool enough! I don’t believe
you’ll ever say it, and I know he won’t be satisfied if you do. If
he goes on like the rejected lovers in books, you’ll give in, rather than
hurt his feelings.”

“No, I won’t. I shall tell him I’ve made up my mind, and
shall walk out of the room with dignity.”

Meg rose as she spoke, and was just going to rehearse the dignified exit, when
a step in the hall made her fly into her seat and begin to sew as fast as if
her life depended on finishing that particular seam in a given time. Jo
smothered a laugh at the sudden change, and when someone gave a modest tap,
opened the door with a grim aspect which was anything but hospitable.

“Good afternoon. I came to get my umbrella, that is, to see how your
father finds himself today,” said Mr. Brooke, getting a trifle confused
as his eyes went from one telltale face to the other.

“It’s very well, he’s in the rack. I’ll get him, and
tell it you are here.” And having jumbled her father and the umbrella
well together in her reply, Jo slipped out of the room to give Meg a chance to
make her speech and air her dignity. But the instant she vanished, Meg began to
sidle toward the door, murmuring…

“Mother will like to see you. Pray sit down, I’ll call her.”

“Don’t go. Are you afraid of me, Margaret?” and Mr. Brooke
looked so hurt that Meg thought she must have done something very rude. She
blushed up to the little curls on her forehead, for he had never called her
Margaret before, and she was surprised to find how natural and sweet it seemed
to hear him say it. Anxious to appear friendly and at her ease, she put out her
hand with a confiding gesture, and said gratefully…

“How can I be afraid when you have been so kind to Father? I only wish I
could thank you for it.”

“Shall I tell you how?” asked Mr. Brooke, holding the small hand
fast in both his own, and looking down at Meg with so much love in the brown
eyes that her heart began to flutter, and she both longed to run away and to
stop and listen.

“Oh no, please don’t, I’d rather not,” she said, trying
to withdraw her hand, and looking frightened in spite of her denial.

“I won’t trouble you. I only want to know if you care for me a
little, Meg. I love you so much, dear,” added Mr. Brooke tenderly.

This was the moment for the calm, proper speech, but Meg didn’t make it.
She forgot every word of it, hung her head, and answered, “I don’t
know,” so softly that John had to stoop down to catch the foolish little
reply.

He seemed to think it was worth the trouble, for he smiled to himself as if
quite satisfied, pressed the plump hand gratefully, and said in his most
persuasive tone, “Will you try and find out? I want to know so much, for
I can’t go to work with any heart until I learn whether I am to have my
reward in the end or not.”

“I’m too young,” faltered Meg, wondering why she was so
fluttered, yet rather enjoying it.

“I’ll wait, and in the meantime, you could be learning to like me.
Would it be a very hard lesson, dear?”

“Not if I chose to learn it, but. . .”

“Please choose to learn, Meg. I love to teach, and this is easier than
German,” broke in John, getting possession of the other hand, so that she
had no way of hiding her face as he bent to look into it.

His tone was properly beseeching, but stealing a shy look at him, Meg saw that
his eyes were merry as well as tender, and that he wore the satisfied smile of
one who had no doubt of his success. This nettled her. Annie Moffat’s
foolish lessons in coquetry came into her mind, and the love of power, which
sleeps in the bosoms of the best of little women, woke up all of a sudden and
took possession of her. She felt excited and strange, and not knowing what else
to do, followed a capricious impulse, and, withdrawing her hands, said
petulantly, “I don’t choose. Please go away and let me be!”

Poor Mr. Brooke looked as if his lovely castle in the air was tumbling about
his ears, for he had never seen Meg in such a mood before, and it rather
bewildered him.

“Do you really mean that?” he asked anxiously, following her as she
walked away.

“Yes, I do. I don’t want to be worried about such things. Father
says I needn’t, it’s too soon and I’d rather not.”

“Mayn’t I hope you’ll change your mind by-and-by? I’ll
wait and say nothing till you have had more time. Don’t play with me,
Meg. I didn’t think that of you.”

“Don’t think of me at all. I’d rather you
wouldn’t,” said Meg, taking a naughty satisfaction in trying her
lover’s patience and her own power.

He was grave and pale now, and looked decidedly more like the novel heroes whom
she admired, but he neither slapped his forehead nor tramped about the room as
they did. He just stood looking at her so wistfully, so tenderly, that she
found her heart relenting in spite of herself. What would have happened next I
cannot say, if Aunt March had not come hobbling in at this interesting minute.

The old lady couldn’t resist her longing to see her nephew, for she had
met Laurie as she took her airing, and hearing of Mr. March’s arrival,
drove straight out to see him. The family were all busy in the back part of the
house, and she had made her way quietly in, hoping to surprise them. She did
surprise two of them so much that Meg started as if she had seen a ghost, and
Mr. Brooke vanished into the study.

“Bless me, what’s all this?” cried the old lady with a rap of
her cane as she glanced from the pale young gentleman to the scarlet young
lady.

“It’s Father’s friend. I’m so surprised to see
you!” stammered Meg, feeling that she was in for a lecture now.

“That’s evident,” returned Aunt March, sitting down.
“But what is Father’s friend saying to make you look like a peony?
There’s mischief going on, and I insist upon knowing what it is,”
with another rap.

“We were only talking. Mr. Brooke came for his umbrella,” began
Meg, wishing that Mr. Brooke and the umbrella were safely out of the house.

“Brooke? That boy’s tutor? Ah! I understand now. I know all about
it. Jo blundered into a wrong message in one of your Father’s letters,
and I made her tell me. You haven’t gone and accepted him, child?”
cried Aunt March, looking scandalized.

“Hush! He’ll hear. Shan’t I call Mother?” said Meg,
much troubled.

“Not yet. I’ve something to say to you, and I must free my mind at
once. Tell me, do you mean to marry this Cook? If you do, not one penny of my
money ever goes to you. Remember that, and be a sensible girl,” said the
old lady impressively.

Now Aunt March possessed in perfection the art of rousing the spirit of
opposition in the gentlest people, and enjoyed doing it. The best of us have a
spice of perversity in us, especially when we are young and in love. If Aunt
March had begged Meg to accept John Brooke, she would probably have declared
she couldn’t think of it, but as she was preemptorily ordered not to like
him, she immediately made up her mind that she would. Inclination as well as
perversity made the decision easy, and being already much excited, Meg opposed
the old lady with unusual spirit.

“I shall marry whom I please, Aunt March, and you can leave your money to
anyone you like,” she said, nodding her head with a resolute air.

“Highty-tighty! Is that the way you take my advice, Miss? You’ll be
sorry for it by-and-by, when you’ve tried love in a cottage and found it
a failure.”

“It can’t be a worse one than some people find in big
houses,” retorted Meg.

Aunt March put on her glasses and took a look at the girl, for she did not know
her in this new mood. Meg hardly knew herself, she felt so brave and
independent, so glad to defend John and assert her right to love him, if she
liked. Aunt March saw that she had begun wrong, and after a little pause, made
a fresh start, saying as mildly as she could, “Now, Meg, my dear, be
reasonable and take my advice. I mean it kindly, and don’t want you to
spoil your whole life by making a mistake at the beginning. You ought to marry
well and help your family. It’s your duty to make a rich match and it
ought to be impressed upon you.”

“Father and Mother don’t think so. They like John though he is
poor.”

“Your parents, my dear, have no more worldly wisdom than a pair of
babies.”

“I’m glad of it,” cried Meg stoutly.

Aunt March took no notice, but went on with her lecture. “This Rook is
poor and hasn’t got any rich relations, has he?”

“No, but he has many warm friends.”

“You can’t live on friends, try it and see how cool they’ll
grow. He hasn’t any business, has he?”

“Not yet. Mr. Laurence is going to help him.”

“That won’t last long. James Laurence is a 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.”

“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. Everyone likes and respects him, and
I’m proud to think he cares for me, though I’m so poor and young
and silly,” said Meg, looking prettier than ever in her earnestness.

“He knows you have got rich relations, child. That’s the secret of
his liking, I suspect.”

“Aunt March, how dare you say such a thing? John is above such meanness,
and I won’t listen to you a minute if you talk so,” cried Meg
indignantly, forgetting everything but the injustice of the old lady’s
suspicions. “My John wouldn’t marry for money, any more than I
would. We are willing to work and we mean to wait. I’m not afraid of
being poor, for I’ve been happy so far, and I know I shall be with him
because he loves me, and I…”

Meg stopped there, remembering all of a sudden that she hadn’t made up
her mind, that she had told ‘her John’ to go away, and that he
might be overhearing her inconsistent remarks.

Aunt March was very angry, for she had set her heart on having her pretty niece
make a fine match, and something in the girl’s happy young face made the
lonely old woman feel both sad and sour.

“Well, I wash my hands of the whole affair! You are a willful 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.
Brooke’s friends must take care of you. I’m done with you
forever.”

And slamming the door in Meg’s face, Aunt March drove off in high
dudgeon. She seemed to take all the girl’s courage with her, for when
left alone, Meg stood for a moment, undecided whether to laugh or cry. Before
she could make up her mind, she was taken possession of by Mr. Brooke, who said
all in one breath, “I couldn’t help hearing, Meg. Thank you for
defending me, and Aunt March for proving that you do care for me a little
bit.”

“I didn’t know how much till she abused you,” began Meg.

“And I needn’t go away, but may stay and be happy, may I,
dear?”

Here was another fine chance to make the crushing speech and the stately exit,
but Meg never thought of doing either, and disgraced herself forever in
Jo’s eyes by meekly whispering, “Yes, John,” and hiding her
face on Mr. Brooke’s waistcoat.

Fifteen minutes after Aunt March’s departure, Jo came softly downstairs,
paused an instant at the parlor door, and hearing no sound within, nodded and
smiled with a satisfied expression, saying to herself, “She has seen him
away as we planned, and that affair is settled. I’ll go and hear the fun,
and have a good laugh over it.”

But poor Jo never got her laugh, for she was transfixed upon the threshold by a
spectacle which held her there, staring with her mouth nearly as wide open as
her eyes. Going in to exult over a fallen enemy and to praise a strong-minded
sister for the banishment of an objectionable lover, it certainly was a shock
to behold the aforesaid enemy serenely sitting on the sofa, with the
strongminded sister enthroned upon his knee and wearing an expression of the
most abject submission. Jo gave a sort of gasp, as if a cold shower bath had
suddenly fallen upon her, for such an unexpected turning of the tables actually
took her breath away. At the odd sound the lovers turned and saw her. Meg
jumped up, looking both proud and shy, but ‘that man’, as Jo called
him, actually laughed and said coolly, as he kissed the astonished newcomer,
“Sister Jo, congratulate us!”

That was adding insult to injury, it was altogether too much, and making some
wild demonstration with her hands, Jo vanished without a word. Rushing
upstairs, she startled the invalids by exclaiming tragically as she burst into
the room, “Oh, do somebody go down quick! John Brooke is acting
dreadfully, and Meg likes it!”

Mr. and Mrs. March left the room with speed, and casting herself upon the bed,
Jo cried and scolded tempestuously as she told the awful news to Beth and Amy.
The little girls, however, considered it a most agreeable and interesting
event, and Jo got little comfort from them, so she went up to her refuge in the
garret, and confided her troubles to the rats.

Nobody ever knew what went on in the parlor that afternoon, but a great deal of
talking was done, and quiet Mr. Brooke astonished his friends by the eloquence
and spirit with which he pleaded his suit, told his plans, and persuaded them
to arrange everything just as he wanted it.

The tea bell rang before he had finished describing the paradise which he meant
to earn for Meg, and he proudly took her in to supper, both looking so happy
that Jo hadn’t the heart to be jealous or dismal. Amy was very much
impressed by John’s devotion and Meg’s dignity, Beth beamed at them
from a distance, while Mr. and Mrs. March surveyed the young couple with such
tender satisfaction that it was perfectly evident Aunt March was right in
calling them as ‘unworldly as a pair of babies’. No one ate much,
but everyone looked very happy, and the old room seemed to brighten up
amazingly when the first romance of the family began there.

“You can’t say nothing pleasant ever happens now, can you,
Meg?” said Amy, trying to decide how she would group the lovers in a
sketch she was planning to make.

“No, I’m sure I can’t. How much has happened since I said
that! It seems a year ago,” answered Meg, who was in a blissful dream
lifted far above such common things as bread and butter.

“The joys come close upon the sorrows this time, and I rather think the
changes have begun,” said Mrs. March. “In most families there
comes, now and then, a year full of events. This has been such a one, but it
ends well, after all.”

“Hope the next will end better,” muttered Jo, who found it very
hard to see Meg absorbed in a stranger before her face, for Jo loved a few
persons very dearly and dreaded to have their affection lost or lessened in any
way.

“I hope the third year from this will end better. I mean it shall, if I
live to work out my plans,” said Mr. Brooke, smiling at Meg, as if
everything had become possible to him now.

“Doesn’t it seem very long to wait?” asked Amy, who was in a
hurry for the wedding.

“I’ve got so much to learn before I shall be ready, it seems a
short time to me,” answered Meg, with a sweet gravity in her face never
seen there before.

“You have only to wait, I am to do the work,” said John beginning
his labors by picking up Meg’s napkin, with an expression which caused Jo
to shake her head, and then say to herself with an air of relief as the front
door banged, “Here comes Laurie. Now we shall have some sensible
conversation.”

But Jo was mistaken, for Laurie came prancing in, overflowing with good
spirits, bearing a great bridal-looking bouquet for ‘Mrs. John
Brooke’, and evidently laboring under the delusion that the whole affair
had been brought about by his excellent management.

“I knew Brooke would have it all his own way, he always does, for when he
makes up his mind to accomplish anything, it’s done though the sky
falls,” said Laurie, when he had presented his offering and his
congratulations.

“Much obliged for that recommendation. I take it as a good omen for the
future and invite you to my wedding on the spot,” answered Mr. Brooke,
who felt at peace with all mankind, even his mischievous pupil.

“I’ll come if I’m at the ends of the earth, for the sight of
Jo’s face alone on that occasion would be worth a long journey. You
don’t look festive, ma’am, what’s the matter?” asked
Laurie, following her into a corner of the parlor, whither all had adjourned to
greet Mr. Laurence.

“I don’t approve of the match, but I’ve made up my mind to
bear it, and shall not say a word against it,” said Jo solemnly.
“You can’t know how hard it is for me to give up Meg,” she
continued with a little quiver in her voice.

“You don’t give her up. You only go halves,” said Laurie
consolingly.

“It can never be the same again. I’ve lost my dearest
friend,” sighed Jo.

“You’ve got me, anyhow. I’m not good for much, I know, but
I’ll stand by you, Jo, all the days of my life. Upon my word I
will!” and Laurie meant what he said.

“I know you will, and I’m ever so much obliged. You are always a
great comfort to me, Teddy,” returned Jo, gratefully shaking hands.

“Well, now, don’t be dismal, there’s a good fellow.
It’s all right you see. Meg is happy, Brooke will fly round and get
settled immediately, Grandpa will attend to him, and it will be very jolly to
see Meg in her own little house. We’ll have capital times after she is
gone, for I shall be through college before long, and then we’ll go
abroad on some nice trip or other. Wouldn’t that console you?”

“I rather think it would, but there’s no knowing what may happen in
three years,” said Jo thoughtfully.

“That’s true. Don’t you wish you could take a look forward
and see where we shall all be then? I do,” returned Laurie.

“I think not, for I might see something sad, and everyone looks so happy
now, I don’t believe they could be much improved.” And Jo’s
eyes went slowly round the room, brightening as they looked, for the prospect
was a pleasant one.

Father and Mother sat together, quietly reliving the first chapter of the
romance which for them began some twenty years ago. Amy was drawing the lovers,
who sat apart in a beautiful world of their own, the light of which touched
their faces with a grace the little artist could not copy. Beth lay on her
sofa, talking cheerily with her old friend, who held her little hand as if he
felt that it possessed the power to lead him along the peaceful way she walked.
Jo lounged in her favorite low seat, with the grave quiet look which best
became her, and Laurie, leaning on the back of her chair, his chin on a level
with her curly head, smiled with his friendliest aspect, and nodded at her in
the long glass which reflected them both.

So the curtain falls upon Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy. Whether it ever rises again,
depends upon the reception given the first act of the domestic drama called
Little Women.

PART 2

In order that we may start afresh and go to Meg’s wedding…

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
GOSSIP

In order that we may start afresh and go to Meg’s wedding with free
minds, it will be well to begin with a little gossip about the Marches. And
here let me premise that if any of the elders think there is too much
‘lovering’ in the story, as I fear they may (I’m not afraid
the young folks will make that objection), I can only say with Mrs. March,
“What can you expect when I have four gay girls in the house, and a
dashing young neighbor over the way?”

The three years that have passed have brought but few changes to the quiet
family. The war is over, and Mr. March safely at home, busy with his books and
the small parish which found in him a minister by nature as by grace, a quiet,
studious man, rich in the wisdom that is better than learning, the charity
which calls all mankind ‘brother’, the piety that blossoms into
character, making it august and lovely.

These attributes, in spite of poverty and the strict integrity which shut him
out from the more worldly successes, attracted to him many admirable persons,
as naturally as sweet herbs draw bees, and as naturally he gave them the honey
into which fifty years of hard experience had distilled no bitter drop. Earnest
young men found the gray-headed scholar as young at heart as they; thoughtful
or troubled women instinctively brought their doubts to him, sure of finding
the gentlest sympathy, the wisest counsel. Sinners told their sins to the
pure-hearted old man and were both rebuked and saved. Gifted men found a
companion in him. Ambitious men caught glimpses of nobler ambitions than their
own, and even worldlings confessed that his beliefs were beautiful and true,
although ‘they wouldn’t pay’.

To outsiders the five energetic women seemed to rule the house, and so they did
in many things, but the quiet scholar, sitting among his books, was still the
head of the family, the household conscience, anchor, and comforter, for to him
the busy, anxious women always turned in troublous times, finding him, in the
truest sense of those sacred words, husband and father.

The girls gave their hearts into their mother’s keeping, their souls into
their father’s, and to both parents, who lived and labored so faithfully
for them, they gave a love that grew with their growth and bound them tenderly
together by the sweetest tie which blesses life and outlives death.

Mrs. March is as brisk and cheery, though rather grayer, than when we saw her
last, and just now so absorbed in Meg’s affairs that the hospitals and
homes still full of wounded ‘boys’ and soldiers’ widows,
decidedly miss the motherly missionary’s visits.

John Brooke did his duty manfully for a year, got wounded, was sent home, and
not allowed to return. He received no stars or bars, but he deserved them, for
he cheerfully risked all he had, and life and love are very precious when both
are in full bloom. Perfectly resigned to his discharge, he devoted himself to
getting well, preparing for business, and earning a home for Meg. With the good
sense and sturdy independence that characterized him, he refused Mr.
Laurence’s more generous offers, and accepted the place of bookkeeper,
feeling better satisfied to begin with an honestly earned salary than by
running any risks with borrowed money.

Meg had spent the time in working as well as waiting, growing womanly in
character, wise in housewifely arts, and prettier than ever, for love is a
great beautifier. She had her girlish ambitions and hopes, and felt some
disappointment at the humble way in which the new life must begin. Ned Moffat
had just married Sallie Gardiner, and Meg couldn’t help contrasting their
fine house and carriage, many gifts, and splendid outfit with her own, and
secretly wishing she could have the same. But somehow envy and discontent soon
vanished when she thought of all the patient love and labor John had put into
the little home awaiting her, and when they sat together in the twilight,
talking over their small plans, the future always grew so beautiful and bright
that she forgot Sallie’s splendor and felt herself the richest, happiest
girl in Christendom.

Jo never went back to Aunt March, for the old lady took such a fancy to Amy
that she bribed her with the offer of drawing lessons from one of the best
teachers going, and for the sake of this advantage, Amy would have served a far
harder mistress. So she gave her mornings to duty, her afternoons to pleasure,
and prospered finely. Jo meantime devoted herself to literature and Beth, who
remained delicate long after the fever was a thing of the past. Not an invalid
exactly, but never again the rosy, healthy creature she had been, yet always
hopeful, happy, and serene, and busy with the quiet duties she loved,
everyone’s friend, and an angel in the house, long before those who loved
her most had learned to know it.

As long as The Spread Eagle paid her a dollar a column for her
‘rubbish’, as she called it, Jo felt herself a woman of means, and
spun her little romances diligently. But great plans fermented in her busy
brain and ambitious mind, and the old tin kitchen in the garret held a slowly
increasing pile of blotted manuscript, which was one day to place the name of
March upon the roll of fame.

Laurie, having dutifully gone to college to please his grandfather, was now
getting through it in the easiest possible manner to please himself. A
universal favorite, thanks to money, manners, much talent, and the kindest
heart that ever got its owner into scrapes by trying to get other people out of
them, he stood in great danger of being spoiled, and probably would have been,
like many another promising boy, if he had not possessed a talisman against
evil in the memory of the kind old man who was bound up in his success, the
motherly friend who watched over him as if he were her son, and last, but not
least by any means, the knowledge that four innocent girls loved, admired, and
believed in him with all their hearts.

Being only ‘a glorious human boy’, of course he frolicked and
flirted, grew dandified, aquatic, sentimental, or gymnastic, as college
fashions ordained, hazed and was hazed, talked slang, and more than once came
perilously near suspension and expulsion. But as high spirits and the love of
fun were the causes of these pranks, he always managed to save himself by frank
confession, honorable atonement, or the irresistible power of persuasion which
he possessed in perfection. In fact, he rather prided himself on his narrow
escapes, and liked to thrill the girls with graphic accounts of his triumphs
over wrathful tutors, dignified professors, and vanquished enemies. The
‘men of my class’, were heroes in the eyes of the girls, who never
wearied of the exploits of ‘our fellows’, and were frequently
allowed to bask in the smiles of these great creatures, when Laurie brought
them home with him.

Amy especially enjoyed this high honor, and became quite a belle among them,
for her ladyship early felt and learned to use the gift of fascination with
which she was endowed. Meg was too much absorbed in her private and particular
John to care for any other lords of creation, and Beth too shy to do more than
peep at them and wonder how Amy dared to order them about so, but Jo felt quite
in her own 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 ‘Dovecote’.

That was the name of the little brown house Mr. Brooke had prepared for
Meg’s first home. Laurie had christened it, saying it was highly
appropriate to the gentle lovers who ‘went on together like a pair of
turtledoves, 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 the
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 slopbowl, 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 coalbin. But once get used to these slight blemishes
and nothing could be more complete, for good sense and good taste had presided
over the furnishing, and the result was highly satisfactory. There were no
marble-topped tables, long mirrors, or lace curtains in the little parlor, but
simple furniture, plenty of books, a fine picture or two, a stand of flowers in
the bay window, and, scattered all about, the pretty gifts which came from
friendly hands and were the fairer for the loving messages they brought.

I don’t think the Parian Psyche Laurie gave lost any of its beauty
because John put up the bracket it stood upon, that any upholsterer could have
draped the plain muslin curtains more gracefully than Amy’s artistic
hand, or that any store-room was ever better provided with good wishes, merry
words, and happy hopes than that in which Jo and her mother put away
Meg’s few boxes, barrels, and bundles, and I am morally certain that the
spandy new kitchen never could have looked so cozy and neat if Hannah had not
arranged every pot and pan a dozen times over, and laid the fire all ready for
lighting the minute ‘Mis. Brooke came home’. I also doubt if any
young matron ever began life with so rich a supply of dusters, holders, and
piece bags, for Beth made enough to last till the silver wedding came round,
and invented three different kinds of dishcloths for the express service of the
bridal china.

People who hire all these things done for them never know what they lose, for
the homeliest tasks get beautified if loving hands do them, and Meg found so
many proofs of this that everything in her small nest, from the kitchen roller
to the silver vase on her parlor table, was eloquent of home love and tender
forethought.

What happy times they had planning together, what solemn shopping excursions,
what funny mistakes they made, and what shouts of laughter arose over
Laurie’s ridiculous bargains. In his love of jokes, this young gentleman,
though nearly through college, was a 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 clothespins, next, a
wonderful nutmeg grater which fell to pieces at the first trial, a knife
cleaner that spoiled 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 tinware, from a toy savings
bank for odd pennies, to a wonderful boiler which would wash articles in its
own steam with every prospect of exploding in the process.

In vain Meg begged him to stop. John laughed at him, and Jo called him
‘Mr. Toodles’. He was possessed with a mania for patronizing Yankee
ingenuity, and seeing his friends fitly furnished forth. So each week beheld
some fresh absurdity.

Everything was done at last, even to Amy’s arranging different colored
soaps to match the different colored rooms, and Beth’s setting the table
for the first meal.

“Are you satisfied? Does it seem like home, and do you feel as if you
should be happy here?” asked Mrs. March, as she and her daughter went
through the new kingdom arm in arm, for just then they seemed to cling together
more tenderly than ever.

“Yes, Mother, perfectly satisfied, thanks to you all, and so happy that I
can’t talk about it,” with a look that was far better than words.

“If she only had a servant or two it would be all right,” said Amy,
coming out of the parlor, where she had been trying to decide whether the
bronze Mercury looked best on the whatnot or the mantlepiece.

“Mother and I have talked that over, and I have made up my mind to try
her way first. There will be so little to do that with Lotty to run my errands
and help me here and there, I shall only have enough work to keep me from
getting lazy or homesick,” answered Meg tranquilly.

“Sallie Moffat has four,” began Amy.

“If Meg had four, the house wouldn’t hold them, and master and
missis would have to camp in the garden,” broke in Jo, who, enveloped in
a big blue pinafore, was giving the last polish to the door handles.

“Sallie isn’t a poor man’s wife, and many maids are in
keeping with her fine establishment. Meg and John begin humbly, but I have a
feeling that there will be quite as much happiness in the little house as in
the big one. It’s a great mistake for young girls like Meg to leave
themselves nothing to do but dress, give orders, and gossip. When I was first
married, I used to long for my new clothes to wear out or get torn, so that I
might have the pleasure of mending them, for I got heartily sick of doing
fancywork and tending my pocket handkerchief.”

“Why didn’t you go into the kitchen and make messes, as Sallie says
she does to amuse herself, though they never turn out well and the servants
laugh at her,” said Meg.

“I did after a while, not to ‘mess’ but to learn of Hannah
how things should be done, that my servants need not laugh at me. It was play
then, but there came a time when I was truly grateful that I not only possessed
the will but the power to cook wholesome food for my little girls, and help
myself when I could no longer afford to hire help. You begin at the other end,
Meg, dear, but the lessons you learn now will be of use to you by-and-by when
John is a richer man, for the mistress of a house, however splendid, should
know how work ought to be done, if she wishes to be well and honestly
served.”

“Yes, Mother, I’m sure of that,” said Meg, listening
respectfully to the little lecture, for the best of women will hold forth upon
the all absorbing subject of house keeping. “Do you know I like this room
most of all in my baby house,” added Meg, a minute after, as they went
upstairs and she looked into her well-stored linen closet.

Beth was there, laying the snowy piles smoothly on the shelves and exulting
over the goodly array. All three laughed as Meg spoke, for that linen closet
was a joke. You see, having said that if Meg married ‘that Brooke’
she shouldn’t have a cent of her money, Aunt March was rather in a
quandary when time had appeased her wrath and made her repent her vow. She
never broke her word, and was much exercised in her mind how to get round it,
and at last devised a plan whereby she could satisfy herself. Mrs. Carrol,
Florence’s mamma, was ordered to buy, have made, and marked a generous
supply of house and table linen, and send it as her present, all of which was
faithfully done, but the secret leaked out, and was greatly enjoyed by the
family, for Aunt March tried to look utterly unconscious, and insisted that she
could give nothing but the old-fashioned pearls long promised to the first
bride.

“That’s a housewifely taste which I am glad to see. I had a young
friend who set up housekeeping with six sheets, but she had finger bowls for
company and that satisfied her,” said Mrs. March, patting the damask
tablecloths, with a truly feminine appreciation of their fineness.

“I haven’t a single finger bowl, but this is a setout that will
last me all my days, Hannah says.” And Meg looked quite contented, as
well she might.

A tall, broad-shouldered young fellow, with a cropped head, a felt basin of a
hat, and a flyaway coat, came tramping down the road at a great pace, walked
over the low fence without stopping to open the gate, straight up to Mrs.
March, with both hands out and a hearty…

“Here I am, Mother! Yes, it’s all right.”

The last words were in answer to the look the elder lady gave him, a kindly
questioning look which the handsome eyes met so frankly that the little
ceremony closed, as usual, with a motherly kiss.

“For Mrs. John Brooke, with the maker’s congratulations and
compliments. Bless you, Beth! What a refreshing spectacle you are, Jo. Amy, you
are getting altogether too handsome for a single lady.”

As Laurie spoke, he delivered a brown paper parcel to Meg, pulled Beth’s
hair ribbon, stared at Jo’s big pinafore, and fell into an attitude of
mock rapture before Amy, then shook hands all round, and everyone began to
talk.

“Where is John?” asked Meg anxiously.

“Stopped to get the license for tomorrow, ma’am.”

“Which side won the last match, Teddy?” inquired Jo, who persisted
in feeling an interest in manly sports despite her nineteen years.

“Ours, of course. Wish you’d been there to see.”

“How is the lovely Miss Randal?” asked Amy with a significant
smile.

“More cruel than ever. Don’t you see how I’m pining
away?” and Laurie gave his broad chest a sounding slap and heaved a
melodramatic sigh.

“What’s the last joke? Undo the bundle and see, Meg,” said
Beth, eying the knobby parcel with curiosity.

“It’s a useful thing to have in the house in case of fire or
thieves,” observed Laurie, as a watchman’s rattle appeared, amid
the laughter of the girls.

“Any time when John is away and you get frightened, Mrs. Meg, just swing
that out of the front window, and it will rouse the neighborhood in a jiffy.
Nice thing, isn’t it?” and Laurie gave them a sample of its powers
that made them cover up their ears.

“There’s gratitude for you! And speaking of gratitude reminds me to
mention that you may thank Hannah for saving your wedding cake from
destruction. I saw it going into your house as I came by, and if she
hadn’t defended it manfully I’d have had a pick at it, for it
looked like a remarkably plummy one.”

“I wonder if you will ever grow up, Laurie,” said Meg in a matronly
tone.

“I’m doing my best, ma’am, but can’t get much higher,
I’m afraid, as six feet is about all men can do in these degenerate
days,” responded the young gentleman, whose head was about level with the
little chandelier.

“I suppose it would be profanation to eat anything in this spick-and-span
bower, so as I’m tremendously hungry, I propose an adjournment,” he
added presently.

“Mother and I are going to wait for John. There are some last things to
settle,” said Meg, bustling away.

“Beth and I are going over to Kitty Bryant’s to get more flowers
for tomorrow,” added Amy, tying a picturesque hat over her picturesque
curls, and enjoying the effect as much as anybody.

“Come, Jo, don’t desert a fellow. I’m in such a state of
exhaustion I can’t get home without help. Don’t take off your
apron, whatever you do, it’s peculiarly becoming,” said Laurie, as
Jo bestowed his especial aversion in her capacious pocket and offered her arm
to support his feeble steps.

“Now, Teddy, I want to talk seriously to you about tomorrow,” began
Jo, as they strolled away together. “You must promise to behave well, and
not cut up any pranks, and spoil our plans.”

“Not a prank.”

“And don’t say funny things when we ought to be sober.”

“I never do. You are the one for that.”

“And I implore you not to look at me during the ceremony. I shall
certainly laugh if you do.”

“You won’t see me, you’ll be crying so hard that the thick
fog round you will obscure the prospect.”

“I never cry unless for some great affliction.”

“Such as fellows going to college, hey?” cut in Laurie, with
suggestive laugh.

“Don’t be a peacock. I only moaned a trifle to keep the girls
company.”

“Exactly. I say, Jo, how is Grandpa this week? Pretty amiable?”

“Very. Why, have you got into a scrape and want to know how he’ll
take it?” asked Jo rather sharply.

“Now, Jo, do you think I’d look your mother in the face and say
‘All right’, if it wasn’t?” and Laurie stopped short,
with an injured air.

“No, I don’t.”

“Then don’t go and be suspicious. I only want some money,”
said Laurie, walking on again, appeased by her hearty tone.

“You spend a great deal, Teddy.”

“Bless you, I don’t spend it, it spends itself somehow, and is gone
before I know it.”

“You are so generous and kind-hearted that you let people borrow, and
can’t say ‘No’ to anyone. We heard about Henshaw and all you
did for him. If you always spent money in that way, no one would blame
you,” said Jo warmly.

“Oh, he made a mountain out of a molehill. You wouldn’t have me let
that fine fellow work himself to death just for want of a little help, when he
is worth a dozen of us lazy chaps, would you?”

“Of course not, but I don’t see the use of your having seventeen
waistcoats, endless neckties, and a new hat every time you come home. I thought
you’d got over the dandy period, but every now and then it breaks out in
a new spot. Just now it’s the fashion to be hideous, to make your head
look like a scrubbing brush, wear a strait jacket, orange gloves, and clumping
square-toed boots. If it was cheap ugliness, I’d say nothing, but it
costs as much as the other, and I don’t get any satisfaction out of
it.”

Laurie threw back his head, and laughed so heartily at this attack, that the
felt hat fell off, and Jo walked on it, which insult only afforded him an
opportunity for expatiating on the advantages of a rough-and-ready costume, as
he folded up the maltreated hat, and stuffed it into his pocket.

“Don’t lecture any more, there’s a good soul! I have enough
all through the week, and like to enjoy myself when I come home. I’ll get
myself up regardless of expense tomorrow and be a satisfaction to my
friends.”

“I’ll leave you in peace if you’ll only let your hair grow.
I’m not aristocratic, but I do object to being seen with a person who
looks like a young prize fighter,” observed Jo severely.

“This unassuming style promotes study, that’s why we adopt
it,” returned Laurie, who certainly could not be accused of vanity,
having voluntarily sacrificed a handsome curly crop to the demand for
quarter-inch-long stubble.

“By the way, Jo, I think that little Parker is really getting desperate
about Amy. He talks of her constantly, writes poetry, and moons about in a most
suspicious manner. He’d better nip his little passion in the bud,
hadn’t he?” added Laurie, in a confidential, elder brotherly tone,
after a minute’s silence.

“Of course he had. We don’t want any more marrying in this family
for years to come. Mercy on us, what are the children thinking of?” and
Jo looked as much scandalized as if Amy and little Parker were not yet in their
teens.

“It’s a fast age, and I don’t know what we are coming to,
ma’am. You are a mere infant, but you’ll go next, Jo, and
we’ll be left lamenting,” said Laurie, shaking his head over the
degeneracy of the times.

“Don’t be alarmed. I’m not one of the agreeable sort. Nobody
will want me, and it’s a mercy, for there should always be one old maid
in a family.”

“You won’t give anyone a chance,” said Laurie, with a
sidelong glance and a little more color than before in his sunburned face.
“You won’t show the soft side of your character, and if a fellow
gets a peep at it by accident and can’t help showing that he likes it,
you treat him as Mrs. Gummidge did her sweetheart, throw cold water over him,
and get so thorny no one dares touch or look at you.”

“I don’t like that sort of thing. I’m too busy to be worried
with nonsense, and I think it’s dreadful to break up families so. Now
don’t say any more about it. Meg’s wedding has turned all our
heads, and we talk of nothing but lovers and such absurdities. I don’t
wish to get cross, so let’s change the subject;” and Jo looked
quite ready to fling cold water on the slightest provocation.

Whatever his feelings might have been, Laurie found a vent for them in a long
low whistle and the fearful prediction as they parted at the gate, “Mark
my words, Jo, you’ll go next.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THE FIRST WEDDING

The June roses over the porch were awake bright and early on that morning,
rejoicing with all their hearts in the cloudless sunshine, like friendly little
neighbors, as they were. Quite flushed with excitement were their ruddy faces,
as they swung in the wind, whispering to one another what they had seen, for
some peeped in at the dining room windows where the feast was spread, some
climbed up to nod and smile at the sisters as they dressed the bride, others
waved a welcome to those who came and went on various errands in garden, porch,
and hall, and all, from the rosiest full-blown flower to the palest baby bud,
offered their tribute of beauty and fragrance to the gentle mistress who had
loved and tended them so long.

Meg looked very like a rose herself, for all that was best and sweetest in
heart and soul seemed to bloom into her face that day, making it fair and
tender, with a charm more beautiful than beauty. Neither silk, lace, nor orange
flowers would she have. “I don’t want a fashionable wedding, but
only those about me whom I love, and to them I wish to look and be my familiar
self.”

So she made her wedding gown herself, sewing into it the tender hopes and
innocent romances of a girlish heart. Her sisters braided up her pretty hair,
and the only ornaments she wore were the lilies of the valley, which ‘her
John’ liked best of all the flowers that grew.

“You do look just like our own dear Meg, only so very sweet and lovely
that I should hug you if it wouldn’t crumple your dress,” cried
Amy, surveying her with delight when all was done.

“Then I am satisfied. But please hug and kiss me, everyone, and
don’t mind my dress. I want a great many crumples of this sort put into
it today,” and Meg opened her arms to her sisters, who clung about her
with April faces for a minute, feeling that the new love had not changed the
old.

“Now I’m going to tie John’s cravat for him, and then to stay
a few minutes with Father quietly in the study,” and Meg ran down to
perform these little ceremonies, and then to follow her mother wherever she
went, conscious that in spite of the smiles on the motherly face, there was a
secret sorrow hid in the motherly heart at the flight of the first bird from
the nest.

As the younger girls stand together, giving the last touches to their simple
toilet, it may be a good time to tell of a few changes which three years have
wrought in their appearance, for all are looking their best just now.

Jo’s angles are much softened, she has learned to carry herself with
ease, if not grace. The curly crop has lengthened into a thick coil, more
becoming to the small head atop of the tall figure. There is a fresh color in
her brown cheeks, a soft shine in her eyes, and only gentle words fall from her
sharp tongue today.

Beth has grown slender, pale, and more quiet than ever. The beautiful, kind
eyes are larger, and in them lies an expression that saddens one, although it
is not sad itself. It is the shadow of pain which touches the young face with
such pathetic patience, but Beth seldom complains and always speaks hopefully
of ‘being better soon’.

Amy is with truth considered ‘the flower of the family’, for at
sixteen she has the air and bearing of a full-grown woman, not beautiful, but
possessed of that indescribable charm called grace. One saw it in the lines of
her figure, the make and motion of her hands, the flow of her dress, the droop
of her hair, unconscious yet harmonious, and as attractive to many as beauty
itself. Amy’s nose still afflicted her, for it never would grow Grecian,
so did her mouth, being too wide, and having a decided chin. These offending
features gave character to her whole face, but she never could see it, and
consoled herself with her wonderfully fair complexion, keen blue eyes, and
curls more golden and abundant than ever.

All three wore suits of thin silver gray (their best gowns for the summer),
with blush roses in hair and bosom, and all three looked just what they were,
fresh-faced, happy-hearted girls, pausing a moment in their busy lives to read
with wistful eyes the sweetest chapter in the romance of womanhood.

There were to be no ceremonious performances, everything was to be as natural
and homelike as possible, so when Aunt March arrived, she was scandalized to
see the bride come running to welcome and lead her in, to find the bridegroom
fastening up a garland that had fallen down, and to catch a glimpse of the
paternal minister marching upstairs with a grave countenance and a wine bottle
under each arm.

“Upon my word, here’s a state of things!” cried the old lady,
taking the seat of honor prepared for her, and settling the folds of her
lavender moire with a great rustle. “You oughtn’t to be seen till
the last minute, child.”

“I’m not a show, Aunty, and no one is coming to stare at me, to
criticize my dress, or count the cost of my luncheon. I’m too happy to
care what anyone says or thinks, and I’m going to have my little wedding
just as I like it. John, dear, here’s your hammer.” And away went
Meg to help ‘that man’ in his highly improper employment.

Mr. Brooke didn’t even say, “Thank you,” but as he stooped
for the unromantic tool, he kissed his little bride behind the folding door,
with a look that made Aunt March whisk out her pocket handkerchief with a
sudden dew in her sharp old eyes.

A crash, a cry, and a laugh from Laurie, accompanied by the indecorous
exclamation, “Jupiter Ammon! Jo’s upset the cake again!”
caused a momentary flurry, which was hardly over when a flock of cousins
arrived, and ‘the party came in’, as Beth used to say when a child.

“Don’t let that young giant come near me, he worries me worse than
mosquitoes,” whispered the old lady to Amy, as the rooms filled and
Laurie’s black head towered above the rest.

“He has promised to be very good today, and he can be perfectly elegant
if he likes,” returned Amy, and gliding away to warn Hercules to beware
of the dragon, which warning caused him to haunt the old lady with a devotion
that nearly distracted her.

There was no bridal procession, but a sudden silence fell upon the room as Mr.
March and the young couple took their places under the green arch. Mother and
sisters gathered close, as if loath to give Meg up. The fatherly voice broke
more than once, which only seemed to make the service more beautiful and
solemn. The bridegroom’s hand trembled visibly, and no one heard his
replies. But Meg looked straight up in her husband’s eyes, and said,
“I will!” with such tender trust in her own face and voice that her
mother’s heart rejoiced and Aunt March sniffed audibly.

Jo did not cry, though she was very near it once, and was only saved from a
demonstration by the consciousness that Laurie was staring fixedly at her, with
a comical mixture of merriment and emotion in his wicked black eyes. Beth kept
her face hidden on her mother’s shoulder, but Amy stood like a graceful
statue, with a most becoming ray of sunshine touching her white forehead and
the flower in her hair.

It wasn’t at all the thing, I’m afraid, but the minute she was
fairly married, Meg cried, “The first kiss for Marmee!” and
turning, gave it with her heart on her lips. During the next fifteen minutes
she looked more like a rose than ever, for everyone availed themselves of their
privileges to the fullest extent, from Mr. Laurence to old Hannah, who, adorned
with a headdress fearfully and wonderfully made, fell upon her in the hall,
crying with a sob and a chuckle, “Bless you, deary, a hundred times! The
cake ain’t hurt a mite, and everything looks lovely.”

Everybody cleared up after that, and said something brilliant, or tried to,
which did just as well, for laughter is ready when hearts are light. There was
no display of gifts, for they were already in the little house, nor was there
an elaborate breakfast, but a plentiful lunch of cake and fruit, dressed with
flowers. Mr. Laurence and Aunt March shrugged and smiled at one another when
water, lemonade, and coffee were found to be to only sorts of nectar which the
three Hebes carried round. No one said anything, till Laurie, who insisted on
serving the bride, appeared before her, with a loaded salver in his hand and a
puzzled expression on his face.

“Has Jo smashed all the bottles by accident?” he whispered,
“or am I merely laboring under a delusion that I saw some lying about
loose this morning?”

“No, your grandfather kindly offered us his best, and Aunt March actually
sent some, but Father put away a little for Beth, and dispatched the rest to
the Soldier’s Home. You know he thinks that wine should be used only in
illness, and Mother says that neither she nor her daughters will ever offer it
to any young man under her roof.”

Meg spoke seriously and expected to see Laurie frown or laugh, but he did
neither, for after a quick look at her, he said, in his impetuous way, “I
like that! For I’ve seen enough harm done to wish other women would think
as you do.”

“You are not made wise by experience, I hope?” and there was an
anxious accent in Meg’s voice.

“No. I give you my word for it. Don’t think too well of me, either,
this is not one of my temptations. Being brought up where wine is as common as
water and almost as harmless, I don’t care for it, but when a pretty girl
offers it, one doesn’t like to refuse, you see.”

“But you will, for the sake of others, if not for your own. Come, Laurie,
promise, and give me one more reason to call this the happiest day of my
life.”

A demand so sudden and so serious made the young man hesitate a moment, for
ridicule is often harder to bear than self-denial. Meg knew that if he gave the
promise he would keep it at all costs, and feeling her power, used it as a
woman may for her friend’s good. She did not speak, but she looked up at
him with a face made very eloquent by happiness, and a smile which said,
“No one can refuse me anything today.”

Laurie certainly could not, and with an answering smile, he gave her his hand,
saying heartily, “I promise, Mrs. Brooke!”

“I thank you, very, very much.”

“And I drink ‘long life to your resolution’, Teddy,”
cried Jo, baptizing him with a splash of lemonade, as she waved her glass and
beamed approvingly upon him.

So the toast was drunk, the pledge made and loyally kept in spite of many
temptations, for with instinctive wisdom, the girls seized a happy moment to do
their friend a service, for which he thanked them all his life.

After lunch, people strolled about, by twos and threes, through the house and
garden, enjoying the sunshine without and within. Meg and John happened to be
standing together in the middle of the grass plot, when Laurie was seized with
an inspiration which put the finishing touch to this unfashionable wedding.

“All the married people take hands and dance round the new-made husband
and wife, as the Germans do, while we bachelors and spinsters prance in couples
outside!” cried Laurie, promenading down the path with Amy, with such
infectious spirit and skill that everyone else followed their example without a
murmur. Mr. and Mrs. March, Aunt and Uncle Carrol began it, others rapidly
joined in, even Sallie Moffat, after a moment’s hesitation, threw her
train over her arm and whisked Ned into the ring. But the crowning joke was Mr.
Laurence and Aunt March, for when the stately old gentleman chasseed solemnly
up to the old lady, she just tucked her cane under her arm, and hopped briskly
away to join hands with the rest and dance about the bridal pair, while the
young folks pervaded the garden like butterflies on a midsummer day.

Want of breath brought the impromptu ball to a close, and then people began to
go.

“I wish you well, my dear, I heartily wish you well, but I think
you’ll be sorry for it,” said Aunt March to Meg, adding to the
bridegroom, as he led her to the carriage, “You’ve got a treasure,
young man, see that you deserve it.”

“That is the prettiest wedding I’ve been to for an age, Ned, and I
don’t see why, for there wasn’t a bit of style about it,”
observed Mrs. Moffat to her husband, as they drove away.

“Laurie, my lad, if you ever want to indulge in this sort of thing, get
one of those little girls to help you, and I shall be perfectly
satisfied,” said Mr. Laurence, settling himself in his easy chair to rest
after the excitement of the morning.

“I’ll do my best to gratify you, Sir,” was Laurie’s
unusually dutiful reply, as he carefully unpinned the posy Jo had put in his
buttonhole.

The little house was not far away, and the only bridal journey Meg had was the
quiet walk with John from the old home to the new. When she came down, looking
like a pretty Quakeress in her dove-colored suit and straw bonnet tied with
white, they all gathered about her to say ‘good-by’, as tenderly as
if she had been going to make the grand tour.

“Don’t feel that I am separated from you, Marmee dear, or that I
love you any the less for loving John so much,” she said, clinging to her
mother, with full eyes for a moment. “I shall come every day, Father, and
expect to keep my old place in all your hearts, though I am married. Beth is
going to be with me a great deal, and the other girls will drop in now and then
to laugh at my housekeeping struggles. Thank you all for my happy wedding day.
Good-by, good-by!”

They stood watching her, with faces full of love and hope and tender pride as
she walked away, leaning on her husband’s arm, with her hands full of
flowers and the June sunshine brightening her happy face—and so
Meg’s married life began.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
ARTISTIC ATTEMPTS

It takes people a long time to learn the difference between talent and genius,
especially ambitious young men and women. Amy was learning this distinction
through much tribulation, for mistaking enthusiasm for inspiration, she
attempted every branch of art with youthful audacity. For a long time there was
a lull in the ‘mud-pie’ business, and she devoted herself to the
finest pen-and-ink drawing, in which she showed such taste and skill that her
graceful handiwork proved both pleasant and profitable. But over-strained eyes
caused pen and ink to be laid aside for a bold attempt at poker-sketching.
While this attack lasted, the family lived in constant fear of a conflagration,
for the odor of burning wood pervaded the house at all hours, smoke issued from
attic and shed with alarming frequency, red-hot pokers lay about promiscuously,
and Hannah never went to bed without a pail of water and the dinner bell at her
door in case of fire. Raphael’s face was found boldly executed on the
underside 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 kindling for some time.

From fire to oil was a natural transition for burned fingers, and Amy fell to
painting with undiminished ardor. An artist friend fitted her out with his
castoff palettes, brushes, and colors, and she daubed away, producing pastoral
and marine views such as were never seen on land or sea. Her monstrosities in
the way of cattle would have taken prizes at an agricultural fair, and the
perilous pitching of her vessels would have produced seasickness in the most
nautical observer, if the utter disregard to all known rules of shipbuilding
and rigging had not convulsed him with laughter at the first glance. Swarthy
boys and dark-eyed Madonnas, staring at you from one corner of the studio,
suggested Murillo; oily brown shadows of faces with a lurid streak in the wrong
place, meant Rembrandt; buxom ladies and dropiscal 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
bouy, a sailor’s shirt or a king’s robe, as the spectator pleased.

Charcoal portraits came next, and the entire family hung in a row, looking as
wild and crocky as if just evoked from a coalbin. Softened into crayon
sketches, they did better, for the likenesses were good, and Amy’s hair,
Jo’s nose, Meg’s mouth, and Laurie’s eyes were pronounced
‘wonderfully fine’. A return to clay and plaster followed, and
ghostly casts of her acquaintances haunted corners of the house, or tumbled off
closet shelves onto people’s heads. Children were enticed in as models,
till their incoherent accounts of her mysterious doings caused Miss Amy to be
regarded in the light of a young ogress. Her efforts in this line, however,
were brought to an abrupt close by an untoward accident, which quenched her
ardor. Other models failing her for a time, she undertook to cast her own
pretty foot, and the family were one day alarmed by an unearthly bumping and
screaming and running to the rescue, found the young enthusiast hopping wildly
about the shed with her foot held fast in a pan full of plaster, which had
hardened with unexpected rapidity. With much difficulty and some danger she was
dug out, for Jo was so overcome with laughter while she excavated that her
knife went too far, cut the poor foot, and left a lasting memorial of one
artistic attempt, at least.

After this Amy subsided, till a mania for sketching from nature set her to
haunting river, field, and wood, for picturesque studies, and sighing for ruins
to copy. She caught endless colds sitting on damp grass to book ‘a
delicious bit’, composed of a stone, a stump, one mushroom, and a broken
mullein stalk, or ‘a heavenly mass of clouds’, that looked like a
choice display of featherbeds when done. She sacrificed her complexion floating
on the river in the midsummer sun to study light and shade, and got a wrinkle
over her nose trying after ‘points of sight’, or whatever the
squint-and-string performance is called.

If ‘genius is eternal patience’, as Michelangelo affirms, Amy had
some claim to the divine attribute, for she persevered in spite of all
obstacles, failures, and discouragements, firmly believing that in time she
should do something worthy to be called ‘high art’.

She was learning, doing, and enjoying other things, meanwhile, for she had
resolved to be an attractive and accomplished woman, even if she never became a
great artist. Here she succeeded better, for she was one of those happily
created beings who please without effort, make friends everywhere, and take
life so gracefully and easily that less fortunate souls are tempted to believe
that such are born under a lucky star. Everybody liked her, for among her good
gifts was tact. She had an instinctive sense of what was pleasing and proper,
always said the right thing to the right person, did just what suited the time
and place, and was so self-possessed that her sisters used to say, “If
Amy went to court without any rehearsal beforehand, she’d know exactly
what to do.”

One of her weaknesses was a desire to move in ‘our best society’,
without being quite sure what the best really was. Money, position, fashionable
accomplishments, and elegant manners were most desirable things in her eyes,
and she liked to associate with those who possessed them, often mistaking the
false for the true, and admiring what was not admirable. Never forgetting that
by birth she was a gentlewoman, she cultivated her aristocratic tastes and
feelings, so that when the opportunity came she might be ready to take the
place from which poverty now excluded her.

“My lady,” as her friends called her, sincerely desired to be a
genuine lady, and was so at heart, but had yet to learn that money cannot buy
refinement of nature, that rank does not always confer nobility, and that true
breeding makes itself felt in spite of external drawbacks.

“I want to ask a favor of you, Mamma,” Amy said, coming in with an
important air one day.

“Well, little girl, what is it?” replied her mother, in whose eyes
the stately young lady still remained ‘the baby’.

“Our drawing class breaks up next week, and before the girls separate for
the summer, I want to ask them out here for a day. They are wild to see the
river, sketch the broken bridge, and copy some of the things they admire in my
book. They have been very kind to me in many ways, and I am grateful, for they
are all rich and I know I am poor, yet they never made any difference.”

“Why should they?” and Mrs. March put the question with what the
girls called her ‘Maria Theresa air’.

“You know as well as I that it does make a difference with nearly
everyone, so don’t ruffle up like a dear, motherly hen, when your
chickens get pecked by smarter birds. The ugly duckling turned out a swan, you
know.” and Amy smiled without bitterness, for she possessed a happy
temper and hopeful spirit.

Mrs. March laughed, and smoothed down her maternal pride as she asked,
“Well, my swan, what is your plan?”

“I should like to ask the girls out to lunch next week, to take them for
a drive to the places they want to see, a row on the river, perhaps, and make a
little artistic fete for them.”

“That looks feasible. What do you want for lunch? Cake, sandwiches,
fruit, and coffee will be all that is necessary, I suppose?”

“Oh, dear, no! We must have cold tongue and chicken, French chocolate and
ice cream, besides. The girls are used to such things, and I want my lunch to
be proper and elegant, though I do work for my living.”

“How many young ladies are there?” asked her mother, beginning to
look sober.

“Twelve or fourteen in the class, but I dare say they won’t all
come.”

“Bless me, child, you will have to charter an omnibus to carry them
about.”

“Why, Mother, how can you think of such a thing? Not more than six or
eight will probably come, so I shall hire a beach wagon and borrow Mr.
Laurence’s cherry-bounce.” (Hannah’s pronunciation of
char-a-banc.)

“All of this will be expensive, Amy.”

“Not very. I’ve calculated the cost, and I’ll pay for it
myself.”

“Don’t you think, dear, that as these girls are used to such
things, and the best we can do will be nothing new, that some simpler plan
would be pleasanter to them, as a change if nothing more, and much better for
us than buying or borrowing what we don’t need, and attempting a style
not in keeping with our circumstances?”

“If I can’t have it as I like, I don’t care to have it at
all. I know that I can carry it out perfectly well, if you and the girls will
help a little, and I don’t see why I can’t if I’m willing to
pay for it,” said Amy, with the decision which opposition was apt to
change into obstinacy.

Mrs. March knew that experience was an excellent teacher, and when it was
possible she left her children to learn alone the lessons which she would
gladly have made easier, if they had not objected to taking advice as much as
they did salts and senna.

“Very well, Amy, if your heart is set upon it, and you see your way
through without too great an outlay of money, time, and temper, I’ll say
no more. Talk it over with the girls, and whichever way you decide, I’ll
do my best to help you.”

“Thanks, Mother, you are always so kind.” and away went Amy to lay
her plan before her sisters.

Meg agreed at once, and promised her aid, gladly offering anything she
possessed, from her little house itself to her very best saltspoons. But Jo
frowned upon the whole project and would have nothing to do with it at first.

“Why in the world should you spend your money, worry your family, and
turn the house upside down for a parcel of girls who don’t care a
sixpence for you? I thought you had too much pride and sense to truckle to any
mortal woman just because she wears French boots and rides in a coupe,”
said Jo, who, being called from the tragic climax of her novel, was not in the
best mood for social enterprises.

“I don’t truckle, and I hate being patronized as much as you
do!” returned Amy indignantly, for the two still jangled when such
questions arose. “The girls do care for me, and I for them, and
there’s a great deal of kindness and sense and talent among them, in
spite of what you call fashionable nonsense. You don’t care to make
people like you, to go into good society, and cultivate your manners and
tastes. I do, and I mean to make the most of every chance that comes. You can
go through the world with your elbows out and your nose in the air, and call it
independence, if you like. That’s not my way.”

When Amy had whetted her tongue and freed her mind she usually got the best of
it, for she seldom failed to have common sense on her side, while Jo carried
her love of liberty and hate of conventionalities to such an unlimited extent
that she naturally found herself worsted in an argument. Amy’s definition
of Jo’s idea of independence was such a good hit that both burst out
laughing, and the discussion took a more amiable turn. Much against her will,
Jo at length consented to sacrifice a day to Mrs. Grundy, and help her sister
through what she regarded as ‘a nonsensical business’.

The invitations were sent, nearly all accepted, and the following Monday was
set apart for the grand event. Hannah was out of humor because her week’s
work was deranged, and prophesied that “ef the washin’ and
ironin’ warn’t done reg’lar, nothin’ would go well
anywheres”. This hitch in the mainspring of the domestic machinery had a
bad effect upon the whole concern, but Amy’s motto was ‘Nil
desperandum’, and having made up her mind what to do, she proceeded to do
it in spite of all obstacles. To begin with, Hannah’s cooking
didn’t turn out well. The chicken was tough, the tongue too salty, 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 a cold
and took to her bed. Meg had an unusual number of callers to keep her at home,
and Jo was in such a divided state of mind that her breakages, accidents, and
mistakes were uncommonly numerous, serious, and trying.

If it was not fair on Monday, the young ladies were to come on Tuesday, an
arrangement which aggravated Jo and Hannah to the last degree. On Monday
morning the weather was in that undecided state which is more exasperating than
a steady pour. It drizzled a little, shone a little, blew a little, and
didn’t make up its mind till it was too late for anyone else to make up
theirs. Amy was up at dawn, hustling people out of their beds and through their
breakfasts, that the house might be got in order. The parlor struck her as
looking uncommonly shabby, but without stopping to sigh for what she had not,
she skillfully made the best of what she had, arranging chairs over the worn
places in the carpet, covering stains on the walls with homemade statuary,
which gave an artistic air to the room, as did the lovely vases of flowers Jo
scattered about.

The lunch looked charming, 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, and aching head, and a very decided
disapproval of everybody and everything would allow, and as she wearily
dressed, Amy cheered herself with anticipations of the happy moment when, lunch
safely over, she should drive away with her friends for an afternoon of
artistic delights, for the ‘cherry bounce’ and the broken bridge
were her strong points.

Then came the hours of suspense, during which she vibrated from parlor to
porch, while public opinion varied like the weathercock. A smart shower at
eleven had evidently quenched the enthusiasm of the young ladies who were to
arrive at twelve, for nobody came, and at two the exhausted family sat down in
a blaze of sunshine to consume the perishable portions of the feast, that
nothing might be lost.

“No doubt about the weather today, 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.

“I can’t get any lobsters, so you will have to do without salad
today,” said Mr. March, coming in half an hour later, with an expression
of placid despair.

“Use the chicken then, the toughness won’t matter in a
salad,” advised his wife.

“Hannah left it on the kitchen table a minute, and the kittens got at it.
I’m very sorry, Amy,” added Beth, who was still a patroness of
cats.

“Then I must have a lobster, for tongue alone won’t do,” said
Amy decidedly.

“Shall I rush into town and demand one?” asked Jo, with the
magnanimity of a martyr.

“You’d come bringing it home under your arm without any paper, just
to try me. I’ll go myself,” answered Amy, whose temper was
beginning to fail.

Shrouded in a thick veil and armed with a genteel traveling basket, she
departed, feeling that a cool drive would soothe her ruffled spirit and fit her
for the labors of the day. After some delay, the object of her desire was
procured, likewise a bottle of dressing to prevent further loss of time at
home, and off she drove again, well pleased with her own forethought.

As the omnibus contained only one other passenger, a sleepy old lady, Amy
pocketed her veil and beguiled the tedium of the way by trying to find out
where all her money had gone to. So busy was she with her card full of
refractory figures that she did not observe a newcomer, 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 traveling dress, returned the young man’s greeting with her
usual suavity and spirit.

They got on excellently, for Amy’s chief care was soon set at rest by
learning that the gentleman would leave first, and she was chatting away in a
peculiarly lofty strain, when the old lady got out. In stumbling to the door,
she upset the basket, and—oh horror!—the lobster, in all its vulgar
size and brilliancy, was revealed to the highborn eyes of a Tudor!

“By Jove, she’s forgotten her dinner!” cried the unconscious
youth, poking the scarlet monster into its place with his cane, and preparing
to hand out the basket after the old lady.

“Please don’t—it’s—it’s mine,”
murmured Amy, with a face nearly as red as her fish.

“Oh, really, I beg pardon. It’s an uncommonly fine one, isn’t
it?” said Tudor, with great presence of mind, and an air of sober
interest that did credit to his breeding.

Amy recovered herself in a breath, set her basket boldly on the seat, and said,
laughing, “Don’t you wish you were to have some of the salad
he’s going to make, and to see the charming young ladies who are to eat
it?”

Now that was tact, for two of the ruling foibles of the masculine mind were
touched. The lobster was instantly surrounded by a halo of pleasing
reminiscences, and curiosity about ‘the charming young ladies’
diverted his mind from the comical mishap.

“I suppose he’ll laugh and joke over it with Laurie, but I
shan’t see them, that’s a comfort,” thought Amy, as Tudor
bowed and departed.

She did not mention this meeting at home (though she discovered that, thanks to
the upset, her new dress was much damaged by the rivulets of dressing that
meandered down the skirt), but went through with the preparations which now
seemed more irksome than before, and at twelve o’clock all was ready
again. Feeling that the neighbors were interested in her movements, she wished
to efface the memory of yesterday’s failure by a grand success today, so
she ordered the ‘cherry bounce’, and drove away in state to meet
and escort her guests to the banquet.

“There’s the rumble, they’re coming! I’ll go onto the
porch and meet them. It looks hospitable, and I want the poor child to have a
good time after all her trouble,” said Mrs. March, suiting the action to
the word. But after one glance, she retired, with an indescribable expression,
for looking quite lost in the big carriage, sat Amy and one young lady.

“Run, Beth, and help Hannah clear half the things off the table. It will
be too absurd to put a luncheon for twelve before a single girl,” cried
Jo, hurrying away to the lower regions, too excited to stop even for a laugh.

In came Amy, quite calm and delightfully cordial to the one guest who had kept
her promise. The rest of the family, being of a dramatic turn, played their
parts equally well, and Miss Eliott found them a most hilarious set, for it was
impossible to control entirely the merriment which possessed them. The
remodeled lunch being gaily partaken of, the studio and garden visited, and art
discussed with enthusiasm, Amy ordered a buggy (alas for the elegant
cherry-bounce), and drove her friend quietly about the neighborhood till
sunset, when ‘the party went out’.

As she came walking in, looking very tired but as composed as ever, she
observed that every vestige of the unfortunate fete had disappeared, except a
suspicious pucker about the corners of Jo’s mouth.

“You’ve had a loverly afternoon for your drive, dear,” said
her mother, as respectfully as if the whole twelve had come.

“Miss Eliott is a very sweet girl, and seemed to enjoy herself, I
thought,” observed Beth, with unusual warmth.

“Could you spare me some of your cake? I really need some, I have so much
company, and I can’t make such delicious stuff as yours,” asked Meg
soberly.

“Take it all. I’m the only one here who likes sweet things, and it
will mold before I can dispose of it,” answered Amy, thinking with a sigh
of the generous store she had laid in for such an end as this.

“It’s a pity Laurie isn’t here to help us,” began Jo,
as they sat down to ice cream and salad for the second time in two days.

A warning look from her mother checked any further remarks, and the whole
family ate in heroic silence, till Mr. March mildly observed, “salad was
one of the favorite dishes of the ancients, and Evelyn…” Here a general
explosion of laughter cut short the ‘history of salads’, to the
great surprise of the learned gentleman.

“Bundle everything into a basket and send it to the Hummels. Germans like
messes. I’m sick of the sight of this, and there’s no reason you
should all die of a surfeit because I’ve been a fool,” cried Amy,
wiping her eyes.

“I thought I should have died when I saw you two girls rattling about in
the what-you-call-it, like two little kernels in a very big nutshell, and
Mother waiting in state to receive the throng,” sighed Jo, quite spent
with laughter.

“I’m very sorry you were disappointed, dear, but we all did our
best to satisfy you,” said Mrs. March, in a tone full of motherly regret.

“I am satisfied. I’ve done what I undertook, and it’s not my
fault that it failed. I comfort myself with that,” said Amy with a little
quiver in her voice. “I thank you all very much for helping me, and
I’ll thank you still more if you won’t allude to it for a month, at
least.”

No one did for several months, but the word ‘fete’ always produced
a general smile, and Laurie’s birthday gift to Amy was a tiny coral
lobster in the shape of a charm for her watch guard.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
LITERARY LESSONS

Fortune suddenly smiled upon Jo, and dropped a good luck penny in her path. Not
a golden penny, exactly, but I doubt if half a million would have given more
real happiness then did the little sum that came to her in this wise.

Every few weeks she would shut herself up in her room, put on her scribbling
suit, and ‘fall into a vortex’, as she expressed it, writing away
at her novel with all her heart and soul, for till that was finished she could
find no peace. Her ‘scribbling suit’ consisted of a black woolen
pinafore on which she could wipe her pen at will, and a cap of the same
material, adorned with a cheerful red bow, into which she bundled her hair when
the decks were cleared for action. This cap was a beacon to the inquiring eyes
of her family, who during these periods kept their distance, merely popping in
their heads semi-occasionally to ask, with interest, “Does genius burn,
Jo?” They did not always venture even to ask this question, but took an
observation of the cap, and judged accordingly. If this expressive article of
dress was drawn low upon the forehead, it was a sign that hard work was going
on, in exciting moments it was pushed rakishly askew, and when despair seized
the author it was plucked wholly off, and cast upon the floor. At such times
the intruder silently withdrew, and not until the red bow was seen gaily erect
upon the gifted brow, did anyone dare address Jo.

She did not think herself a genius by any means, but when the writing fit came
on, she gave herself up to it with entire abandon, and led a blissful life,
unconscious of want, care, or bad weather, while she sat safe and happy in an
imaginary world, full of friends almost as real and dear to her as any in the
flesh. Sleep forsook her eyes, meals stood untasted, day and night were all too
short to enjoy the happiness which blessed her only at such times, and made
these hours worth living, even if they bore no other fruit. The divine afflatus
usually lasted a week or two, and then she emerged from her
‘vortex’, hungry, sleepy, cross, or despondent.

She was just recovering from one of these attacks when she was prevailed upon
to escort Miss Crocker to a lecture, and in return for her virtue was rewarded
with a new idea. It was a People’s Course, the lecture on the Pyramids,
and Jo rather wondered at the choice of such a subject for such an audience,
but took it for granted that some great social evil would be remedied or some
great want supplied by unfolding the glories of the Pharaohs to an audience
whose thoughts were busy with the price of coal and flour, and whose lives were
spent in trying to solve harder riddles than that of the Sphinx.

They were early, and while Miss Crocker set the heel of her stocking, Jo amused
herself by examining the faces of the people who occupied the seat with them.
On her left were two matrons, with massive foreheads and bonnets to match,
discussing Women’s Rights and making tatting. Beyond sat a pair of humble
lovers, artlessly holding each other by the hand, a somber spinster eating
peppermints out of a paper bag, and an old gentleman taking his preparatory nap
behind a yellow bandanna. On her right, her only neighbor was a studious
looking lad absorbed in a newspaper.

It was a pictorial sheet, and Jo examined the work of art nearest her, idly
wondering what fortuitous 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
disheveled female was flying away in the background with her mouth wide open.
Pausing to turn a page, the lad saw her looking and, with boyish good nature
offered half his paper, saying bluntly, “want to read it? That’s a
first-rate story.”

Jo accepted it with a smile, for she had never outgrown her liking for lads,
and soon found herself involved in the usual labyrinth of love, mystery, and
murder, for the story belonged to that class of light literature in which the
passions have a holiday, and when the author’s invention fails, a grand
catastrophe clears the stage of one half the dramatis personae, leaving the
other half to exult over their downfall.

“Prime, isn’t it?” asked the boy, as her eye went down the
last paragraph of her portion.

“I think you and I could do as well as that if we tried,” returned
Jo, amused at his admiration of the trash.

“I should think I was a pretty lucky chap if I could. She makes a good
living out of such stories, they say.” and he pointed to the name of Mrs.
S.L.A.N.G. Northbury, under the title of the tale.

“Do you know her?” asked Jo, with sudden interest.

“No, but I read all her pieces, and I know a fellow who works in the
office where this paper is printed.”

“Do you say she makes a good living out of stories like this?” and
Jo looked more respectfully at the agitated group and thickly sprinkled
exclamation points that adorned the page.

“Guess she does! She knows just what folks like, and gets paid well for
writing it.”

Here the lecture began, but Jo heard very little of it, for while Professor
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 on paper), and was already deep in
the concoction of her story, being unable to decide whether the duel should
come before the elopement or after the murder.

She said nothing of her plan at home, but fell to work next day, much to the
disquiet of her mother, who always looked a little anxious when ‘genius
took to burning’. Jo had never tried this style before, contenting
herself with very mild romances for The Spread Eagle. Her experience and
miscellaneous reading were of service now, for they gave her some idea of
dramatic effect, and supplied plot, language, and costumes. Her story was as
full of desperation and despair as her limited acquaintance with those
uncomfortable emotions enabled her to make it, and having located it in Lisbon,
she wound up with an earthquake, as a striking and appropriate denouement. The
manuscript was privately dispatched, accompanied by a note, modestly saying
that if the tale didn’t get the prize, which the writer hardly dared
expect, she would be very glad to receive any sum it might be considered worth.

Six weeks is a long time to wait, and a still longer time for a girl to keep a
secret, but Jo did both, and was just beginning to give up all hope of ever
seeing her manuscript again, when a letter arrived which almost took her breath
away, for on opening it, a check for a hundred dollars fell into her lap. For a
minute she stared at it as if it had been a snake, then she read her letter and
began to cry. If the amiable gentleman who wrote that kindly note could have
known what intense happiness he was giving a fellow creature, I think he would
devote his leisure hours, if he has any, to that amusement, for Jo valued the
letter more than the money, because it was encouraging, and after years of
effort it was so pleasant to find that she had learned to do something, though
it was only to write a sensation story.

A prouder young woman was seldom seen than she, when, having composed herself,
she electrified the family by appearing before them with the letter in one
hand, the check in the other, announcing that she had won the prize. Of course
there was a great jubilee, and when the story came everyone read and praised
it, though after her father had told her that the language was good, the
romance fresh and hearty, and the tragedy quite thrilling, he shook his head,
and said in his unworldly way…

“You can do better than this, Jo. Aim at the highest, and never mind the
money.”

“I think the money is the best part of it. What will you do with such a
fortune?” asked Amy, regarding the magic slip of paper with a reverential
eye.

“Send Beth and Mother to the seaside for a month or two,” answered
Jo promptly.

To the seaside they went, after much discussion, and though Beth didn’t
come home as plump and rosy as could be desired, she was much better, while
Mrs. March declared she felt ten years younger. So Jo was satisfied with the
investment of her prize money, and fell to work with a cheery spirit, bent on
earning more of those delightful checks. She did earn several that year, and
began to feel herself a power in the house, for by the magic of a pen, her
‘rubbish’ turned into comforts for them all. The Duke’s
Daughter paid the butcher’s bill, A Phantom Hand put down a new carpet,
and the Curse of the Coventrys proved the blessing of the Marches in the way of
groceries and gowns.

Wealth is certainly a most desirable thing, but poverty has its sunny side, and
one of the sweet uses of adversity is the genuine satisfaction which comes from
hearty work of head or hand, and to the inspiration of necessity, we owe half
the wise, beautiful, and useful blessings of the world. Jo enjoyed a taste of
this satisfaction, and ceased to envy richer girls, taking great comfort in the
knowledge that she could supply her own wants, and need ask no one for a penny.

Little notice was taken of her stories, but they found a market, and encouraged
by this fact, she resolved to make a bold stroke for fame and fortune. Having
copied her novel for the fourth time, read it to all her confidential friends,
and submitted it with fear and trembling to three publishers, she at last
disposed of it, on condition that she would cut it down one third, and omit all
the parts which she particularly admired.

“Now I must either bundle it back in to my tin kitchen to mold, pay for
printing it myself, or chop it up to suit purchasers and get what I can for it.
Fame is a very good thing to have in the house, but cash is more convenient, so
I wish to take the sense of the meeting on this important subject,” said
Jo, calling a family council.

“Don’t spoil your book, my girl, for there is more in it than you
know, and the idea is well worked out. Let it wait and ripen,” was her
father’s advice, and he practiced what he preached, having waited
patiently thirty years for fruit of his own to ripen, and being in no haste to
gather it even now when it was sweet and mellow.

“It seems to me that Jo will profit more by taking the trial than by
waiting,” said Mrs. March. “Criticism is the best test of such
work, for it will show her both unsuspected merits and faults, and help her to
do better next time. We are too partial, but the praise and blame of outsiders
will prove useful, even if she gets but little money.”

“Yes,” said Jo, knitting her brows, “that’s just it.
I’ve been fussing over the thing so long, I really don’t know
whether it’s good, bad, or indifferent. It will be a great help to have
cool, impartial persons take a look at it, and tell me what they think of
it.”

“I wouldn’t leave a word out of it. You’ll spoil it if you
do, for the interest of the story is more in the minds than in the actions of
the people, and it will be all a muddle if you don’t explain as you go
on,” said Meg, who firmly believed that this book was the most remarkable
novel ever written.

“But Mr. Allen says, ‘Leave out the explanations, make it brief and
dramatic, and let the characters tell the story’,” interrupted Jo,
turning to the publisher’s note.

“Do as he tells you. He knows what will sell, and we don’t. Make a
good, popular book, and get as much money as you can. By-and-by, when
you’ve got a name, you can afford to digress, and have philosophical and
metaphysical people in your novels,” said Amy, who took a strictly
practical view of the subject.

“Well,” said Jo, laughing, “if my people are
‘philosophical and metaphysical’, it isn’t my fault, for I
know nothing about such things, except what I hear father say, sometimes. If
I’ve got some of his wise ideas jumbled up with my romance, so much the
better for me. Now, Beth, what do you say?”

“I should so like to see it printed soon,” was all Beth said, and
smiled in saying it. But there was an unconscious emphasis on the last word,
and a wistful look in the eyes that never lost their childlike candor, which
chilled Jo’s heart for a minute with a forboding fear, and decided her to
make her little venture ‘soon’.

So, with Spartan firmness, the young authoress laid her first-born on her
table, and chopped it up as ruthlessly as any ogre. In the hope of pleasing
everyone, she took everyone’s advice, and like the old man and his donkey
in the fable suited nobody.

Her father liked the metaphysical streak which had unconsciously got into it,
so that was allowed to remain though she had her doubts about it. Her mother
thought that there was a trifle too much description. Out, therefore it 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 spritly scenes which relieved the
somber character of the story. Then, to complicate the ruin, she cut it down
one third, and confidingly sent the poor little romance, like a picked robin,
out into the big, busy world to try its fate.

Well, it was printed, and she got three hundred dollars for it, likewise plenty
of praise and blame, both so much greater than she expected that she was thrown
into a state of bewilderment from which it took her some time to recover.

“You said, Mother, that criticism would help me. But how can it, when
it’s so contradictory that I don’t know whether I’ve written
a promising book or broken all the ten commandments?” cried poor Jo,
turning over a heap of notices, the perusal of which filled her with pride and
joy one minute, wrath and dismay the next. “This man says, ‘An
exquisite book, full of truth, beauty, and earnestness.’ ‘All is
sweet, pure, and healthy.’” continued the perplexed authoress.
“The next, ‘The theory of the book is bad, full of morbid fancies,
spiritualistic ideas, and unnatural characters.’ Now, as I had no theory
of any kind, don’t believe in Spiritualism, and copied my characters from
life, I don’t see how this critic can be right. Another says,
‘It’s one of the best American novels which has appeared for
years.’ (I know better than that), and the next asserts that
‘Though it is original, and written with great force and feeling, it is a
dangerous book.’ ’Tisn’t! Some make fun of it, some
overpraise, 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 the
whole or not at all, for I do hate to be so misjudged.”

Her family and friends administered comfort and commendation liberally. Yet it
was a hard time for sensitive, high-spirited Jo, who meant so well and had
apparently done so ill. But it did her good, for those whose opinion had real
value gave her the criticism which is an author’s best education, and
when the first soreness was over, she could laugh at her poor little book, yet
believe in it still, and feel herself the wiser and stronger for the buffeting
she had received.

“Not being a genius, like Keats, it won’t kill me,” she said
stoutly, “and I’ve got the joke on my side, after all, for the
parts that were taken straight out of real life are denounced as impossible and
absurd, and the scenes that I made up out of my own silly head are pronounced
‘charmingly natural, tender, and true’. So I’ll comfort
myself with that, and when I’m ready, I’ll up again and take
another.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
DOMESTIC EXPERIENCES

Like most other young matrons, Meg began her married life with the
determination to be a model housekeeper. John should find home a paradise, he
should always see a smiling face, should fare sumptuously every day, and never
know the loss of a button. She brought so much love, energy, and cheerfulness
to the work that she could not but succeed, in spite of some obstacles. Her
paradise was not a tranquil one, for the little woman fussed, was over-anxious
to please, and bustled about like a true Martha, cumbered with many cares. She
was too tired, sometimes, even to smile, John grew dyspeptic after a course of
dainty dishes and ungratefully demanded plain fare. As for buttons, she soon
learned to wonder where they went, to shake her head over the carelessness of
men, and to threaten to make him sew them on himself, and see if his work would
stand impatient and clumsy fingers any better than hers.

They were very happy, even after they discovered that they couldn’t live
on love alone. John did not find Meg’s beauty diminished, though she
beamed at him from behind the familiar coffee pot. Nor did Meg miss any of the
romance from the daily parting, when her husband followed up his kiss with the
tender inquiry, “Shall I send some veal or mutton for dinner,
darling?” The little house ceased to be a glorified bower, but it became
a home, and the young couple soon felt that it was a change for the better. At
first they played keep-house, and frolicked over it like children. Then John
took steadily to business, feeling the cares of the head of a family upon his
shoulders, and Meg laid by her cambric wrappers, put on a big apron, and fell
to work, as before said, with more energy than discretion.

While the cooking mania lasted she went through Mrs. Cornelius’s Receipt
Book as if it were a mathematical exercise, working out the problems with
patience and care. Sometimes her family were invited in to help eat up a too
bounteous feast of successes, or Lotty would be privately dispatched with a
batch of failures, which were to be concealed from all eyes in the convenient
stomachs of the little Hummels. An evening with John over the account books
usually produced a temporary lull in the culinary enthusiasm, and a frugal fit
would ensue, during which the poor man was put through a course of bread
pudding, hash, and warmed-over coffee, which tried his soul, although he bore
it with praiseworthy fortitude. Before the golden mean was found, however, Meg
added to her domestic possessions what young couples seldom get on long
without, a family jar.

Fired with a housewifely wish to see her storeroom stocked with homemade
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 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 left undone, she reboiled, resugared, and
restrained, but that dreadful stuff wouldn’t ‘jell’.

She longed to run home, bib and all, and ask Mother to lend her a hand, but
John and she had agreed that they would never annoy anyone 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-turvey kitchen, wrung her bedaubed hands, lifted up her voice
and wept.

Now, in the first flush of the new life, she had often said, “My husband
shall always feel free to bring a friend home whenever he likes. I shall always
be prepared. There shall be no flurry, no scolding, no discomfort, but a neat
house, a cheerful wife, and a good dinner. John, dear, never stop to ask my
leave, invite whom you please, and be sure of a welcome from me.”

How charming that was, to be sure! John quite glowed with pride to hear her say
it, and felt what a blessed thing it was to have a superior wife. But, although
they had had company from time to time, it never happened to be unexpected, and
Meg had never had an opportunity to distinguish herself till now. It always
happens so in this vale of tears, there is an inevitability about such things
which we can only wonder at, deplore, and bear as we best can.

If John had not forgotten all about the jelly, it really would have been
unpardonable in him to choose that day, of all the days in the year, to bring a
friend home to dinner unexpectedly. Congratulating himself that a handsome
repast had been ordered that morning, feeling sure that it would be ready to
the minute, and indulging in pleasant anticipations of the charming effect it
would produce, when his pretty wife came running out to meet him, he escorted
his friend to his mansion, with the irrepressible satisfaction of a young host
and husband.

It is a world of disappointments, as John discovered when he reached the
Dovecote. 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 sanginary-looking boy asleep under the current
bushes.

“I’m afraid something has happened. Step into the garden, Scott,
while I look up Mrs. Brooke,” said John, alarmed at the silence and
solitude.

Round the house he hurried, led by a pungent smell of burned sugar, and Mr.
Scott strolled after him, with a queer look on his face. He paused discreetly
at a distance when Brooke disappeared, but he could both see and hear, and
being a bachelor, enjoyed the prospect mightily.

In the kitchen reigned confusion and despair. One edition of jelly was trickled
from pot to pot, another lay upon the floor, and a third was burning gaily on
the stove. Lotty, with Teutonic phlegm, was calmly eating bread and currant
wine, for the jelly was still in a hopelessly liquid state, while Mrs. Brooke,
with her apron over her head, sat sobbing dismally.

“My dearest girl, what is the matter?” cried John, rushing in, with
awful visions of scalded hands, sudden news of affliction, and secret
consternation at the thought of the guest in the garden.

“Oh, John, I am so tired and hot and cross and worried! I’ve been
at it till I’m all worn out. Do come and help me or I shall die!”
and the exhausted housewife cast herself upon his breast, giving him a sweet
welcome in every sense of the word, for her pinafore had been baptized at the
same time as the floor.

“What worries you dear? Has anything dreadful happened?” asked the
anxious John, tenderly kissing the crown of the little cap, which was all
askew.

“Yes,” sobbed Meg despairingly.

“Tell me quick, then. Don’t cry. I can bear anything better than
that. Out with it, love.”

“The… The jelly won’t jell and I don’t know what to
do!”

John Brooke laughed then as he never dared to laugh afterward, and the derisive
Scott smiled involuntarily as he heard the hearty peal, which put the finishing
stroke to poor Meg’s woe.

“Is that all? Fling it out of the window, and don’t bother any more
about it. I’ll buy you quarts if you want it, but for heaven’s sake
don’t have hysterics, for I’ve brought Jack Scott home to dinner,
and…”

John got no further, for Meg cast him off, and clasped her hands with a tragic
gesture as she fell into a chair, exclaiming in a tone of mingled indignation,
reproach, and dismay…

“A man to dinner, and everything in a mess! John Brooke, how could you do
such a thing?”

“Hush, he’s in the garden! I forgot the confounded jelly, but it
can’t be helped now,” said John, surveying the prospect with an
anxious eye.

“You ought to have sent word, or told me this morning, and you ought to
have remembered how busy I was,” continued Meg petulantly, for even
turtledoves will peck when ruffled.

“I didn’t know it this morning, and there was no time to send word,
for I met him on the way out. I never thought of asking leave, when you have
always told me to do as I liked. I never tried it before, and hang me if I ever
do again!” added John, with an aggrieved air.

“I should hope not! Take him away at once. I can’t see him, and
there isn’t any dinner.”

“Well, I like that! Where’s the beef and vegetables I sent home,
and the pudding you promised?” cried John, rushing to the larder.

“I hadn’t time to cook anything. I meant to dine at Mother’s.
I’m sorry, but I was so busy,” and Meg’s tears began again.

John was a mild man, but he was human, and after a long day’s work to
come home tired, hungry, and hopeful, to find a chaotic house, an empty table,
and a cross wife was not exactly conducive to repose of mind or manner. He
restrained himself however, and the little squall would have blown over, but
for one unlucky word.

“It’s a scrape, I acknowledge, but if you will lend a hand,
we’ll pull through and have a good time yet. Don’t cry, dear, but
just exert yourself a bit, and fix us up something to eat. We’re both as
hungry as hunters, so we shan’t mind what it is. Give us the cold meat,
and bread and cheese. We won’t ask for jelly.”

He meant it to be a good-natured joke, but that one word sealed his fate. Meg
thought it was too cruel to hint about her sad failure, and the last atom of
patience vanished as he spoke.

“You must get yourself out of the scrape as you can. I’m too used
up to ‘exert’ myself for anyone. It’s like a man to propose a
bone and vulgar bread and cheese for company. I won’t have anything of
the sort in my house. Take that Scott up to Mother’s, and tell him
I’m away, sick, dead, anything. I won’t see him, and you two can
laugh at me and my jelly as much as you like. You won’t have anything
else here.” and having delivered her defiance all on one breath, Meg cast
away her pinafore and precipitately left the field to bemoan herself in her own
room.

What those two creatures did in her absence, she never knew, but Mr. Scott was
not taken ‘up to Mother’s’, and when Meg descended, after
they had strolled away together, she found traces of a promiscuous lunch which
filled her with horror. Lotty reported that they had eaten “a much, and
greatly laughed, and the master bid her throw away all the sweet stuff, and
hide the pots.”

Meg longed to go and tell Mother, but a sense of shame at her own
short-comings, of loyalty to John, “who might be cruel, but nobody should
know it,” restrained her, and after a summary cleaning up, she dressed
herself prettily, and sat down to wait for John to come and be forgiven.

Unfortunately, John didn’t come, not seeing the matter in that light. He
had carried it off as a good joke with Scott, excused his little wife as well
as he could, and played the host so hospitably that his friend enjoyed the
impromptu dinner, and promised to come again, but John was angry, though he did
not show it, he felt that Meg had deserted him in his hour of need. “It
wasn’t fair to tell a man to bring folks home any time, with perfect
freedom, and when he took you at your word, to flame up and blame him, and
leave him in the lurch, to be laughed at or pitied. No, by George, it
wasn’t! And Meg must know it.”

He had fumed inwardly during the feast, but when the flurry was over and he
strolled home after seeing Scott off, a milder mood came over him. “Poor
little thing! It was hard upon her when she tried so heartily to please me. She
was wrong, of course, but then she was young. I must be patient and teach
her.” He hoped she had not gone home—he hated gossip and
interference. For a minute he was ruffled again at the mere thought of it, and
then the fear that Meg would cry herself sick softened his heart, and sent him
on at a quicker pace, resolving to be calm and kind, but firm, quite firm, and
show her where she had failed in her duty to her spouse.

Meg likewise resolved to be ‘calm and kind, but firm’, and show him
his duty. She longed to run to meet him, and beg pardon, and be kissed and
comforted, as she was sure of being, but, of course, she did nothing of the
sort, and when she saw John coming, began to hum quite naturally, as she rocked
and sewed, like a lady of leisure in her best parlor.

John was a little disappointed not to find a tender Niobe, but feeling that his
dignity demanded the first apology, he made none, only came leisurely in and
laid himself upon the sofa with the singularly relevant remark, “We are
going to have a new moon, my dear.”

“I’ve no objection,” was Meg’s equally soothing remark.
A few other topics of general interest were introduced by Mr. Brooke and
wet-blanketed by Mrs. Brooke, and conversation languished. John went to one
window, unfolded his paper, and wrapped himself in it, figuratively speaking.
Meg went to the other window, and sewed as if new rosettes for slippers were
among the necessaries of life. Neither spoke. Both looked quite ‘calm and
firm’, and both felt desperately uncomfortable.

“Oh, dear,” thought Meg, “married life is very trying, and
does need infinite patience as well as love, as Mother says.” The word
‘Mother’ suggested other maternal counsels given long ago, and
received with unbelieving protests.

“John is a good man, but he has his faults, and you must learn to see and
bear with them, remembering your own. He is very decided, but never will be
obstinate, if you reason kindly, not oppose impatiently. He is very accurate,
and particular about the truth—a good trait, though you call him
‘fussy’. Never deceive him by look or word, Meg, and he will give
you the confidence you deserve, the support you need. He has a temper, not like
ours—one flash and then all over—but the white, still anger that is
seldom stirred, but once kindled is hard to quench. Be careful, be very
careful, not to wake his anger against yourself, for peace and happiness depend
on keeping his respect. Watch yourself, be the first to ask pardon if you both
err, and guard against the little piques, misunderstandings, and hasty words
that often pave the way for bitter sorrow and regret.”

These words came back to Meg, as she sat sewing in the sunset, especially the
last. This was the first serious disagreement, her own hasty speeches sounded
both silly and unkind, as she recalled them, her own anger looked childish now,
and thoughts of poor John coming home to such a scene quite melted her heart.
She glanced at him with tears in her eyes, but he did not see them. She put
down her work and got up, thinking, “I will be the first to say,
‘Forgive me’”, but he did not seem to hear her. She went very
slowly across the room, for pride was hard to swallow, and stood by him, but he
did not turn his head. For a minute she felt as if she really couldn’t do
it, then came the thought, “This is the beginning. I’ll do my part,
and have nothing to reproach myself with,” and stooping down, she softly
kissed her husband on the forehead. Of course that settled it. The penitent
kiss was better than a world of words, and John had her on his knee in a
minute, saying tenderly…

“It was too bad to laugh at the poor little jelly pots. Forgive me, dear.
I never will again!”

But he did, oh bless you, yes, hundreds of times, and so did Meg, both
declaring that it was the sweetest jelly they ever made, for family peace was
preserved in that little family jar.

After this, Meg had Mr. Scott to dinner by special invitation, and served him
up a pleasant feast without a cooked wife for the first course, on which
occasion she was so gay and gracious, and made everything go off so charmingly,
that Mr. Scott told John he was a lucky fellow, and shook his head over the
hardships of bachelorhood all the way home.

In the autumn, new trials and experiences came to Meg. Sallie Moffat renewed
her friendship, was always running out for a dish of gossip at the little
house, or inviting ‘that poor dear’ to come in and spend the day at
the big house. It was pleasant, for in dull weather Meg often felt lonely. All
were busy at home, John absent till night, and nothing to do but sew, or read,
or potter about. So it naturally fell out that Meg got into the way of gadding
and gossiping with her friend. Seeing Sallie’s pretty things made her
long for such, and pity herself because she had not got them. Sallie was very
kind, and often offered her the coveted trifles, but Meg declined them, knowing
that John wouldn’t like it, and then this foolish little woman went and
did what John disliked even worse.

She knew her husband’s income, and she loved to feel that he trusted her,
not only with his happiness, but what some men seem to value more—his
money. She knew where it was, was free to take what she liked, and all he asked
was that she should keep account of every penny, pay bills once a month, and
remember that she was a poor man’s wife. Till now she had done well, been
prudent and exact, kept her little account books neatly, and showed them to him
monthly without fear. But that autumn the serpent got into Meg’s
paradise, and tempted her like many a modern Eve, not with apples, but with
dress. Meg didn’t like to be pitied and made to feel poor. It irritated
her, but she was ashamed to confess it, and now and then she tried to console
herself by buying something pretty, so that Sallie needn’t think she had
to economize. She always felt wicked after it, for the pretty things were
seldom necessaries, but then they cost so little, it wasn’t worth
worrying about, so the trifles increased unconsciously, and in the shopping
excursions she was no longer a passive looker-on.

But the trifles cost more than one would imagine, and when she cast up her
accounts at the end of the month the sum total rather scared her. John was busy
that month and left the bills to her, the next month he was absent, but the
third he had a grand quarterly settling up, and Meg never forgot it. A few days
before she had done a dreadful thing, and it weighed upon her conscience.
Sallie had been buying silks, and Meg longed for a new one, just a handsome
light one for parties, her black silk was so common, and thin things for
evening wear were only proper for girls. Aunt March usually gave the sisters a
present of twenty-five dollars apiece at New Year’s. 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 lend the money,
and with the best intentions in life had tempted Meg beyond her strength. In an
evil moment the shopman held up the lovely, shimmering folds, and said,
“A bargain, I assure, you, ma’am.” She answered,
“I’ll take it,” and it was cut off and paid for, and Sallie
had exulted, and she had laughed as if it were a thing of no consequence, and
driven away, feeling as if she had stolen something, and the police were after
her.

When she got home, she tried to assuage the pangs of remorse by spreading forth
the lovely silk, but it looked less silvery now, didn’t become her, after
all, and the words ‘fifty dollars’ seemed stamped like a pattern
down each breadth. She put it away, but it haunted her, not delightfully as a
new dress should, but dreadfully like the ghost of a folly that was not easily
laid. When John got out his books that night, Meg’s heart sank, and for
the first time in her married life, she was afraid of her husband. The kind,
brown eyes looked as if they could be stern, and though he was unusually merry,
she fancied he had found her out, but didn’t mean to let her know it. The
house bills were all paid, the books all in order. John had praised her, and
was undoing the old pocketbook which they called the ‘bank’, when
Meg, knowing that it was quite empty, stopped his hand, saying nervously…

“You haven’t seen my private expense book yet.”

John never asked to see it, but she always insisted on his doing so, and used
to enjoy his masculine amazement at the queer things women wanted, and made him
guess what piping was, demand fiercely the meaning of a hug-me-tight, or wonder
how a little thing composed of three rosebuds, a bit of velvet, and a pair of
strings, could possibly be a bonnet, and cost six dollars. That night he looked
as if he would like the fun of quizzing her figures and pretending to be
horrified at her extravagance, as he often did, being particularly proud of his
prudent wife.

The little book was brought slowly out and laid down before him. Meg got behind
his chair under pretense of smoothing the wrinkles out of his tired forehead,
and standing there, she said, with her panic increasing with every word…

“John, dear, I’m ashamed to show you my book, for I’ve really
been dreadfully extravagant lately. I go about so much I must have things, you
know, and Sallie advised my getting it, so I did, and my New Year’s money
will partly pay for it, but I was sorry after I had done it, for I knew
you’d think it wrong in me.”

John laughed, and drew her round beside him, saying goodhumoredly,
“Don’t go and hide. I won’t beat you if you have got a pair
of killing boots. I’m rather proud of my wife’s feet, and
don’t mind if she does pay eight or nine dollars for her boots, if they
are good ones.”

That had been one of her last ‘trifles’, and John’s eye had
fallen on it as he spoke. “Oh, what will he say when he comes to that
awful fifty dollars!” thought Meg, with a shiver.

“It’s worse than boots, it’s a silk dress,” she said,
with the calmness of desperation, for she wanted the worst over.

“Well, dear, what is the ‘dem’d total’, as Mr.
Mantalini says?”

That didn’t sound like John, and she knew he was looking up at her with
the straightforward look that she had always been ready to meet and answer with
one as frank till now. She turned the page and her head at the same time,
pointing to the sum which would have been bad enough without the fifty, but
which was appalling to her with that added. For a minute the room was very
still, then John said slowly—but she could feel it cost him an effort to
express no displeasure—. . .

“Well, I don’t know that fifty is much for a dress, with all the
furbelows and notions you have to have to finish it off these days.”

“It isn’t made or trimmed,” sighed Meg, faintly, for a sudden
recollection of the cost still to be incurred quite overwhelmed her.

“Twenty-five yards of silk seems a good deal to cover one small woman,
but I’ve no doubt my wife will look as fine as Ned Moffat’s when
she gets it on,” said John dryly.

“I know you are angry, John, but I can’t help it. I don’t
mean to waste your money, and I didn’t think those little things would
count up so. I can’t resist them when I see Sallie buying all she wants,
and pitying me because I don’t. I try to be contented, but it is hard,
and I’m tired of being poor.”

The last words were spoken so low she thought he did not hear them, but he did,
and they wounded him deeply, for he had denied himself many pleasures for
Meg’s sake. She could have bitten her tongue out the minute she had said
it, 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,
“Oh, John, my dear, kind, hard-working boy. I didn’t mean it! It
was so wicked, so untrue and ungrateful, how could I say it! Oh, how could I
say it!”

He was very kind, forgave her readily, and did not utter one reproach, but Meg
knew that she had done and said a thing which would not be forgotten soon,
although he might never allude to it again. She had promised to love him for
better or 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 greatcoat reduced her to a
state of despair which was pathetic to behold. He had simply said, in answer to
her surprised inquiries as to the change, “I can’t afford it, my
dear.”

Meg said no more, but a few minutes after he found her in the hall with her
face buried in the old greatcoat, crying as if her heart would break.

They had a long talk that night, and Meg learned to love her husband better for
his poverty, because it seemed to have made a man of him, given him the
strength and courage to fight his own way, and taught him a tender patience
with which to bear and comfort the natural longings and failures of those he
loved.

Next day she put her pride in her pocket, went to Sallie, told the truth, and
asked her to buy the silk as a favor. The good-natured Mrs. Moffat willingly
did so, and had the delicacy not to make her a present of it immediately
afterward. Then Meg ordered home the greatcoat, 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 greatcoat was
put on in the morning by a very happy husband, and taken off at night by a most
devoted little wife. So the year rolled round, and at midsummer there came to
Meg a new experience, the deepest and tenderest of a woman’s life.

Laurie came sneaking into the kitchen of the Dovecote one Saturday, with an
excited face, and was received with the clash of cymbals, for Hannah clapped
her hands with a saucepan in one and the cover in the other.

“How’s the little mamma? Where is everybody? Why didn’t you
tell me before I came home?” began Laurie in a loud whisper.

“Happy as a queen, the dear! Every soul of ’em is upstairs a
worshipin’. We didn’t want no hurrycanes round. Now you go into the
parlor, and I’ll send ’em down to you,” with which somewhat
involved reply Hannah vanished, chuckling ecstatically.

Presently Jo appeared, proudly bearing a flannel bundle laid forth upon a large
pillow. Jo’s face was very sober, but her eyes twinkled, and there was an
odd sound in her voice of repressed emotion of some sort.

“Shut your eyes and hold out your arms,” she said invitingly.

Laurie backed precipitately into a corner, and put his hands behind him with an
imploring gesture. “No, thank you. I’d rather not. I shall drop it
or smash it, as sure as fate.”

“Then you shan’t see your nevvy,” said Jo decidedly, turning
as if to go.

“I will, I will! Only you must be responsible for damages.” and
obeying orders, Laurie heroically shut his eyes 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.

No wonder they laughed, for the expression of his face was droll enough to
convulse a Quaker, as he stood and stared wildly from the unconscious innocents
to the hilarious spectators with such dismay that Jo sat down on the floor and
screamed.

“Twins, by Jupiter!” was all he said for a minute, then turning to
the women with an appealing look that was comically piteous, he added,
“Take ’em quick, somebody! I’m going to laugh, and I shall
drop ’em.”

Jo rescued his babies, and marched up and down, with one on each arm, as if
already initiated into the mysteries of babytending, while Laurie laughed till
the tears ran down his cheeks.

“It’s the best joke of the season, isn’t it? I wouldn’t
have told you, for I set my heart on surprising you, and I flatter myself
I’ve done it,” said Jo, when she got her breath.

“I never was more staggered in my life. Isn’t it fun? Are they
boys? What are you going to name them? Let’s have another look. Hold me
up, Jo, for upon my life it’s one too many for me,” returned
Laurie, regarding the infants with the air of a big, benevolent Newfoundland
looking at a pair of infantile kittens.

“Boy and girl. Aren’t they beauties?” said the proud papa,
beaming upon the little red squirmers as if they were unfledged angels.

“Most remarkable children I ever saw. Which is which?” and Laurie
bent like a well-sweep to examine the prodigies.

“Amy put a blue ribbon on the boy and a pink on the girl, French fashion,
so you can always tell. Besides, one has blue eyes and one brown. Kiss them,
Uncle Teddy,” said wicked Jo.

“I’m afraid they mightn’t like it,” began Laurie, with
unusual timidity in such matters.

“Of course they will, they are used to it now. Do it this minute,
sir!” commanded Jo, fearing he might propose a proxy.

Laurie screwed up his face and obeyed with a gingerly peck at each little cheek
that produced another laugh, and made the babies squeal.

“There, I knew they didn’t like it! That’s the boy, see him
kick, he hits out with his fists like a good one. Now then, young Brooke, pitch
into a man of your own size, will you?” cried Laurie, delighted with a
poke in the face from a tiny fist, flapping aimlessly about.

“He’s to be named John Laurence, and the girl Margaret, after
mother and grandmother. We shall call her Daisey, so as not to have two Megs,
and I suppose the mannie will be Jack, unless we find a better name,”
said Amy, with aunt-like interest.

“Name him Demijohn, and call him Demi for short,” said Laurie.

“Daisy and Demi, just the thing! I knew Teddy would do it,” cried
Jo clapping her hands.

Teddy certainly had done it that time, for the babies were ‘Daisy’
and ‘Demi’ to the end of the chapter.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CALLS

“Come, Jo, it’s time.”

“For what?”

“You don’t mean to say you have forgotten that you promised to make
half a dozen calls with me today?”

“I’ve done a good many rash and foolish things in my life, but I
don’t think I ever was mad enough to say I’d make six calls in one
day, when a single one upsets me for a week.”

“Yes, you did, it was a bargain between us. I was to finish the crayon of
Beth for you, and you were to go properly with me, and return our
neighbors’ visits.”

“If it was fair, that was in the bond, and I stand to the letter of my
bond, Shylock. There is a pile of clouds in the east, it’s not fair, and
I don’t go.”

“Now, that’s shirking. It’s a lovely day, no prospect of
rain, and you pride yourself on keeping promises, so be honorable, come and do
your duty, and then be at peace for another six months.”

At that minute Jo was particularly absorbed in dressmaking, for she was
mantua-maker general to the family, and took especial credit to herself because
she could use a needle as well as a pen. It was very provoking to be arrested
in the act of a first trying-on, and ordered out to make calls in her best
array on a warm July day. She hated calls of the formal sort, and never made
any till Amy compelled her with a bargain, bribe, or promise. In the present
instance there was no escape, and having clashed her scissors rebelliously,
while protesting that she smelled thunder, she gave in, put away her work, and
taking up her hat and gloves with an air of resignation, told Amy the victim
was ready.

“Jo March, you are perverse enough to provoke a saint! You don’t
intend to make calls in that state, I hope,” cried Amy, surveying her
with amazement.

“Why not? I’m neat and cool and comfortable, quite proper for a
dusty walk on a warm day. If people care more for my clothes than they do for
me, I don’t wish to see them. You can dress for both, and be as elegant
as you please. It pays for you to be fine. It doesn’t for me, and
furbelows only worry me.”

“Oh, dear!” sighed Amy, “now she’s in a contrary fit,
and will drive me distracted before I can get her properly ready. I’m
sure it’s no pleasure to me to go today, but it’s a debt we owe
society, and there’s no one to pay it but you and me. I’ll do
anything for you, Jo, if you’ll only dress yourself nicely, and come and
help me do the civil. You can talk so well, look so aristocratic in your best
things, and behave so beautifully, if you try, that I’m proud of you.
I’m afraid to go alone, do come and take care of me.”

“You’re an artful little puss to flatter and wheedle your cross old
sister in that way. The idea of my being aristocratic and well-bred, and your
being afraid to go anywhere alone! I don’t know which is the most absurd.
Well, I’ll go if I must, and do my best. You shall be commander of the
expedition, and I’ll obey blindly, will that satisfy you?” said Jo,
with a sudden change from perversity to lamblike submission.

“You’re a perfect cherub! Now put on all your best things, and
I’ll tell you how to behave at each place, so that you will make a good
impression. I want people to like you, and they would if you’d only try
to be a little more agreeable. Do your hair the pretty way, and put the pink
rose in your bonnet. It’s becoming, and you look too sober in your plain
suit. Take your light gloves and the embroidered handkerchief. We’ll stop
at Meg’s, and borrow her white sunshade, and then you can have my
dove-colored one.”

While Amy dressed, she issued her orders, and Jo obeyed them, not without
entering her protest, however, for she sighed as she rustled into her new
organdie, frowned darkly at herself as she tied her bonnet strings in an
irreproachable bow, wrestled viciously with pins as she put on her collar,
wrinkled up her features generally as she shook out the handkerchief, whose
embroidery was as irritating to her nose as the present mission was to her
feelings, and when she had squeezed her hands into tight gloves with three
buttons and a tassel, as the last touch of elegance, she turned to Amy with an
imbecile expression of countenance, saying meekly…

“I’m perfectly miserable, but if you consider me presentable, I die
happy.”

“You’re highly satisfactory. Turn slowly round, and let me get a
careful view.” Jo revolved, and Amy gave a touch here and there, then
fell back, with her head on one side, observing graciously, “Yes,
you’ll do. Your head is all I could ask, for that white bonnet with the
rose is quite ravishing. Hold back your shoulders, and carry your hands easily,
no matter if your gloves do pinch. There’s one thing you can do well, Jo,
that is, wear a shawl. I can’t, but it’s very nice to see you, and
I’m so glad Aunt March gave you that lovely one. It’s simple, but
handsome, and those folds over the arm are really artistic. Is the point of my
mantle in the middle, and have I looped my dress evenly? I like to show my
boots, for my feet are pretty, though my nose isn’t.”

“You are a thing of beauty and a joy forever,” said Jo, looking
through her hand with the air of a connoisseur at the blue feather against the
golden hair. “Am I to drag my best dress through the dust, or loop it up,
please, ma’am?”

“Hold it up when you walk, but drop it in the house. The sweeping style
suits you best, and you must learn to trail your skirts gracefully. You
haven’t half buttoned one cuff, do it at once. You’ll never look
finished if you are not careful about the little details, for they make up the
pleasing whole.”

Jo sighed, and proceeded to burst the buttons off her glove, in doing up her
cuff, but at last both were ready, and sailed away, looking as ‘pretty as
picters’, Hannah said, as she hung out of the upper window to watch them.

“Now, Jo dear, the Chesters consider themselves very elegant people, so I
want you to put on your best deportment. Don’t make any of your abrupt
remarks, or do anything odd, will you? Just be calm, cool, and quiet,
that’s safe and ladylike, and you can easily do it for fifteen
minutes,” said Amy, as they approached the first place, having borrowed
the white parasol and been inspected by Meg, with a baby on each arm.

“Let me see. ‘Calm, cool, and quiet’, yes, I think I can
promise that. I’ve played the part of a prim young lady on the stage, and
I’ll try it off. My powers are great, as you shall see, so be easy in
your mind, my child.”

Amy looked relieved, but naughty Jo took her at her word, for during the first
call she sat with every limb gracefully composed, every fold correctly draped,
calm as a summer sea, cool as a snowbank, and as silent as the sphinx. In vain
Mrs. Chester alluded to her ‘charming novel’, and the Misses
Chester introduced parties, picnics, the opera, and the fashions. Each and all
were answered by a smile, a bow, and a demure “Yes” or
“No” with the chill on. In vain Amy telegraphed the word
‘talk’, tried to draw her out, and administered covert pokes with
her foot. Jo sat as if blandly unconscious of it all, with deportment like
Maud’s face, ‘icily regular, splendidly null’.

“What a haughty, uninteresting creature that oldest Miss March is!”
was the unfortunately audible remark of one of the ladies, as the door closed
upon their guests. Jo laughed noiselessly all through the hall, but Amy looked
disgusted at the failure of her instructions, and very naturally laid the blame
upon Jo.

“How could you mistake me so? I merely meant you to be properly dignified
and composed, and you made yourself a perfect stock and stone. Try to be
sociable at the Lambs’. Gossip as other girls do, and be interested in
dress and flirtations and whatever nonsense comes up. They move in the best
society, are valuable persons for us to know, and I wouldn’t fail to make
a good impression there for anything.”

“I’ll be agreeable. I’ll gossip and giggle, and have horrors
and raptures over any trifle you like. I rather enjoy this, and now I’ll
imitate what is called ‘a charming girl’. I can do it, for I have
May Chester as a model, and I’ll improve upon her. See if the Lambs
don’t say, ‘What a lively, nice creature that Jo March is!”

Amy felt anxious, as well she might, for when Jo turned freakish there was no
knowing where she would stop. Amy’s face was a study when she saw her
sister skim into the next drawing room, kiss all the young ladies with
effusion, beam graciously upon the young gentlemen, and join in the chat with a
spirit which amazed the beholder. Amy was taken possession of by Mrs. Lamb,
with whom she was a favorite, and forced to hear a long account of
Lucretia’s last attack, while three delightful young gentlemen hovered
near, waiting for a pause when they might rush in and rescue her. So situated,
she was powerless to check Jo, who seemed possessed by a spirit of mischief,
and talked away as volubly as the 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 curiosity, and frequent peals of laughter made her wild to share the
fun. One may imagine her suffering on overhearing fragments of this sort of
conversation.

“She rides splendidly. Who taught her?”

“No one. She used to practice 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 stableman 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 horsebreaker, and get
her living so.”

At this awful speech Amy contained herself with difficulty, for the impression
was being given that she was rather a fast young lady, which was her especial
aversion. But what could she do? For the old lady was in the middle of her
story, and long before it was done, Jo was off again, making more droll
revelations and committing still more fearful blunders.

“Yes, Amy was in despair that day, for all the good beasts were gone, and
of three left, one was lame, one blind, and the other so balky that you had to
put dirt in his mouth before he would start. Nice animal for a pleasure party,
wasn’t it?”

“Which did she choose?” asked one of the laughing gentlemen, who
enjoyed the subject.

“None of them. She heard of a young horse at the farm house over the
river, and though a lady had never ridden him, she resolved to try, because he
was handsome and spirited. Her struggles were really pathetic. There was no one
to bring the horse to the saddle, so she took the saddle to the horse. My dear
creature, she actually rowed it over the river, put it on her head, and marched
up to the barn to the utter amazement of the old man!”

“Did she ride the horse?”

“Of course she did, and had a capital time. I expected to see her brought
home in fragments, but she managed him perfectly, and was the life of the
party.”

“Well, I call that plucky!” and young Mr. Lamb turned an approving
glance upon Amy, wondering what his mother could be saying to make the girl
look so red and uncomfortable.

She was still redder and more uncomfortable a moment after, when a sudden turn
in the conversation introduced the subject of dress. One of the young ladies
asked Jo where she got the pretty drab hat she wore to the picnic and stupid
Jo, instead of mentioning the place where it was bought two years ago, must
needs answer with unnecessary frankness, “Oh, Amy painted it. You
can’t buy those soft shades, so we paint ours any color we like.
It’s a great comfort to have an artistic sister.”

“Isn’t that an original idea?” cried Miss Lamb, who found Jo
great fun.

“That’s nothing compared to some of her brilliant performances.
There’s nothing the child can’t do. Why, she wanted a pair of blue
boots for Sallie’s party, so she just painted her soiled white ones the
loveliest shade of sky blue you ever saw, and they looked exactly like
satin,” added Jo, with an air of pride in her sister’s
accomplishments that exasperated Amy till she felt that it would be a relief to
throw her cardcase at her.

“We read a story of yours the other day, and enjoyed it very much,”
observed the elder Miss Lamb, wishing to compliment the literary lady, who did
not look the character just then, it must be confessed.

Any mention of her ‘works’ always had a bad effect upon Jo, who
either grew rigid and looked offended, or changed the subject with a brusque
remark, as now. “Sorry you could find nothing better to read. I write
that rubbish because it sells, and ordinary people like it. Are you going to
New York this winter?”

As Miss Lamb had ‘enjoyed’ the story, this speech was not exactly
grateful or complimentary. The minute it was made Jo saw her mistake, but
fearing to make the matter worse, suddenly remembered that it was for her to
make the first move toward departure, and did so with an abruptness that left
three people with half-finished sentences in their mouths.

“Amy, we must go. Good-by, dear, do come and see us. We are pining for a
visit. I don’t dare to ask you, Mr. Lamb, but if you should come, I
don’t think I shall have the heart to send you away.”

Jo said this with such a droll imitation of May Chester’s gushing style
that Amy got out of the room as rapidly as possible, feeling a strong desire to
laugh and cry at the same time.

“Didn’t I do well?” asked Jo, with a satisfied air as they
walked away.

“Nothing could have been worse,” was Amy’s crushing reply.
“What possessed you to tell those stories about my saddle, and the hats
and boots, and all the rest of it?”

“Why, it’s funny, and amuses people. They know we are poor, so
it’s no use pretending that we have grooms, buy three or four hats a
season, and have things as easy and fine as they do.”

“You needn’t go and tell them all our little shifts, and expose our
poverty in that perfectly unnecessary way. You haven’t a bit of proper
pride, and never will learn when to hold your tongue and when to speak,”
said Amy despairingly.

Poor Jo looked abashed, and silently chafed the end of her nose with the stiff
handkerchief, as if performing a penance for her misdemeanors.

“How shall I behave here?” she asked, as they approached the third
mansion.

“Just as you please. I wash my hands of you,” was Amy’s short
answer.

“Then I’ll enjoy myself. The boys are at home, and we’ll have
a comfortable time. Goodness knows I need a little change, for elegance has a
bad effect upon my constitution,” returned Jo gruffly, being disturbed by
her failure to suit.

An enthusiastic welcome from three big boys and several pretty children
speedily soothed her ruffled feelings, and leaving Amy to entertain the hostess
and Mr. Tudor, who happened to be calling likewise, Jo devoted herself to the
young folks and found the change refreshing. She listened to college stories
with deep interest, caressed pointers and poodles without a murmur, agreed
heartily that “Tom Brown was a brick,” regardless of the improper
form of praise, and when one lad proposed a visit to his turtle tank, she went
with an alacrity which caused Mamma to smile upon her, as that motherly lady
settled the cap which was left in a ruinous condition by filial hugs, bearlike
but affectionate, and dearer to her than the most faultless coiffure from the
hands of an inspired Frenchwoman.

Leaving her sister to her own devices, Amy proceeded to enjoy herself to her
heart’s content. Mr. Tudor’s uncle had married an English lady who
was third cousin to a living lord, and Amy regarded the whole family with great
respect, for in spite of her American birth and breeding, she possessed that
reverence for titles which haunts the best of us—that unacknowledged
loyalty to the early faith in kings which set the most democratic nation under
the sun in ferment at the coming of a royal yellow-haired laddie, some years
ago, and which still has something to do with the love the young country bears
the old, like that of a big son for an imperious little mother, who held him
while she could, and let him go with a farewell scolding when he rebelled. But
even the satisfaction of talking with a distant connection of the British
nobility did not render Amy forgetful of time, and when the proper number of
minutes had passed, she reluctantly tore herself from this aristocratic
society, and looked about for Jo, fervently hoping that her incorrigible sister
would not be found in any position which should bring disgrace upon the name of
March.

It might have been worse, but Amy considered it bad. For Jo sat on the grass,
with an encampment of boys about her, and a dirty-footed dog reposing on the
skirt of her state and festival dress, as she related one of Laurie’s
pranks to her admiring audience. One small child was poking turtles with
Amy’s cherished parasol, a second was eating gingerbread over Jo’s
best bonnet, and a third playing ball with her gloves, but all were enjoying
themselves, and when Jo collected her damaged property to go, her escort
accompanied her, begging her to come again, “It was such fun to hear
about Laurie’s larks.”

“Capital boys, aren’t they? I feel quite young and brisk again
after that.” said Jo, strolling along with her hands behind her, partly
from habit, partly to conceal the bespattered parasol.

“Why do you always avoid Mr. Tudor?” asked Amy, wisely refraining
from any comment upon Jo’s dilapidated appearance.

“Don’t like him, he puts on airs, snubs his sisters, worries his
father, and doesn’t speak respectfully of his mother. Laurie says he is
fast, and I don’t consider him a desirable acquaintance, so I let him
alone.”

“You might treat him civilly, at least. You gave him a cool nod, and just
now you bowed and smiled in the politest way to Tommy Chamberlain, whose father
keeps a grocery store. If you had just reversed the nod and the bow, it would
have been right,” said Amy reprovingly.

“No, it wouldn’t,” returned Jo, “I neither like,
respect, nor admire Tudor, though his grandfather’s uncle’s
nephew’s niece was a third cousin to a lord. Tommy is poor and bashful
and good and very clever. I think well of him, and like to show that I do, for
he is a gentleman in spite of the brown paper parcels.”

“It’s no use trying to argue with you,” began Amy.

“Not the least, my dear,” interrupted Jo, “so let us look
amiable, and drop a card here, as the Kings are evidently out, for which
I’m deeply grateful.”

The family cardcase having done its duty the girls walked on, and Jo uttered
another thanksgiving on reaching the fifth house, and being told that the young
ladies were engaged.

“Now let us go home, and never mind Aunt March today. We can run down
there any time, and it’s really a pity to trail through the dust in our
best bibs and tuckers, when we are tired and cross.”

“Speak for yourself, if you please. Aunt March likes to have us pay her
the compliment of coming in style, and making a formal call. It’s a
little thing to do, but it gives her pleasure, and I don’t believe it
will hurt your things half so much as letting dirty dogs and clumping boys
spoil them. Stoop down, and let me take the crumbs off of your bonnet.”

“What a good girl you are, Amy!” said Jo, with a repentant glance
from her own damaged costume to that of her sister, which was fresh and
spotless still. “I wish it was 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.”

Amy smiled and was mollified at once, saying with a maternal air, “Women
should learn to be agreeable, particularly poor ones, for they have no other
way of repaying the kindnesses they receive. If you’d remember that, and
practice it, you’d be better liked than I am, because there is more of
you.”

“I’m a crotchety old thing, and always shall be, but I’m
willing to own that you are right, only it’s easier for me to risk my
life for a person than to be pleasant to him when I don’t feel like it.
It’s a great misfortune to have such strong likes and dislikes,
isn’t it?”

“It’s a greater not to be able to hide them. I don’t mind
saying that I don’t approve of Tudor any more than you do, but I’m
not called upon to tell him so. Neither are you, and there is no use in making
yourself disagreeable because he is.”

“But I think girls ought to show when they disapprove of young men, and
how can they do it except by their manners? Preaching does not do any good, as
I know to my sorrow, since I’ve had Teddie to manage. But there are many
little ways in which I can influence him without a word, and I say we ought to
do it to others if we can.”

“Teddy is a remarkable boy, and can’t be taken as a sample of other
boys,” said Amy, in a tone of solemn conviction, which would have
convulsed the ‘remarkable boy’ if he had heard it. “If we
were belles, or women of wealth and position, we might do something, perhaps,
but for us to frown at one set of young gentlemen because we don’t
approve of them, and smile upon another set because we do, wouldn’t have
a particle of effect, and we should only be considered odd and
puritanical.”

“So we are to countenance things and people which we detest, merely
because we are not belles and millionaires, are we? That’s a nice sort of
morality.”

“I can’t argue about it, I only know that it’s the way of the
world, and people who set themselves against it only get laughed at for their
pains. I don’t like reformers, and I hope you never try to be one.”

“I do like them, and I shall be one if I can, for in spite of the
laughing the world would never get on without them. We can’t agree about
that, for you belong to the old set, and I to the new. You will get on the
best, but I shall have the liveliest time of it. I should rather enjoy the
brickbats and hooting, I think.”

“Well, compose yourself now, and don’t worry Aunt with your new
ideas.”

“I’ll try not to, but I’m always possessed to burst out with
some particularly blunt speech or revolutionary sentiment before her.
It’s my doom, and I can’t help it.”

They found Aunt Carrol with the old lady, both absorbed in some very
interesting subject, but they dropped it as the girls came in, with a conscious
look which betrayed that they had been talking about their nieces. Jo was not
in a good humor, and the perverse fit returned, but Amy, who had virtuously
done her duty, kept her temper and pleased everybody, was in a most angelic
frame of mind. This amiable spirit was felt at once, and both aunts ‘my
deared’ her affectionately, looking what they afterward said
emphatically, “That child improves every day.”

“Are you going to help about the fair, dear?” asked Mrs. Carrol, as
Amy sat down beside her with the confiding air elderly people like so well in
the young.

“Yes, Aunt. Mrs. Chester asked me if I would, and I offered to tend a
table, as I have nothing but my time to give.”

“I’m not,” put in Jo decidedly. “I hate to be
patronized, and the Chesters think it’s a great favor to allow us to help
with their highly connected fair. I wonder you consented, Amy, they only want
you to work.”

“I am willing to work. It’s for the freedmen as well as the
Chesters, and I think it very kind of them to let me share the labor and the
fun. Patronage does not trouble me when it is well meant.”

“Quite right and proper. I like your grateful spirit, my dear. It’s
a pleasure to help people who appreciate our efforts. Some do not, and that is
trying,” observed Aunt March, looking over her spectacles at Jo, who sat
apart, rocking herself, with a somewhat morose expression.

If Jo had only known what a great happiness was wavering in the balance for one
of them, she would have turned dove-like in a minute, but unfortunately, we
don’t have windows in our breasts, and cannot see what goes on in the
minds of our friends. Better for us that we cannot as a general thing, but now
and then it would be such a comfort, such a saving of time and temper. By her
next speech, Jo deprived herself of several years of pleasure, and received a
timely lesson in the art of holding her tongue.

“I don’t like favors, they oppress and make me feel like a slave.
I’d rather do everything for myself, and be perfectly independent.”

“Ahem!” coughed Aunt Carrol softly, with a look at Aunt March.

“I told you so,” said Aunt March, with a decided nod to Aunt
Carrol.

Mercifully unconscious of what she had done, Jo sat with her nose in the air,
and a revolutionary aspect which was anything but inviting.

“Do you speak French, dear?” asked Mrs. Carrol, laying a hand on
Amy’s.

“Pretty well, thanks to Aunt March, who lets Esther talk to me as often
as I like,” replied Amy, with a grateful look, which caused the old lady
to smile affably.

“How are you about languages?” asked Mrs. Carrol of Jo.

“Don’t know a word. I’m very stupid about studying anything,
can’t bear French, it’s such a slippery, silly sort of
language,” was the brusque reply.

Another look passed between the ladies, and Aunt March said to Amy, “You
are quite strong and well now, dear, I believe? Eyes don’t trouble you
any more, do they?”

“Not at all, thank you, ma’am. I’m very well, and mean to do
great things next winter, so that I may be ready for Rome, whenever that joyful
time arrives.”

“Good girl! You deserve to go, and I’m sure you will some
day,” said Aunt March, with an approving pat on the head, as Amy picked
up her ball for her.

Crosspatch, draw the latch,
Sit by the fire and spin,

squalled Polly, bending down from his perch on the back of her chair to peep
into Jo’s face, with such a comical air of impertinent inquiry that it
was impossible to help laughing.

“Most observing bird,” said the old lady.

“Come and take a walk, my dear?” cried Polly, hopping toward the
china closet, with a look suggestive of a lump of sugar.

“Thank you, I will. Come Amy.” and Jo brought the visit to an end,
feeling more strongly than ever that calls did have a bad effect upon her
constitution. She shook hands in a gentlemanly manner, but Amy kissed both the
aunts, and the girls departed, leaving behind them the impression of shadow and
sunshine, which impression caused Aunt March to say, as they vanished…

“You’d better do it, Mary. I’ll supply the money.” and
Aunt Carrol to reply decidedly, “I certainly will, if her father and
mother consent.”

CHAPTER THIRTY
CONSEQUENCES

Mrs. Chester’s fair was so very elegant and select that it was considered
a great honor by the young ladies of the neighborhood to be invited to take a
table, and everyone was much interested in the matter. Amy was asked, but Jo
was not, which was fortunate for all parties, as her elbows were decidedly
akimbo at this period of her life, and it took a good many hard knocks to teach
her how to get on easily. The ‘haughty, uninteresting creature’ was
let severely alone, but Amy’s talent and taste were duly complimented by
the offer of the art table, and she exerted herself to prepare and secure
appropriate and valuable contributions to it.

Everything went on smoothly till the day before the fair opened, then there
occurred one of the little skirmishes which it is almost impossible to avoid,
when some five-and-twenty women, old and young, with all their private piques
and prejudices, try to work together.

May Chester was rather jealous of Amy because the latter was a greater favorite
than herself, and just at this time several trifling circumstances occurred to
increase the feeling. Amy’s dainty pen-and-ink work entirely eclipsed
May’s painted vases—that was one thorn. Then the all conquering
Tudor had danced four times with Amy at a late party and only once with
May—that was thorn number two. But the chief grievance that rankled in
her soul, and gave an excuse for her unfriendly conduct, was a rumor which some
obliging gossip had whispered to her, that the March girls had made fun of her
at the Lambs’. All the blame of this should have fallen upon Jo, for her
naughty imitation had been too lifelike to escape detection, and the frolicsome
Lambs had permitted the joke to escape. No hint of this had reached the
culprits, however, and Amy’s dismay can be imagined, when, the very
evening before the fair, as she was putting the last touches to her pretty
table, Mrs. Chester, who, of course, resented the supposed ridicule of her
daughter, said, in a bland tone, but with a cold look…

“I find, dear, that there is some feeling among the young ladies about my
giving this table to anyone but my girls. As this is the most prominent, and
some say the most attractive table of all, and they are the chief getters-up of
the fair, it is thought best for them to take this place. I’m sorry, but
I know you are too sincerely interested in the cause to mind a little personal
disappointment, and you shall have another table if you like.”

Mrs. Chester fancied beforehand that it would be easy to deliver this little
speech, but when the time came, she found it rather difficult to utter it
naturally, with Amy’s unsuspicious eyes looking straight at her full of
surprise and trouble.

Amy felt that there was something behind this, but could not guess what, and
said quietly, feeling hurt, and showing that she did, “Perhaps you had
rather I took no table at all?”

“Now, my dear, don’t have any ill feeling, I beg. It’s merely
a matter of expediency, you see, my girls will naturally take the lead, and
this table is considered their proper place. I think it very appropriate to
you, and feel very grateful for your efforts to make it so pretty, but we must
give up our private wishes, of course, and I will see that you have a good
place elsewhere. Wouldn’t you like the flower table? The little girls
undertook it, but they are discouraged. You could make a charming thing of it,
and the flower table is always attractive you know.”

“Especially to gentlemen,” added May, with a look which enlightened
Amy as to one cause of her sudden fall from favor. She colored angrily, but
took no other notice of that girlish sarcasm, and answered with unexpected
amiability…

“It shall be as you please, Mrs. Chester. I’ll give up my place
here at once, and attend to the flowers, if you like.”

“You can put your own things on your own table, if you prefer,”
began May, feeling a little conscience-stricken, as she looked at the pretty
racks, the painted shells, and quaint illuminations Amy had so carefully made
and so gracefully arranged. She meant it kindly, but Amy mistook her meaning,
and said quickly…

“Oh, certainly, if they are in your way,” and sweeping her
contributions into her apron, pell-mell, she walked off, feeling that herself
and her works of art had been insulted past forgiveness.

“Now she’s mad. Oh, dear, I wish I hadn’t asked you to speak,
Mama,” said May, looking disconsolately at the empty spaces on her table.

“Girls’ quarrels are soon over,” returned her mother, feeling
a trifle ashamed of her own part in this one, as well she might.

The little girls hailed Amy and her treasures with delight, which cordial
reception somewhat soothed her perturbed spirit, and she fell to work,
determined to succeed florally, if she could not artistically. But everything
seemed against her. It was late, and she was tired. Everyone was too busy with
their own affairs to help her, and the little girls were only hindrances, for
the dears fussed and chattered like so many magpies, making a great deal of
confusion in their artless efforts to preserve the most perfect order. The
evergreen arch wouldn’t stay firm after she got it up, but wiggled and
threatened to tumble down on her head when the hanging baskets were filled. Her
best tile got a splash of water, which left a sepia tear on the Cupid’s
cheek. She bruised her hands with hammering, and got cold working in a draft,
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 her task.

There was great indignation at home when she told her story that evening. Her
mother said it was a shame, but told her she had done right. Beth declared she
wouldn’t go to the fair at all, and Jo demanded why she didn’t take
all her pretty things and leave those mean people to get on without her.

“Because they are mean is no reason why I should be. I hate such things,
and though I think I’ve a right to be hurt, I don’t intend to show
it. They will feel that more than angry speeches or huffy actions, won’t
they, Marmee?”

“That’s the right spirit, my dear. A kiss for a blow is always
best, though it’s not very easy to give it sometimes,” said her
mother, with the air of one who had learned the difference between preaching
and practicing.

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 the anteroom filling the baskets, she took up
her pet production, a little book, the antique cover of which her father had
found among his treasures, and in which on leaves of vellum she had beautifully
illuminated different texts. As she turned the pages rich in dainty devices
with very pardonable pride, her eye fell upon one verse that made her stop and
think. Framed in a brilliant scrollwork of scarlet, blue and gold, with little
spirits of good will helping one another up and down among the thorns and
flowers, were the words, “Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.”

“I ought, but I don’t,” thought Amy, as her eye went from the
bright page to May’s discontented face behind the big vases, that could
not hide the vacancies her pretty work had once filled. Amy stood a minute,
turning the leaves in her hand, reading on each some sweet rebuke for all
heartburnings and uncharitableness of spirit. Many wise and true sermons are
preached us every day by unconscious ministers in street, school, office, or
home. Even a fair table may become a pulpit, if it can offer the good and
helpful words which are never out of season. Amy’s conscience preached
her a little sermon from that text, then and there, and she did what many of us
do not always do, took the sermon to heart, and straightway put it in practice.

A group of girls were standing about May’s table, admiring the pretty
things, and talking over the change of saleswomen. They dropped their voices,
but Amy knew they were speaking of her, hearing one side of the story and
judging accordingly. It was not pleasant, but a better spirit had come over
her, and presently a chance offered for proving it. She heard May say
sorrowfully…

“It’s too bad, for there is no time to make other things, and I
don’t want to fill up with odds and ends. The table was just complete
then. Now it’s spoiled.”

“I dare say she’d put them back if you asked her,” suggested
someone.

“How could I after all the fuss?” began May, but she did not
finish, for Amy’s voice came across the hall, saying pleasantly…

“You may have them, and welcome, without asking, if you want them. I was
just thinking I’d offer to put them back, for they belong to your table
rather than mine. Here they are, please take them, and forgive me if I was
hasty in carrying them away last night.”

As she spoke, Amy returned her contribution, with a nod and a smile, and
hurried away again, feeling that it was easier to do a friendly thing than it
was to stay and be thanked for it.

“Now, I call that lovely of her, don’t you?” cried one girl.

May’s answer was inaudible, but another young lady, whose temper was
evidently a little soured by making lemonade, added, with a disagreeable laugh,
“Very lovely, for she knew she wouldn’t sell them at her own
table.”

Now, that was hard. When we make little sacrifices we like to have them
appreciated, at least, and for a minute Amy was sorry she had done it, feeling
that virtue was not always its own reward. But it is, as she presently
discovered, for her spirits began to rise, and her table to blossom under her
skillful hands, the girls were very kind, and that one little act seemed to
have cleared the atmosphere amazingly.

It was a very long day and a hard one for Amy, as she sat behind her table,
often quite alone, for the little girls deserted very soon. Few cared to buy
flowers in summer, and her bouquets began to droop long before night.

The art table was the most attractive in the room. There was a crowd about it
all day long, and the tenders were constantly flying to and fro with important
faces and rattling money boxes. Amy often looked wistfully across, longing to
be there, where she felt at home and happy, instead of in a corner with nothing
to do. It might seem no hardship to some of us, but to a pretty, blithe young
girl, it was not only tedious, but very trying, and the thought of Laurie and
his friends made it a real martyrdom.

She did not go home till night, and then she looked so pale and quiet that they
knew the day had been a hard one, though she made no complaint, and did not
even tell what she had done. Her mother gave her an extra cordial cup of tea.
Beth helped her dress, and made a charming little wreath for her hair, while Jo
astonished her family by getting herself up with unusual care, and hinting
darkly that the tables were about to be turned.

“Don’t do anything rude, pray Jo; I won’t have any fuss made,
so let it all pass and behave yourself,” begged Amy, as she departed
early, hoping to find a reinforcement of flowers to refresh her poor little
table.

“I merely intend to make myself entrancingly agreeable to every one I
know, and to keep them in your corner as long as possible. Teddy and his boys
will lend a hand, and we’ll have a good time yet.” returned Jo,
leaning over the gate to watch for Laurie. Presently the familiar tramp was
heard in the dusk, and she ran out to meet him.

“Is that my boy?”

“As sure as this is my girl!” and Laurie tucked her hand under his
arm with the air of a man whose every wish was gratified.

“Oh, Teddy, such doings!” and Jo told Amy’s wrongs with
sisterly zeal.

“A flock of our fellows are going to drive over by-and-by, and I’ll
be hanged if I don’t make them buy every flower she’s got, and camp
down before her table afterward,” said Laurie, espousing her cause with
warmth.

“The flowers are not at all nice, Amy says, and the fresh ones may not
arrive in time. I don’t wish to be unjust or suspicious, but I
shouldn’t wonder if they never came at all. When people do one mean thing
they are very likely to do another,” observed Jo in a disgusted tone.

“Didn’t Hayes give you the best out of our gardens? I told him
to.”

“I didn’t know that, he forgot, I suppose, and, as your grandpa was
poorly, I didn’t like to worry him by asking, though I did want
some.”

“Now, Jo, how could you think there was any need of asking? They are just
as much yours as mine. Don’t we always go halves in everything?”
began Laurie, in the tone that always made Jo turn thorny.

“Gracious, I hope not! Half of some of your things wouldn’t suit me
at all. But we mustn’t stand philandering here. I’ve got to help
Amy, so you go and make yourself splendid, and if you’ll be so very kind
as to let Hayes take a few nice flowers up to the Hall, I’ll bless you
forever.”

“Couldn’t you do it now?” asked Laurie, so suggestively that
Jo shut the gate in his face with inhospitable haste, and called through the
bars, “Go away, Teddy, I’m busy.”

Thanks to the conspirators, the tables were turned that night, for Hayes sent
up a wilderness of flowers, with a lovely basket arranged in his best manner
for a centerpiece. Then the March family turned out en masse, and Jo exerted
herself to some purpose, for people not only came, but stayed, laughing at her
nonsense, admiring Amy’s taste, and apparently enjoying themselves very
much. Laurie and his friends gallantly threw themselves into the breach, bought
up the bouquets, encamped before the table, and made that corner the liveliest
spot in the room. Amy was in her element now, and out of gratitude, if nothing
more, was as spritely and gracious as possible, coming to the conclusion, about
that time, that virtue was its own reward, after all.

Jo behaved herself with exemplary propriety, and when Amy was happily
surrounded by her guard of honor, Jo circulated about the Hall, picking up
various bits of gossip, which enlightened her upon the subject of the Chester
change of base. She reproached herself for her share of the ill feeling and
resolved to exonerate Amy as soon as possible. She also discovered what Amy had
done about the things in the morning, and considered her a model of
magnanimity. As she passed the art table, she glanced over it for her
sister’s things, but saw no sign of them. “Tucked away out of
sight, I dare say,” thought Jo, who could forgive her own wrongs, but
hotly resented any insult offered her family.

“Good evening, Miss Jo. How does Amy get on?” asked May with a
conciliatory air, for she wanted to show that she also could be generous.

“She has sold everything she had that was worth selling, and now she is
enjoying herself. The flower table is always attractive, you know,
‘especially to gentlemen’.” Jo couldn’t resist giving
that little slap, but May took it so meekly she regretted it a minute after,
and fell to praising the great vases, which still remained unsold.

“Is Amy’s illumination anywhere about? I took a fancy to buy that
for Father,” said Jo, very anxious to learn the fate of her
sister’s work.

“Everything of Amy’s sold long ago. I took care that the right
people saw them, and they made a nice little sum of money for us,”
returned May, who had overcome sundry small temptations, as well as Amy had,
that day.

Much gratified, Jo rushed back to tell the good news, and Amy looked both
touched and surprised by the report of May’s word and manner.

“Now, gentlemen, I want you to go and do your duty by the other tables as
generously as you have by mine, especially the art table,” she said,
ordering out ‘Teddy’s own’, as the girls called the college
friends.

“‘Charge, Chester, charge!’ is the motto for that table, but
do your duty like men, and you’ll get your money’s worth of art in
every sense of the word,” said the irrepressible Jo, as the devoted
phalanx prepared to take the field.

“To hear is to obey, but March is fairer far than May,” said little
Parker, making a frantic effort to be both witty and tender, and getting
promptly quenched by Laurie, who said…

“Very well, my son, for a small boy!” and walked him off, with a
paternal pat on the head.

“Buy the vases,” whispered Amy to Laurie, as a final heaping of
coals of fire on her enemy’s head.

To May’s great delight, Mr. Laurence not only bought the vases, but
pervaded the hall with one under each arm. The other gentlemen speculated with
equal rashness in all sorts of frail trifles, and wandered helplessly about
afterward, burdened with wax flowers, painted fans, filigree portfolios, and
other useful and appropriate purchases.

Aunt Carrol was there, heard the story, looked pleased, and said something to
Mrs. March in a corner, which made the latter lady beam with satisfaction, and
watch Amy with a face full of mingled pride and anxiety, though she did not
betray the cause of her pleasure till several days later.

The fair was pronounced a success, and when May bade Amy goodnight, she did not
gush as usual, but gave her an affectionate kiss, and a look which said
‘forgive and forget’. That satisfied Amy, and when she got home she
found the vases paraded on the parlor chimney piece with a great bouquet in
each. “The reward of merit for a magnanimous March,” as Laurie
announced with a flourish.

“You’ve a deal more principle and generosity and nobleness of
character than I ever gave you credit for, Amy. You’ve behaved sweetly,
and I respect you with all my heart,” said Jo warmly, as they brushed
their hair together late that night.

“Yes, we all do, and love her for being so ready to forgive. It must have
been dreadfully hard, after working so long and setting your heart on selling
your own pretty things. I don’t believe I could have done it as kindly as
you did,” added Beth from her pillow.

“Why, girls, you needn’t praise me so. I only did as I’d be
done by. You laugh at me when I say I want to be a lady, but I mean a true
gentlewoman in mind and manners, and I try to do it as far as I know how. I
can’t explain exactly, but I want to be above the little meannesses and
follies and faults that spoil so many women. I’m far from it now, but I
do my best, and hope in time to be what Mother is.”

Amy spoke earnestly, and Jo said, with a cordial hug, “I understand now
what you mean, and I’ll never laugh at you again. You are getting on
faster than you think, and I’ll take lessons of you in true politeness,
for you’ve learned the secret, I believe. Try away, deary, you’ll
get your reward some day, and no one will be more delighted than I
shall.”

A week later Amy did get her reward, and poor Jo found it hard to be delighted.
A letter came from Aunt Carrol, and Mrs. March’s face was illuminated to
such a degree when she read it that Jo and Beth, who were with her, demanded
what the glad tidings were.

“Aunt Carrol is going abroad next month, and wants…”

“Me to go with her!” burst in Jo, flying out of her chair in an
uncontrollable rapture.

“No, dear, not you. It’s Amy.”

“Oh, Mother! She’s too young, it’s my turn first. I’ve
wanted it so long. It would do me so much good, and be so altogether splendid.
I must go!”

“I’m afraid it’s impossible, Jo. Aunt says Amy, decidedly,
and it is not for us to dictate when she offers such a favor.”

“It’s always so. Amy has all the fun and I have all the work. It
isn’t fair, oh, it isn’t fair!” cried Jo passionately.

“I’m afraid it’s partly your own fault, dear. When Aunt spoke
to me the other day, she regretted your blunt manners and too independent
spirit, and here she writes, as if quoting something you had
said—‘I planned at first to ask Jo, but as ‘favors burden
her’, and she ‘hates French’, I think I won’t venture
to invite her. Amy is more docile, will make a good companion for Flo, and
receive gratefully any help the trip may give her.”

“Oh, my tongue, my abominable tongue! Why can’t I learn to keep it
quiet?” groaned Jo, remembering words which had been her undoing. When
she had heard the explanation of the quoted phrases, Mrs. March said
sorrowfully…

“I wish you could have gone, but there is no hope of it this time, so try
to bear it cheerfully, and don’t sadden Amy’s pleasure by
reproaches or regrets.”

“I’ll try,” said Jo, winking hard as she knelt down to pick
up the basket she had joyfully upset. “I’ll take a leaf out of her
book, and try not only to seem glad, but to be so, and not grudge her one
minute of happiness. But it won’t be easy, for it is a dreadful
disappointment,” and poor Jo bedewed the little fat pincushion she held
with several very bitter tears.

“Jo, dear, I’m very selfish, but I couldn’t spare you, and
I’m glad you are not going quite yet,” whispered Beth, embracing
her, basket and all, with such a clinging touch and loving face that Jo felt
comforted in spite of the sharp regret that made her want to box her own ears,
and humbly beg Aunt Carrol to burden her with this favor, and see how
gratefully she would bear it.

By the time Amy came in, Jo was able to take her part in the family jubilation,
not quite as heartily as usual, perhaps, but without repinings at Amy’s
good fortune. The young lady herself received the news as tidings of great joy,
went about in a solemn sort of rapture, and began to sort her colors and pack
her pencils that evening, leaving such trifles as clothes, money, and passports
to those less absorbed in visions of art than herself.

“It isn’t a mere pleasure trip to me, girls,” she said
impressively, as she scraped her best palette. “It will decide my career,
for if I have any genius, I shall find it out in Rome, and will do something to
prove it.”

“Suppose you haven’t?” said Jo, sewing away, with red eyes,
at the new collars which were to be handed over to Amy.

“Then I shall come home and teach drawing for my living,” replied
the aspirant for fame, with philosophic composure. But she made a wry face at
the prospect, and scratched away at her palette as if bent on vigorous measures
before she gave up her hopes.

“No, you won’t. You hate hard work, and you’ll marry some
rich man, and come home to sit in the lap of luxury all your days,” said
Jo.

“Your predictions sometimes come to pass, but I don’t believe that
one will. I’m sure I wish it would, for if I can’t be an artist
myself, I should like to be able to help those who are,” said Amy,
smiling, as if the part of Lady Bountiful would suit her better than that of a
poor drawing teacher.

“Hum!” said Jo, with a sigh. “If you wish it you’ll
have it, for your wishes are always granted—mine never.”

“Would you like to go?” asked Amy, thoughtfully patting her nose
with her knife.

“Rather!”

“Well, in a year or two I’ll send for you, and we’ll dig in
the Forum for relics, and carry out all the plans we’ve made so many
times.”

“Thank you. I’ll remind you of your promise when that joyful day
comes, if it ever does,” returned Jo, accepting the vague but magnificent
offer as gratefully as she could.

There was not much time for preparation, and the house was in a ferment till
Amy was off. Jo bore up very well till the last flutter of blue ribbon
vanished, when she retired to her refuge, the garret, and cried till she
couldn’t cry any more. Amy likewise bore up stoutly till the steamer
sailed. Then just as the gangway was about to be withdrawn, it suddenly came
over her that a whole ocean was soon to roll between her and those who loved
her best, and she clung to Laurie, the last lingerer, saying with a sob…

“Oh, take care of them for me, and if anything should happen…”

“I will, dear, I will, and if anything happens, I’ll come and
comfort you,” whispered Laurie, little dreaming that he would be called
upon to keep his word.

So Amy sailed away to find the Old World, which is always new and beautiful to
young eyes, while her father and friend watched her from the shore, fervently
hoping that none but gentle fortunes would befall the happy-hearted girl, who
waved her hand to them till they could see nothing but the summer sunshine
dazzling on the sea.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
OUR FOREIGN CORRESPONDENT

London

Dearest People, Here I really sit at a front window of the Bath Hotel,
Piccadilly. It’s not a fashionable place, but Uncle stopped here years
ago, and won’t go anywhere else. However, we don’t mean to stay
long, so it’s no great matter. Oh, I can’t begin to tell you how I
enjoy it all! I never can, so I’ll only give you bits out of my notebook,
for I’ve done nothing but sketch and scribble since I started.

I sent a line from Halifax, when I felt pretty miserable, but after that I got
on delightfully, seldom ill, on deck all day, with plenty of pleasant people to
amuse me. Everyone was very kind to me, especially the officers. Don’t
laugh, Jo, gentlemen really are very 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.

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. As for Jo, she would have gone up and sat on
the maintop jib, or whatever the high thing is called, made friends with the
engineers, and tooted on the captain’s speaking trumpet, she’d have
been in such a state of rapture.

It was all heavenly, but I was glad to see the Irish coast, and found it very
lovely, so green and sunny, with brown cabins here and there, ruins on some of
the hills, and gentlemen’s countryseats in the valleys, with deer feeding
in the parks. It was early in the morning, but I didn’t regret getting up
to see it, for the bay was full of little boats, the shore so picturesque, and
a rosy sky overhead. I never shall forget it.

At Queenstown one of my new acquaintances left us, Mr. Lennox, and when I said
something about the Lakes of Killarney, he sighed, and sung, with a look at
me…

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

Wasn’t that nonsensical?

We only stopped at Liverpool a few hours. It’s a dirty, noisy place, and
I was glad to leave it. Uncle rushed out and bought a pair of dogskin gloves,
some ugly, thick shoes, and an umbrella, and got shaved à la mutton
chop, the first thing. Then he flattered himself that he looked like a true
Briton, but the first time he had the mud cleaned off his shoes, the little
bootblack knew that an American stood in them, and said, with a grin,
“There yer har, sir. I’ve given ’em the latest Yankee
shine.” It amused Uncle immensely. Oh, I must tell you what that absurd
Lennox did! He got his friend Ward, who came on with us, to order a bouquet for
me, and the first thing I saw in my room was a lovely one, with “Robert
Lennox’s compliments,” on the card. Wasn’t that fun, girls? I
like traveling.

I never shall get to London if I don’t hurry. The trip was like riding
through a long picture gallery, full of lovely landscapes. The farmhouses were
my delight, with thatched roofs, ivy up to the eaves, latticed windows, and
stout women with rosy children at the doors. The very cattle looked more
tranquil than ours, as they stood knee-deep in clover, and the hens had a
contented cluck, as if they never got nervous like Yankee biddies. Such perfect
color I never saw, the grass so green, sky so blue, grain so yellow, woods so
dark, I was in a rapture all the way. So was Flo, and we kept bouncing from one
side to the other, trying to see everything while we were whisking along at the
rate of sixty miles an hour. Aunt was tired and went to sleep, but Uncle read
his guidebook, and wouldn’t be astonished at anything. This is the way we
went on. Amy, flying up—“Oh, that must be Kenilworth, that gray
place among the trees!” Flo, darting to my window—“How sweet!
We must go there sometime, won’t we Papa?” Uncle, calmly admiring
his boots—“No, my dear, not unless you want beer, that’s a
brewery.”

A pause—then Flo cried out, “Bless me, there’s a gallows and
a man going up.” “Where, where?” shrieks Amy, staring out at
two tall posts with a crossbeam and some dangling chains. “A
colliery,” remarks Uncle, with a twinkle of the eye. “Here’s
a lovely flock of lambs all lying down,” says Amy. “See, Papa,
aren’t they pretty?” added Flo sentimentally. “Geese, young
ladies,” returns Uncle, in a tone that keeps us quiet till Flo settles
down to enjoy the Flirtations of Captain Cavendish, and I have the
scenery all to myself.

Of course it rained when we got to London, and there was nothing to be seen but
fog and umbrellas. We rested, unpacked, and shopped a little between the
showers. Aunt Mary got me some new things, for I came off in such a hurry I
wasn’t half ready. A white hat and blue feather, a muslin dress to match,
and the loveliest mantle you ever saw. Shopping in Regent Street is perfectly
splendid. Things seem so cheap, nice ribbons only sixpence a yard. I laid in a
stock, but shall get my gloves in Paris. Doesn’t that sound sort of
elegant and rich?

Flo and I, for the fun of it, ordered a hansom cab, while Aunt and Uncle were
out, and went for a drive, though we learned afterward that it wasn’t the
thing for young ladies to ride in them alone. It was so droll! For when we were
shut in by the wooden apron, the man drove so fast that Flo was frightened, and
told me to stop him, but he was up outside behind somewhere, and I
couldn’t get at him. He didn’t hear me call, nor see me flap my
parasol in front, and there we were, quite helpless, rattling away, and
whirling around corners at a breakneck pace. At last, in my despair, I saw a
little door in the roof, and on poking it open, a red eye appeared, and a beery
voice said…

“Now, then, mum?”

I gave my order as soberly as I could, and slamming down the door, with an
“Aye, aye, mum,” the man made his horse walk, as if going to a
funeral. I poked again and said, “A little faster,” then off he
went, helter-skelter as before, and we resigned ourselves to our fate.

Today was fair, and we went to Hyde Park, close by, for we are more
aristocratic than we look. The Duke of Devonshire lives near. I often see his
footmen lounging at the back gate, and the Duke of Wellington’s house is
not far off. Such sights as I saw, my dear! It was as good as Punch, for there
were fat dowagers rolling about in their red and yellow coaches, with gorgeous
Jeameses in silk stockings and velvet coats, up behind, and powdered coachmen
in front. Smart maids, with the rosiest children I ever saw, handsome girls,
looking half asleep, dandies in queer English hats and lavender kids lounging
about, and tall soldiers, in short red jackets and muffin caps stuck on one
side, looking so funny I longed to sketch them.

Rotten Row means ‘Route de Roi’, or the king’s way, but now
it’s more like a riding school than anything else. The horses are
splendid, and the men, especially the grooms, ride well, but the women are
stiff, and bounce, which isn’t according to our rules. I longed to show
them a tearing American gallop, for they trotted solemnly up and down, in their
scant habits and high hats, looking like the women in a toy Noah’s Ark.
Everyone rides—old men, stout ladies, little children—and the young
folks do a deal of flirting here, I saw a pair exchange rose buds, for
it’s the thing to wear one in the button-hole, and I thought it rather a
nice little idea.

In the P.M. to Westminster Abbey, but don’t expect me to describe it,
that’s impossible, so I’ll only say it was sublime! This evening we
are going to see Fechter, which will be an appropriate end to the happiest day
of my life.

It’s very late, but I can’t let my letter go in the morning without
telling you what happened last evening. Who do you think came in, as we were at
tea? Laurie’s English friends, Fred and Frank Vaughn! I was so surprised,
for I shouldn’t have known them but for the cards. Both are tall fellows
with whiskers, Fred handsome in the English style, and Frank much better, for
he only limps slightly, and uses no crutches. They had heard from Laurie where
we were to be, and came to ask us to their house, but Uncle won’t go, so
we shall return the call, and see them as we can. They went to the theater with
us, and we did have such a good time, for Frank devoted himself to Flo, and
Fred and I talked over past, present, and future fun as if we had known each
other all our days. Tell Beth Frank asked for her, and was sorry to hear of her
ill health. Fred laughed when I spoke of Jo, and sent his ‘respectful
compliments to the big hat’. Neither of them had forgotten Camp Laurence,
or the fun we had there. What ages ago it seems, doesn’t it?

Aunt is tapping on the wall for the third time, so I must stop. I really feel
like a dissipated London fine lady, writing here so late, with my room full of
pretty things, and my head a jumble of parks, theaters, new gowns, and gallant
creatures who say “Ah!” and twirl their blond mustaches with the
true English lordliness. I long to see you all, and in spite of my nonsense am,
as ever, your loving…

AMY

PARIS

Dear girls,

In my last I told you about our London visit, how kind the Vaughns were, and
what pleasant parties they made for us. I enjoyed the trips to Hampton Court
and the Kensington Museum more than anything else, for at Hampton I saw
Raphael’s cartoons, and at the Museum, rooms full of pictures by Turner,
Lawrence, Reynolds, Hogarth, and the other great creatures. The day in Richmond
Park was charming, for we had a regular English picnic, and I had more splendid
oaks and groups of deer than I could copy, also heard a nightingale, and saw
larks go up. We ‘did’ London to our heart’s content, thanks
to Fred and Frank, and were sorry to go away, for though English people are
slow to take you in, when they once make up their minds to do it they cannot be
outdone in hospitality, I think. The Vaughns hope to meet us in Rome next
winter, and I shall be dreadfully disappointed if they don’t, for Grace
and I are great friends, and the boys very nice fellows, especially Fred.

Well, we were hardly settled here, when he turned up again, saying he had come
for a holiday, and was going to Switzerland. Aunt looked sober at first, but he
was so cool about it she couldn’t say a word. And now we get on nicely,
and are very glad he came, for he speaks French like a native, and I
don’t know what we should do without him. Uncle doesn’t know ten
words, and insists on talking English very loud, as if it would make people
understand him. Aunt’s pronunciation is old-fashioned, and Flo and I,
though we flattered ourselves that we knew a good deal, find we don’t,
and are very grateful to have Fred do the ‘parley vooing’,
as Uncle calls it.

Such delightful times as we are having! Sight-seeing from morning till night,
stopping for nice lunches in the gay cafes, and meeting with all sorts
of droll adventures. Rainy days I spend in the Louvre, revelling in pictures.
Jo would turn up her naughty nose at some of the finest, because she has no
soul for art, but I have, and I’m cultivating eye and taste as fast as I
can. She would like the relics of great people better, for I’ve seen her
Napoleon’s cocked hat and gray coat, his baby’s cradle and his old
toothbrush, also Marie Antoinette’s little shoe, the ring of Saint Denis,
Charlemagne’s sword, and many other interesting things. I’ll talk
for hours about them when I come, but haven’t time to write.

The Palais Royale is a heavenly place, so full of bijouterie and lovely
things that I’m nearly distracted because I can’t buy them. Fred
wanted to get me some, but of course I didn’t allow it. Then the Bois and
Champs Elysees are tres magnifique. I’ve seen the imperial family
several times, the emperor an ugly, hard-looking man, the empress pale and
pretty, but dressed in bad taste, I thought—purple dress, green hat, and
yellow gloves. Little Nap is a handsome boy, who sits chatting to his tutor,
and kisses his hand to the people as he passes in his four-horse barouche, with
postilions in red satin jackets and a mounted guard before and behind.

We often walk in the Tuileries Gardens, for they are lovely, though the antique
Luxembourg Gardens suit me better. Pere la Chaise is very curious, for many of
the tombs are like small rooms, and looking in, one sees a table, with images
or pictures of the dead, and chairs for the mourners to sit in when they come
to lament. That is so Frenchy.

Our rooms are on the Rue de Rivoli, and sitting on the balcony, we look up and
down the long, brilliant street. It is so pleasant that we spend our evenings
talking there when too tired with our day’s work to go out. Fred is very
entertaining, and is altogether the most agreeable young man I ever
knew—except Laurie, whose manners are more charming. I wish Fred was
dark, for I don’t fancy light men, however, the Vaughns are very rich and
come of an excellent family, so I won’t find fault with their yellow
hair, as my own is yellower.

Next week we are off to Germany and Switzerland, and as we shall travel fast, I
shall only be able to give you hasty letters. I keep my diary, and try to
‘remember correctly and describe clearly all that I see and
admire’, as Father advised. It is good practice for me, and with my
sketchbook will give you a better idea of my tour than these scribbles.

Adieu, I embrace you tenderly. “Votre Amie.”

HEIDELBERG

My dear Mamma,

Having a quiet hour before we leave for Berne, I’ll try to tell you what
has happened, for some of it is very important, as you will see.

The sail up the Rhine was perfect, and I just sat and enjoyed it with all my
might. Get Father’s old guidebooks and read about it. I haven’t
words beautiful enough to describe it. At Coblentz we had a lovely time, for
some students from Bonn, with whom Fred got acquainted on the boat, gave us a
serenade. It was a moonlight night, and about one o’clock Flo and I were
waked by the most delicious music under our windows. We flew up, and hid behind
the curtains, but sly peeps showed us Fred and the students singing away down
below. It was the most romantic thing I ever saw—the river, the bridge of
boats, the great fortress opposite, moonlight everywhere, and music fit to melt
a heart of stone.

When they were done we threw down some flowers, and saw them scramble for them,
kiss their hands to the invisible ladies, and go laughing away, to smoke and
drink beer, I suppose. Next morning Fred showed me one of the crumpled flowers
in his vest pocket, and looked very sentimental. I laughed at him, and said I
didn’t throw it, but Flo, which seemed to disgust him, for he tossed it
out of the window, and turned sensible again. I’m afraid I’m going
to have trouble with that boy, it begins to look like it.

The baths at Nassau were very gay, so was Baden-Baden, where Fred lost some
money, and I scolded him. He needs someone 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. Frankfurt 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 everyone knew it
or pretended they did. I wish Jo would tell me all about it. I ought to have
read more, for I find I don’t know anything, and it mortifies me.

Now comes the serious part, for it happened here, and Fred has just gone. He
has been so kind and jolly that we all got quite fond of him. I never thought
of anything but a traveling 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—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 it is! A city house in a
fashionable street, not so showy as our big houses, but twice as comfortable
and full of solid luxury, such as English people believe in. I like it, for
it’s genuine. I’ve seen the plate, the family jewels, the old
servants, and pictures of the country place, with its park, great house, lovely
grounds, and fine horses. Oh, it would be all I should ask! And I’d
rather have it than any title such as girls snap up so readily, and find
nothing behind. I may be mercenary, but I hate poverty, and don’t mean to
bear it a minute longer than I can help. One of us must marry well. Meg
didn’t, Jo won’t, Beth can’t yet, so I shall, and make
everything okay 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 anyone else who ventures to speak to me. Yesterday at
dinner, when an Austrian officer stared at us and then said something to his
friend, a rakish-looking baron, about ‘ein wonderschones
Blondchen’, Fred looked as fierce as a lion, and cut his meat so
savagely it nearly flew off his plate. He isn’t one of the cool, stiff
Englishmen, but is rather peppery, for he has Scotch blood in him, as one might
guess from his bonnie blue eyes.

Well, last evening we went up to the castle about sunset, at least all of us
but Fred, who was to meet us there after going to the 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 real storybook girl. I had a feeling
that something was going to happen and I was ready for it. I didn’t feel
blushy or quakey, but quite cool and only a little excited.

By-and-by I heard Fred’s voice, and then he came hurrying through the
great arch to find me. He looked so troubled that I forgot all about myself,
and asked what the matter was. He said he’d just got a letter begging him
to come home, for Frank was very ill. So he was going at once on the night
train and only had time to say good-by. I was very sorry for him, and
disappointed for myself, but only for a minute because he said, as he shook
hands, and said it in a way that I could not mistake, “I shall soon come
back, you won’t forget me, Amy?”

I didn’t promise, 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 a while, for he is a rash boy, and the old gentleman dreads a
foreign daughter-in-law. We shall soon meet in Rome, and then, if I don’t
change my mind, I’ll say “Yes, thank you,” when he says
“Will you, please?”

Of course this is all very private, but I 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.

Ever your AMY

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
TENDER TROUBLES

“Jo, I’m anxious about Beth.”

“Why, Mother, she has seemed unusually well since the babies came.”

“It’s not her health that troubles me now, it’s her spirits.
I’m sure there is something on her mind, and I want you to discover what
it is.”

“What makes you think so, Mother?”

“She sits alone a good deal, and doesn’t talk to her father as much
as she used. I found her crying over the babies the other day. When she sings,
the songs are always sad ones, and now and then I see a look in her face that I
don’t understand. This isn’t like Beth, and it worries me.”

“Have you asked her about it?”

“I have tried once or twice, but she either evaded my questions or looked
so distressed that I stopped. I never force my children’s confidence, and
I seldom have to wait for long.”

Mrs. March glanced at Jo as she spoke, but the face opposite seemed quite
unconscious of any secret disquietude but Beth’s, and after sewing
thoughtfully for a minute, Jo said, “I think she is growing up, and so
begins to dream dreams, and have hopes and fears and fidgets, without knowing
why or being able to explain them. Why, Mother, Beth’s eighteen, but we
don’t realize it, and treat her like a child, forgetting she’s a
woman.”

“So she is. Dear heart, how fast you do grow up,” returned her
mother with a sigh and a smile.

“Can’t be helped, Marmee, so you must resign yourself to all sorts
of worries, and let your birds hop out of the nest, one by one. I promise never
to hop very far, if that is any comfort to you.”

“It’s a great comfort, Jo. I always feel strong when you are at
home, now Meg is gone. Beth is too feeble and Amy too young to depend upon, but
when the tug comes, you are always ready.”

“Why, you know I don’t mind hard jobs much, and there must always
be one scrub in a family. Amy is splendid in fine works and I’m not, but
I feel in my element when all the carpets are to be taken up, or half the
family fall sick at once. Amy is distinguishing herself abroad, but if anything
is amiss at home, I’m your man.”

“I leave Beth to your hands, then, for she will open her tender little
heart to her Jo sooner than to anyone else. Be very kind, and don’t let
her think anyone watches or talks about her. If she only would get quite strong
and cheerful again, I shouldn’t have a wish in the world.”

“Happy woman! I’ve got heaps.”

“My dear, what are they?”

“I’ll settle Bethy’s troubles, and then I’ll tell you
mine. They are not very wearing, so they’ll keep.” and Jo stitched
away, with a wise nod which set her mother’s heart at rest about her for
the present at least.

While apparently absorbed in her own affairs, Jo watched Beth, and after many
conflicting conjectures, finally settled upon one which seemed to explain the
change in her. A slight incident gave Jo the clue to the mystery, she thought,
and lively fancy, loving heart did the rest. She was affecting to write busily
one Saturday afternoon, when she and Beth were alone together. Yet as she
scribbled, she kept her eye on her sister, who seemed unusually quiet. Sitting
at the window, Beth’s work often dropped into her lap, and she leaned her
head upon her hand, in a dejected attitude, while her eyes rested on the dull,
autumnal landscape. Suddenly some one passed below, whistling like an operatic
blackbird, and a voice called out, “All serene! Coming in tonight.”

Beth started, leaned forward, smiled and nodded, watched the passer-by till his
quick tramp died away, then said softly as if to herself, “How strong and
well and happy that dear boy looks.”

“Hum!” said Jo, still intent upon her sister’s face, for the
bright color faded as quickly as it came, the smile vanished, and presently a
tear lay shining on the window ledge. Beth whisked it off, and in her
half-averted face read a tender sorrow that made her own eyes fill. Fearing to
betray herself, she slipped away, murmuring something about needing more paper.

“Mercy on me, Beth loves Laurie!” she said, sitting down in her own
room, pale with the shock of the discovery which she believed she had just
made. “I never dreamed of such a thing. What will Mother say? I wonder if
her…” there Jo stopped and turned scarlet with a sudden thought.
“If he shouldn’t love back again, how dreadful it would be. He
must. I’ll make him!” and she shook her head threateningly at the
picture of the mischievous-looking boy laughing at her from the wall. “Oh
dear, we are growing up with a vengeance. Here’s Meg married and a mamma,
Amy flourishing away at Paris, and Beth in love. I’m the only one that
has sense enough to keep out of mischief.” Jo thought intently for a
minute with her eyes fixed on the picture, then she smoothed out her wrinkled
forehead and said, with a decided nod at the face opposite, “No thank
you, sir, you’re very charming, but you’ve no more stability than a
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.”

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 anyone
dared to suggest it. If they had known the various tender passages which had
been nipped in the bud, they would have had the immense satisfaction of saying,
“I told you so.” But Jo hated ‘philandering’, and
wouldn’t allow it, always having a joke or a smile ready at the least
sign of impending danger.

When Laurie first went to college, he fell in love about once a month, but
these small flames were as brief as ardent, did no damage, and much amused Jo,
who took great interest in the alternations of hope, despair, and resignation,
which were confided to her in their weekly conferences. But there came a time
when Laurie ceased to worship at many shrines, hinted darkly at one
all-absorbing passion, and indulged occasionally in Byronic fits of gloom. Then
he avoided the tender subject altogether, wrote philosophical notes to Jo,
turned studious, and gave out that he was going to ‘dig’, intending
to graduate in a blaze of glory. This suited the young lady better than
twilight confidences, tender pressures of the hand, and eloquent glances of the
eye, for with Jo, brain developed earlier than heart, and she preferred
imaginary heroes to real ones, because when tired of them, the former could be
shut up in the tin kitchen till called for, and the latter were less
manageable.

Things were in this state when the grand discovery was made, and Jo watched
Laurie that night as she had never done before. If she had not got the new idea
into her head, she would have seen nothing unusual in the fact that Beth was
very quiet, and Laurie very kind to her. But having given the rein to her
lively fancy, it galloped away with her at a great pace, and common sense,
being rather weakened by a long course of romance writing, did not come to the
rescue. As usual Beth lay on the sofa and Laurie sat in a low chair close by,
amusing her with all sorts of gossip, for she depended on her weekly
‘spin’, and he never disappointed her. But that evening Jo fancied
that Beth’s eyes rested on the lively, dark face beside her with peculiar
pleasure, and that she listened with intense interest to an account of some
exciting cricket match, though the phrases, ‘caught off a tice’,
‘stumped off his ground’, and ‘the leg hit for three’,
were as intelligible to her as Sanskrit. She also fancied, having set her heart
upon seeing it, that she saw a certain increase of gentleness in Laurie’s
manner, that he dropped his voice now and then, laughed less than usual, was a
little absent-minded, and settled the afghan over Beth’s feet with an
assiduity that was really almost tender.

“Who knows? Stranger things have happened,” thought Jo, as she
fussed about the room. “She will make quite an angel of him, and he will
make life delightfully easy and pleasant for the dear, if they only love each
other. I don’t see how he can help it, and I do believe he would if the
rest of us were out of the way.”

As everyone was out of the way but herself, Jo began to feel that she ought to
dispose of herself with all speed. But where should she go? And burning to lay
herself upon the shrine of sisterly devotion, she sat down to settle that
point.

Now, the old sofa was a regular patriarch of a sofa—long, broad,
well-cushioned, and low, a trifle shabby, as well it might be, for the girls
had slept and sprawled on it as babies, fished over the back, rode on the arms,
and had menageries under it as children, and rested tired heads, dreamed
dreams, and listened to tender talk on it as young women. They all loved it,
for it was a family refuge, and one corner had always been Jo’s favorite
lounging place. Among the many pillows that adorned the venerable couch was
one, hard, round, covered with prickly horsehair, and furnished with a knobby
button at each end. This repulsive pillow was her especial property, being used
as a weapon of defense, a barricade, or a stern preventive of too much slumber.

Laurie knew this pillow well, and had cause to regard it with deep aversion,
having been unmercifully pummeled with it in former days when romping was
allowed, and now frequently debarred by it from 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 man, woman, or child who dared disturb it! That evening
Jo forgot to barricade her corner, and had not been in her seat five minutes,
before a massive form appeared beside her, and with both arms spread over the
sofa back, both long legs stretched out before him, Laurie exclaimed, with a
sigh of satisfaction…

“Now, this is filling at the price.”

“No slang,” snapped Jo, slamming down the pillow. But it was too
late, there was no room for it, and coasting onto the floor, it disappeared in
a most mysterious manner.

“Come, Jo, don’t be thorny. After studying himself to a skeleton
all the week, a fellow deserves petting and ought to get it.”

“Beth will pet you. I’m busy.”

“No, she’s not to be bothered with me, but you like that sort of
thing, unless you’ve suddenly lost your taste for it. Have you? Do you
hate your boy, and want to fire pillows at him?”

Anything more wheedlesome than that touching appeal was seldom heard, but Jo
quenched ‘her boy’ by turning on him with a stern query, “How
many bouquets have you sent Miss Randal this week?”

“Not one, upon my word. She’s engaged. Now then.”

“I’m glad of it, that’s one of your foolish extravagances,
sending flowers and things to girls for whom you don’t care two
pins,” continued Jo reprovingly.

“Sensible girls for whom I do care whole papers of pins won’t let
me send them ‘flowers and things’, so what can I do? My feelings
need a ‘vent’.”

“Mother doesn’t approve of flirting even in fun, and you do flirt
desperately, Teddy.”

“I’d give anything if I could answer, ‘So do you’. As I
can’t, I’ll merely say that I don’t see any harm in that
pleasant little game, if all parties understand that it’s only
play.”

“Well, it does look pleasant, but I can’t learn how it’s
done. I’ve tried, because one feels awkward in company not to do as
everybody else is doing, but I don’t seem to get on”, said Jo,
forgetting to play mentor.

“Take lessons of Amy, she has a regular talent for it.”

“Yes, she does it very prettily, and never seems to go too far. I suppose
it’s natural to some people to please without trying, and others to
always say and do the wrong thing in the wrong place.”

“I’m glad you can’t flirt. It’s really refreshing to
see a sensible, 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.”

“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.”

“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 gentleman. Bless your innocent soul! If you could be in my
place for a month you’d see things that would astonish you a trifle. Upon
my word, when I see one of those harum-scarum girls, I always want to say with
our friend Cock Robin…

“Out upon you, fie upon you,
Bold-faced jig!”

It was impossible to help laughing at the funny conflict between Laurie’s
chivalrous reluctance to speak ill of womankind, and his very natural dislike
of the unfeminine folly of which fashionable society showed him many samples.
Jo knew that ‘young Laurence’ was regarded as a most eligible parti
by worldly mamas, 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 spoiled, and rejoiced more than she confessed to
find that he still believed in modest girls. Returning suddenly to her
admonitory tone, she said, dropping her voice, “If you must have a
‘vent’, Teddy, go and devote yourself to one of the ‘pretty,
modest girls’ whom you do respect, and not waste your time with the silly
ones.”

“You really advise it?” and Laurie looked at her with an odd
mixture of anxiety and merriment in his face.

“Yes, I do, but you’d better wait till you are through college, on
the whole, and be fitting yourself for the place meantime. You’re not
half good enough for—well, whoever the modest girl may be.” and Jo
looked a little queer likewise, for a name had almost escaped her.

“That I’m not!” acquiesced Laurie, with an expression of
humility quite new to him, as he dropped his eyes and absently wound Jo’s
apron tassel round his finger.

“Mercy on us, this will never do,” thought Jo, adding aloud,
“Go and sing to me. I’m dying for some music, and always like
yours.”

“I’d rather stay here, thank you.”

“Well, you can’t, there isn’t room. Go and make yourself
useful, since you are too big to be ornamental. I thought you hated to be tied
to a woman’s apron string?” retorted Jo, quoting certain rebellious
words of his own.

“Ah, that depends on who wears the apron!” and Laurie gave an
audacious tweak at the tassel.

“Are you going?” demanded Jo, diving for the pillow.

He fled at once, and the minute it was well, “Up with the bonnets of
bonnie Dundee,” she slipped away to return no more till the young
gentleman departed in high dudgeon.

Jo lay long awake that night, and was just dropping off when the sound of a
stifled sob made her fly to Beth’s bedside, with the anxious inquiry,
“What is it, dear?”

“I thought you were asleep,” sobbed Beth.

“Is it the old pain, my precious?”

“No, it’s a new one, but I can bear it,” and Beth tried to
check her tears.

“Tell me all about it, and let me cure it as I often did the
other.”

“You can’t, there is no cure.” There Beth’s voice gave
way, and clinging to her sister, she cried so despairingly that Jo was
frightened.

“Where is it? Shall I call Mother?”

“No, no, don’t call her, don’t tell her. I shall be better
soon. Lie down here and ‘poor’ my head. I’ll be quiet and go
to sleep, indeed I will.”

Jo obeyed, but as her hand went softly to and fro across Beth’s hot
forehead and wet eyelids, her heart was very full and she longed to speak. But
young as she was, Jo had learned that hearts, like flowers, cannot be rudely
handled, but must open naturally, so though she believed she knew the cause of
Beth’s new pain, she only said, in her tenderest tone, “Does
anything trouble you, deary?”

“Yes, Jo,” after a long pause.

“Wouldn’t it comfort you to tell me what it is?”

“Not now, not yet.”

“Then I won’t ask, but remember, Bethy, that Mother and Jo are
always glad to hear and help you, if they can.”

“I know it. I’ll tell you by-and-by.”

“Is the pain better now?”

“Oh, yes, much better, you are so comfortable, Jo.”

“Go to sleep, dear. I’ll stay with you.”

So cheek to cheek they fell asleep, and on the morrow Beth seemed quite herself
again, for at eighteen neither heads nor hearts ache long, and a loving word
can medicine most ills.

But Jo had made up her mind, and after pondering over a project for some days,
she confided it to her mother.

“You asked me the other day what my wishes were. I’ll tell you one
of them, Marmee,” she began, as they sat along together. “I want to
go away somewhere this winter for a change.”

“Why, Jo?” and her mother looked up quickly, as if the words
suggested a double meaning.

With her eyes on her work Jo answered soberly, “I want something new. I
feel restless and anxious to be seeing, doing, and learning more than I am. I
brood too much over my own small affairs, and need stirring up, so as I can be
spared this winter, I’d like to hop a little way and try my wings.”

“Where will you hop?”

“To New York. I had a bright idea yesterday, and this is it. You know
Mrs. Kirke wrote to you for some respectable young person to teach her children
and sew. It’s rather hard to find just the thing, but I think I should
suit if I tried.”

“My dear, go out to service in that great boarding house!” and Mrs.
March looked surprised, but not displeased.

“It’s not exactly going out to service, for Mrs. Kirke is your
friend—the kindest soul that ever lived—and would make things
pleasant for me, I know. Her family is separate from the rest, and no one knows
me there. Don’t care if they do. It’s honest work, and I’m
not ashamed of it.”

“Nor I. But your writing?”

“All the better for the change. I shall see and hear new things, get new
ideas, and even if I haven’t much time there, I shall bring home
quantities of material for my rubbish.”

“I have no doubt of it, but are these your only reasons for this sudden
fancy?”

“No, Mother.”

“May I know the others?”

Jo looked up and Jo looked down, then said slowly, with sudden color in her
cheeks. “It may be vain and wrong to say it, but—I’m
afraid—Laurie is getting too fond of me.”

“Then you don’t care for him in the way it is evident he begins to
care for you?” and Mrs. March looked anxious as she put the question.

“Mercy, no! I love the dear boy, as I always have, and am immensely proud
of him, but as for anything more, it’s out of the question.”

“I’m glad of that, Jo.”

“Why, please?”

“Because, dear, I don’t think you suited to one another. As friends
you are very happy, and your frequent quarrels soon blow over, but I fear you
would both rebel if you were mated for life. You are too much alike and too
fond of freedom, not to mention hot tempers and strong wills, to get on happily
together, in a relation which needs infinite patience and forbearance, as well
as love.”

“That’s just the feeling I had, though I couldn’t express it.
I’m glad you think he is only beginning to care for me. It would trouble
me sadly to make him unhappy, for I couldn’t fall in love with the dear
old fellow merely out of gratitude, could I?”

“You are sure of his feeling for you?”

The color deepened in Jo’s cheeks as she answered, with the look of
mingled pleasure, pride, and pain which young girls wear when speaking of first
lovers, “I’m afraid it is so, Mother. He hasn’t said
anything, but he looks a great deal. I think I had better go away before it
comes to anything.”

“I agree with you, and if it can be managed you shall go.”

Jo looked relieved, and after a pause, said, smiling, “How Mrs. Moffat
would wonder at your want of management, if she knew, and how she will rejoice
that Annie may still hope.”

“Ah, Jo, mothers may differ in their management, but the hope is the same
in all—the desire to see their children happy. Meg is so, and I am
content with her success. You I leave to enjoy your liberty till you tire of
it, for only then will you find that there is something sweeter. Amy is my
chief care now, but her good sense will help her. For Beth, I indulge no hopes
except that she may be well. By the way, she seems brighter this last day or
two. Have you spoken to her?’

“Yes, she owned she had a trouble, and promised to tell me by-and-by. I
said no more, for I think I know it,” and Jo told her little story.

Mrs. March shook her head, and did not take so romantic a view of the case, but
looked grave, and repeated her opinion that for Laurie’s sake Jo should
go away for a time.

“Let us say nothing about it to him till the plan is settled, then
I’ll run away before he can collect his wits and be tragic. 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
lovelornity.”

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 ‘lovelornity’ as easily as heretofore.

The plan was talked over in a family council and agreed upon, for Mrs. Kirke
gladly accepted Jo, and promised to make a pleasant home for her. The teaching
would render her independent, and such leisure as she got might be made
profitable by writing, while the new scenes and society would be both useful
and agreeable. Jo liked the prospect and was eager to be gone, for the home
nest was growing too narrow for her restless nature and adventurous spirit.
When all was settled, with fear and trembling she told Laurie, but to her
surprise he took it very quietly. He had been graver than usual of late, but
very pleasant, and when jokingly accused of turning over a new leaf, he
answered soberly, “So I am, and I mean this one shall stay turned.”

Jo was very much relieved that one of his virtuous fits should come on just
then, and made her preparations with a lightened heart, for Beth seemed more
cheerful, and hoped she was doing the best for all.

“One thing I leave in your especial care,” she said, the night
before she left.

“You mean your papers?” asked Beth.

“No, my boy. Be very good to him, won’t you?”

“Of course I will, but I can’t fill your place, and he’ll
miss you sadly.”

“It won’t hurt him, so remember, I leave him in your charge, to
plague, pet, and keep in order.”

“I’ll do my best, for your sake,” promised Beth, wondering
why Jo looked at her so queerly.

When Laurie said good-by, he whispered significantly, “It won’t do
a bit of good, Jo. My eye is on you, so mind what you do, or I’ll come
and bring you home.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
JO’S JOURNAL

New York, November

Dear Marmee and Beth,

I’m going to write you a regular volume, for I’ve got heaps to
tell, though I’m not a fine young lady traveling on the continent. When I
lost sight of Father’s dear old face, I felt a trifle blue, and might
have shed a briny drop or two, if an Irish lady with four small children, all
crying more or less, hadn’t diverted my mind, for I amused myself by
dropping gingerbread nuts over the seat every time they opened their mouths to
roar.

Soon the sun came out, and taking it as a good omen, I cleared up likewise and
enjoyed my journey with all my heart.

Mrs. Kirke welcomed me so kindly I felt at home at once, even in that big house
full of strangers. She gave me a funny little sky parlor—all she had, but
there is a stove in it, and a nice table in a sunny window, so I can sit here
and write whenever I like. A fine view and a church tower opposite atone for
the many stairs, and I took a fancy to my den on the spot. The nursery, where I
am to teach and sew, is a pleasant room next Mrs. Kirke’s private parlor,
and the two little girls are pretty children, rather spoiled, I fancy, but they
took to me after telling them The Seven Bad Pigs, and I’ve no doubt I
shall make a model governess.

I am to have my meals with the children, if I prefer it to the great table, and
for the present I do, for I am bashful, though no one will believe it.

“Now, my dear, make yourself at home,” said Mrs. K. in her motherly
way, “I’m on the drive from morning to night, as you may suppose
with such a family, but a great anxiety will be off my mind if I know the
children are safe with you. My rooms are always open to you, and your own shall
be as comfortable as I can make it. There are some pleasant people in the house
if you feel sociable, and your evenings are always free. Come to me if anything
goes wrong, and be as happy as you can. There’s the tea bell, I must run
and change my cap.” And off she bustled, leaving me to settle myself in
my new nest.

As I went downstairs soon after, I saw something I liked. The flights are very
long in this tall house, and as I stood waiting at the head of the third one
for a little servant girl to lumber up, I saw a gentleman come along behind
her, take the heavy hod of coal out of her hand, carry it all the way up, put
it down at a door near by, and walk away, saying, with a kind nod and a foreign
accent, “It goes better so. The little back is too young to haf such
heaviness.”

Wasn’t it good of him? I like such things, for as Father says, trifles
show character. When I mentioned it to Mrs. K., that evening, she laughed, and
said, “That must have been Professor Bhaer, he’s always doing
things of that sort.”

Mrs. K. told me he was from Berlin, very learned and good, but poor as a church
mouse, and gives lessons to support himself and two little orphan nephews whom
he is educating here, according to the wishes of his sister, who married an
American. Not a very romantic story, but it interested me, and I was glad to
hear that Mrs. K. lends him her parlor for some of his scholars. There is a
glass door between it and the nursery, and I mean to peep at him, and then
I’ll tell you how he looks. He’s almost forty, so it’s no
harm, Marmee.

After tea and a go-to-bed romp with the little girls, I attacked the big
workbasket, and had a quiet evening chatting with my new friend. I shall keep a
journal-letter, and send it once a week, so goodnight, and more tomorrow.

Tuesday Eve

Had a lively time in my seminary this morning, for the children acted like
Sancho, and at one time I really thought I should shake them all round. Some
good angel inspired me to try gymnastics, and I kept it up till they were glad
to sit down and keep still. After luncheon, the girl took them out for a walk,
and I went to my needlework like little Mabel ‘with a willing
mind’. I was thanking my stars that I’d learned to make nice
buttonholes, when the parlor door opened and shut, and someone began to hum,
Kennst Du Das Land, like a big bumblebee. 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—rather
stout, with brown hair tumbled all over his head, a bushy beard, good nose, the
kindest eyes I ever saw, and a splendid big voice that does one’s ears
good, after our sharp or slipshod American gabble. His clothes were rusty, his
hands were large, and he hadn’t a really handsome feature in his face,
except his beautiful teeth, yet I liked him, for he had a fine head, his linen
was very nice, and he looked like a gentleman, though two buttons were off his
coat and there was a patch on one shoe. He looked sober in spite of his
humming, till he went to the window to turn the hyacinth bulbs toward the sun,
and stroke the cat, who received him like an old friend. Then he smiled, and
when a tap came at the door, called out in a loud, brisk tone,
“Herein!”

I was just going to run, when I caught sight of a morsel of a child carrying a
big book, and stopped, to see what was going on.

“Me wants me Bhaer,” said the mite, slamming down her book and
running to meet him.

“Thou shalt haf thy Bhaer. Come, then, and take a goot hug from him, my
Tina,” said the Professor, catching her up with a laugh, and holding her
so high over his head that she had to stoop her little face to kiss him.

“Now me mus tuddy my lessin,” went on the funny little thing. So he
put her up at the table, opened the great dictionary she had brought, and gave
her a paper and pencil, and she scribbled away, turning a leaf now and then,
and passing her little fat finger down the page, as if finding a word, so
soberly that I nearly betrayed myself by a laugh, while Mr. Bhaer stood
stroking her pretty hair with a fatherly look that made me think she must be
his own, though she looked more French than German.

Another knock and the appearance of two young ladies sent me back to my work,
and there I virtuously remained through all the noise and gabbling that went on
next door. One of the girls kept laughing affectedly, and saying, “Now
Professor,” in a coquettish tone, and the other pronounced her German
with an accent that must have made it hard for him to keep sober.

Both seemed to try his patience sorely, for more than once I heard him say
emphatically, “No, no, it is not so, you haf not attend to what I
say,” and once there was a loud rap, as if he struck the table with his
book, followed by the despairing exclamation, “Prut! It all goes bad this
day.”

Poor man, I pitied him, and when the girls were gone, took just one more peep
to see if he survived it. He seemed to have thrown himself back in his chair,
tired out, and sat there with his eyes shut till the clock struck two, when he
jumped up, put his books in his pocket, as if ready for another lesson, and
taking little Tina who had fallen asleep on the sofa in his arms, he carried
her quietly away. I fancy he has a hard life of it. Mrs. Kirke asked me if I
wouldn’t go down to the five o’clock dinner, and feeling a little
bit homesick, I thought I would, just to see what sort of people are under the
same roof with me. So I made myself respectable and tried to slip in behind
Mrs. Kirke, but as she is short and I’m tall, my efforts at concealment
were rather a failure. She gave me a seat by her, and after my face cooled off,
I plucked up courage and looked about me. The long table was full, and every
one intent on getting their dinner, the gentlemen especially, who seemed to be
eating on time, for they bolted in every sense of the word, vanishing as soon
as they were done. There was the usual assortment of young men absorbed in
themselves, young couples absorbed in each other, married ladies in their
babies, and old gentlemen in politics. I don’t think I shall care to have
much to do with any of them, except one sweetfaced maiden lady, who looks as if
she had something in her.

Cast away at the very bottom of the table was the Professor, shouting answers
to the questions of a very inquisitive, deaf old gentleman on one side, and
talking philosophy with a Frenchman on the other. If Amy had been here,
she’d have turned her back on him forever because, sad to relate, he had
a great appetite, and shoveled in his dinner in a manner which would have
horrified ‘her ladyship’. I didn’t mind, for I like ‘to
see folks eat with a relish’, as Hannah says, and the poor man must have
needed a deal of food after teaching idiots all day.

As I went upstairs after dinner, two of the young men were settling their hats
before the hall mirror, and I heard one say low to the other,
“Who’s the new party?”

“Governess, or something of that sort.”

“What the deuce is she at our table for?”

“Friend of the old lady’s.”

“Handsome head, but no style.”

“Not a bit of it. Give us a light and come on.”

I felt angry at first, and then I didn’t care, for a governess is as good
as a clerk, and I’ve got sense, if I haven’t style, which is more
than some people have, judging from the remarks of the elegant beings who
clattered away, smoking like bad chimneys. I hate ordinary people!

Thursday

Yesterday was a quiet day spent in teaching, sewing, and writing in my little
room, which is very cozy, 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 younger 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. Kirke says, and takes it
so good-naturedly that they all like him in spite of his foreign ways.

The maiden lady is a Miss Norton, rich, cultivated, and kind. She spoke to me
at dinner today (for I went to table again, it’s such fun to watch
people), and asked me to come and see her at her room. She has fine books and
pictures, knows interesting persons, and seems friendly, so I shall make myself
agreeable, for I do want to get into good society, only it isn’t the same
sort that Amy likes.

I was in our parlor last evening when Mr. Bhaer came in with some newspapers
for Mrs. Kirke. She wasn’t there, but Minnie, who is a little old woman,
introduced me very prettily. “This is Mamma’s friend, Miss
March.”

“Yes, and she’s jolly and we like her lots,” added Kitty, who
is an ‘enfant terrible’.

We both bowed, and then we laughed, for the prim introduction and the blunt
addition were rather a comical contrast.

“Ah, yes, I 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.

I promised I would, and he departed, but it seems as if I was doomed to see a
good deal of him, for today as I passed his door on my way out, by accident I
knocked against it with my umbrella. It flew open, and there he stood in his
dressing gown, with a big blue sock on one hand and a darning needle in the
other. He didn’t seem at all ashamed of it, for when I explained and
hurried on, he waved his hand, sock and all, saying in his loud, cheerful
way…

“You haf a fine day to make your walk. Bon voyage, Mademoiselle.”

I laughed all the way downstairs, but it was a little pathetic, also to think
of the poor man having to mend his own clothes. The German gentlemen embroider,
I know, but darning hose is another thing and not so pretty.

Saturday

Nothing has happened to write about, except a call on Miss Norton, who has a
room full of pretty things, and who was very charming, for she showed me all
her treasures, and asked me if I would sometimes go with her to lectures and
concerts, as her escort, if I enjoyed them. She put it as a favor, but
I’m sure Mrs. Kirke has told her about us, and she does it out of
kindness to me. I’m as proud as Lucifer, but such favors from such people
don’t burden me, and I accepted gratefully.

When I got back to the nursery there was such an uproar in the parlor that I
looked in, and there was Mr. Bhaer down on his hands and knees, with Tina on
his back, Kitty leading him with a jump rope, and Minnie feeding two small boys
with seedcakes, as they roared and ramped in cages built of chairs.

“We are playing nargerie,” explained Kitty.

“Dis is mine effalunt!” added Tina, holding on by the
Professor’s hair.

“Mamma always allows us to do what we like Saturday afternoon, when Franz
and Emil come, doesn’t she, Mr. Bhaer?” said Minnie.

The ‘effalunt’ sat up, looking as much in earnest as any of them,
and said soberly to me, “I gif you my wort it is so, if we make too large
a noise you shall say Hush! to us, and we go more softly.”

I promised to do so, but left the door open and enjoyed the fun as much as they
did, for a more glorious frolic I never witnessed. They played tag and
soldiers, danced and sang, and when it began to grow dark they all piled onto
the sofa about the Professor, while he told charming fairy stories of the
storks on the chimney tops, and the little ‘koblods’, who ride the
snowflakes as they fall. I wish Americans were as simple and natural as
Germans, don’t you?

I’m so fond of writing, I should go spinning on forever if motives of
economy didn’t stop me, for though I’ve used thin paper and written
fine, I tremble to think of the stamps this long letter will need. Pray forward
Amy’s as soon as you can spare them. My small news will sound very flat
after her splendors, but you will like them, I know. Is Teddy studying so hard
that he can’t find time to write to his friends? Take good care of him
for me, Beth, and tell me all about the babies, and give heaps of love to
everyone. From your faithful Jo.

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

DECEMBER

My Precious Betsey,

As this is to be a scribble-scrabble letter, I direct it to you, for it may
amuse you, and give you some idea of my goings on, for though quiet, they are
rather amusing, for which, oh, be joyful! After what Amy would call Herculaneum
efforts, in the way of mental and moral agriculture, my young ideas begin to
shoot and my little twigs to bend as I could wish. They are not so interesting
to me as Tina and the boys, but I do my duty by them, and they are fond of me.
Franz and Emil are jolly little lads, quite after my own heart, for the mixture
of German and American spirit in them produces a constant state of
effervescence. Saturday afternoons are riotous times, whether spent in the
house or out, for on pleasant days they all go to walk, like a seminary, with
the Professor and myself to keep order, and then such fun!

We are very good friends now, and I’ve begun to take lessons. I really
couldn’t help it, and it all came about in such a droll way that I must
tell you. To begin at the beginning, Mrs. Kirke called to me one day as I
passed Mr. Bhaer’s room where she was rummaging.

“Did you ever see such a den, my dear? Just come and help me put these
books to rights, for I’ve turned everything upside down, trying to
discover what he has done with the six new handkerchiefs I gave him not long
ago.”

I went in, and while we worked I looked about me, for it was ‘a
den’ to be sure. Books and papers everywhere, a broken meerschaum, and an
old flute over the mantlepiece 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, one over the bird cage,
one covered with ink, and a third burned brown, having been used as a holder.

“Such a man!” laughed good-natured Mrs. K., as she put the relics
in the rag bag. “I suppose the others are torn up to rig ships, bandage
cut fingers, or make kite tails. It’s dreadful, but I can’t scold
him. He’s so absent-minded and goodnatured, he lets those boys ride over
him roughshod. I agreed to do his washing and mending, but he forgets to give
out his things and I forget to look them over, so he comes to a sad pass
sometimes.”

“Let me mend them,” said I. “I don’t mind it, and he
needn’t know. I’d like to, he’s so kind to me about bringing
my letters and lending books.”

So I have got his things in order, and knit heels into two pairs of the socks,
for they were boggled out of shape with his queer darns. Nothing was said, and
I hoped he wouldn’t find it out, but one day last week he caught me at
it. Hearing the lessons he gives to others has interested and amused me so much
that I took a fancy to learn, for Tina runs in and out, leaving the door open,
and I can hear. I had been sitting near this door, finishing off the last sock,
and trying to understand what he said to a new scholar, who is as stupid as I
am. The girl had gone, and I thought he had also, it was so still, and I was
busily gabbling over a verb, and rocking to and fro in a most absurd way, when
a little crow made me look up, and there was Mr. Bhaer looking and laughing
quietly, while he made signs to Tina not to betray him.

“So!” he said, as I stopped and stared like a goose, “you
peep at me, I peep at you, and this is not bad, but see, I am not pleasanting
when I say, haf you a wish for German?”

“Yes, but you are too busy. I am too stupid to learn,” I blundered
out, as red as a peony.

“Prut! We will make the time, and we fail not to find the sense. At
efening I shall gif a little lesson with much gladness, for look you, Mees
Marsch, I haf this debt to pay.” And he pointed to my work
‘Yes,’ they say to one another, these so kind ladies, ‘he is
a stupid old fellow, he will see not what we do, he will never observe 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 thanks for this.
Come, a little lesson then and now, or—no more good fairy works for me
and mine.”

Of course I couldn’t say anything after that, and as it really is a
splendid opportunity, I made the bargain, and we began. I took four lessons,
and then I stuck fast in a grammatical bog. The Professor was very patient with
me, but it must have been torment to him, and now and then he’d look at
me with such an expression of mild despair that it was a toss-up with me
whether to laugh or cry. I tried both ways, and when it came to a sniff or
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 in glory.

“Now we shall try a new way. You and I will read these pleasant little
marchen together, and dig no more in that dry book, that goes in the
corner for making us trouble.”

He spoke so kindly, and opened Hans Anderson’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 inspiration of the minute,
and doing my very best. When I finished reading my first page, and stopped for
breath, he clapped his hands and cried out in his hearty way, “Das ist
gut! Now we go well! My turn. I do him in German, gif me your ear.” And
away he went, rumbling out the words with his strong voice and a relish which
was good to see as well as hear. Fortunately the story was The Constant Tin
Soldier, which is droll, you know, so I could laugh, and I did, though I
didn’t understand half he read, for I couldn’t help it, he was so
earnest, I so excited, and the whole thing so comical.

After that we got on better, and now I read my lessons pretty well, for this
way of studying suits me, and I can see that the grammar gets tucked into the
tales and poetry as one gives pills in jelly. I like it very much, and he
doesn’t seem tired of it yet, which is very good of him, isn’t it?
I mean to give him something on Christmas, for I dare not offer money. Tell me
something nice, Marmee.

I’m glad Laurie seems so happy and busy, that he has given up smoking and
lets his hair grow. You see Beth manages him better than I did. I’m not
jealous, dear, do your best, only don’t make a saint of him. I’m
afraid I couldn’t like him without a spice of human naughtiness. Read him
bits of my letters. I haven’t time to write much, and that will do just
as well. Thank Heaven Beth continues so comfortable.

JANUARY

A Happy New Year to you all, my dearest family, which of course includes Mr. L.
and a young man by the name of Teddy. I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed
your Christmas bundle, for I didn’t get it till night and had given up
hoping. Your letter came in the morning, but you said nothing about a parcel,
meaning it for a surprise, so I was disappointed, for I’d had a
‘kind of feeling’ that you wouldn’t forget me. I felt a
little low in my mind as I sat up in my room after tea, and when the big,
muddy, battered-looking bundle was brought to me, I just hugged it and pranced.
It was so homey and refreshing that I sat down on the floor and read and looked
and ate and laughed and cried, in my usual absurd way. The things were just
what I wanted, and all the better for being made instead of bought.
Beth’s new ‘ink bib’ was capital, and Hannah’s box of
hard gingerbread will be a treasure. I’ll be sure and wear the nice
flannels you sent, Marmee, and read carefully the books Father has marked.
Thank you all, heaps and heaps!

Speaking of books reminds me that I’m getting rich in that line, for on
New Year’s Day Mr. Bhaer gave me a fine Shakespeare. It is one he values
much, and I’ve often admired it, set up in the place of honor with his
German Bible, Plato, Homer, and Milton, so you may imagine how I felt when he
brought it down, without its cover, and showed me my own name in it,
“from my friend Friedrich Bhaer”.

“You say often you wish a library. Here I gif you one, for between these
lids (he meant covers) is many books in one. Read him well, and he will help
you much, for the study of character in this book will help you to read it in
the world and paint it with your pen.”

I thanked him as well as I could, and talk now about ‘my library’,
as if I had a hundred books. I never knew how much there was in Shakespeare
before, but then I never had a Bhaer to explain it to me. Now don’t laugh
at his horrid name. It isn’t pronounced either Bear or Beer, as people
will say it, but something between the two, as only Germans can give it.
I’m glad you both like what I tell you about him, and hope you will know
him some day. Mother would admire his warm heart, Father his wise head. I
admire both, and feel rich in my new ‘friend Friedrich Bhaer’.

Not having much money, or knowing what he’d like, I got several little
things, and put them about the room, where he would find them unexpectedly.
They were useful, pretty, or funny, a new standish on his table, a little vase
for his flower, he always has one, or a bit of green in a glass, to keep him
fresh, he says, and a holder for his blower, so that he needn’t burn up
what Amy calls ‘mouchoirs’. I made it like those Beth invented, a
big butterfly with a fat body, and black and yellow wings, worsted feelers, and
bead eyes. It took his fancy immensely, and he put it on his mantlepiece as an
article of virtue, 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 laundrywoman to Miss Norton forgot him. I was so glad of that.

They got up a masquerade, and had a gay time New Year’s Eve. I
didn’t mean to go down, having no dress. But at the last minute, Mrs.
Kirke remembered some old brocades, and Miss Norton lent me lace and feathers.
So I dressed up as Mrs. Malaprop, and sailed in with a mask on. No one knew me,
for I disguised my voice, and no one dreamed of the silent, haughty Miss March
(for they think I am very stiff and cool, most of them, and so I am to
whippersnappers) could dance and dress, and burst out into a ‘nice
derangement of epitaphs, like an allegory on the banks of the Nile’. I
enjoyed it very much, and when we unmasked it was fun to see them stare at me.
I heard one of the young men tell another that he knew I’d been an
actress, in fact, he thought he remembered seeing me at one of the minor
theaters. Meg will relish that joke. Mr. Bhaer was Nick Bottom, and Tina was
Titania, a perfect little fairy in his arms. To see them dance was ‘quite
a landscape’, to use a Teddyism.

I had a very happy New Year, after all, and when I thought it over in my room,
I felt as if I was getting on a little in spite of my many failures, for
I’m cheerful all the time now, work with a will, and take more interest
in other people than I used to, which is satisfactory. Bless you all! Ever your
loving… Jo

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
FRIEND

Though very happy in the social atmosphere about her, and very busy with the
daily work that earned her bread and made it sweeter for the effort, Jo still
found time for literary labors. The purpose which now took possession of her
was a natural one to a poor and ambitious girl, but the means she took to gain
her end were not the best. She saw that money conferred power, money and power,
therefore, she resolved to have, not to be used for herself alone, but for
those whom she loved more than life. The dream of filling home with comforts,
giving Beth everything she wanted, from strawberries in winter to an organ in
her bedroom, going abroad herself, and always having more than enough, so that
she might indulge in the luxury of charity, had been for years Jo’s most
cherished castle in the air.

The prize-story experience had seemed to open a way which might, after long
traveling and much uphill work, lead to this delightful chateau en Espagne. But
the novel disaster quenched her courage for a time, for public opinion is a
giant which has frightened stouter-hearted Jacks on bigger beanstalks 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 moneybags.

She took to writing sensation stories, for in those dark ages, even all-perfect
America read rubbish. She told no one, but concocted a ‘thrilling
tale’, and boldly carried it herself to Mr. Dashwood, editor of the
Weekly Volcano. She had never read Sartor Resartus, but she had a womanly
instinct that clothes possess an influence more powerful over many than the
worth of character or the magic of manners. So she dressed herself in her best,
and trying to persuade herself that she was neither excited nor nervous,
bravely climbed two pairs of dark and dirty stairs to find herself in a
disorderly room, a cloud of cigar smoke, and the presence of three gentlemen,
sitting with their heels rather higher than their hats, which articles of dress
none of them took the trouble to remove on her appearance. Somewhat daunted by
this reception, Jo hesitated on the threshold, murmuring in much
embarrassment…

“Excuse me, I was looking for the Weekly Volcano office. I wished to see
Mr. Dashwood.”

Down went the highest pair of heels, up rose the smokiest gentleman, and
carefully cherishing his cigar between his fingers, he advanced with a nod and
a countenance expressive of nothing but sleep. Feeling that she must get
through the matter somehow, Jo produced her manuscript and, blushing redder and
redder with each sentence, blundered out fragments of the little speech
carefully prepared for the occasion.

“A friend of mine desired me to offer—a story—just as an
experiment—would like your opinion—be glad to write more if this
suits.”

While she blushed and blundered, Mr. Dashwood had taken the manuscript, and was
turning over the leaves with a pair of rather dirty fingers, and casting
critical glances up and down the neat pages.

“Not a first attempt, I take it?” observing that the pages were
numbered, covered only on one side, and not tied up with a ribbon—sure
sign of a novice.

“No, sir. She has had some experience, and got a prize for a tale in the
Blarneystone Banner.”

“Oh, did she?” and Mr. Dashwood gave Jo a quick look, which seemed
to take note of everything she had on, from the bow in her bonnet to the
buttons on her boots. “Well, you can leave it, if you like. We’ve
more of this sort of thing on hand than we know what to do with at present, but
I’ll run my eye over it, and give you an answer next week.”

Now, Jo did not like to leave it, for Mr. Dashwood didn’t suit her
at all, but, under the circumstances, there was nothing for her to do but bow
and walk away, looking particularly tall and dignified, as she was apt to do
when nettled or abashed. Just then she was both, for it was perfectly evident
from the knowing glances exchanged among the gentlemen that her little fiction
of ‘my friend’ was considered a good joke, and a laugh, produced by
some inaudible remark of the editor, as he closed the door, completed her
discomfiture. Half resolving never to return, she went home, and worked off her
irritation by stitching pinafores vigorously, and in an hour or two was cool
enough to laugh over the scene and long for next week.

When she went again, Mr. Dashwood was alone, whereat she rejoiced. Mr. Dashwood
was much wider awake than before, which was agreeable, and Mr. Dashwood was not
too deeply absorbed in a cigar to remember his manners, so the second interview
was much more comfortable than the first.

“We’ll take this (editors never say I), if you don’t object
to a few alterations. It’s too long, but omitting the passages I’ve
marked will make it just the right length,” he said, in a businesslike
tone.

Jo hardly knew her own MS. again, so crumpled and underscored were its pages
and paragraphs, but feeling as a tender parent might on being asked to cut off
her baby’s legs in order that it might fit into a new cradle, she looked
at the marked passages and was surprised to find that all the moral
reflections—which she had carefully put in as ballast for much
romance—had been stricken out.

“But, Sir, I thought every story should have some sort of a moral, so I
took care to have a few of my sinners repent.”

Mr. Dashwoods’s editorial gravity relaxed into a smile, for Jo had
forgotten her ‘friend’, and spoken as only an author could.

“People want to be amused, not preached at, you know. Morals don’t
sell nowadays.” Which was not quite a correct statement, by the way.

“You think it would do with these alterations, then?”

“Yes, it’s a new plot, and pretty well worked up—language
good, and so on,” was Mr. Dashwood’s affable reply.

“What do you—that is, what compensation—” began Jo, not
exactly knowing how to express herself.

“Oh, yes, well, we give from twenty-five to thirty for things of this
sort. Pay when it comes out,” returned Mr. Dashwood, as if that point had
escaped him. Such trifles do escape the editorial mind, it is said.

“Very well, you can have it,” said Jo, handing back the story with
a satisfied air, for after the dollar-a-column work, even twenty-five seemed
good pay.

“Shall I tell my friend you will take another if she has one better than
this?” asked Jo, unconscious of her little slip of the tongue, and
emboldened by her success.

“Well, we’ll look at it. Can’t promise to take it. Tell her
to make it short and spicy, and never mind the moral. What name would your
friend like to put on it?” in a careless tone.

“None at all, if you please, she doesn’t wish her name to appear
and has no nom de plume,” said Jo, blushing in spite of herself.

“Just as she likes, of course. The tale will be out next week. Will you
call for the money, or shall I send it?” asked Mr. Dashwood, who felt a
natural desire to know who his new contributor might be.

“I’ll call. Good morning, Sir.”

As she departed, Mr. Dashwood put up his feet, with the graceful remark,
“Poor and proud, as usual, but she’ll do.”

Following Mr. Dashwood’s directions, and making Mrs. Northbury her model,
Jo rashly took a plunge into the frothy sea of sensational literature, but
thanks to the life preserver thrown her by a friend, she came up again not much
the worse for her ducking.

Like most young scribblers, she went abroad for her characters and scenery, and
banditti, counts, gypsies, nuns, and duchesses appeared upon her stage, and
played their parts with as much accuracy and spirit as could be expected. Her
readers were not particular about such trifles as grammar, punctuation, and
probability, and Mr. Dashwood graciously permitted her to fill his columns at
the lowest prices, not thinking it necessary to tell her that the real cause of
his hospitality was the fact that one of his hacks, on being offered higher
wages, had basely left him in the lurch.

She soon became interested in her work, for her emaciated purse grew stout, and
the little 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.

She thought it would do her no harm, for she sincerely meant to write nothing
of which she would be ashamed, and quieted all pricks of conscience by
anticipations of the happy minute when she should show her earnings and laugh
over her well-kept secret.

But Mr. Dashwood rejected any but thrilling tales, and as thrills could not be
produced except by harrowing up the souls of the readers, history and romance,
land and sea, science and art, police records and lunatic asylums, had to be
ransacked for the purpose. Jo soon found that her innocent experience had given
her but few glimpses of the tragic world which underlies society, so regarding
it in a business light, she set about supplying her deficiencies with
characteristic energy. Eager to find material for stories, and bent on making
them original in plot, if not masterly in execution, she searched newspapers
for accidents, incidents, and crimes. She excited the suspicions of public
librarians by asking for works on poisons. She studied faces in the street, and
characters, good, bad, and indifferent, all about her. She delved in the dust
of ancient times for facts or fictions so old that they were as good as new,
and introduced herself to folly, sin, and misery, as well as her limited
opportunities allowed. She thought she was prospering finely, but unconsciously
she was beginning to desecrate some of the womanliest attributes of a
woman’s character. She was living in bad society, and imaginary though it
was, its influence affected her, for she was feeding heart and fancy on
dangerous and unsubstantial food, and was fast brushing the innocent bloom from
her nature by a premature acquaintance with the darker side of life, which
comes soon enough to all of us.

She was beginning to feel rather than see this, for much describing of other
people’s passions and feelings set her to studying and speculating about
her own, a morbid amusement in which healthy young minds do not voluntarily
indulge. Wrongdoing always brings its own punishment, and when Jo most needed
hers, she got it.

I don’t know whether the study of Shakespeare helped her to read
character, or the natural instinct of a woman for what was honest, brave, and
strong, but while endowing her imaginary heroes with every perfection under the
sun, Jo was discovering a live hero, who interested her in spite of many human
imperfections. Mr. Bhaer, in one of their conversations, had advised her to
study simple, true, and lovely characters, wherever she found them, as good
training for a writer. Jo took him at his word, for she coolly turned round and
studied him—a proceeding which would have much surprised him, had he
known it, for the worthy Professor was very humble in his own conceit.

Why everybody liked him was what puzzled Jo, at first. He was neither rich nor
great, young nor handsome, in no respect what is called fascinating, imposing,
or brilliant, and yet he was as attractive as a genial fire, and people seemed
to gather about him as naturally as about a warm hearth. He was poor, yet
always appeared to be giving something away; a stranger, yet everyone was his
friend; no longer young, but as happy-hearted as a boy; plain and peculiar, yet
his face looked beautiful to many, and his oddities were freely forgiven for
his sake. Jo often watched him, trying to discover the charm, and at last
decided that it was benevolence which worked the miracle. If he had any sorrow,
‘it sat with its head under its wing’, and he turned only his sunny
side to the world. There were lines upon his forehead, but Time seemed to have
touched him gently, remembering how kind he was to others. The pleasant curves
about his mouth were the memorials of many friendly words and cheery laughs,
his eyes were never cold or hard, and his big hand had a warm, strong grasp
that was more expressive than words.

His very clothes seemed to partake of the hospitable nature of the wearer. They
looked as if they were at ease, and liked to make him comfortable. His
capacious waistcoat was suggestive of a large heart underneath. His rusty coat
had a social air, and the baggy pockets plainly proved that little hands often
went in empty and came out full. His very boots were benevolent, and his
collars never stiff and raspy like other people’s.

“That’s it!” said Jo to herself, when she at length
discovered that genuine good will toward one’s fellow men could beautify
and dignify even a stout German teacher, who shoveled in his dinner, darned his
own socks, and was burdened with the name of Bhaer.

Jo valued goodness highly, but she also possessed a most feminine respect for
intellect, and a little discovery which she made about the Professor added much
to her regard for him. He never spoke of himself, and no one ever knew that in
his native city he had been a man much honored and esteemed for learning and
integrity, till a countryman came to see him. He never spoke of himself, and in
a conversation with Miss Norton divulged the pleasing fact. From her Jo learned
it, and liked it all the better because Mr. Bhaer had never told it. She felt
proud to know that he was an honored Professor in Berlin, though only a poor
language-master in America, and his homely, hard-working life was much
beautified by the spice of romance which this discovery gave it. Another and a
better gift than intellect was shown her in a most unexpected manner. Miss
Norton had the entree into most society, which Jo would have had no chance of
seeing but for her. The solitary woman felt an interest in the ambitious girl,
and kindly conferred many favors of this sort both on Jo and the Professor. She
took them with her one night to a select symposium, held in honor of several
celebrities.

Jo went prepared to bow down and adore the mighty ones whom she had worshiped
with youthful enthusiasm afar off. But her reverence for genius received a
severe shock that night, and it took her some time to recover from the
discovery that the great creatures were only men and women after all. Imagine
her dismay, on stealing a glance of timid admiration at the poet whose lines
suggested an ethereal being fed on ‘spirit, fire, and dew’, to
behold him devouring his supper with an ardor which flushed his intellectual
countenance. Turning as from a fallen idol, she made other discoveries which
rapidly dispelled her romantic illusions. The great novelist vibrated between
two decanters with the regularity of a pendulum; the famous divine flirted
openly with one of the Madame de Staels of the age, who looked daggers at
another Corinne, who was amiably satirizing her, after outmaneuvering her in
efforts to absorb the profound philosopher, who imbibed tea Johnsonianly and
appeared to slumber, the loquacity of the lady rendering speech impossible. The
scientific celebrities, forgetting their mollusks and glacial periods, gossiped
about art, while devoting themselves to oysters and ices with characteristic
energy; the young musician, who was charming the city like a second Orpheus,
talked horses; and the specimen of the British nobility present happened to be
the most ordinary man of the party.

Before the evening was half over, Jo felt so completely disillusioned, 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 conversations were miles beyond Jo’s comprehension, but she
enjoyed it, though Kant and Hegel were unknown gods, the Subjective and
Objective unintelligible terms, and the only thing ‘evolved from her
inner consciousness’ was a bad headache after it was all over. It dawned
upon her gradually that the world was being picked to pieces, and put together
on new and, according to the talkers, on infinitely better principles than
before, that religion was in a fair way to be reasoned into nothingness, and
intellect was to be the only God. Jo knew nothing about philosophy or
metaphysics of any sort, but a curious excitement, half pleasurable, half
painful, came over her as she listened with a sense of being turned adrift into
time and space, like a young balloon out on a holiday.

She looked round to see how the Professor liked it, and found him looking at
her with the grimmest expression she had ever seen him wear. He shook his head
and beckoned her to come away, but she was fascinated just then by the freedom
of Speculative Philosophy, and kept her seat, trying to find out what the wise
gentlemen intended to rely upon after they had annihilated all the old beliefs.

Now, Mr. Bhaer was a diffident man and slow to offer his own opinions, not
because they were unsettled, but too sincere and earnest to be lightly spoken.
As he glanced from Jo to several other young people, attracted by the
brilliancy of the philosophic pyrotechnics, he knit his brows and longed to
speak, fearing that some inflammable young soul would be led astray by the
rockets, to find when the display was over that they had only an empty stick or
a scorched hand.

He bore it as long as he could, but when he was appealed to for an opinion, he
blazed up with honest indignation and defended religion with all the eloquence
of truth—an eloquence which made his broken English musical and his plain
face beautiful. He had a hard fight, for the wise men argued well, but he
didn’t know when he was beaten and stood to his colors like a man.
Somehow, as he talked, the world got right again to Jo. The old beliefs, that
had lasted so long, seemed better than the new. God was not a blind force, and
immortality was not a pretty fable, but a blessed fact. She felt as if she had
solid ground under her feet again, and when Mr. Bhaer paused, outtalked but not
one whit convinced, Jo wanted to clap her hands and thank him.

She did neither, but she remembered the scene, and gave the Professor her
heartiest respect, for she knew it cost him an effort to speak out then and
there, because his conscience would not let him be silent. She began to see
that character is a better possession than money, rank, intellect, or beauty,
and to feel that if greatness is what a wise man has defined it to be,
‘truth, reverence, and good will’, then her friend Friedrich Bhaer
was not only good, but great.

This belief strengthened daily. She valued his esteem, she coveted his respect,
she wanted to be worthy of his friendship, and just when the wish was
sincerest, she came near to losing everything. It all grew out of a cocked hat,
for one evening the Professor came in to give Jo her lesson with a paper
soldier cap on his head, which Tina had put there and he had forgotten to take
off.

“It’s evident he doesn’t look in his glass before coming
down,” thought Jo, with a smile, as he said “Goot efening,”
and sat soberly down, quite unconscious of the ludicrous contrast between his
subject and his headgear, for he was going to read her the Death of
Wallenstein.

She said nothing at first, for she liked to hear him laugh out his big, hearty
laugh when anything funny happened, so she left him to discover it for himself,
and presently forgot all about it, for to hear a German read Schiller is rather
an absorbing occupation. After the reading came the lesson, which was a lively
one, for Jo was in a gay mood that night, and the cocked hat kept her eyes
dancing with merriment. The Professor didn’t know what to make of her,
and stopped at last to ask with an air of mild surprise that was irresistible.
. .

“Mees Marsch, for what do you laugh in your master’s face? Haf you
no respect for me, that you go on so bad?”

“How can I be respectful, Sir, when you forget to take your hat
off?” said Jo.

Lifting his hand to his head, the absent-minded Professor gravely felt and
removed the little cocked hat, looked at it a minute, and then threw back his
head and laughed like a merry bass viol.

“Ah! I see him now, it is that imp Tina who makes me a fool with my cap.
Well, it is nothing, but see you, if this lesson goes not well, you too shall
wear him.”

But the lesson did not go at all for a few minutes because Mr. Bhaer caught
sight of a picture on the hat, and unfolding it, said with great disgust,
“I wish these papers did not come in the house. They are not for children
to see, nor young people to read. It is not well, and I haf no patience with
those who make this harm.”

Jo glanced at the sheet and saw a pleasing illustration composed of a lunatic,
a corpse, a villain, and a viper. She did not like it, but the impulse that
made her turn it over was not one of displeasure but fear, because for a minute
she fancied the paper was the Volcano. It was not, however, and her panic
subsided as she remembered that even if it had been and one of her own tales in
it, there would have been no name to betray her. She had betrayed herself,
however, by a look and a blush, for though an absent man, the Professor saw a
good deal more than people fancied. He knew that Jo wrote, and had met her down
among the newspaper offices more than once, but as she never spoke of it, he
asked no questions in spite of a strong desire to see her work. Now it occurred
to him that she was doing what she was ashamed to own, and it troubled him. He
did not say to himself, “It is none of my business. I’ve no right
to say anything,” as many people would have done. He only remembered that
she was young and poor, a girl far away from mother’s love and
father’s care, and he was moved to help her with an impulse as quick and
natural as that which would prompt him to put out his hand to save a baby from
a puddle. All this flashed through his mind in a minute, but not a trace of it
appeared in his face, and by the time the paper was turned, and Jo’s
needle threaded, he was ready to say quite naturally, but very gravely…

“Yes, you are right to put it from you. I do not 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.”

“All may not be bad, only silly, you know, and if there is a demand for
it, I don’t see any harm in supplying it. Many very respectable people
make an honest living out of what are called sensation stories,” said Jo,
scratching gathers so energetically that a row of little slits followed her
pin.

“There is a demand for whisky, but I think you and I do not care to sell
it. If the respectable people knew what harm they did, they would not feel that
the living was honest. They haf no right to put poison in the sugarplum, and
let the small ones eat it. No, they should think a little, and sweep mud in the
street before they do this thing.”

Mr. Bhaer spoke warmly, and walked to the fire, crumpling the paper in his
hands. Jo sat still, looking as if the fire had come to her, for her cheeks
burned long after the cocked hat had turned to smoke and gone harmlessly up the
chimney.

“I should like much to send all the rest after him,” muttered the
Professor, coming back with a relieved air.

Jo thought what a blaze her pile of papers upstairs would make, and her
hard-earned money lay rather heavily on her conscience at that minute. Then she
thought consolingly to herself, “Mine are not like that, they are only
silly, never bad, so I won’t be worried,” and taking up her book,
she said, with a studious face, “Shall we go on, Sir? I’ll be very
good and proper now.”

“I shall hope so,” was all he said, but he meant more than she
imagined, and the grave, kind look he gave her made her feel as if the words
Weekly Volcano were printed in large type on her forehead.

As soon as she went to her room, she got out her papers, and carefully reread
every one of her stories. Being a little shortsighted, 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 on the Professor’s mental
or moral spectacles also, for the faults of these poor stories glared at her
dreadfully and filled her with dismay.

“They are trash, and will soon be worse trash if I go on, for each is
more sensational than the last. I’ve gone blindly on, hurting myself and
other people, for the sake of money. I know it’s so, for I can’t
read this stuff in sober earnest without being horribly ashamed of it, and what
should I do if they were seen at home or Mr. Bhaer got hold of them?”

Jo turned hot at the bare idea, and stuffed the whole bundle into her stove,
nearly setting the chimney afire with the blaze.

“Yes, that’s the best place for such inflammable nonsense.
I’d better burn the house down, I suppose, than let other people blow
themselves up with my gunpowder,” she thought as she watched the Demon of
the Jura whisk away, a little black cinder with fiery eyes.

But when nothing remained of all her three month’s work except a heap of
ashes and the money in her lap, Jo looked sober, as she sat on the floor,
wondering what she ought to do about her wages.

“I think I haven’t done much harm yet, and may keep this to pay for
my time,” she said, after a long meditation, adding impatiently, “I
almost wish I hadn’t any conscience, it’s so inconvenient. If I
didn’t care about doing right, and didn’t feel uncomfortable when
doing wrong, I should get on capitally. I can’t help wishing sometimes,
that Mother and Father hadn’t been so particular about such
things.”

Ah, Jo, instead of wishing that, thank God that ‘Father and Mother were
particular’, and pity from your heart those who have no such guardians to
hedge them round with principles which may seem like prison walls to impatient
youth, but which will prove sure foundations to build character upon in
womanhood.

Jo wrote no more sensational stories, deciding that the money did not pay for
her share of the sensation, but going to the other extreme, as is the way with
people of her stamp, she took a course of Mrs. Sherwood, Miss Edgeworth, and
Hannah More, and then produced a tale which might have been more properly
called an essay or a sermon, so intensely moral was it. She had her doubts
about it from the beginning, for her lively fancy and girlish romance felt as
ill at ease in the new style as she would have done masquerading in the stiff
and cumbrous costume of the last century. She sent this didactic gem to several
markets, but it found no purchaser, and she was inclined to agree with Mr.
Dashwood that morals didn’t sell.

Then she tried a child’s story, which she could easily have disposed of
if she had not been mercenary enough to demand filthy lucre for it. The only
person who offered enough to make it worth her while to try juvenile literature
was a worthy gentleman who felt it his mission to convert all the world to his
particular belief. But much as she liked to write for children, Jo could not
consent to depict all her naughty boys as being eaten by bears or tossed by mad
bulls because they did not go to a particular Sabbath school, nor all the good
infants who did go as rewarded by every kind of bliss, from gilded gingerbread
to escorts of angels when they departed this life with psalms or sermons on
their lisping tongues. So nothing came of these trials, and Jo corked up her
inkstand, and said in a fit of very wholesome humility…

“I don’t know anything. I’ll wait until 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 beanstalk had done her some good.

While these internal revolutions were going on, her external life had been as
busy and uneventful as usual, and if she sometimes looked serious or a little
sad no one observed it but Professor Bhaer. He did it so quietly that Jo never
knew he was watching to see if she would accept and profit by his reproof, but
she stood the test, and he was satisfied, for though no words passed between
them, he knew that she had given up writing. Not only did he guess it by the
fact that the second finger of her right hand was no longer inky, but she spent
her evenings downstairs now, was met no more among newspaper offices, and
studied with a dogged patience, which assured him that she was bent on
occupying her mind with something useful, if not pleasant.

He helped her in many ways, proving himself a true friend, and Jo was happy,
for while her pen lay idle, she was learning other lessons besides German, and
laying a foundation for the sensation story of her own life.

It was a pleasant winter and a long one, for she did not leave Mrs. Kirke till
June. Everyone seemed sorry when the time came. The children were inconsolable,
and Mr. Bhaer’s hair stuck straight up all over his head, for he always
rumpled it wildly when disturbed in mind.

“Going home? Ah, you are happy that you haf a home to go in,” he
said, when she told him, and sat silently pulling his beard in the corner,
while she held a little levee on that last evening.

She was going early, so she bade them all goodbye overnight, and when his turn
came, she said warmly, “Now, Sir, you won’t forget to come and see
us, if you ever travel our way, will you? I’ll never forgive you if you
do, for I want them all to know my friend.”

“Do you? Shall I come?” he asked, looking down at her with an eager
expression which she did not see.

“Yes, come next month. Laurie graduates then, and you’d enjoy
commencement as something new.”

“That is your best friend, of whom you speak?” he said in an
altered tone.

“Yes, my boy Teddy. I’m very proud of him and should like you to
see him.”

Jo looked up then, quite unconscious of anything but her own pleasure in the
prospect of showing them to one another. Something in Mr. Bhaer’s face
suddenly recalled the fact that she might find Laurie more than a ‘best
friend’, and simply because she particularly wished not to look as if
anything was the matter, she involuntarily began to blush, and the more she
tried not to, the redder she grew. If it had not been for Tina on her knee. She
didn’t know what would have become of her. Fortunately the child was
moved to hug her, so she managed to hide her face an instant, hoping the
Professor did not see it. But he did, and his own changed again from that
momentary anxiety to its usual expression, as he said cordially…

“I fear I shall not make the time for that, but I wish the friend much
success, and you all happiness. Gott bless you!” And with that, he shook
hands warmly, shouldered Tina, and went away.

But after the boys were abed, he sat long before his fire with the tired look
on his face and the ‘heimweh’, or homesickness, lying heavy at his
heart. Once, when he remembered Jo as she sat with the little child in her lap
and that new softness in her face, he leaned his head on his hands a minute,
and then roamed about the room, as if in search of something that he could not
find.

“It is not for me, I must not hope it now,” he said to himself,
with a sigh that was almost a groan. Then, as if reproaching himself for the
longing that he could not repress, he went and kissed the two tousled heads
upon the pillow, took down his seldom-used meerschaum, and opened his Plato.

He did his best and did it manfully, but I don’t think he found that a
pair of rampant boys, a pipe, or even the divine Plato, were very satisfactory
substitutes for wife and child at home.

Early as it was, he was at the station next morning to see Jo off, and thanks
to him, she began her solitary journey with the pleasant memory of a familiar
face smiling its farewell, a bunch of violets to keep her company, and best of
all, the happy thought, “Well, the winter’s gone, and I’ve
written no books, earned no fortune, but I’ve made a friend worth having
and I’ll try to keep him all my life.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
HEARTACHE

Whatever his motive might have been, Laurie studied to some purpose that year,
for he graduated with honor, and gave the Latin oration with the grace of a
Phillips and the eloquence of a Demosthenes, so his friends said. They were all
there, his grandfather—oh, so proud—Mr. and Mrs. March, John and
Meg, Jo and Beth, and all exulted over him with the sincere admiration which
boys make light of at the time, but fail to win from the world by any
after-triumphs.

“I’ve got to stay for this confounded supper, but I shall be home
early tomorrow. 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…

“I’ll come, Teddy, rain or shine, and march before you, playing
‘Hail the conquering hero comes’ on a jew’s-harp.”

Laurie thanked her with a look that made her think in a sudden panic,
“Oh, deary me! I know he’ll say something, and then what shall I
do?”

Evening meditation and morning work somewhat allayed her fears, and having
decided that she wouldn’t be vain enough to think people were going to
propose when she had given them every reason to know what her answer would be,
she set forth at the appointed time, hoping Teddy wouldn’t do anything to
make her hurt his poor feelings. A call at Meg’s, and a refreshing sniff
and sip at the Daisy and Demijohn, still further fortified her for the
tete-a-tete, but when she saw a stalwart figure looming in the distance, she
had a strong desire to turn about and run away.

“Where’s the jew’s-harp, Jo?” cried Laurie, as soon as
he was within speaking distance.

“I forgot it.” And Jo took heart again, for that salutation could
not be called lover-like.

She always used to take his arm on these occasions, now she did not, and he
made no complaint, which was a bad sign, but talked on rapidly about all sorts
of faraway subjects, till they turned from the road into the little path that
led homeward through the grove. Then he walked more slowly, suddenly lost his
fine flow of language, and now and then a dreadful pause occurred. To rescue
the conversation from one of the wells of silence into which it kept falling,
Jo said hastily, “Now you must have a good long holiday!”

“I intend to.”

Something in his resolute tone made Jo look up quickly to find him looking down
at her with an expression that assured her the dreaded moment had come, and
made her put out her hand with an imploring, “No, Teddy. Please
don’t!”

“I will, and you must hear me. It’s no use, Jo, we’ve got to
have it out, and the sooner the better for both of us,” he answered,
getting flushed and excited all at once.

“Say what you like then. I’ll listen,” said Jo, with a
desperate sort of patience.

Laurie was a young lover, but he was in earnest, and meant to ‘have it
out’, if he died in the attempt, so he plunged into the subject with
characteristic impetuousity, saying in a voice that would get choky now and
then, in spite of manful efforts to keep it steady…

“I’ve loved you ever since I’ve known you, Jo, couldn’t
help it, you’ve been so good to me. I’ve tried to show it, but you
wouldn’t let me. Now I’m going to make you hear, and give me an
answer, for I can’t go on so any longer.”

“I wanted to save you this. I thought you’d understand…”
began Jo, finding it a great deal harder than she expected.

“I know you did, but the girls are so queer you never know what they
mean. They say no when they mean yes, and drive a man out of his wits just for
the fun of it,” returned Laurie, entrenching himself behind an undeniable
fact.

“I don’t. I never wanted to make you care for me so, and I went
away to keep you from it if I could.”

“I thought so. It was like you, but it was no use. I only loved you all
the more, and I worked hard to please you, and I gave up billiards and
everything you didn’t like, and waited and never complained, for I hoped
you’d love me, though I’m not half good enough…” Here there
was a choke that couldn’t be controlled, so he decapitated buttercups
while he cleared his ‘confounded throat’.

“You, 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 know why I
can’t love you as you want me to. I’ve tried, but I can’t
change the feeling, and it would be a lie to say I do when I
don’t.”

“Really, truly, Jo?”

He stopped short, and caught both her hands as he put his question with a look
that she did not soon forget.

“Really, truly, dear.”

They were in the grove now, close by the stile, and when the last words fell
reluctantly from Jo’s lips, Laurie dropped her hands and turned as if to
go on, but for once in his life the 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.

“Oh, Teddy, I’m sorry, so desperately sorry, I could kill myself if
it would do any good! I wish you wouldn’t take it so hard, I can’t
help it. You know it’s impossible for people to make themselves love
other people if they don’t,” cried Jo inelegantly but remorsefully,
as she softly patted his shoulder, remembering the time when he had comforted
her so long ago.

“They do sometimes,” said a muffled voice from the post. “I
don’t believe it’s the right sort of love, and I’d rather not
try it,” was the decided answer.

There was a long pause, while a blackbird sung blithely on the willow by the
river, and the tall grass rustled in the wind. Presently Jo said very soberly,
as she sat down on the step of the stile, “Laurie, I want to tell you
something.”

He started as if he had been shot, threw up his head, and cried out in a fierce
tone, “Don’t tell me that, Jo, I can’t bear it now!”

“Tell what?” she asked, wondering at his violence.

“That you love that old man.”

“What old man?” demanded Jo, thinking he must mean his grandfather.

“That devilish Professor you were always writing about. If you say you
love him, I know I shall do something desperate;” and he looked as if he
would keep his word, as he clenched his hands with a wrathful spark in his
eyes.

Jo wanted to laugh, but restrained herself and said warmly, for she too, was
getting excited with all this, “Don’t swear, Teddy! He isn’t
old, nor anything bad, but good and kind, and the best friend I’ve got,
next to you. Pray, don’t fly into a passion. I want to be kind, but I
know I shall get angry if you abuse my Professor. I haven’t the least
idea of loving him or anybody else.”

“But you will after a while, and then what will become of me?”

“You’ll love someone else too, like a sensible boy, and forget all
this trouble.”

“I can’t love anyone else, and I’ll never forget you, Jo,
Never! Never!” with a stamp to emphasize his passionate words.

“What shall I do with him?” sighed Jo, finding that emotions were
more unmanagable than she expected. “You haven’t heard what I
wanted to tell you. Sit down and listen, for indeed I want to do right and make
you happy,” she said, hoping to soothe him with a little reason, which
proved that she knew nothing about love.

Seeing a ray of hope in that last speech, Laurie threw himself down on the
grass at her feet, leaned his arm on the lower step of the stile, and looked up
at her with an expectant face. Now that arrangement was not conducive to calm
speech or clear thought on Jo’s part, for how could she say hard things
to her boy while he watched her with eyes full of love and longing, and lashes
still wet with the bitter drop or two her hardness of heart had wrung from him?
She gently turned his head away, saying, as she stroked the wavy hair which had
been allowed to grow for her sake—how touching that was, to be sure!
“I agree with Mother that you and I are not suited to each other, because
our quick tempers and strong wills would probably make us very miserable, if we
were so foolish as to…” Jo paused a little over the last word, but
Laurie uttered it with a rapturous expression.

“Marry—no we shouldn’t! If you loved me, Jo, I should be a
perfect saint, for you could make me anything you like.”

“No, I can’t. I’ve tried and failed, and I won’t risk
our happiness by such a serious experiment. We don’t agree and we never
shall, so we’ll be good friends all our lives, but we won’t go and
do anything rash.”

“Yes, we will if we get the chance,” muttered Laurie rebelliously.

“Now do be reasonable, and take a sensible view of the case,”
implored Jo, almost at her wit’s end.

“I won’t be reasonable. I don’t want to take what you call
‘a sensible view’. It won’t help me, and it only makes it
harder. I don’t believe you’ve got any heart.”

“I wish I hadn’t.”

There was a little quiver in Jo’s voice, and thinking it a good omen,
Laurie turned round, bringing all his persuasive powers to bear as he said, in
the wheedlesome tone that had never been so dangerously wheedlesome before,
“Don’t disappoint us, dear! Everyone expects it. Grandpa has set
his heart upon it, your people like it, and I can’t get on without you.
Say you will, and let’s be happy. Do, do!”

Not until months afterward did Jo understand how she had the strength of mind
to hold fast to the resolution she had made when she decided that she did not
love her boy, and never could. It was very hard to do, but she did it, knowing
that delay was both useless and cruel.

“I can’t say ‘yes’ truly, so I won’t say it at
all. You’ll see that I’m right, by-and-by, and thank me for
it…” she began solemnly.

“I’ll be hanged if I do!” and Laurie bounced up off the
grass, burning with indignation at the very idea.

“Yes, you will!” persisted Jo. “You’ll get over this
after a while, and find some lovely accomplished girl, who will adore you, and
make a fine mistress for your fine house. I shouldn’t. I’m homely
and awkward and odd and old, and you’d be ashamed of me, and we should
quarrel—we can’t help it even now, you see—and I
shouldn’t like elegant society and you would, and you’d hate my
scribbling, and I couldn’t get on without it, and we should be unhappy,
and wish we hadn’t done it, and everything would be horrid!”

“Anything more?” asked Laurie, finding it hard to listen patiently
to this prophetic burst.

“Nothing more, except that I don’t believe I shall ever marry.
I’m happy as I am, and love my liberty too well to be in a hurry to give
it up for any mortal man.”

“I know better!” broke in Laurie. “You think so now, but
there’ll come a time when you will care for somebody, and you’ll
love him tremendously, and live and die for him. I know you will, it’s
your way, and I shall have to stand by and see it,” and the despairing
lover cast his hat upon the ground with a gesture that would have seemed
comical, if his face had not been so tragic.

“Yes, I will live and die for him, if he ever comes and makes me love him
in spite of myself, and you must do the best you can!” cried Jo, losing
patience with poor Teddy. “I’ve done my best, but you won’t
be reasonable, and it’s selfish of you to keep teasing for what I
can’t give. I shall always be fond of you, very fond indeed, as a friend,
but I’ll never marry you, and the sooner you believe it the better for
both of us—so now!”

That speech was like gunpowder. Laurie looked at her a minute as if he did not
quite know what to do with himself, then turned sharply away, saying in a
desperate sort of tone, “You’ll be sorry some day, Jo.”

“Oh, where are you going?” she cried, for his face frightened her.

“To the devil!” was the consoling answer.

For a minute Jo’s heart stood still, as he swung himself down the bank
toward the river, but it takes much folly, sin or misery to send a young man to
a violent death, and Laurie was not one of the weak sort who are conquered by a
single failure. He had no thought of a melodramatic plunge, but some blind
instinct led him to fling hat and coat into his boat, and row away with all his
might, making better time up the river than he had done in any race. Jo drew a
long breath and unclasped her hands as she watched the poor fellow trying to
outstrip the trouble which he carried in his heart.

“That will do him good, and he’ll come home in such a tender,
penitent state of mind, that I shan’t dare to see him,” she said,
adding, as she went slowly home, feeling as if she had murdered some innocent
thing, and buried it under the leaves. “Now I must go and prepare Mr.
Laurence to be very kind to my poor boy. I wish he’d love Beth, perhaps
he may in time, but I begin to think I was mistaken about her. Oh dear! How can
girls like to have lovers and refuse them? I think it’s dreadful.”

Being sure that no one could do it so well as herself, she went straight to Mr.
Laurence, told the hard story bravely through, and then broke down, crying so
dismally over her own insensibility that the kind old gentleman, though sorely
disappointed, did not utter a reproach. He found it difficult to understand how
any girl could help loving Laurie, and hoped she would change her mind, but he
knew even better than Jo that love cannot be forced, so he shook his head sadly
and resolved to carry his boy out of harm’s way, for Young
Impetuosity’s parting words to Jo disturbed him more than he would
confess.

When Laurie came home, dead tired but quite composed, his grandfather met him
as if he knew nothing, and kept up the delusion very successfully for an hour
or two. But when they sat together in the twilight, the time they used to enjoy
so much, it was hard work for the old man to ramble on as usual, and harder
still for the young one to listen to praises of the last year’s success,
which to him now seemed like love’s labor lost. He bore it as long as he
could, then went to his piano and began to play. The windows were open, and Jo,
walking in the garden with Beth, for once understood music better than her
sister, for he played the ‘Sonata Pathetique’, and played it
as he never did before.

“That’s very fine, I dare say, but it’s sad enough to make
one cry. Give us something gayer, lad,” said Mr. Laurence, whose kind old
heart was full of sympathy, which he longed to show but knew not how.

Laurie dashed into a livelier strain, played stormily for several minutes, and
would have got through bravely, if in a momentary lull Mrs. March’s voice
had not been heard calling, “Jo, dear, come in. I want you.”

Just what Laurie longed to say, with a different meaning! As he listened, he
lost his place, the music ended with a broken chord, and the musician sat
silent in the dark.

“I can’t stand this,” muttered the old gentleman. Up he got,
groped his way to the piano, laid a kind hand on either of the broad shoulders,
and said, as gently as a woman, “I know, my boy, I know.”

No answer for an instant, then Laurie asked sharply, “Who told
you?”

“Jo herself.”

“Then there’s an end of it!” And he shook off his
grandfather’s hands with an impatient motion, for though grateful for the
sympathy, his man’s pride could not bear a man’s pity.

“Not quite. I want to say one thing, and then there shall be an end of
it,” returned Mr. Laurence with unusual mildness. “You won’t
care to stay at home now, perhaps?”

“I don’t intend to run away from a girl. Jo can’t prevent my
seeing her, and I shall stay and do it as long as I like,” interrupted
Laurie in a defiant tone.

“Not if you are the gentleman I think you. I’m disappointed, but
the girl can’t help it, and the only thing left for you to do is to go
away for a time. Where will you go?”

“Anywhere. I don’t care what becomes of me,” and Laurie got
up with a reckless laugh that grated on his grandfather’s ear.

“Take it like a man, and don’t do anything rash, for God’s
sake. Why not go abroad, as you planned, and forget it?”

“I can’t.”

“But you’ve been wild to go, and I promised you should when you got
through college.”

“Ah, but I didn’t mean to go alone!” and Laurie walked fast
through the room with an expression which it was well his grandfather did not
see.

“I don’t ask you to go alone. There’s someone ready and glad
to go with you, anywhere in the world.”

“Who, Sir?” stopping to listen.

“Myself.”

Laurie came back as quickly as he went, and put out his hand, saying huskily,
“I’m a selfish brute, but—you
know—Grandfather—”

“Lord help me, yes, I do know, for I’ve been through it all before,
once in my own young days, and then with your father. Now, my dear boy, just
sit quietly down and hear my plan. It’s all settled, and can be carried
out at once,” said Mr. Laurence, keeping hold of the young man, as if
fearful that he would break away as his father had done before him.

“Well, sir, what is it?” and Laurie sat down, without a sign of
interest in face or voice.

“There is business in London that needs looking after. I meant you should
attend to it, but I can do it better myself, and things here will get on very
well with Brooke to manage them. My partners do almost everything, I’m
merely holding on until you take my place, and can be off at any time.”

“But you hate traveling, Sir. I can’t ask it of you at your
age,” began Laurie, who was grateful for the sacrifice, but much
preferred to go alone, if he went at all.

The old gentleman knew that perfectly well, and particularly desired to prevent
it, for the mood in which he found his grandson assured him that it would not
be wise to leave him to his own devices. So, stifling a natural regret at the
thought of the home comforts he would leave behind him, he said stoutly,
“Bless your soul, I’m not superannuated yet. I quite enjoy the
idea. It will do me good, and my old bones won’t suffer, for traveling
nowadays is almost as easy as sitting in a chair.”

A restless movement from Laurie suggested that his chair was not easy, or that
he did not like the plan, and made the old man add hastily, “I
don’t mean to be a marplot or a burden. I go because I think you’d
feel happier than if I was left behind. I don’t intend to gad about with
you, but leave you free to go where you like, while I amuse myself in my own
way. I’ve friends in London and Paris, and should like to visit them.
Meantime you can go to Italy, Germany, Switzerland, where you will, and enjoy
pictures, music, scenery, and adventures to your heart’s content.”

Now, Laurie felt just then that his heart was entirely broken and the world a
howling wilderness, but at the sound of certain words which the old gentleman
artfully introduced into his closing sentence, the broken heart gave an
unexpected leap, and a green oasis or two suddenly appeared in the howling
wilderness. He sighed, and then said, in a spiritless tone, “Just as you
like, Sir. It doesn’t matter where I go or what I do.”

“It does to me, remember that, my lad. I give you entire liberty, but I
trust you to make an honest use of it. Promise me that, Laurie.”

“Anything you like, Sir.”

“Good,” thought the old gentleman. “You don’t care now,
but there’ll come a time when that promise will keep you out of mischief,
or I’m much mistaken.”

Being an energetic individual, Mr. Laurence struck while the iron was hot, and
before the blighted being recovered spirit enough to rebel, they were off.
During the time necessary for preparation, Laurie bore himself as young
gentleman 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 tragic 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 everyone rejoiced that the ‘poor, dear fellow was
going away to forget his trouble, and come home happy’. Of course, he
smiled darkly at their delusion, but passed it by with the sad superiority of
one who knew that his fidelity like his love was unalterable.

When the parting came he affected high spirits, to conceal certain inconvenient
emotions which seemed inclined to assert themselves. This gaiety did not impose
upon anybody, but they tried to look as if it did for his sake, and he got on
very well till Mrs. March kissed him, with a whisper full of motherly
solicitude. Then feeling that he was going very fast, he hastily embraced them
all round, not forgetting the afflicted Hannah, and ran downstairs as if for
his life. Jo followed a minute after to wave her hand to him if he looked
round. He did look round, came back, put his arms about her as she stood on the
step above him, and looked up at her with a face that made his short appeal
eloquent and pathetic.

“Oh, Jo, can’t you?”

“Teddy, dear, I wish I could!”

That was all, except a little pause. Then Laurie straightened himself up, said,
“It’s all right, never mind,” and went away without another
word. Ah, but it wasn’t all right, and Jo did mind, for while the curly
head lay on her arm a minute after her hard answer, she felt as if she had
stabbed her dearest friend, and when he left her without a look behind him, she
knew that the boy Laurie never would come again.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
BETH’S SECRET

When Jo came home that spring, she had been struck with the change in Beth. No
one spoke of it or seemed aware of it, for it had come too gradually to startle
those who saw her daily, but to eyes sharpened by absence, it was very plain
and a heavy weight fell on Jo’s heart as she saw her sister’s face.
It was no paler and but littler thinner than in the autumn, yet there was a
strange, transparent look about it, as if the mortal was being slowly refined
away, and the immortal shining through the frail flesh with an indescribably
pathetic beauty. Jo saw and felt it, but said nothing at the time, and soon the
first impression lost much of its power, for Beth seemed happy, no one appeared
to doubt that she was better, and presently in other cares Jo for a time forgot
her fear.

But when Laurie was gone, and peace prevailed again, the vague anxiety returned
and haunted her. She had confessed her sins and been forgiven, but when she
showed her savings and proposed a mountain trip, Beth had thanked her heartily,
but begged not to go so far away from home. Another little visit to the
seashore would suit her better, and as Grandma could not be prevailed upon to
leave the babies, Jo took Beth down to the quiet place, where she could live
much in the open air, and let the fresh sea breezes blow a little color into
her pale cheeks.

It was not a fashionable place, but even among the pleasant people there, the
girls made few friends, preferring to live for one another. Beth was too shy to
enjoy society, and Jo too wrapped up in her to care for anyone else. So they
were all in all to each other, and came and went, quite unconscious of the
interest they excited in those about them, who watched with sympathetic eyes
the strong sister and the feeble one, always together, as if they felt
instinctively that a long separation was not far away.

They did feel it, yet neither spoke of it, for often between ourselves and
those nearest and dearest to us there exists a reserve which it is very hard to
overcome. Jo felt as if a veil had fallen between her heart and Beth’s,
but when she put out her hand to lift it up, there seemed something sacred in
the silence, and she waited for Beth to speak. She wondered, and was thankful
also, that her parents did not seem to see what she saw, and during the quiet
weeks when the shadows grew so plain to her, she said nothing of it to those at
home, believing that it would tell itself when Beth came back no better. She
wondered still more if her sister really guessed the hard truth, and what
thoughts were passing through her mind during the long hours when she lay on
the warm rocks with her head in Jo’s lap, while the winds blew
healthfully over her and the sea made music at her feet.

One day Beth told her. Jo thought she was asleep, she lay so still, and putting
down her book, sat looking at her with wistful eyes, trying to see signs of
hope in the faint color on Beth’s cheeks. But she could not find enough
to satisfy her, for the cheeks were very thin, and the hands seemed too feeble
to hold even the rosy little shells they had been collecting. It came to her
then more bitterly than ever that Beth was slowly drifting away from her, and
her arms instinctively tightened their hold upon the dearest treasure she
possessed. For a minute her eyes were too dim for seeing, and when they
cleared, Beth was looking up at her so tenderly that there was hardly any need
for her to say, “Jo, dear, I’m glad you know it. I’ve tried
to tell you, but I couldn’t.”

There was no answer except her sister’s cheek against her own, not even
tears, for when most deeply moved, Jo did not cry. She was the weaker then, and
Beth tried to comfort and sustain her, with her arms about her and the soothing
words she whispered in her ear.

“I’ve known it for a good while, dear, and now I’m used to
it, it isn’t hard to think of or to bear. Try to see it so and
don’t be troubled about me, because it’s best, indeed it is.”

“Is this what made you so unhappy in the autumn, Beth? You did not feel
it then, and keep it to yourself so long, did you?” asked Jo, refusing to
see or say that it was best, but glad to know that Laurie had no part in
Beth’s trouble.

“Yes, I gave up hoping then, but I didn’t like to own it. I tried
to think it was a sick fancy, and would not let it trouble anyone. 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.”

“Oh, Beth, and you didn’t tell me, didn’t let me comfort and
help you? How could you shut me out, bear it all alone?”

Jo’s voice was full of tender reproach, and her heart ached to think of
the solitary struggle that must have gone on while Beth learned to say goodbye
to health, love, and life, and take up her cross so cheerfully.

“Perhaps it was wrong, but I tried to do right. I wasn’t sure, no
one said anything, and I hoped I was mistaken. It would have been selfish to
frighten you all when Marmee was so anxious about Meg, and Amy away, and you so
happy with Laurie—at least I thought so then.”

“And I thought you loved him, Beth, and I went away because I
couldn’t,” cried Jo, glad to say all the truth.

Beth looked so amazed at the idea that Jo smiled in spite of her pain, and
added softly, “Then you didn’t, dearie? I was afraid it was so, and
imagined your poor little heart full of lovelornity all that while.”

“Why, Jo, how could I, when he was so fond of you?” asked Beth, as
innocently as a child. “I do love him dearly. He is so good to me, how
can I help It? But he could never be anything to me but my brother. I hope he
truly will be, sometime.”

“Not through me,” said Jo decidedly. “Amy is left for him,
and they would suit excellently, but I have no heart for such things, now. I
don’t care what becomes of anybody but you, Beth. You must get
well.”

“I want to, oh, so much! I try, but every day I lose a little, and feel
more sure that I shall never gain it back. It’s like the tide, Jo, when
it turns, it goes slowly, but it can’t be stopped.”

“It shall be stopped, your tide must not turn so soon, nineteen is too
young, Beth. I can’t let you go. I’ll work and pray and fight
against it. I’ll keep you in spite of everything. There must be ways, it
can’t be too late. God won’t be so cruel as to take you from
me,” cried poor Jo rebelliously, for her spirit was far less piously
submissive than Beth’s.

Simple, sincere people seldom speak much of their piety. It shows itself in
acts rather than in words, and has more influence than homilies or
protestations. Beth could not reason upon or explain the faith that gave her
courage and patience to give up life, and cheerfully wait for death. Like a
confiding child, she asked no questions, but left everything to God and nature,
Father and Mother of us all, feeling sure that they, and they only, could teach
and strengthen heart and spirit for this life and the life to come. She did not
rebuke Jo with saintly speeches, only loved her better for her passionate
affection, and clung more closely to the dear human love, from which our Father
never means us to be weaned, but through which He draws us closer to Himself.
She could not say, “I’m glad to go,” for life was very sweet
for her. She could only sob out, “I try to be willing,” while she
held fast to Jo, as the first bitter wave of this great sorrow broke over them
together.

By and by Beth said, with recovered serenity, “You’ll tell them
this when we go home?”

“I think they will see it without words,” sighed Jo, for now it
seemed to her that Beth changed every day.

“Perhaps not. I’ve heard that the people who love best are often
blindest to such things. If they don’t see it, you will tell them for me.
I don’t want any secrets, and it’s kinder to prepare them. Meg has
John and the babies to comfort her, but you must stand by Father and Mother,
won’t you Jo?”

“If I can. But, Beth, I don’t give up yet. I’m going to
believe that it is a sick fancy, and not let you think it’s true.”
said Jo, trying to speak cheerfully.

Beth lay a minute thinking, and then said in her quiet way, “I
don’t know how to express myself, and shouldn’t try to anyone but
you, because I can’t speak out except to my Jo. I only mean to say that I
have a feeling that it never was intended I should live long. I’m not
like the rest of you. I never made any plans about what I’d do when I
grew up. I never thought of being married, as you all did. I couldn’t
seem to imagine myself anything but stupid little Beth, trotting about at home,
of no use anywhere but there. I never wanted to go away, and the hard part now
is the leaving you all. I’m not afraid, but it seems as if I should be
homesick for you even in heaven.”

Jo could not speak, and for several minutes there was no sound but the sigh of
the wind and the lapping of the tide. A white-winged gull flew by, with the
flash of sunshine on its silvery breast. Beth watched it till it vanished, and
her eyes were full of sadness. A little gray-coated sand bird came tripping
over the beach ‘peeping’ softly to itself, as if enjoying the sun
and sea. It came quite close to Beth, and looked at her with a friendly eye and
sat upon a warm stone, dressing its wet feathers, quite at home. Beth smiled
and felt comforted, for the tiny thing seemed to offer its small friendship and
remind her that a pleasant world was still to be enjoyed.

“Dear little bird! See, Jo, how tame it is. I like peeps better than the
gulls. They are not so wild and handsome, but they seem happy, confiding little
things. I used to call them my birds last summer, and Mother said they reminded
her of me—busy, quaker-colored creatures, always near the shore, and
always chirping that contented little song of theirs. You are the gull, Jo,
strong and wild, fond of the storm and the wind, flying far out to sea, and
happy all alone. Meg is the turtledove, and Amy is like the lark she writes
about, trying to get up among the clouds, but always dropping down into its
nest again. Dear little girl! She’s so ambitious, but her heart is good
and tender, and no matter how high she flies, she never will forget home. I
hope I shall see her again, but she seems so far away.”

“She is coming in the spring, and I mean that you shall be all ready to
see and enjoy her. I’m going to have you well and rosy by that
time,” began Jo, feeling that of all the changes in Beth, the talking
change was the greatest, for it seemed to cost no effort now, and she thought
aloud in a way quite unlike bashful Beth.

“Jo, dear, don’t hope any more. It won’t do any good.
I’m sure of that. We won’t be miserable, but enjoy being together
while we wait. We’ll have happy times, for I don’t suffer much, and
I think the tide will go out easily, if you help me.”

Jo leaned down to kiss the tranquil face, and with that silent kiss, she
dedicated herself soul and body to Beth.

She was right. There was no need of any words when they got home, for Father
and Mother saw plainly now what they had prayed to be saved from seeing. Tired
with her short journey, Beth went at once to bed, saying how glad she was to be
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
mantelpiece 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.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
NEW IMPRESSIONS

At three o’clock in the afternoon, all the fashionable world at Nice may
be seen on the Promenade des Anglais—a charming place, for the wide walk,
bordered with palms, flowers, and tropical shrubs, is bounded on one side by
the sea, on the other by the grand drive, lined with hotels and villas, while
beyond 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 criticizing the latest
celebrity who has arrived—Ristori or Dickens, Victor Emmanuel or the
Queen of the Sandwich Islands. The equipages are as varied as the company and
attract as much attention, especially the low basket barouches in which ladies
drive themselves, with a pair of dashing ponies, gay nets to keep their
voluminous flounces from overflowing the diminutive vehicles, and little grooms
on the perch behind.

Along this walk, on Christmas Day, a tall young man walked slowly, with his
hands behind him, and a somewhat absent expression of countenance. He looked
like an Italian, was dressed like an Englishman, and had the independent air of
an American—a combination which caused sundry pairs of feminine eyes to
look approvingly after him, and sundry dandies in black velvet suits, with
rose-colored neckties, buff gloves, and orange flowers in their buttonholes, 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 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 young 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.

“Oh, Laurie, is it really you? I thought you’d never come!”
cried Amy, dropping the reins and holding out both hands, to the great
scandalization of a French mamma, who hastened her daughter’s steps, lest
she should be demoralized by beholding the free manners of these ‘mad
English’.

“I was detained by the way, but I promised to spend Christmas with you,
and here I am.”

“How is your grandfather? When did you come? Where are you
staying?”

“Very well—last night—at the Chauvain. I called at your
hotel, but you were out.”

“I have so much to say, I don’t know where to begin! Get in and we
can talk at our ease. I was going for a drive and longing for company.
Flo’s saving up for tonight.”

“What happens then, a ball?”

“A Christmas party at our hotel. There are many Americans there, and they
give it in honor of the day. You’ll go with us, of course? Aunt will be
charmed.”

“Thank you. Where now?” asked Laurie, leaning back and folding his
arms, a proceeding which suited Amy, who preferred to drive, for her parasol
whip and blue reins over the white ponies’ backs afforded her infinite
satisfaction.

“I’m going to the bankers first for letters, and then to Castle
Hill. The view is so lovely, and I like to feed the peacocks. Have you ever
been there?”

“Often, years ago, but I don’t mind having a look at it.”

“Now tell me all about yourself. The last I heard of you, your
grandfather wrote that he expected you from Berlin.”

“Yes, I spent a month there and then joined him in Paris, where he has
settled for the winter. He has friends there and finds plenty to amuse him, so
I go and come, and we get on capitally.”

“That’s a sociable arrangement,” said Amy, missing something
in Laurie’s manner, though she couldn’t tell what.

“Why, you see, he hates to travel, and I hate to keep still, so we each
suit ourselves, and there is no trouble. I am often with him, and he enjoys my
adventures, while I like to feel that someone is glad to see me when I get back
from my wanderings. Dirty old hole, isn’t it?” he added, with a
look of disgust as they drove along the boulevard to the Place Napoleon in the
old city.

“The dirt is picturesque, so I don’t mind. The river and the hills
are delicious, and these glimpses of the narrow cross streets are my delight.
Now we shall have to wait for that procession to pass. It’s going to the
Church of St. John.”

While Laurie listlessly watched the procession of priests under their canopies,
white-veiled nuns bearing lighted tapers, and some brotherhood in blue chanting
as they walked, Amy watched him, and felt a new sort of shyness steal over her,
for he was changed, and she could not find the merry-faced boy she left in the
moody-looking man beside her. He was handsomer than ever and greatly improved,
she thought, but now that the flush of pleasure at meeting her was over, he
looked tired and spiritless—not sick, nor exactly unhappy, but older and
graver than a year or two of prosperous life should have made him. She
couldn’t understand it and did not venture to ask questions, so she shook
her head and touched up her ponies, as the procession wound away across the
arches of the Paglioni bridge and vanished in the church.

“Que pensez-vous?” she said, airing her French, which had improved
in quantity, if not in quality, since she came abroad.

“That mademoiselle has made good use of her time, and the result is
charming,” replied Laurie, bowing with his hand on his heart and an
admiring look.

She blushed with pleasure, but somehow the compliment did not satisfy her like
the blunt praises he used to give her at home, when he promenaded round her on
festival occasions, and told her she was ‘altogether jolly’, with a
hearty smile and an approving pat on the head. She didn’t like the new
tone, for though not blase, it sounded indifferent in spite of the look.

“If that’s the way he’s going to grow up, I wish he’d
stay a boy,” she thought, with a curious sense of disappointment and
discomfort, trying meantime to seem quite easy and gay.

At Avigdor’s she found the precious home letters and, giving the reins to
Laurie, read them luxuriously as they wound up the shady road between green
hedges, where tea roses bloomed as freshly as in June.

“Beth is very poorly, Mother says. I often think I ought to go home, but
they all say ‘stay’. So I do, for I shall never have another chance
like this,” said Amy, looking sober over one page.

“I think you are right, there. You could do nothing at home, and it is a
great comfort to them to know that you are well and happy, and enjoying so
much, my dear.”

He drew a little nearer, and looked more like his old self as he said that, and
the fear that sometimes weighed on Amy’s heart was lightened, for the
look, the act, the brotherly ‘my dear’, seemed to assure her that
if any trouble did come, she would not be alone in a strange land. Presently
she laughed and showed him a small sketch of Jo in her scribbling suit, with
the bow rampantly erect upon her cap, and issuing from her mouth the words,
‘Genius burns!’.

Laurie smiled, took it, put it in his vest pocket ‘to keep it from
blowing away’, and listened with interest to the lively letter Amy read
him.

“This will be a regularly merry Christmas to me, with presents in the
morning, you and letters in the afternoon, and a party at night,” said
Amy, as they alighted among the ruins of the old fort, and a flock of splendid
peacocks came trooping about them, tamely waiting to be fed. While Amy stood
laughing on the bank above him as she scattered crumbs to the brilliant birds,
Laurie looked at her as she had looked at him, with a natural curiosity to see
what changes time and absence had wrought. He found nothing to perplex or
disappoint, much to admire and approve, for overlooking a few little
affectations of speech and manner, she was as sprightly and graceful as ever,
with the addition of that indescribable something in dress and bearing which we
call elegance. Always mature for her age, she had gained a certain aplomb in
both carriage and conversation, which made her seem more of a woman of the
world than she was, but her old petulance now and then showed itself, her
strong will still held its own, and her native frankness was unspoiled by
foreign polish.

Laurie did not read all this while he watched her feed the peacocks, but he saw
enough to satisfy and interest him, and carried away a pretty little picture of
a bright-faced girl standing in the sunshine, which brought out the soft hue of
her dress, the fresh color of her cheeks, the golden gloss of her hair, and
made her a prominent figure in the pleasant scene.

As they came up onto the stone plateau that crowns the hill, Amy waved her hand
as if welcoming him to her favorite haunt, and said, pointing here and there,
“Do you remember the Cathedral and the Corso, the fishermen dragging
their nets in the bay, and the lovely road to Villa Franca, Schubert’s
Tower, just below, and best of all, that speck far out to sea which they say is
Corsica?”

“I remember. It’s not much changed,” he answered without
enthusiasm.

“What Jo would give for a sight of that famous speck!” said Amy,
feeling in good spirits and anxious to see him so also.

“Yes,” was all he said, but he turned and strained his eyes to see
the island which a greater usurper than even Napoleon now made interesting in
his sight.

“Take a good look at it for her sake, and then come and tell me what you
have been doing with yourself all this while,” said Amy, seating herself,
ready for a good talk.

But she did not get it, for though he joined her and answered all her questions
freely, she could only learn that he had roved about the Continent and been to
Greece. So after idling away an hour, they drove home again, and having paid
his respects to Mrs. Carrol, Laurie left them, promising to return in the
evening.

It must be recorded of Amy that she deliberately prinked that night. Time and
absence had done its work on both the young people. She had seen her old friend
in a new light, not as ‘our boy’, but as a handsome and agreeable
man, and she was conscious of a very natural desire to find favor in his sight.
Amy knew her good points, and made the most of them with the taste and skill
which is a fortune to a poor and pretty woman.

Tarlatan and tulle were cheap at Nice, so she enveloped herself in them on such
occasions, and following the sensible English fashion of simple dress for young
girls, got up charming little toilettes with fresh flowers, a few trinkets, and
all manner of dainty devices, which were both inexpensive and effective. It
must be confessed that the artist sometimes got possession of the woman, and
indulged in antique coiffures, statuesque attitudes, and classic draperies.
But, dear heart, we all have our little weaknesses, and find it easy to pardon
such in the young, who satisfy our eyes with their comeliness, and keep our
hearts merry with their artless vanities.

“I do want him to think I look well, and tell them so at home,”
said Amy to herself, as she put on Flo’s old white silk ball dress, and
covered it with a cloud of fresh illusion, out of which her white shoulders and
golden head emerged with a most artistic effect. Her hair she had the sense to
let alone, after gathering up the thick waves and curls into a Hebe-like knot
at the back of her head.

“It’s not the fashion, but it’s becoming, and I can’t
afford to make a fright of myself,” she used to say, when advised to
frizzle, puff, or braid, as the latest style commanded.

Having no ornaments fine enough for this important occasion, Amy looped her
fleecy skirts with rosy clusters of azalea, and framed the white shoulders in
delicate green vines. Remembering the painted boots, she surveyed her white
satin slippers with girlish satisfaction, and chasseed down the room, admiring
her aristocratic feet all by herself.

“My new fan just matches my flowers, my gloves fit to a charm, and the
real lace on Aunt’s mouchoir gives an air to my whole dress. If I only
had a classical nose and mouth I should be perfectly happy,” she said,
surveying herself with a critical eye and a candle in each hand.

In spite of this affliction, she looked unusually gay and graceful as she
glided away. She seldom ran—it did not suit her style, she thought, for
being tall, the stately and Junoesque was more appropriate than the sportive or
piquante. She walked up and down the long saloon while waiting for Laurie, and
once arranged herself under the chandelier, which had a good effect upon her
hair, then she thought better of it, and went away to the other end of the
room, as if ashamed of the girlish desire to have the first view a propitious
one. It so happened that she could not have done a better thing, for Laurie
came in so quietly she did not hear him, and as she stood at the distant
window, with her head half turned and one hand gathering up her dress, the
slender, white figure against the red curtains was as effective as a
well-placed statue.

“Good evening, Diana!” said Laurie, with the look of satisfaction
she liked to see in his eyes when they rested on her.

“Good evening, Apollo!” she answered, smiling back at him, for he
too looked unusually debonair, and the thought of entering the ballroom on the
arm of such a personable man caused Amy to pity the four plain Misses Davis
from the bottom of her heart.

“Here are your flowers. I arranged them myself, remembering that you
didn’t like what Hannah calls a ‘sot-bookay’,” said
Laurie, handing her a delicate nosegay, in a holder that she had long coveted
as she daily passed it in Cardiglia’s window.

“How kind you are!” she exclaimed gratefully. “If I’d
known you were coming I’d have had something ready for you today, though
not as pretty as this, I’m afraid.”

“Thank you. It isn’t what it should be, but you have improved
it,” he added, as she snapped the silver bracelet on her wrist.

“Please don’t.”

“I thought you liked that sort of thing.”

“Not from you, it doesn’t sound natural, and I like your old
bluntness better.”

“I’m glad of it,” he answered, with a look of relief, then
buttoned her gloves for her, and asked if his tie was straight, just as he used
to do when they went to parties together at home.

The company assembled in the long salle a manger, that evening, was such as one
sees nowhere but on the Continent. The hospitable Americans had invited every
acquaintance they had in Nice, and having no prejudice against titles, secured
a few to add luster to their Christmas ball.

A Russian prince condescended to sit in a corner for an hour and talk with a
massive lady, dressed like Hamlet’s mother in black velvet with a pearl
bridle under her chin. A Polish count, aged eighteen, devoted himself to the
ladies, who pronounced him, ‘a fascinating dear’, and a German
Serene Something, having come to 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 traveling young gentlemen who disported themselves gaily, while mammas of
all nations lined the walls and smiled upon them benignly when they danced with
their daughters.

Any young girl can imagine Amy’s state of mind when she ‘took the
stage’ that night, leaning on Laurie’s arm. She knew she looked
well, she loved to dance, she felt that her foot was on her native heath in a
ballroom, and enjoyed the delightful sense of power which comes when young
girls first discover the new and lovely kingdom they are born to rule by virtue
of beauty, youth, and womanhood. She did pity the Davis girls, who were
awkward, plain, and destitute of escort, except a grim papa and three grimmer
maiden aunts, and she bowed to them in her friendliest manner as she passed,
which was good of her, as it permitted them to see her dress, and burn with
curiosity to know who her distinguished-looking friend might be. With the first
burst of the band, Amy’s color rose, her eyes began to sparkle, and her
feet to tap the floor impatiently, for she danced well and wanted Laurie to
know it. Therefore the shock she received can better be imagined than
described, when he said in a perfectly tranquil tone, “Do you care to
dance?”

“One usually does at a ball.”

Her amazed look and quick answer caused Laurie to repair his error as fast as
possible.

“I meant the first dance. May I have the honor?”

“I can give you one if I put off the Count. He dances divinely, but he
will excuse me, as you are an old friend,” said Amy, hoping that the name
would have a good effect, and show Laurie that she was not to be trifled with.

“Nice little boy, but rather a short Pole to support…

A daughter of the gods,
Devinely tall, and most divinely fair,”

was all the satisfaction she got, however.

The set in which they found themselves was composed of English, and Amy was
compelled to walk decorously through a cotillion, feeling all the while as if
she could dance the tarantella with 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 penitence. She showed him her ball book with demure
satisfaction when he strolled instead of rushed up to claim her for the next, a
glorious polka redowa. But his polite regrets didn’t impose upon her, and
when she galloped away with the Count, she saw Laurie sit down by her aunt with
an actual expression of relief.

That was unpardonable, and Amy took no more notice of him for a long while,
except a word now and then when she came to her chaperon between the dances for
a necessary pin or a moment’s rest. Her anger had a good effect, however,
for she hid it under a smiling face, and seemed unusually blithe and brilliant.
Laurie’s eyes followed her with pleasure, for she neither romped nor
sauntered, but danced with spirit and grace, making the delightsome pastime
what it should be. He very naturally fell to studying her from this new point
of view, and before the evening was half over, had decided that ‘little
Amy was going to make a very charming woman’.

It was a lively scene, for soon the spirit of the social season took possession
of everyone, 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
gamboled like a flock of young giraffes. The golden secretary darted through
the room like a meteor with a dashing French-woman who carpeted the floor with
her pink satin train. The serene Teuton found the supper-table and was happy,
eating steadily through the bill of fare, and dismayed the garcons by the
ravages he committed. But the Emperor’s friend covered himself with
glory, for he danced everything, whether he knew it or not, and introduced
impromptu pirouettes when the figures bewildered him. The boyish abandon of
that stout man was charming to behold, for though he ‘carried
weight’, he danced like an India-rubber ball. He ran, he flew, he
pranced, his face glowed, his bald head shown, his coattails waved wildly, his
pumps actually twinkled in the air, and when the music stopped, he wiped the
drops from his brow, and beamed upon his fellow men like a French Pickwick
without glasses.

Amy and her Pole distinguished themselves by equal enthusiasm but more graceful
agility, and Laurie found himself involuntarily keeping time to the rhythmic
rise and fall of the white slippers as they flew by as indefatigably as if
winged. When little Vladimir finally relinquished her, with assurances that he
was ‘desolated to leave so early’, she was ready to rest, and see
how her recreant knight had borne his punishment.

It had been successful, for at three-and-twenty, blighted affections find a
balm in friendly society, and young nerves will thrill, young blood dance, and
healthy young spirits rise, when subjected to the enchantment of beauty, light,
music, and motion. Laurie had a waked-up look as he rose to give her his seat,
and when he hurried away to bring her some supper, she said to herself, with a
satisfied smile, “Ah, I thought that would do him good!”

“You look like Balzac’s ‘Femme Peinte Par
Elle-Meme’,” he said, as he fanned her with one hand and held
her coffee cup in the other.

“My rouge won’t come off.” and Amy rubbed her brilliant
cheek, and showed him her white glove with a sober simplicity that made him
laugh outright.

“What do you call this stuff?” he asked, touching a fold of her
dress that had blown over his knee.

“Illusion.”

“Good name for it. It’s very pretty—new thing, isn’t
it?”

“It’s as old as the hills. You have seen it on dozens of girls, and
you never found out that it was pretty till now—stupide!”

“I never saw it on you before, which accounts for the mistake, you
see.”

“None of that, it is forbidden. I’d rather take coffee than
compliments just now. No, don’t lounge, it makes me nervous.”

Laurie sat bold 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 irrestible desire to trample on him, as girls have
a delightful way of doing when lords of creation show any signs of subjection.

“Where did you learn all this sort of thing?” he asked with a
quizzical look.

“As ‘this sort of thing’ is rather a vague expression, would
you kindly explain?” returned Amy, knowing perfectly well what he meant,
but wickedly leaving him to describe what is indescribable.

“Well—the general air, the style, the self-possession,
the—the—illusion—you know”, laughed Laurie, breaking
down and helping himself out of his quandary with the new word.

Amy was gratified, but of course didn’t show it, and demurely answered,
“Foreign life polishes one in spite of one’s self. I study as well
as play, and as for this”—with a little gesture toward her
dress—“why, tulle is cheap, posies to be had for nothing, and I am
used to making the most of my poor little things.”

Amy rather regretted that last sentence, fearing it wasn’t in good taste,
but Laurie liked her 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.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
ON THE SHELF

In France the young girls have a dull time of it till they are married, when
‘Vive la liberte!’ becomes their motto. In America, as everyone
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.”

Not being a belle or even a fashionable lady, Meg did not experience this
affliction till her babies were a year old, for in her little world primitive
customs prevailed, and she found herself more admired and beloved than ever.

As she was a womanly little woman, the maternal instinct was very strong, and
she was entirely absorbed in her children, to the utter exclusion of everything
and everybody else. Day and night she brooded over them with tireless devotion
and anxiety, leaving John to the tender mercies of the help, for an Irish lady
now presided over the kitchen department. Being a domestic man, John decidedly
missed the wifely attentions he had been accustomed to receive, but as he
adored his babies, he cheerfully relinquished his comfort for a time, supposing
with masculine ignorance that peace would soon be restored. But three months
passed, and there was no return of repose. Meg looked worn and nervous, the
babies absorbed every minute of her time, the house was neglected, and Kitty,
the cook, who took life ‘aisy’, kept him on short commons. When he
went out in the morning he was bewildered by small commissions for the captive
mamma, if he came gaily 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 a concert, he was answered with a
reproachful look, and a decided—“Leave my children for pleasure,
never!” His sleep was broken by infant wails and visions of a phantom
figure pacing noiselessly to and fro in the watches of the night. His meals
were interrupted by the frequent flight of the presiding genius, who deserted
him, half-helped, if a muffled chirp sounded from the nest above. And when he
read his paper of an evening, Demi’s colic got into the shipping list and
Daisy’s fall affected the price of stocks, for Mrs. Brooke was only
interested in domestic news.

The poor man was very uncomfortable, for the children had bereft him of his
wife, home was merely a nursery and the perpetual ‘hushing’ made
him feel like a brutal intruder whenever he entered the sacred precincts of
Babyland. He bore it very patiently for six months, and when no signs of
amendment appeared, he did what other paternal exiles do—tried to get a
little comfort elsewhere. Scott had married and gone to housekeeping not far
off, and John fell into the way of running over for an hour or two of an
evening, when his own parlor was empty, and his own wife singing lullabies that
seemed to have no end. Mrs. Scott was a lively, pretty girl, with nothing to do
but be agreeable, and she performed her mission most successfully. The parlor
was always bright and attractive, the chessboard ready, the piano in tune,
plenty of gay gossip, and a nice little supper set forth in tempting style.

John would have preferred his own fireside if it had not been so lonely, but as
it was he gratefully took the next best thing and enjoyed his neighbor’s
society.

Meg rather approved of the new arrangement at first, and found it a relief to
know that John was having a good time instead of dozing in the parlor, or
tramping about the house and waking the children. But by-and-by, when the
teething worry was over and the idols went to sleep at proper hours, leaving
Mamma time to rest, she began to miss John, and find her workbasket dull
company, when he was not sitting opposite in his old dressing gown, comfortably
scorching his slippers on the fender. She would not ask him to stay at home,
but felt injured because he did not know that she wanted him without being
told, entirely forgetting the many evenings he had waited for her in vain. She
was nervous and worn out with watching and worry, and in that unreasonable
frame of mind which the best of mothers occasionally experience when domestic
cares oppress them. Want of exercise robs them of cheerfulness, and too much
devotion to that idol of American women, the teapot, makes them feel as if they
were all nerve and no muscle.

“Yes,” she would say, looking in the glass, “I’m
getting old and ugly. John doesn’t find me interesting any longer, so he
leaves his faded wife and goes to see his pretty neighbor, who has no
incumbrances. Well, the babies love me, they don’t care if I am thin and
pale and haven’t time to crimp my hair, they are my comfort, and some day
John will see what I’ve gladly sacrificed for them, won’t he, my
precious?”

To which pathetic appeal Daisy would answer with a coo, or Demi with a crow,
and Meg would put by her lamentations for a maternal revel, which soothed her
solitude for the time being. But the pain increased as politics absorbed John,
who was always running over to discuss interesting points with Scott, quite
unconscious that Meg missed him. Not a word did she say, however, till her
mother found her in tears one day, and insisted on knowing what the matter was,
for Meg’s drooping spirits had not escaped her observation.

“I wouldn’t tell anyone except you, Mother, but I really do need
advice, for if John goes on much longer I might as well be widowed,”
replied Mrs. Brooke, drying her tears on Daisy’s bib with an injured air.

“Goes on how, my dear?” asked her mother anxiously.

“He’s away all day, and at night when I want to see him, he is
continually going over to the Scotts’. It isn’t fair that I should
have the hardest work, and never any amusement. Men are very selfish, even the
best of them.”

“So are women. Don’t blame John till you see where you are wrong
yourself.”

“But it can’t be right for him to neglect me.”

“Don’t you neglect him?”

“Why, Mother, I thought you’d take my part!”

“So I do, as far as sympathizing goes, but I think the fault is yours,
Meg.”

“I don’t see how.”

“Let me show you. Did John ever neglect you, as you call it, while you
made it a point to give him your society of an evening, his only leisure
time?”

“No, but I can’t do it now, with two babies to tend.”

“I think you could, dear, and I think you ought. May I speak quite
freely, and will you remember that it’s Mother who blames as well as
Mother who sympathizes?”

“Indeed I will! Speak to me as if I were little Meg again. I often feel
as if I needed teaching more than ever since these babies look to me for
everything.”

Meg drew her low chair beside her mother’s, and with a little
interruption in either lap, the two women rocked and talked lovingly together,
feeling that the tie of motherhood made them more one than ever.

“You have only made the mistake that most young wives
make—forgotten your duty to your husband in your love for your children.
A very natural and forgivable mistake, Meg, but one that had better be remedied
before you take to different ways, for children should draw you nearer than
ever, not separate you, as if they were all yours, and John had nothing to do
but support them. I’ve seen it for some weeks, but have not spoken,
feeling sure it would come right in time.”

“I’m afraid it won’t. If I ask him to stay, he’ll think
I’m jealous, and I wouldn’t insult him by such an idea. He
doesn’t see that I want him, and I don’t know how to tell him
without words.”

“Make it so pleasant he won’t want to go away. My dear, he’s
longing for his little home, but it isn’t home without you, and you are
always in the nursery.”

“Oughtn’t I to be there?”

“Not all the time, too much confinement makes you nervous, and then you
are unfitted for everything. Besides, you owe something to John as well as to
the babies. Don’t neglect husband for children, don’t shut him out
of the nursery, but teach him how to help in it. His place is there as well as
yours, and the children need him. Let him feel that he has a part to do, and he
will do it gladly and faithfully, and it will be better for you all.”

“You really think so, Mother?”

“I know it, Meg, for I’ve tried it, and I seldom give advice unless
I’ve proved its practicability. When you and Jo were little, I went on
just as you are, feeling as if I didn’t do my duty unless I devoted
myself wholly to you. Poor Father took to his books, after I had refused all
offers of help, and left me to try my experiment alone. I struggled along as
well as I could, but Jo was too much for me. I nearly spoiled her by
indulgence. You were poorly, and I worried about you till I fell sick myself.
Then Father came to the rescue, quietly managed everything, and made himself so
helpful that I saw my mistake, and never have been able to get on without him
since. That is the secret of our home happiness. He does not let business wean
him from the little cares and duties that affect us all, and I try not to let
domestic worries destroy my interest in his pursuits. Each do our part alone in
many things, but at home we work together, always.”

“It is so, Mother, and my great wish is to be to my husband and children
what you have been to yours. Show me how, I’ll do anything you
say.”

“You always were my docile daughter. Well, dear, if I were you, I’d
let John have more to do with the management of Demi, for the boy needs
training, and it’s none too soon to begin. Then I’d do what I have
often proposed, let Hannah come and help you. She is a capital nurse, and you
may trust the precious babies to her while you do more housework. You need the
exercise, Hannah would enjoy the rest, and John would find his wife again. Go
out more, keep cheerful as well as busy, for you are the sunshine-maker of the
family, and if you get dismal there is no fair weather. Then I’d try to
take an interest in whatever John likes—talk with him, let him read to
you, exchange ideas, and help each other in that way. Don’t shut yourself
up in a bandbox because you are a woman, but understand what is going on, and
educate yourself to take your part in the world’s work, for it all
affects you and yours.”

“John is so sensible, I’m afraid he will think I’m stupid if
I ask questions about politics and things.”

“I don’t believe he would. Love covers a multitude of sins, and of
whom could you ask more freely than of him? Try it, and see if he doesn’t
find your society far more agreeable than Mrs. Scott’s suppers.”

“I will. Poor John! I’m afraid I have neglected him sadly, but I
thought I was right, and he never said anything.”

“He tried not to be selfish, but he has felt rather forlorn, I fancy.
This is just the time, Meg, when young married people are apt to grow apart,
and the very time when they ought to be most together, for the first tenderness
soon wears off, unless care is taken to preserve it. And no time is so
beautiful and precious to parents as the first years of the little lives given
to them to train. Don’t let John be a stranger to the babies, for they
will do more to keep him safe and happy in this world of trial and temptation
than anything else, and through them you will learn to know and love one
another as you should. Now, dear, good-by. Think over Mother’s
preachment, act upon it if it seems good, and God bless you all.”

Meg did think it over, found it good, and acted upon it, though the first
attempt was not made exactly as she planned to have it. Of course the children
tyrannized over her, and ruled the house as soon as they found out that kicking
and squalling brought them whatever they wanted. Mamma was an abject slave to
their caprices, but Papa was not so easily subjugated, and occasionally
afflicted his tender spouse by an attempt at paternal discipline with his
obstreperous son. For Demi inherited a trifle of his sire’s firmness of
character, we won’t call it obstinacy, and when he made up his little
mind to have or to do anything, all the king’s horses and all the
king’s men could not change that pertinacious little mind. Mamma thought
the dear too young to be taught to conquer his prejudices, but Papa believed
that it never was too soon to learn obedience. So Master Demi early discovered
that when he undertook to ‘wrastle’ with ‘Parpar’, he
always got the worst of it, yet like the Englishman, baby respected the man who
conquered him, and loved the father whose grave “No, no,” was more
impressive than all Mamma’s love pats.

A few days after the talk with her mother, Meg resolved to try a social evening
with John, so she ordered a nice supper, set the parlor in order, dressed
herself prettily, and put the children to bed early, that nothing should
interfere with her experiment. But unfortunately Demi’s most
unconquerable prejudice was against going to bed, and that night he decided to
go on a rampage. So poor Meg sang and rocked, told stories and tried every
sleep-prevoking wile she could devise, but all in vain, the big eyes
wouldn’t shut, and long after Daisy had gone to byelow, like the chubby
little bunch of good nature she was, naughty Demi lay staring at the light,
with the most discouragingly wide-awake expression of countenance.

“Will Demi lie still like a good boy, while Mamma runs down and gives
poor Papa his tea?” asked Meg, as the hall door softly closed, and the
well-known step went tip-toeing into the dining room.

“Me has tea!” said Demi, preparing to join in the revel.

“No, but I’ll save you some little cakies for breakfast, if
you’ll go bye-bye like Daisy. Will you, lovey?”

“Iss!” and Demi shut his eyes tight, as if to catch sleep and hurry
the desired day.

Taking advantage of the propitious moment, Meg slipped away and ran down to
greet her husband with a smiling face and the little blue bow in her hair which
was his especial admiration. He saw it at once and said with pleased surprise,
“Why, little mother, how gay we are tonight. Do you expect
company?”

“Only you, dear.”

“Is it a birthday, anniversary, or anything?”

“No, I’m tired of being dowdy, so I dressed up as a change. You
always make yourself nice for table, no matter how tired you are, so why
shouldn’t I when I have the time?”

“I do it out of respect for you, my dear,” said old-fashioned John.

“Ditto, ditto, Mr. Brooke,” laughed Meg, looking young and pretty
again, as she nodded to him over the teapot.

“Well, it’s altogether delightful, and like old times. This tastes
right. I drink your health, dear.” and John sipped his tea with an air of
reposeful rapture, which was of very short duration however, for as he put down
his cup, the door handle rattled mysteriously, and a little voice was heard,
saying impatiently…

“Opy doy. Me’s tummin!”

“It’s that naughty boy. I told him to go to sleep alone, and here
he is, downstairs, getting his death a-cold pattering over that canvas,”
said Meg, answering the call.

“Mornin’ now,” announced Demi in joyful tone as he entered,
with his long nightgown gracefully festooned over his arm and every curl
bobbing gayly as he pranced about the table, eyeing the ‘cakies’
with loving glances.

“No, it isn’t morning yet. You must go to bed, and not trouble poor
Mamma. Then you can have the little cake with sugar on it.”

“Me loves Parpar,” said the artful one, preparing to climb the
paternal knee and revel in forbidden joys. But John shook his head, and said to
Meg…

“If you told him to stay up there, and go to sleep alone, make him do it,
or he will never learn to mind you.”

“Yes, of course. Come, Demi,” and Meg led her son away, feeling a
strong desire to spank the little marplot who hopped beside her, laboring under
the delusion that the bribe was to be administered as soon as they reached the
nursery.

Nor was he disappointed, for that shortsighted woman actually gave him a lump
of sugar, tucked him into his bed, and forbade any more promenades till
morning.

“Iss!” said Demi the perjured, blissfully sucking his sugar, and
regarding his first attempt as eminently successful.

Meg returned to her place, and supper was progressing pleasantly, when the
little ghost walked again, and exposed the maternal delinquencies by boldly
demanding, “More sudar, Marmar.”

“Now this won’t do,” said John, hardening his heart against
the engaging little sinner. “We shall never know any peace till that
child learns to go to bed properly. You have made a slave of yourself long
enough. Give him one lesson, and then there will be an end of it. Put him in
his bed and leave him, Meg.”

“He won’t stay there, he never does unless I sit by him.”

“I’ll manage him. Demi, go upstairs, and get into your bed, as
Mamma bids you.”

“S’ant!” replied the young rebel, helping himself to the
coveted ‘cakie’, and beginning to eat the same with calm audacity.

“You must never say that to Papa. I shall carry you if you don’t go
yourself.”

“Go ’way, me don’t love Parpar.” and Demi retired to
his mother’s skirts for protection.

But even that refuge proved unavailing, for he was delivered over to the enemy,
with a “Be gentle with him, John,” which struck the culprit with
dismay, for when Mamma deserted him, then the judgment day was at hand. Bereft
of his cake, defrauded of his frolic, and borne away by a strong hand to that
detested bed, poor Demi could not restrain his wrath, but openly defied Papa,
and kicked and screamed lustily all the way upstairs. The minute he was put
into bed on one side, he rolled out on the other, and made for the door, only
to be ignominiously caught up by the tail of his little toga and put back
again, which lively performance was kept up till the young man’s strength
gave out, when he devoted himself to roaring at the top of his voice. This
vocal exercise usually conquered Meg, but John sat as unmoved as the post which
is popularly believed to be deaf. No coaxing, no sugar, no lullaby, no story,
even the light was put out and only the red glow of the fire enlivened the
‘big dark’ which Demi regarded with curiosity rather than fear.
This new order of things disgusted him, and he howled dismally for
‘Marmar’, as his angry passions subsided, and recollections of his
tender bondwoman returned to the captive autocrat. The plaintive wail which
succeeded the passionate roar went to Meg’s heart, and she ran up to say
beseechingly…

“Let me stay with him, he’ll be good now, John.”

“No, my dear. I’ve told him he must go to sleep, as you bid him,
and he must, if I stay here all night.”

“But he’ll cry himself sick,” pleaded Meg, reproaching
herself for deserting her boy.

“No, he won’t, he’s so tired he will soon drop off and then
the matter is settled, for he will understand that he has got to mind.
Don’t interfere, I’ll manage him.”

“He’s my child, and I can’t have his spirit broken by
harshness.”

“He’s my child, and I won’t have his temper spoiled by
indulgence. Go down, my dear, and leave the boy to me.”

When John spoke in that masterful tone, Meg always obeyed, and never regretted
her docility.

“Please let me kiss him once, John?”

“Certainly. Demi, say good night to Mamma, and let her go and rest, for
she is very tired with taking care of you all day.”

Meg always insisted upon it that the kiss won the victory, for after it was
given, Demi sobbed more quietly, and lay quite still at the bottom of the bed,
whither he had wriggled in his anguish of mind.

“Poor little man, he’s worn out with sleep and crying. I’ll
cover him up, and then go and set Meg’s heart at rest,” thought
John, creeping to the bedside, hoping to find his rebellious heir asleep.

But he wasn’t, for the moment his father peeped at him, Demi’s eyes
opened, his little chin began to quiver, and he put up his arms, saying with a
penitent hiccough, “Me’s dood, now.”

Sitting on the stairs outside Meg wondered at the long silence which followed
the uproar, and after imagining all sorts of impossible accidents, she slipped
into the room to set her fears at rest. Demi lay fast asleep, not in his usual
spreadeagle 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 wiser
baby. So held, John had waited with a womanly patience till the little hand
relaxed its hold, and while waiting had fallen asleep, more tired by that
tussle with his son than with his whole day’s work.

As Meg stood watching the two faces on the pillow, she smiled to herself, and
then slipped away again, saying in a satisfied tone, “I never need fear
that John will be too harsh with my babies. He does know how to manage them,
and will be a great help, for Demi is getting too much for me.”

When John came down at last, expecting to find a pensive or reproachful wife,
he was agreeably surprised to find Meg placidly trimming a bonnet, and to be
greeted with the request to read something about the election, if he was not
too tired. John saw in a minute that a revolution of some kind was going on,
but wisely asked no questions, knowing that Meg was such a transparent little
person, she couldn’t keep a secret to save her life, and therefore the
clue would soon appear. He read a long debate with the most amiable readiness
and then explained it in his most lucid manner, while Meg tried to look deeply
interested, to ask intelligent questions, and keep her thoughts from wandering
from the state of the nation to the state of her bonnet. In her secret soul,
however, she decided that politics were as bad as mathematics, and that the
mission of politicians seemed to be calling each other names, but she kept
these feminine ideas to herself, and when John paused, shook her head and said
with what she thought diplomatic ambiguity, “Well, I really don’t
see what we are coming to.”

John laughed, and watched her for a minute, as she poised a pretty little
preparation of lace and flowers on her hand, and regarded it with the genuine
interest which his harangue had failed to waken.

“She is trying to like politics for my sake, so I’ll try and like
millinery for hers, that’s only fair,” thought John the Just,
adding aloud, “That’s very pretty. Is it what you call a breakfast
cap?”

“My dear man, it’s a bonnet! My very best go-to-concert-and-theater
bonnet.”

“I beg your pardon, it was so small, I naturally mistook it for one of
the flyaway things you sometimes wear. How do you keep it on?”

“These bits of lace are fastened under the chin with a rosebud,
so,” and Meg illustrated by putting on the bonnet and regarding him with
an air of calm satisfaction that was irresistible.

“It’s a love of a bonnet, but I prefer the face inside, for it
looks young and happy again,” and John kissed the smiling face, to the
great detriment of the rosebud under the chin.

“I’m glad you like it, for I want you to take me to one of the new
concerts some night. I really need some music to put me in tune. Will you,
please?”

“Of course I will, with all my heart, or anywhere else you like. You have
been shut up so long, it will do you no end of good, and I shall enjoy it, of
all things. What put it into your head, little mother?”

“Well, I had a talk with Marmee the other day, and told her how nervous
and cross and out of sorts I felt, and she said I needed change and less care,
so Hannah is to help me with the children, and I’m to see to things about
the house more, and now and then have a little fun, just to keep me from
getting to be a fidgety, broken-down old woman before my time. It’s only
an experiment, John, and I want to try it for your sake as much as for mine,
because I’ve neglected you shamefully lately, and I’m going to make
home what it used to be, if I can. You don’t object, I hope?”

Never mind what John said, or what a very narrow escape the little bonnet had
from utter ruin. All that we have any business to know is that John did not
appear to object, judging from the changes which gradually took place in the
house and its inmates. It was not all Paradise by any means, but everyone 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 homelike again, and John had no wish to leave it,
unless he took Meg with him. The Scotts came to the Brookes’ now, and
everyone found the little house a cheerful place, full of happiness, content,
and family love. Even 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.

This household happiness did not come all at once, but John and Meg had found
the key to it, and each year of married life taught them how to use it,
unlocking the treasuries of real home love and mutual helpfulness, which the
poorest may possess, and the richest cannot buy. This is the sort of shelf on
which young wives and mothers may consent to be laid, safe from the restless
fret and fever of the world, finding loyal lovers in the little sons and
daughters who cling to them, undaunted by sorrow, poverty, or age, walking side
by side, through fair and stormy weather, with a faithful friend, who is, in
the true sense of the good old Saxon word, the ‘house-band’, and
learning, as Meg learned, that a woman’s happiest kingdom is home, her
highest honor the art of ruling it not as a queen, but as a wise wife and
mother.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
LAZY LAURENCE

Laurie went to Nice intending to stay a week, and remained a month. He was
tired of wandering about alone, and Amy’s familiar presence seemed to
give a homelike 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 sank in hers, and each
felt the truth before a word was spoken. Amy tried to please, and succeeded,
for she was grateful for the many pleasures he gave her, and repaid him with
the little services to which womanly women know how to lend an indescribable
charm. Laurie made no effort of any kind, but just let himself drift along as
comfortably as possible, trying to forget, and feeling that all women owed him
a kind word because one had been cold to him. It cost him no effort to be
generous, and he would have given Amy all the trinkets in Nice if she would
have taken them, but at the same time he felt that he could not change the
opinion she was forming of him, and he rather dreaded the keen blue eyes that
seemed to watch him with such half-sorrowful, half-scornful surprise.

“All the rest have gone to Monaco for the day. I preferred to stay at
home and write letters. They are done now, and I am going to Valrosa to sketch,
will you come?” said Amy, as she joined Laurie one lovely day when he
lounged in as usual, about noon.

“Well, yes, but isn’t it rather warm for such a long walk?”
he answered slowly, for the shaded salon looked inviting after the glare
without.

“I’m going to have the little carriage, and Baptiste can drive, so
you’ll have nothing to do but hold your umbrella, and keep your gloves
nice,” returned Amy, with a sarcastic glance at the immaculate kids,
which were a weak point with Laurie.

“Then I’ll go with pleasure.” and he put out his hand for her
sketchbook. But she tucked it under her arm with a sharp…

“Don’t trouble yourself. It’s no exertion to me, but you
don’t look equal to it.”

Laurie lifted his eyebrows and followed at a leisurely pace as she ran
downstairs, but when they got into the carriage he took the reins himself, and
left little Baptiste nothing to do but fold his arms and fall asleep on his
perch.

The two never quarreled. Amy was too well-bred, and just now Laurie was too
lazy, so in a minute he peeped under her hatbrim with an inquiring air. She
answered him with a smile, and they went on together in the most amicable
manner.

It was a lovely drive, along winding roads rich in the picturesque scenes that
delight beauty-loving eyes. Here an ancient monastery, whence the solemn
chanting of the monks came down to them. There a bare-legged shepherd, in
wooden shoes, pointed hat, and rough jacket over one shoulder, sat piping on a
stone while his goats skipped among the rocks or lay at his feet. Meek,
mouse-colored donkeys, laden with panniers of freshly cut grass passed by, with
a pretty girl in a capaline sitting between the green piles, or an old woman
spinning with a distaff as she went. Brown, soft-eyed children ran out from the
quaint stone hovels to offer nosegays, or bunches of oranges still on the
bough. Gnarled olive trees covered the hills with their dusky foliage, fruit
hung golden in the orchard, and great scarlet anemones fringed the roadside,
while beyond green slopes and craggy heights, the Maritime Alps rose sharp and
white against the blue Italian sky.

Valrosa well deserved its name, for in that climate of perpetual summer roses
blossomed everywhere. They overhung the archway, thrust themselves between the
bars of the great gate with a sweet welcome to passers-by, and lined the
avenue, winding through lemon trees and feathery palms up to the villa on the
hill. Every shadowy nook, where seats invited one to stop and rest, was a mass
of bloom, every cool grotto had its marble nymph smiling from a veil of flowers
and every fountain reflected crimson, white, or pale pink roses, leaning down
to smile at their own beauty. Roses covered the walls of the house, draped the
cornices, climbed the pillars, and ran riot over the balustrade of the wide
terrace, whence one looked down on the sunny Mediterranean, and the
white-walled city on its shore.

“This is a regular honeymoon paradise, isn’t it? Did you ever see
such roses?” asked Amy, pausing on the terrace to enjoy the view, and a
luxurious whiff of perfume that came wandering by.

“No, nor felt such thorns,” returned Laurie, with his thumb in his
mouth, after a vain attempt to capture a solitary scarlet flower that grew just
beyond his reach.

“Try lower down, and pick those that have no thorns,” said Amy,
gathering three of the tiny cream-colored ones that starred the wall behind
her. She put them in his buttonhole as a peace offering, and he stood a minute
looking down at them with a curious expression, for in the Italian part of his
nature there was a touch of superstition, and he was just then in that state of
half-sweet, half-bitter melancholy, when imaginative young men find
significance in trifles and food for romance everywhere. He had thought of Jo
in reaching after the thorny red rose, for vivid flowers became her, and she
had often worn ones like that from the greenhouse at home. The pale roses Amy
gave him were the sort that the Italians lay in dead hands, never in bridal
wreaths, and for a moment he wondered if the omen was for Jo or for himself,
but the next instant his American common sense got the better of
sentimentality, and he laughed a heartier laugh than Amy had heard since he
came.

“It’s good advice, you’d better take it and save your
fingers,” she said, thinking her speech amused him.

“Thank you, I will,” he answered in jest, and a few months later he
did it in earnest.

“Laurie, when are you going to your grandfather?” she asked
presently, as she settled herself on a rustic seat.

“Very soon.”

“You have said that a dozen times within the last three weeks.”

“I dare say, short answers save trouble.”

“He expects you, and you really ought to go.”

“Hospitable creature! I know it.”

“Then why don’t you do it?”

“Natural depravity, I suppose.”

“Natural indolence, you mean. It’s really dreadful!” and Amy
looked severe.

“Not so bad as it seems, for I should only plague him if I went, so I
might as well stay and plague you a little longer, you can bear it better, in
fact I think it agrees with you excellently,” and Laurie composed himself
for a lounge on the broad ledge of the balustrade.

Amy shook her head and opened her sketchbook with an air of resignation, but
she had made up her mind to lecture ‘that boy’ and in a minute she
began again.

“What are you doing just now?”

“Watching lizards.”

“No, no. I mean what do you intend and wish to do?”

“Smoke a cigarette, if you’ll allow me.”

“How provoking you are! I don’t approve of cigars and I will only
allow it on condition that you let me put you into my sketch. I need a
figure.”

“With all the pleasure in life. How will you have me, full length or
three-quarters, on my head or my heels? I should respectfully suggest a
recumbent posture, then put yourself in also and call it ‘Dolce far
niente’.”

“Stay as you are, and go to sleep if you like. I intend to work
hard,” said Amy in her most energetic tone.

“What delightful enthusiasm!” and he leaned against a tall urn with
an air of entire satisfaction.

“What would Jo say if she saw you now?” asked Amy impatiently,
hoping to stir him up by the mention of her still more energetic sister’s
name.

“As usual, ‘Go away, Teddy. I’m busy!’” He
laughed as he spoke, but the laugh was not natural, and a shade passed over his
face, for the utterance of the familiar name touched the wound that was not
healed yet. Both tone and shadow struck Amy, for she had seen and heard them
before, and now she looked up in time to catch a new expression on
Laurie’s face—a hard bitter look, full of pain, dissatisfaction,
and regret. It was gone before she could study it and the listless expression
back again. She watched him for a moment with artistic pleasure, thinking how
like an Italian he looked, as he lay basking in the sun with uncovered head and
eyes full of southern dreaminess, for he seemed to have forgotten her and
fallen into a reverie.

“You look like the effigy of a young knight asleep on his tomb,”
she said, carefully tracing the well-cut profile defined against the dark
stone.

“Wish I was!”

“That’s a foolish wish, unless you have spoiled your life. You are
so changed, I sometimes think—” there Amy stopped, with a
half-timid, half-wistful look, more significant than her unfinished speech.

Laurie saw and understood the affectionate anxiety which she hesitated to
express, and looking straight into her eyes, said, just as he used to say it to
her mother, “It’s all right, ma’am.”

That satisfied her and set at rest the doubts that had begun to worry her
lately. It also touched her, and she showed that it did, by the cordial tone in
which she said…

“I’m glad of that! I didn’t think you’d been a very bad
boy, but I fancied you might have wasted money at that wicked Baden-Baden, lost
your heart to some charming Frenchwoman with a husband, or got into some of the
scrapes that young men seem to consider a necessary part of a foreign tour.
Don’t stay out there in the sun, come and lie on the grass here and
‘let us be friendly’, as Jo used to say when we got in the sofa
corner and told secrets.”

Laurie obediently threw himself down on the turf, and began to amuse himself by
sticking daisies into the ribbons of Amy’s hat, that lay there.

“I’m all ready for the secrets.” and he glanced up with a
decided expression of interest in his eyes.

“I’ve none to tell. You may begin.”

“Haven’t one to bless myself with. I thought perhaps you’d
had some news from home..”

“You have heard all that has come lately. Don’t you hear often? I
fancied Jo would send you volumes.”

“She’s very busy. I’m roving about so, it’s impossible
to be regular, you know. When do you begin your great work of art,
Raphaella?” he asked, changing the subject abruptly after another pause,
in which he had been wondering if Amy knew his secret and wanted to talk about
it.

“Never,” she answered, with a despondent but decided air.
“Rome took all the vanity out of me, for after seeing the wonders there,
I felt too insignificant to live and gave up all my foolish hopes in
despair.”

“Why should you, with so much energy and talent?”

“That’s just why, because talent isn’t genius, and no amount
of energy can make it so. I want to be great, or nothing. I won’t be a
common-place dauber, so I don’t intend to try any more.”

“And what are you going to do with yourself now, if I may ask?”

“Polish up my other talents, and be an ornament to society, if I get the
chance.”

It was a characteristic speech, and sounded daring, but audacity becomes young
people, and Amy’s ambition had a good foundation. Laurie smiled, but he
liked the spirit with which she took up a new purpose when a long-cherished one
died, and spent no time lamenting.

“Good! And here is where Fred Vaughn comes in, I fancy.”

Amy preserved a discreet silence, but there was a conscious look in her
downcast face that made Laurie sit up and say gravely, “Now I’m
going to play brother, and ask questions. May I?”

“I don’t promise to answer.”

“Your face will, if your tongue won’t. You aren’t woman of
the world enough yet to hide your feelings, my dear. I heard rumors about Fred
and you last year, and it’s my private opinion that if he had not been
called home so suddenly and detained so long, something would have come of it,
hey?”

“That’s not for me to say,” was Amy’s grim reply, but
her lips would smile, and there was a traitorous sparkle of the eye which
betrayed that she knew her power and enjoyed the knowledge.

“You are not engaged, I hope?” and Laurie looked very
elder-brotherly and grave all of a sudden.

“No.”

“But you will be, if he comes back and goes properly down on his knees,
won’t you?”

“Very likely.”

“Then you are fond of old Fred?”

“I could be, if I tried.”

“But you don’t intend to try till the proper moment? Bless my soul,
what unearthly prudence! He’s a good fellow, Amy, but not the man I
fancied you’d like.”

“He is rich, a gentleman, and has delightful manners,” began Amy,
trying to be quite cool and dignified, but feeling a little ashamed of herself,
in spite of the sincerity of her intentions.

“I understand. Queens of society can’t get on without money, so you
mean to make a good match, and start in that way? Quite right and proper, as
the world goes, but it sounds odd from the lips of one of your mother’s
girls.”

“True, nevertheless.”

A short speech, but the quiet decision with which it was uttered contrasted
curiously with the young speaker. Laurie felt this instinctively and laid
himself down again, with a sense of disappointment which he could not explain.
His look and silence, as well as a certain inward self-disapproval, ruffled
Amy, and made her resolve to deliver her lecture without delay.

“I wish you’d do me the favor to rouse yourself a little,”
she said sharply.

“Do it for me, there’s a dear girl.”

“I could, if I tried.” and she looked as if she would like doing it
in the most summary style.

“Try, then. I give you leave,” returned Laurie, who enjoyed having
someone to tease, after his long abstinence from his favorite pastime.

“You’d be angry in five minutes.”

“I’m never angry with you. It takes two flints to make a fire. You
are as cool and soft as snow.”

“You don’t know what I can do. Snow produces a glow and a tingle,
if applied rightly. Your indifference is half affectation, and a good stirring
up would prove it.”

“Stir away, it won’t hurt me and it may amuse you, as the big man
said when his little wife beat him. Regard me in the light of a husband or a
carpet, and beat till you are tired, if that sort of exercise agrees with
you.”

Being decidedly nettled herself, and longing to see him shake off the apathy
that so altered him, Amy sharpened both tongue and pencil, and began.

“Flo and I have got a new name for you. It’s Lazy Laurence. How do
you like it?”

She thought it would annoy him, but he only folded his arms under his head,
with an imperturbable, “That’s not bad. Thank you, ladies.”

“Do you want to know what I honestly think of you?”

“Pining to be told.”

“Well, I despise you.”

If she had even said ‘I hate you’ in a petulant or coquettish tone,
he would have laughed and rather liked it, but the grave, almost sad, accent in
her voice made him open his eyes, and ask quickly…

“Why, if you please?”

“Because, with every chance for being good, useful, and happy, you are
faulty, lazy, and miserable.”

“Strong language, mademoiselle.”

“If you like it, I’ll go on.”

“Pray do, it’s quite interesting.”

“I thought you’d find it so. Selfish people always like to talk
about themselves.”

“Am I selfish?” the question slipped out involuntarily and in a
tone of surprise, for the one virtue on which he prided himself was generosity.

“Yes, very selfish,” continued Amy, in a calm, cool voice, twice as
effective just then as an angry one. “I’ll show you how, for
I’ve studied you while we were frolicking, and I’m not at all
satisfied with you. Here you have been abroad nearly six months, and done
nothing but waste time and money and disappoint your friends.”

“Isn’t a fellow to have any pleasure after a four-year
grind?”

“You don’t look as if you’d had much. At any rate, you are
none the better for it, as far as I can see. I said when we first met that you
had improved. Now I take it all back, for I don’t think you half so nice
as when I left you at home. You have grown abominably lazy, you like gossip,
and waste time on frivolous things, you are contented to be petted and admired
by silly people, instead of being loved and respected by wise ones. With money,
talent, position, health, and beauty, ah you like that old Vanity! But
it’s the truth, so I can’t help saying it, with all these splendid
things to use and enjoy, you can find nothing to do but dawdle, and instead of
being the man you ought to be, you are only…” there she stopped, with a
look that had both pain and pity in it.

“Saint Laurence on a gridiron,” added Laurie, blandly finishing the
sentence. But the lecture began to take effect, for there was a wide-awake
sparkle in his eyes now and a half-angry, half-injured expression replaced the
former indifference.

“I supposed you’d take it so. You men tell us we are angels, and
say we can make you what we will, but the instant we honestly try to do you
good, you laugh at us and won’t listen, which proves how much your
flattery is worth.” Amy spoke bitterly, and turned her back on the
exasperating martyr at her feet.

In a minute a hand came down over the page, so that she could not draw, and
Laurie’s voice said, with a droll imitation of a penitent child, “I
will be good, oh, I will be good!”

But Amy did not laugh, for she was in earnest, and tapping on the outspread
hand with her pencil, said soberly, “Aren’t you ashamed of a hand
like that? It’s as soft and white as a woman’s, and looks as if it
never did anything but wear Jouvin’s best gloves and pick flowers for
ladies. You are not a dandy, thank Heaven, so I’m glad to see there are
no diamonds or big seal rings on it, only the little old one Jo gave you so
long ago. Dear soul, I wish she was here to help me!”

“So do I!”

The hand vanished as suddenly as it came, and there was energy enough in the
echo of her wish to suit even Amy. She glanced down at him with a new thought
in her mind, but he was lying with his hat half over his face, as if for shade,
and his mustache hid his mouth. She only saw his chest rise and fall, with a
long breath that might have been a sigh, and the hand that wore the ring
nestled down into the grass, as if to hide something too precious or too tender
to be spoken of. All in a minute various hints and trifles assumed shape and
significance in Amy’s mind, and told her what her sister never had
confided to her. She remembered that Laurie never spoke voluntarily of Jo, she
recalled the shadow on his face just now, the change in his character, and the
wearing of the little old ring which was no ornament to a handsome hand. Girls
are quick to read such signs and feel their eloquence. Amy had fancied that
perhaps a love trouble was at the bottom of the alteration, and now she was
sure of it. Her keen eyes filled, and when she spoke again, it was in a voice
that could be beautifully soft and kind when she chose to make it so.

“I know I have no right to talk so to you, Laurie, and if you
weren’t the sweetest-tempered fellow in the world, you’d be very
angry with me. But we are all so fond and proud of you, I couldn’t bear
to think they should be disappointed in you at home as I have been, though,
perhaps they would understand the change better than I do.”

“I think they would,” came from under the hat, in a grim tone,
quite as touching as a broken one.

“They ought to have told me, and not let me go blundering and scolding,
when I should have been more kind and patient than ever. I never did like that
Miss Randal and now I hate her!” said artful Amy, wishing to be sure of
her facts this time.

“Hang Miss Randal!” and Laurie knocked the hat off his face with a
look that left no doubt of his sentiments toward that young lady.

“I beg pardon, I thought…” and there she paused diplomatically.

“No, you didn’t, you knew perfectly well I never cared for anyone
but Jo,” Laurie said that in his old, impetuous tone, and turned his face
away as he spoke.

“I did think so, but as they never said anything about it, and you came
away, I supposed I was mistaken. And Jo wouldn’t be kind to you? Why, I
was sure she loved you dearly.”

“She was kind, but not in the right way, and it’s lucky for her she
didn’t love me, if I’m the good-for-nothing fellow you think me.
It’s her fault though, and you may tell her so.”

The hard, bitter look came back again as he said that, and it troubled Amy, for
she did not know what balm to apply.

“I was wrong, I didn’t know. I’m very sorry I was so cross,
but I can’t help wishing you’d bear it better, Teddy, dear.”

“Don’t, that’s her name for me!” and Laurie put up his
hand with a quick gesture to stop the words spoken in Jo’s half-kind,
half-reproachful tone. “Wait till you’ve tried it yourself,”
he added in a low voice, as he pulled up the grass by the handful.

“I’d take it manfully, and be respected if I couldn’t be
loved,” said Amy, with the decision of one who knew nothing about it.

Now, Laurie flattered himself that he had borne it remarkably well, making no
moan, asking no sympathy, and taking his trouble away to live it down alone.
Amy’s lecture put the matter in a new light, and for the first time it
did look weak and selfish to lose heart at the first failure, and shut himself
up in moody indifference. He felt as if suddenly shaken out of a pensive dream
and found it impossible to go to sleep again. Presently he sat up and asked
slowly, “Do you think Jo would despise me as you do?”

“Yes, if she saw you now. She hates lazy people. Why don’t you do
something splendid, and make her love you?”

“I did my best, but it was no use.”

“Graduating well, you mean? That was no more than you ought to have done,
for your grandfather’s sake. It would have been shameful to fail after
spending so much time and money, when everyone knew that you could do
well.”

“I did fail, say what you will, for Jo wouldn’t love me,”
began Laurie, leaning his head on his hand in a despondent attitude.

“No, you didn’t, and you’ll say so in the end, for it did you
good, and proved that you could do something if you tried. If you’d only
set about another task of some sort, you’d soon be your hearty, happy
self again, and forget your trouble.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Try it and see. You needn’t shrug your shoulders, and think,
‘Much she knows about such things’. I don’t pretend to be
wise, but I am observing, and I see a great deal more than you’d imagine.
I’m interested in other people’s experiences and inconsistencies,
and though I can’t explain, I remember and use them for my own benefit.
Love Jo all your days, if you choose, but don’t let it spoil you, for
it’s wicked to throw away so many good gifts because you can’t have
the one you want. There, I won’t lecture any more, for I know
you’ll wake up and be a man in spite of that hardhearted girl.”

Neither spoke for several minutes. Laurie sat turning the little ring on his
finger, and Amy put the last touches to the hasty sketch she had been working
at while she talked. Presently she put it on his knee, merely saying,
“How do you like that?”

He looked and then he smiled, as he could not well help doing, for it was
capitally done, the long, lazy figure on the grass, with listless face,
half-shut eyes, and one hand holding a cigar, from which came the little wreath
of smoke that encircled the dreamer’s head.

“How well you draw!” he said, with a genuine surprise and pleasure
at her skill, adding, with a half-laugh, “Yes, that’s me.”

“As you are. This is as you were.” and Amy laid another sketch
beside the one he held.

It was not nearly so well done, but there was a life and spirit in it which
atoned for many faults, and it recalled the past so vividly that a sudden
change swept over the young man’s face as he looked. Only a rough sketch
of Laurie taming a horse. Hat and coat were off, and every line of the active
figure, resolute face, and commanding attitude was full of energy and meaning.
The handsome brute, just subdued, stood arching his neck under the tightly
drawn rein, with one foot impatiently pawing the ground, and ears pricked up as
if listening for the voice that had mastered him. In the ruffled mane, the
rider’s breezy hair and erect attitude, there was a suggestion of
suddenly arrested motion, of strength, courage, and youthful buoyancy that
contrasted sharply with the supine grace of the ‘Dolce far
Niente’ sketch. Laurie said nothing but as his eye went from one to
the other, Amy saw him flush up and fold his lips together as if he read and
accepted the little lesson she had given him. That satisfied her, and without
waiting for him to speak, she said, in her sprightly way…

“Don’t you remember the day you played Rarey with Puck, and we all
looked on? Meg and Beth were frightened, but Jo clapped and pranced, and I sat
on the fence and drew you. I found that sketch in my portfolio the other day,
touched it up, and kept it to show you.”

“Much obliged. You’ve improved immensely since then, and I
congratulate you. May I venture to suggest in ‘a honeymoon
paradise’ that five o’clock is the dinner hour at your
hotel?”

Laurie rose as he spoke, returned the pictures with a smile and a bow and
looked at his watch, as if to remind her that even moral lectures should have
an end. He tried to resume his former easy, indifferent air, but it was an
affectation now, for the rousing had been more effacious than he would confess.
Amy felt the shade of coldness in his manner, and said to herself…

“Now, I’ve offended him. Well, if it does him good, I’m glad,
if it makes him hate me, I’m sorry, but it’s true, and I
can’t take back a word of it.”

They laughed and chatted all the way home, and little Baptiste, up behind,
thought that monsieur and madamoiselle 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 gaiety, there was a secret discontent in
the heart of each.

“Shall we see you this evening, mon frere?” asked Amy, as they
parted at her aunt’s door.

“Unfortunately I have an engagement. Au revoir, madamoiselle,” and
Laurie bent as if to kiss her hand, in the foreign fashion, which became him
better than many men. Something in his face made Amy say quickly and warmly…

“No, be yourself with me, Laurie, and part in the good old way. I’d
rather have a hearty English handshake than all the sentimental salutations in
France.”

“Goodbye, dear,” and with these words, uttered in the tone she
liked, Laurie left her, after a handshake almost painful in its heartiness.

Next morning, instead of the usual call, Amy received a note which made her
smile at the beginning and sigh at the end.

My Dear Mentor, Please make my adieux to your aunt, and exult within yourself,
for ‘Lazy Laurence’ has gone to his grandpa, like the best of boys.
A pleasant winter to you, and may the gods grant you a blissful honeymoon at
Valrosa! I think Fred would be benefited by a rouser. Tell him so, with my
congratulations.

Yours gratefully, Telemachus

“Good boy! I’m glad he’s gone,” said Amy, with an
approving smile. The next minute her face fell as she glanced about the empty
room, adding, with an involuntary sigh, “Yes, I am glad, but how I shall
miss him.”

CHAPTER FORTY
THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW

When the first bitterness was over, the family accepted the inevitable, and
tried to bear it cheerfully, helping one another by the increased affection
which comes to bind households tenderly together in times of trouble. They put
away their grief, and each did his or her part toward making that last year a
happy one.

The pleasantest room in the house was set apart for Beth, and in it was
gathered everything that she most loved, flowers, pictures, her piano, the
little worktable, and the beloved pussies. Father’s best books found
their way there, Mother’s easy chair, Jo’s desk, Amy’s finest
sketches, and every day Meg brought her babies on a loving pilgrimage, to make
sunshine for Aunty Beth. John quietly set apart a little sum, that he might
enjoy the pleasure of keeping the invalid supplied with the fruit she loved and
longed for. Old Hannah never wearied of concocting dainty dishes to tempt a
capricious appetite, dropping tears as she worked, and from across the sea came
little gifts and cheerful letters, seeming to bring breaths of warmth and
fragrance from lands that know no winter.

Here, cherished like a household saint in its shrine, sat Beth, tranquil and
busy as ever, for nothing could change the sweet, unselfish nature, and even
while preparing to leave life, she tried to make it happier for those who
should remain behind. The feeble fingers were never idle, and one of her
pleasures was to make little things for the school children daily passing to
and fro, to drop a pair of mittens from her window for a pair of purple hands,
a needlebook for some small mother of many dolls, penwipers for young penmen
toiling through forests of pothooks, scrapbooks for picture-loving eyes, and
all manner of pleasant devices, till the reluctant climbers of the ladder of
learning found their way strewn with flowers, as it were, and came to regard
the gentle giver as a sort of fairy godmother, who sat above there, and
showered down gifts miraculously suited to their tastes and needs. If Beth had
wanted any reward, she found it in the bright little faces always turned up to
her window, with nods and smiles, and the droll little letters which came to
her, full of blots and gratitude.

The first few months were very happy ones, and Beth often used to look round,
and say “How beautiful this is!” as they all sat together in her
sunny room, the babies kicking and crowing on the floor, mother and sisters
working near, and father reading, in his pleasant voice, from the wise old
books which seemed rich in good and comfortable words, as applicable now as
when written centuries ago, a little chapel, where a paternal priest taught his
flock the hard lessons all must learn, trying to show them that hope can
comfort love, and faith make resignation possible. Simple sermons, that went
straight to the souls of those who listened, for the father’s heart was
in the minister’s religion, and the frequent falter in the voice gave a
double eloquence to the words he spoke or read.

It was well for all that this peaceful time was given them as preparation for
the sad hours to come, for by-and-by, Beth said the needle was ‘so
heavy’, and put it down forever. Talking wearied her, faces troubled her,
pain claimed her for its own, and her tranquil spirit was sorrowfully perturbed
by the ills that vexed her feeble flesh. Ah me! Such heavy days, such long,
long nights, such aching hearts and imploring prayers, when those who loved her
best were forced to see the thin hands stretched out to them beseechingly, to
hear the bitter cry, “Help me, help me!” and to feel that there was
no help. A sad eclipse of the serene soul, a sharp struggle of the young life
with death, but both were mercifully brief, and then the natural rebellion
over, the old peace returned more beautiful than ever. With the wreck of her
frail body, Beth’s soul grew strong, and though she said little, those
about her felt 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.

Jo never left her for an hour since Beth had said “I feel stronger when
you are here.” She slept on a couch in the room, waking often to renew
the fire, to feed, lift, or wait upon the patient creature who seldom asked for
anything, and ‘tried not to be a trouble’. All day she haunted the
room, jealous of any other nurse, and prouder of being chosen then than of any
honor her life ever brought her. Precious and helpful hours to Jo, for now her
heart received the teaching that it needed. Lessons in patience were so sweetly
taught her that she could not fail to learn them, charity for all, the lovely
spirit that can forgive and truly forget unkindness, the loyalty to duty that
makes the hardest easy, and the sincere faith that fears nothing, but trusts
undoubtingly.

Often when she woke Jo found Beth reading in her well-worn little book, heard
her singing softly, to beguile the sleepless night, or saw her lean her face
upon her hands, while slow tears dropped through the transparent fingers, and
Jo would lie watching her with thoughts too deep for tears, feeling that Beth,
in her simple, unselfish way, was trying to wean herself from the dear old
life, and fit herself for the life to come, by sacred words of comfort, quiet
prayers, and the music she loved so well.

Seeing this did more for Jo than the wisest sermons, the saintliest hymns, the
most fervent prayers that any voice could utter. For with eyes made clear by
many tears, and a heart softened by the tenderest sorrow, she recognized the
beauty of her sister’s life—uneventful, unambitious, yet full of
the genuine virtues which ‘smell sweet, and blossom in the dust’,
the self-forgetfulness that makes the humblest on earth remembered soonest in
heaven, the true success which is possible to all.

One night when Beth looked among the books upon her table, to find something to
make her forget the mortal weariness that was almost as hard to bear as pain,
as she turned the leaves of her old favorite, Pilgrims’s Progress, she
found a little paper, scribbled over in Jo’s hand. The name caught her
eye and the blurred look of the lines made her sure that tears had fallen on
it.

“Poor Jo! She’s fast asleep, so I won’t wake her to ask
leave. She shows me all her things, and I don’t think she’ll mind
if I look at this”, thought Beth, with a glance at her sister, who lay on
the rug, with the tongs beside her, ready to wake up the minute the log fell
apart.

MY BETH

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

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

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

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

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

Blurred and blotted, faulty and feeble as the lines were, they brought a look
of inexpressible comfort to Beth’s face, for her one regret had been that
she had done so little, and this seemed to assure her that her life had not
been useless, that her death would not bring the despair she feared. As she sat
with the paper folded between her hands, the charred log fell asunder. Jo
started up, revived the blaze, and crept to the bedside, hoping Beth slept.

“Not asleep, but so happy, dear. See, I found this and read it. I knew
you wouldn’t care. Have I been all that to you, Jo?” she asked,
with wistful, humble earnestness.

“Oh, Beth, so much, so much!” and Jo’s head went down
upon the pillow beside her sister’s.

“Then I don’t feel as if I’d wasted my life. I’m not so
good as you make me, but I have tried to do right. And now, when it’s too
late to begin even to do better, it’s such a comfort to know that someone
loves me so much, and feels as if I’d helped them.”

“More than any one in the world, Beth. I used to think I couldn’t
let you go, but I’m learning to feel that I don’t lose you, that
you’ll be more to me than ever, and death can’t part us, though it
seems to.”

“I know it cannot, and I don’t fear it any longer, for I’m
sure I shall be your Beth still, to love and help you more than ever. You must
take my place, Jo, and be everything to Father and Mother when I’m gone.
They will turn to you, don’t fail them, and if it’s hard to work
alone, remember that I don’t forget you, and that you’ll be happier
in doing that than writing splendid books or seeing all the world, for love is
the only thing that we can carry with us when we go, and it makes the end so
easy.”

“I’ll try, Beth.” and then and there Jo renounced her old
ambition, pledged herself to a new and better one, acknowledging the poverty of
other desires, and feeling the blessed solace of a belief in the immortality of
love.

So the spring days came and went, the sky grew clearer, the earth greener, the
flowers were up fairly early, and the birds came back in time to say goodbye to
Beth, who, like a tired but trustful child, clung to the hands that had led her
all her life, as Father and Mother guided her tenderly through the Valley of
the Shadow, and gave her up to God.

Seldom except in books do the dying utter memorable words, see visions, or
depart with beatified countenances, and those who have sped many parting souls
know that to most the end comes as naturally and simply as sleep. As Beth had
hoped, the ‘tide went out easily’, and in the dark hour before
dawn, on the bosom where she had drawn her first breath, she quietly drew her
last, with no farewell but one loving look, one little sigh.

With tears and prayers and tender hands, Mother and sisters made her ready for
the long sleep that pain would never mar again, seeing with grateful eyes the
beautiful serenity that soon replaced the pathetic patience that had wrung
their hearts so long, and feeling with reverent joy that to their darling death
was a benignant angel, not a phantom full of dread.

When morning came, for the first time in many months the fire was out,
Jo’s place was empty, and the room was very still. But a bird sang
blithely on a budding bough, close by, the snowdrops blossomed freshly at the
window, and the spring sunshine streamed in like a benediction over the placid
face upon the pillow, a face so full of painless peace that those who loved it
best smiled through their tears, and thanked God that Beth was well at last.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
LEARNING TO FORGET

Amy’s lecture did Laurie good, though, of course, he did not own it till
long afterward. Men seldom do, for when women are the advisers, the lords of
creation don’t take the advice till they have persuaded themselves that
it is just what they intended to do. Then they act upon it, and, if it
succeeds, they give the weaker vessel half the credit of it. If it fails, they
generously give her the whole. Laurie went back to his grandfather, and was so
dutifully devoted for several weeks that the old gentleman declared the climate
of Nice had improved him wonderfully, and he had better try it again. There was
nothing the young gentleman would have liked better, but elephants could not
have dragged him back after the scolding he had received. Pride forbid, and
whenever the longing grew very strong, he fortified his resolution by repeating
the words that had made the deepest impression—“I despise
you.” “Go and do something splendid that will make her love
you.”

Laurie turned the matter over in his mind so often that he soon brought himself
to confess that he had been selfish and lazy, but then when a man has a great
sorrow, he should be indulged in all sorts of vagaries till he has lived it
down. He felt that his blighted affections were quite dead now, and though he
should never cease to be a faithful mourner, there was no occasion to wear his
weeds ostentatiously. Jo wouldn’t love him, but he might make her respect
and admire him by doing something which should prove that a girl’s
‘No’ had not spoiled his life. He had always meant to do something,
and Amy’s advice was quite unnecessary. He had only been waiting till the
aforesaid blighted affections were decently interred. That being done, he felt
that he was ready to ‘hide his stricken heart, and still toil on’.

As Goethe, when he had a joy or a grief, put it into a song, so Laurie resolved
to embalm his love sorrow in music, and to compose a Requiem which should
harrow up Jo’s soul and melt the heart of every hearer. Therefore the
next time the old gentleman found him getting restless and moody and ordered
him off, he went to Vienna, where he had musical friends, and fell to work with
the firm determination to distinguish himself. But whether the sorrow was too
vast to be embodied in music, or music too ethereal to uplift a mortal woe, he
soon discovered that the Requiem was beyond him just at present. It was evident
that his mind was not in working order yet, and his ideas needed clarifying,
for often in the middle of a plaintive strain, he would find himself humming a
dancing tune that vividly recalled the Christmas ball at Nice, especially the
stout Frenchman, and put an effectual stop to tragic composition for the time
being.

Then he tried an opera, for nothing seemed impossible in the beginning, but
here again unforeseen difficulties beset him. He wanted Jo for his heroine, and
called upon his memory to supply him with tender recollections and romantic
visions of his love. But memory turned traitor, and as if possessed by the
perverse spirit of the girl, would only recall Jo’s oddities, faults, and
freaks, would only show her in the most unsentimental aspects—beating
mats with her head tied up in a bandanna, barricading herself with the sofa
pillow, or throwing cold water over his passion a la Gummidge—and an
irresistable laugh spoiled the pensive picture he was endeavoring to paint. Jo
wouldn’t be put into the opera at any price, and he had to give her up
with a “Bless that girl, what a torment she is!” and a clutch at
his hair, as became a distracted composer.

When he looked about him for another and a less intractable damsel to
immortalize in melody, memory produced one with the most obliging readiness.
This phantom wore many faces, but it always had golden hair, was enveloped in a
diaphanous cloud, and floated airily before his mind’s eye in a pleasing
chaos of roses, peacocks, white ponies, and blue ribbons. He did not give the
complacent wraith any name, but he took her for his heroine and grew quite fond
of her, as well he might, for he gifted her with every gift and grace under the
sun, and escorted her, unscathed, through trials which would have annihilated
any mortal woman.

Thanks to this inspiration, he got on swimmingly for a time, but gradually the
work lost its charm, and he forgot to compose, while he sat musing, pen in
hand, or roamed about the gay city to get some 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 everyone 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 at the busts
of Mendelssohn, Beethoven, and Bach, who stared benignly back again. Then
suddenly he tore up his music sheets, one by one, and as the last fluttered out
of his hand, he said soberly to himself…

“She is right! Talent isn’t genius, and you can’t make it so.
That music has taken the vanity out of me as Rome took it out of her, and I
won’t be a humbug any longer. Now what shall I do?”

That seemed a hard question to answer, and Laurie began to wish he had to work
for his daily bread. Now if ever, occurred an eligible opportunity for
‘going to the devil’, as he once forcibly expressed it, for he had
plenty of money and nothing to do, and Satan is proverbially fond of providing
employment for full and idle hands. The poor fellow had temptations enough from
without and from within, but he withstood them pretty well, for much as he
valued liberty, he valued good faith and confidence more, so his promise to his
grandfather, and his desire to be able to look honestly into the eyes of the
women who loved him, and say “All’s well,” kept him safe and
steady.

Very likely some Mrs. Grundy will observe, “I don’t believe it,
boys will be boys, young men must sow their wild oats, and women must not
expect miracles.” I dare say you don’t, Mrs. Grundy, but it’s
true nevertheless. Women work a good many miracles, and I have a persuasion
that they may perform even that of raising the standard of manhood by refusing
to echo such sayings. Let the boys be boys, the longer the better, and let the
young men sow their wild oats if they must. But mothers, sisters, and friends
may help to make the crop a small one, and keep many tares from spoiling the
harvest, by believing, and showing that they believe, in the possibility of
loyalty to the virtues which make men manliest in good women’s eyes. If
it is a feminine delusion, leave us to enjoy it while we may, for without it
half the beauty and the romance of life is lost, and sorrowful forebodings
would embitter all our hopes of the brave, tenderhearted little lads, who still
love their mothers better than themselves and are not ashamed to own it.

Laurie thought that the task of forgetting his love for Jo would absorb all his
powers for years, but to his great surprise he discovered it grew easier every
day. He refused to believe it at first, got angry with himself, and
couldn’t understand it, but these hearts of ours are curious and contrary
things, and time and nature work their will in spite of us. Laurie’s
heart wouldn’t ache. The wound persisted in healing with a rapidity that
astonished him, and instead of trying to forget, he found himself trying to
remember. He had not foreseen this turn of affairs, and was not prepared for
it. He was disgusted with himself, surprised at his own fickleness, and full of
a queer mixture of disappointment and relief that he could recover from such a
tremendous blow so soon. He carefully stirred up the embers of his lost love,
but they refused to burst into a blaze. There was only a comfortable glow that
warmed and did him good without putting him into a fever, and he was
reluctantly obliged to confess that the boyish passion was slowly subsiding
into a more tranquil sentiment, very tender, a little sad and resentful still,
but that was sure to pass away in time, leaving a brotherly affection which
would last unbroken to the end.

As the word ‘brotherly’ passed through his mind in one of his
reveries, he smiled, and glanced up at the picture of Mozart that was before
him…

“Well, he was a great man, and when he couldn’t have one sister he
took the other, and was happy.”

Laurie did not utter the words, but he thought them, and the next instant
kissed the little old ring, saying to himself, “No, I won’t! I
haven’t forgotten, I never can. I’ll try again, and if that fails,
why then…”

Leaving his sentence unfinished, he seized pen and paper and wrote to Jo,
telling her that he could not settle to anything while there was the least hope
of her changing her mind. Couldn’t she, wouldn’t she—and let
him come home and be happy? While waiting for an answer he did nothing, but he
did it energetically, for he was in a fever of impatience. It came at last, and
settled his mind effectually on one point, for Jo decidedly couldn’t and
wouldn’t. She was wrapped up in Beth, and never wished to hear the word
love again. Then she begged him to be happy with somebody else, but always keep
a little corner of his heart for his loving sister Jo. In a postscript she
desired him not to tell Amy that Beth was worse, she was coming home in the
spring and there was no need of saddening the remainder of her stay. That would
be time enough, please God, but Laurie must write to her often, and not let her
feel lonely, homesick or anxious.

“So I will, at once. Poor little girl, it will be a sad going home for
her, I’m afraid,” and Laurie opened his desk, as if writing to Amy
had been the proper conclusion of the sentence left unfinished some weeks
before.

But he did not write the letter that day, for as he rummaged out his best
paper, he came across something which changed his purpose. Tumbling about in
one part of the desk among bills, passports, and business documents of various
kinds were several of Jo’s letters, and in another compartment were three
notes from Amy, carefully tied up with one of her blue ribbons and sweetly
suggestive of the little dead roses put away inside. With a half-repentant,
half-amused expression, Laurie gathered up all Jo’s letters, smoothed,
folded, and put them neatly into a small drawer of the desk, stood a minute
turning the ring thoughtfully on his finger, then slowly drew it off, laid it
with the letters, locked the drawer, and went out to hear High Mass at Saint
Stefan’s, feeling as if there had been a funeral, and though not
overwhelmed with affliction, this seemed a more proper way to spend the rest of
the day than in writing letters to charming young ladies.

The letter went very soon, however, and was promptly answered, for Amy was
homesick, and confessed it in the most delightfully confiding manner. The
correspondence flourished famously, and letters flew to and fro with unfailing
regularity all through the early spring. Laurie sold his busts, made allumettes
of his opera, and went back to Paris, hoping somebody would arrive before long.
He wanted desperately to go to Nice, but would not till he was asked, and Amy
would not ask him, for just then she was having little experiences of her own,
which made her rather wish to avoid the quizzical eyes of ‘our
boy’.

Fred Vaughn had returned, and put the question to which she had once decided to
answer, “Yes, thank you,” but now she said, “No, thank
you,” kindly but steadily, for when the time came, her courage failed
her, and she found that something more than money and position was needed to
satisfy the new longing that filled her heart so full of tender hopes and
fears. The words, “Fred is a good fellow, but not at all the man I
fancied you would ever like,” and Laurie’s face when he uttered
them, kept returning to her as pertinaciously as her own did when she said in
look, if not in words, “I shall marry for money.” It troubled her
to remember that now, she wished she could take it back, it sounded so
unwomanly. She didn’t want Laurie to think her a heartless, worldly
creature. She didn’t care to be a queen of society now half so much as
she did to be a lovable woman. She was so glad he didn’t hate her for the
dreadful things she said, but took them so beautifully and was kinder than
ever. His letters were such a comfort, for the home letters were very irregular
and 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 stonyhearted. She ought to have
made an effort and tried to love him. It couldn’t be very hard, many
people would be proud and glad to have such a dear boy care for them. But Jo
never would act like other girls, so there was nothing to do but be very kind
and treat him like a brother.

If all brothers were treated as well as Laurie was at this period, they would
be a much happier race of beings than they are. Amy never lectured now. She
asked his opinion on all subjects, she was interested in everything he did,
made charming little presents for him, and sent him two letters a week, full of
lively gossip, sisterly confidences, and captivating sketches of the lovely
scenes about her. As few brothers are complimented by having their letters
carried about in their sister’s pockets, read and reread diligently,
cried over when short, kissed when long, and treasured carefully, we will not
hint that Amy did any of these fond and foolish things. But she certainly did
grow a little pale and pensive that spring, lost much of her relish for
society, and went out sketching alone a good deal. She never had much to show
when she came home, but was studying nature, I dare say, while she sat for
hours, with her hands folded, on the terrace at Valrosa, or absently sketched
any fancy that occurred to her, a stalwart knight carved on a tomb, a young man
asleep in the grass, with his hat over his eyes, or a curly haired girl in
gorgeous array, promenading down a ballroom on the arm of a tall gentleman,
both faces being left a blur according to the last fashion in art, which was
safe but not altogether satisfactory.

Her aunt thought that she regretted her answer to Fred, and finding denials
useless and explanations impossible, Amy left her to think what she liked,
taking care that Laurie should know that Fred had gone to Egypt. That was all,
but he understood it, and looked relieved, as he said to himself, with a
venerable air…

“I was sure she would think better of it. Poor old fellow! I’ve
been through it all, and I can sympathize.”

With that he heaved a great sigh, and then, as if he had discharged his duty to
the past, put his feet up on the sofa and enjoyed Amy’s letter
luxuriously.

While these changes were going on abroad, trouble had come at home. But the
letter telling that Beth was failing never reached Amy, and when the next found
her the grass was green above her sister. The sad news met her at Vevay, for
the heat had driven them from Nice in May, and they had travelled slowly to
Switzerland, by way of Genoa and the Italian lakes. She bore it very well, and
quietly submitted to the family decree that she should not shorten her visit,
for since it was too late to say goodbye to Beth, she had better stay, and let
absence soften her sorrow. But her heart was very heavy, she longed to be at
home, and every day looked wistfully across the lake, waiting for Laurie to
come and comfort her.

He did come very soon, for the same mail brought letters to them both, but he
was in Germany, and it took some days to reach him. The moment he read it, he
packed his knapsack, bade adieu to his fellow pedestrians, and was off to keep
his promise, with a heart full of joy and sorrow, hope and suspense.

He knew 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 en pension. The
garcon was in despair that the whole family had gone to take a promenade on the
lake, but no, the blonde mademoiselle might be in the chateau garden. If
monsieur would give himself the pain of sitting down, a flash of time should
present her. But monsieur could not wait even a ‘flash of time’,
and in the middle of the speech departed to find mademoiselle himself.

A pleasant old garden on the borders of the lovely lake, with chestnuts
rustling overhead, ivy climbing everywhere, and the black shadow of the tower
falling far across the sunny water. At one corner of the wide, low wall was a
seat, and here Amy often came to read or work, or console herself with the
beauty all about her. She was sitting here that day, leaning her head on her
hand, with a homesick heart and heavy eyes, thinking of Beth and wondering why
Laurie did not come. She did not hear him cross the courtyard beyond, nor see
him pause in the archway that led from the subterranean path into the garden.
He stood a minute looking at her with new eyes, seeing what no one had ever
seen before, the tender side of Amy’s character. Everything about her
mutely suggested love and sorrow, the blotted letters in her lap, the black
ribbon that tied up her hair, the womanly pain and patience in her face, even
the little ebony cross at her throat seemed pathetic to Laurie, for he had
given it to her, and she wore it as her only ornament. If he had any doubts
about the reception she would give him, they were set at rest the minute she
looked up and saw him, for dropping everything, she ran to him, exclaiming in a
tone of unmistakable love and longing…

“Oh, Laurie, Laurie, I knew you’d come to me!”

I think everything was said and settled then, for as they stood together quite
silent for a moment, with the dark head bent down protectingly over the light
one, Amy felt that no one could comfort and sustain her so well as Laurie, and
Laurie decided that Amy was the only woman in the world who could fill
Jo’s place and make him happy. He did not tell her so, but she was not
disappointed, for both felt the truth, were satisfied, and gladly left the rest
to silence.

In a minute Amy went back to her place, and while she dried her tears, Laurie
gathered up the scattered papers, finding in the sight of sundry well-worn
letters and suggestive sketches good omens for the future. As he sat down
beside her, Amy felt shy again, and turned rosy red at the recollection of her
impulsive greeting.

“I couldn’t help it, I felt so lonely and sad, and was so very glad
to see you. It was such a surprise to look up and find you, just as I was
beginning to fear you wouldn’t come,” she said, trying in vain to
speak quite naturally.

“I came the minute I heard. I wish I could say something to comfort you
for the loss of dear little Beth, but I can only feel, and…” He could
not get any further, for he too turned bashful all of a sudden, and did not
quite know what to say. He longed to lay Amy’s head down on his shoulder,
and tell her to have a good cry, but he did not dare, so took her hand instead,
and gave it a sympathetic squeeze that was better than words.

“You needn’t say anything, this comforts me,” she said
softly. “Beth is well and happy, and I mustn’t wish her back, but I
dread the going home, much as I long to see them all. We won’t talk about
it now, for it makes me cry, and I want to enjoy you while you stay. You
needn’t go right back, need you?”

“Not if you want me, dear.”

“I do, so much. Aunt and Flo are very kind, but you seem like one of the
family, and it would be so comfortable to have you for a little while.”

Amy spoke and looked so like a homesick child whose heart was full that Laurie
forgot his bashfulness all at once, and gave her just what she wanted—the
petting she was used to and the cheerful conversation she needed.

“Poor little soul, you look as if you’d grieved yourself half sick!
I’m going to take care of you, so don’t cry any more, but come and
walk about with me, the wind is too chilly for you to sit still,” he
said, in the half-caressing, half-commanding way that Amy liked, as he tied on
her hat, drew her arm through his, and began to pace up and down the sunny walk
under the new-leaved chestnuts. He felt more at ease upon his legs, and Amy
found it pleasant to have a strong arm to lean upon, a familiar face to smile
at her, and a kind voice to talk delightfully for her alone.

The quaint old garden had sheltered many pairs of lovers, and seemed expressly
made for them, so sunny and secluded was it, with nothing but the tower to
overlook them, and the wide lake to carry away the echo of their words, as it
rippled by below. For an hour this new pair walked and talked, or rested on the
wall, enjoying the sweet influences which gave such a charm to time and place,
and when an unromantic dinner bell warned them away, Amy felt as if she left
her burden of loneliness and sorrow behind her in the chateau garden.

The moment Mrs. Carrol saw the girl’s altered face, she was illuminated
with a new idea, and exclaimed to herself, “Now I understand it
all—the child has been pining for young Laurence. Bless my heart, I never
thought of such a thing!”

With praiseworthy discretion, the good lady said nothing, and betrayed no sign
of enlightenment, but cordially urged Laurie to stay and begged Amy to enjoy
his society, for it would do her more good than so much solitude. Amy was a
model of docility, and as her aunt was a good deal occupied with Flo, she was
left to entertain her friend, and did it with more than her usual success.

At Nice, Laurie had lounged and Amy had scolded. At 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.

The invigorating air did them both good, and much exercise worked wholesome
changes in minds as well as bodies. They seemed to get clearer views of life
and duty up there among the everlasting hills. The fresh winds blew away
desponding doubts, delusive fancies, and moody mists. The warm spring sunshine
brought out all sorts of aspiring ideas, tender hopes, and happy thoughts. The
lake seemed to wash away the troubles of the past, and the grand old mountains
to look benignly down upon them saying, “Little children, love one
another.”

In spite of the new sorrow, it was a very happy time, so happy that Laurie
could not bear to disturb it by a word. It took him a little while to recover
from his surprise at the cure of his first, and as he had firmly believed, his
last and only love. He consoled himself for the seeming disloyalty by the
thought that Jo’s sister was almost the same as Jo’s self, and the
conviction that it would have been impossible to love any other woman but Amy
so soon and so well. His first wooing had been of the tempestuous order, and he
looked back upon it as if through a long vista of years with a feeling of
compassion blended with regret. He was not ashamed of it, but put it away as
one of the bitter-sweet experiences of his life, for which he could be grateful
when the pain was over. His second wooing, he resolved, should be as calm and
simple as possible. There was no need of having a scene, hardly any need of
telling Amy that he loved her, she knew it without words and had given him his
answer long ago. It all came about so naturally that no one could complain, and
he knew that everybody would be pleased, even Jo. But when our first little
passion has been crushed, we are apt to be wary and slow in making a second
trial, so Laurie let the days pass, enjoying every hour, and leaving to chance
the utterance of the word that would put an end to the first and sweetest part
of his new romance.

He had rather imagined that the denoument 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.

They had been talking of Bonnivard, as they glided past Chillon, and of
Rousseau, as they looked up at Clarens, where he wrote his Heloise. Neither had
read it, but they knew it was a love story, and each privately wondered if it
was half as interesting as their own. Amy had been dabbling her hand in the
water during the little pause that fell between them, and when she looked up,
Laurie was leaning on his oars with an expression in his eyes that made her say
hastily, merely for the sake of saying something…

“You must be tired. Rest a little, and let me row. It will do me good,
for since you came I have been altogether lazy and luxurious.”

“I’m not tired, but you may take an oar, if you like. There’s
room enough, though I have to sit nearly in the middle, else the boat
won’t trim,” returned Laurie, as if he rather liked the
arrangement.

Feeling that she had not mended matters much, Amy took the offered third of a
seat, shook her hair over her face, and accepted an oar. She rowed as well as
she did many other things, and though she used both hands, and Laurie but one,
the oars kept time, and the boat went smoothly through the water.

“How well we pull together, don’t we?” said Amy, who objected
to silence just then.

“So well that I wish we might always pull in the same boat. Will you,
Amy?” very tenderly.

“Yes, Laurie,” very low.

Then they both stopped rowing, and unconsciously added a pretty little tableau
of human love and happiness to the dissolving views reflected in the lake.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
ALL ALONE

It was easy to promise self-abnegation when self was wrapped up in another, and
heart and soul were purified by a sweet example. But when the helpful voice was
silent, the daily lesson over, the beloved presence gone, and nothing remained
but loneliness and grief, then Jo found her promise very hard to keep. How
could she ‘comfort Father and Mother’ when her own heart ached with
a ceaseless longing for her sister, how could she ‘make the house
cheerful’ when all its light and warmth and beauty seemed to have
deserted it when Beth left the old home for the new, and where in all the world
could she ‘find some useful, happy work to do’, that would take the
place of the loving service which had been its own reward? She tried in a
blind, hopeless way to do her duty, secretly rebelling against it all the
while, for it seemed unjust that her few joys should be lessened, her burdens
made heavier, and life get harder and harder as she toiled along. Some people
seemed to get all sunshine, and some all shadow. It was not fair, for she tried
more than Amy to be good, but never got any reward, only disappointment,
trouble and hard work.

Poor Jo, these were dark days to her, for something like despair came over her
when she thought of spending all her life in that quiet house, devoted to
humdrum cares, a few small pleasures, and the duty that never seemed to grow
any easier. “I can’t do it. I wasn’t meant for a life like
this, and I know I shall break away and do something desperate if somebody
doesn’t come and help me,” she said to herself, when her first
efforts failed and she fell into the moody, miserable state of mind which often
comes when strong wills have to yield to the inevitable.

But someone 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 unsubmissive sorrow, “Oh, Beth, come back! Come back!” she
did not stretch out her yearning arms in vain. For, as quick to hear her
sobbing as she had been to hear her sister’s faintest whisper, her mother
came to comfort her, not with words only, but the patient tenderness that
soothes by a touch, tears that were mute reminders of a greater grief than
Jo’s, and broken whispers, more eloquent than prayers, because hopeful
resignation went hand-in-hand with natural sorrow. Sacred moments, when heart
talked to heart in the silence of the night, turning affliction to a blessing,
which chastened grief and strengthened love. Feeling this, Jo’s burden
seemed easier to bear, duty grew sweeter, and life looked more endurable, seen
from the safe shelter of her mother’s arms.

When aching heart was a little comforted, troubled mind likewise found help,
for one day she went to the study, and leaning over the good gray head lifted
to welcome her with a tranquil smile, she said very humbly, “Father, talk
to me as you did to Beth. I need it more than she did, for I’m all
wrong.”

“My dear, nothing can comfort me like this,” he answered, with a
falter in his voice, and both arms round her, as if he too, needed help, and
did not fear to ask for it.

Then, sitting in Beth’s little chair close beside him, Jo told her
troubles, the resentful sorrow for her loss, the fruitless efforts that
discouraged her, the want of faith that made life look so dark, and all the sad
bewilderment which we call despair. She gave him entire confidence, he gave her
the help she needed, and both found consolation in the act. For the time had
come when they could talk together not only as father and daughter, but as man
and woman, able and glad to serve each other with mutual sympathy as well as
mutual love. Happy, thoughtful times there in the old study which Jo called
‘the church of one member’, and from which she came with fresh
courage, recovered cheerfulness, and a more submissive spirit. For the parents
who had taught one child to meet death without fear, were trying now to teach
another to accept life without despondency or distrust, and to use its
beautiful opportunities with gratitude and power.

Other helps had Jo—humble, wholesome duties and delights that would not
be denied their part in serving her, and which she slowly learned to see and
value. Brooms and dishcloths never could be as distasteful as they once had
been, for Beth had presided over both, and something of her housewifely spirit
seemed to linger around the little mop and the old brush, 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 cozy, which was the first step toward making home
happy, though she didn’t know it till Hannah said with an approving
squeeze of the hand…

“You thoughtful creeter, you’re determined we shan’t miss
that dear lamb ef you can help it. We don’t say much, but we see it, and
the Lord will bless you for’t, see ef He don’t.”

As they sat sewing together, Jo discovered how much improved her sister Meg
was, how well she could talk, how much she knew about good, womanly impulses,
thoughts, and feelings, how happy she was in husband and children, and how much
they were all doing for each other.

“Marriage is an excellent thing, after all. I wonder if I should blossom
out half as well as you have, if I tried it?, always
‘perwisin’ I could,” said Jo, as she constructed a
kite for Demi in the topsy-turvy nursery.

“It’s just what you need to bring out the tender womanly half of
your nature, Jo. You are like a chestnut burr, prickly outside, but silky-soft
within, and a sweet kernal, if one can only get at it. Love will make you show
your heart one day, and then the rough burr will fall off.”

“Frost opens chestnut burrs, ma’am, and it takes a good shake to
bring them down. Boys go nutting, and I don’t care to be bagged by
them,” returned Jo, pasting away at the kite which no wind that blows
would ever carry up, for Daisy had tied herself on as a bob.

Meg laughed, for she was glad to see a glimmer of Jo’s old spirit, but
she felt it her duty to enforce her opinion by every argument in her power, and
the sisterly chats were not wasted, especially as two of Meg’s most
effective arguments were the babies, whom Jo loved tenderly. Grief is the best
opener of 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
kernal sound and sweet. If she suspected this, she would have shut up tight,
and been more prickly than ever, fortunately she wasn’t thinking about
herself, so when the time came, down she dropped.

Now, if she had been the heroine of a moral storybook, she ought at this period
of her life to have become quite saintly, renounced the world, and gone about
doing good in a mortified bonnet, with tracts in her pocket. But, you see, Jo
wasn’t a heroine, she was only a struggling human girl like hundreds of
others, and she just acted out her nature, being sad, cross, listless, or
energetic, as the mood suggested. It’s highly virtuous to say we’ll
be good, but we can’t do it all at once, and it takes a long pull, a
strong pull, and a pull all together before some of us even get our feet set in
the right way. Jo had got so far, she was learning to do her duty, and to feel
unhappy if she did not, but to do it cheerfully, ah, that was another thing!
She had often said she wanted to do something splendid, no matter how hard, and
now she had her wish, for what could be more beautiful than to devote her life
to Father and Mother, trying to make home as happy to them as they had to her?
And if difficulties were necessary to increase the splendor of the effort, what
could be harder for a restless, ambitious girl than to give up her own hopes,
plans, and desires, and cheerfully live for others?

Providence had taken her at her word. Here was the task, not what she had
expected, but better because self had no part in it. Now, could she do it? She
decided that she would try, and in her first attempt she found the helps I have
suggested. Still another was given her, and she took it, not as a reward, but
as a comfort, as Christian took the refreshment afforded by the little arbor
where he rested, as he climbed the hill called Difficulty.

“Why don’t you write? That always used to make you happy,”
said her mother once, when the desponding fit over-shadowed Jo.

“I’ve no heart to write, and if I had, nobody cares for my
things.”

“We do. Write something for us, and never mind the rest of the world. Try
it, dear. I’m sure it would do you good, and please us very much.”

“Don’t believe I can.” But Jo got out her desk and began to
overhaul her half-finished manuscripts.

An hour afterward her mother peeped in and there she was, scratching away, with
her black pinafore on, and an absorbed expression, which caused Mrs. March to
smile and slip away, well pleased with the success of her suggestion. Jo never
knew how it happened, but something got into that story that went straight to
the hearts of those who read it, for when her family had laughed and cried over
it, her father sent it, much against her will, to one of the popular magazines,
and to her utter surprise, it was not only paid for, but others requested.
Letters from several persons, whose praise was honor, followed the appearance
of the little story, newspapers copied it, and strangers as well as friends
admired it. For a small thing it was a great success, and Jo was more
astonished than when her novel was commended and condemned all at once.

“I don’t understand it. What can there be in a simple little story
like that to make people praise it so?” she said, quite bewildered.

“There is truth in it, Jo, that’s the secret. Humor and pathos make
it alive, and you have found your style at last. You wrote with no thoughts of
fame and money, and put your heart into it, my daughter. You have had the
bitter, now comes the sweet. Do your best, and grow as happy as we are in your
success.”

“If there is anything good or true in what I write, it isn’t mine.
I owe it all to you and Mother and Beth,” said Jo, more touched by her
father’s words than by any amount of praise from the world.

So taught by love and sorrow, Jo wrote her little stories, and sent them away
to make friends for themselves and her, finding it a very charitable world to
such humble wanderers, for they were kindly welcomed, and sent home comfortable
tokens to their mother, like dutiful children whom good fortune overtakes.

When Amy and Laurie wrote of their engagement, Mrs. March feared that Jo would
find it difficult to rejoice over it, but her fears were soon set at rest, for
though Jo looked grave at first, she took it very quietly, and was full of
hopes and plans for ‘the children’ before she read the letter
twice. It was a sort of written duet, wherein each glorified the other in
loverlike fashion, very pleasant to read and satisfactory to think of, for no
one had any objection to make.

“You like it, Mother?” said Jo, as they laid down the closely
written sheets and looked at one another.

“Yes, I hoped it would be so, ever since Amy wrote that she had refused
Fred. I felt sure then that something better than what you call the
‘mercenary spirit’ had come over her, and a hint here and there in
her letters made me suspect that love and Laurie would win the day.”

“How sharp you are, Marmee, and how silent! You never said a word to
me.”

“Mothers have need of sharp eyes and discreet tongues when they have
girls to manage. I was half afraid to put the idea into your head, lest you
should write and congratulate them before the thing was settled.”

“I’m not the scatterbrain I was. You may trust me. I’m sober
and sensible enough for anyone’s confidante now.”

“So you are, my dear, and I should have made you mine, only I fancied it
might pain you to learn that your Teddy loved someone else.”

“Now, Mother, did you really think I could be so silly and selfish, after
I’d refused his love, when it was freshest, if not best?”

“I knew you were sincere then, Jo, but lately I have thought that if he
came back, and asked again, you might perhaps, feel like giving another answer.
Forgive me, dear, I can’t help seeing that you are very lonely, and
sometimes there is a hungry look in your eyes that goes to my heart. So I
fancied that your boy might fill the empty place if he tried now.”

“No, Mother, it is better as it is, and I’m glad Amy has learned to
love him. But you are right in one thing. I am lonely, and perhaps if Teddy had
tried again, I might have said ‘Yes’, not because I love him any
more, but because I care more to be loved than when he went away.”

“I’m glad of that, Jo, for it shows that you are getting on. There
are plenty to love you, so try to be satisfied with Father and Mother, sisters
and brothers, friends and babies, till the best lover of all comes to give you
your reward.”

“Mothers are the best lovers in the world, but I don’t mind
whispering to Marmee that I’d like to try all kinds. It’s very
curious, but the more I try to satisfy myself with all sorts of natural
affections, the more I seem to want. I’d no idea hearts could take in so
many. Mine is so elastic, it never seems full now, and I used to be quite
contented with my family. I don’t understand it.”

“I do,” and Mrs. March smiled her wise smile, as Jo turned back the
leaves to read what Amy said of Laurie.

“It is so beautiful to be loved as Laurie loves me. He isn’t
sentimental, doesn’t say much about it, but I see and feel it in all he
says and does, and it makes me so happy and so humble that I don’t seem
to be the same girl I was. I never knew how good and generous and tender he was
till now, for he lets me read his heart, and I find it full of noble impulses
and hopes and purposes, and am so proud to know it’s mine. He says he
feels as if he ‘could make a prosperous voyage now with me aboard as
mate, and lots of love for ballast’. I pray he may, and try to be all he
believes me, for I love my gallant captain with all my heart and soul and
might, and never will desert him, while God lets us be together. Oh, Mother, I
never knew how much like heaven this world could be, when two people love and
live for one another!”

“And that’s our cool, reserved, and worldly Amy! Truly, love does
work miracles. How very, very happy they must be!” and Jo laid the
rustling sheets together with a careful hand, as one might shut the covers of a
lovely romance, which holds the reader fast till the end comes, and he finds
himself alone in the workaday world again.

By-and-by Jo roamed away upstairs, for it was rainy, and she could not walk. A
restless spirit possessed her, and the old feeling came again, not bitter as it
once was, but a sorrowfully patient wonder why one sister should have all she
asked, the other nothing. It was not true, she knew that and tried to put it
away, but the natural craving for affection was strong, and Amy’s
happiness woke the hungry longing for someone to ‘love with heart and
soul, and cling to while God let them be together’. Up in the garret,
where Jo’s unquiet wanderings ended stood four little wooden chests in a
row, each marked with its owners 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 relived 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 they took a new meaning, and touched a tender spot in
her heart.

“Wait for me, my friend. I may be a little late, but I shall surely
come.”

“Oh, if he only would! So kind, so good, so patient with me always, my
dear old Fritz. I didn’t value him half enough when I had him, but now
how I should love to see him, for everyone seems going away from me, and
I’m all alone.”

And holding the little paper fast, as if it were a promise yet to be fulfilled,
Jo laid her head down on a comfortable rag bag, and cried, as if in opposition
to the rain pattering on the roof.

Was it all self-pity, loneliness, or low spirits? Or was it the waking up of a
sentiment which had bided its time as patiently as its inspirer? Who shall say?

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
SURPRISES

Jo was alone in the twilight, lying on the old sofa, looking at the fire, and
thinking. It was her favorite way of spending the hour of dusk. No one
disturbed her, and she used to lie there on Beth’s little red pillow,
planning stories, dreaming dreams, or thinking tender thoughts of the sister
who never seemed far away. Her face looked tired, grave, and rather sad, for
tomorrow was her birthday, and she was thinking how fast the years went by, how
old she was getting, and how little she seemed to have accomplished. Almost
twenty-five, and nothing to show for it. Jo was mistaken in that. There was a
good deal to show, and by-and-by she saw, and was grateful for it.

“An old maid, that’s what I’m to be. A literary spinster,
with a pen for a spouse, a family of stories for children, and twenty years
hence a morsel of fame, perhaps, when, like poor Johnson, I’m old and
can’t enjoy it, solitary, and can’t share it, independent, and
don’t need it. Well, I needn’t be a sour saint nor a selfish
sinner, and, I dare say, old maids are very comfortable when they get used to
it, but…” and there Jo sighed, as if the prospect was not inviting.

It seldom is, at first, and thirty seems the end of all things to
five-and-twenty. But it’s not as 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, tragic romances are hidden away in the hearts that beat so quietly
under the sober gowns, and many silent sacrifices of youth, health, ambition,
love itself, make the faded faces beautiful in God’s sight. Even the sad,
sour sisters should be kindly dealt with, because they have missed the sweetest
part of life, if for no other reason. And looking at them with compassion, not
contempt, girls in their bloom should remember that they too may miss the
blossom time. That rosy cheeks don’t last forever, that silver threads
will come in the bonnie brown hair, and that, by-and-by, kindness and respect
will be as sweet as love and admiration now.

Gentlemen, which means boys, be courteous to the old maids, no matter how poor
and plain and prim, for the only chivalry worth having is that which is the
readiest to pay deference to the old, protect the feeble, and serve womankind,
regardless of rank, age, or color. Just recollect the good aunts who have not
only lectured and fussed, but nursed and petted, too often without thanks, the
scrapes they have helped you out of, the tips they have given you from their
small store, the stitches the patient old fingers have set for you, the steps
the willing old feet have taken, and gratefully pay the dear old ladies the
little attentions that women love to receive as long as they live. The
bright-eyed girls are quick to see such traits, and will like you all the
better for them, and if death, almost the only power that can part mother and
son, should rob you of yours, you will be sure to find a tender welcome and
maternal cherishing from some Aunt Priscilla, who has kept the warmest corner
of her lonely old heart for ‘the best nevvy in the world’.

Jo must have fallen asleep (as I dare say my reader has during this little
homily), for suddenly Laurie’s ghost seemed to stand before her, a
substantial, lifelike ghost, leaning over her with the very look he used to
wear when he felt a good deal and didn’t like to show it. But, like Jenny
in the ballad…

“She could not think it he,”

and lay staring up at him in startled silence, till he stooped and kissed her.
Then she knew him, and flew up, crying joyfully…

“Oh my Teddy! Oh my Teddy!”

“Dear Jo, you are glad to see me, then?”

“Glad! My blessed boy, words can’t express my gladness.
Where’s Amy?”

“Your mother has got her down at Meg’s. We stopped there by the
way, and there was no getting my wife out of their clutches.”

“Your what?” cried Jo, for Laurie uttered those two words with an
unconscious pride and satisfaction which betrayed him.

“Oh, the dickens! Now I’ve done it,” and he looked so guilty
that Jo was down on him like a flash.

“You’ve gone and got married!”

“Yes, please, but I never will again,” and he went down upon his
knees, with a penitent clasping of hands, and a face full of mischief, mirth,
and triumph.

“Actually married?”

“Very much so, thank you.”

“Mercy on us. What dreadful thing will you do next?” and Jo fell
into her seat with a gasp.

“A characteristic, but not exactly complimentary, congratulation,”
returned Laurie, still in an abject attitude, but beaming with satisfaction.

“What can you expect, when you take one’s breath away, creeping in
like a burglar, and letting cats out of bags like that? Get up, you ridiculous
boy, and tell me all about it.”

“Not a word, unless you let me come in my old place, and promise not to
barricade.”

Jo laughed at that as she had not done for many a long day, and patted the sofa
invitingly, as she said in a cordial tone, “The old pillow is up garret,
and we don’t need it now. So, come and ’fess, Teddy.”

“How good it sounds to hear you say ‘Teddy’! No one ever
calls me that but you,” and Laurie sat down with an air of great content.

“What does Amy call you?”

“My lord.”

“That’s like her. Well, you look it,” and Jo’s eye
plainly betrayed that she found her boy comelier than ever.

The pillow was gone, but there was a barricade, nevertheless, a natural one,
raised by time, absence, and change of heart. Both felt it, and for a minute
looked at one another as if that invisible barrier cast a little shadow over
them. It was gone directly however, for Laurie said, with a vain attempt at
dignity…

“Don’t I look like a married man and the head of a family?”

“Not a bit, and you never will. You’ve grown bigger and bonnier,
but you are the same scapegrace as ever.”

“Now really, Jo, you ought to treat me with more respect,” began
Laurie, who enjoyed it all immensely.

“How can I, when the mere idea of you, married and settled, is so
irresistibly funny that I can’t keep sober!” answered Jo, smiling
all over her face, so infectiously that they had another laugh, and then
settled down for a good talk, quite in the pleasant old fashion.

“It’s no use your going out in the cold to get Amy, for they are
all coming up presently. I couldn’t wait. I wanted to be the one to tell
you the grand surprise, and have ‘first skim’ as we used to say
when we squabbled about the cream.”

“Of course you did, and spoiled your story by beginning at the wrong end.
Now, start right, and tell me how it all happened. I’m pining to
know.”

“Well, I did it to please Amy,” began Laurie, with a twinkle that
made Jo exclaim…

“Fib number one. Amy did it to please you. Go on, and tell the truth, if
you can, sir.”

“Now she’s beginning to marm it. Isn’t it jolly to hear
her?” said Laurie to the fire, and the fire glowed and sparkled as if it
quite agreed. “It’s all the same, you know, she and I being one. We
planned to come home with the Carrols, a month or more ago, but they suddenly
changed their minds, and decided to pass another winter in Paris. But Grandpa
wanted to come home. He went to please me, and I couldn’t let him go
alone, neither could I leave Amy, and Mrs. Carrol had got English notions about
chaperons and such nonsense, and wouldn’t let Amy come with us. So I just
settled the difficulty by saying, ‘Let’s be married, and then we
can do as we like’.”

“Of course you did. You always have things to suit you.”

“Not always,” and something in Laurie’s voice made Jo say
hastily…

“How did you ever get Aunt to agree?”

“It was hard work, but between us, we talked her over, for we had heaps
of good reasons on our side. There wasn’t time to write and ask leave,
but you all liked it, had consented to it by-and-by, and it was only
‘taking time by the fetlock’, as my wife says.”

“Aren’t we proud of those two words, and don’t we like to say
them?” interrupted Jo, addressing the fire in her turn, and watching with
delight the happy light it seemed to kindle in the eyes that had been so
tragically gloomy when she saw them last.

“A trifle, perhaps, she’s such a captivating little woman I
can’t help being proud of her. Well, then Uncle and Aunt were there to
play propriety. We were so absorbed in one another we were of no mortal use
apart, and that charming arrangement would make everything easy all round, so
we did it.”

“When, where, how?” asked Jo, in a fever of feminine interest and
curiosity, for she could not realize it a particle.

“Six weeks ago, at the American consul’s, in Paris, a very quiet
wedding of course, for even in our happiness we didn’t forget dear little
Beth.”

Jo put her hand in his as he said that, and Laurie gently smoothed the little
red pillow, which he remembered well.

“Why didn’t you let us know afterward?” asked Jo, in a
quieter tone, when they had sat quite still a minute.

“We wanted to surprise you. We thought we were coming directly home, at
first, but the dear old gentleman, as soon as we were married, found he
couldn’t be ready under a month, at least, and sent us off to spend our
honeymoon wherever we liked. Amy had once called Valrosa a regular honeymoon
home, so we went there, and were as happy as people are but once in their
lives. My faith! Wasn’t it love among the roses!”

Laurie seemed to forget Jo for a minute, and Jo was glad of it, for the fact
that he told her these things so freely and so naturally assured her that he
had quite forgiven and forgotten. She tried to draw away her hand, but as if he
guessed the thought that prompted the half-involuntary impulse, Laurie held it
fast, and said, with a manly gravity she had never seen in him before…

“Jo, dear, I want to say one thing, and then we’ll put it by
forever. As I told you in my letter when I wrote that Amy had been so kind to
me, I never shall stop loving you, but the love is altered, and I have learned
to see that it is better as it is. Amy and you changed places in my heart,
that’s all. I think it was meant to be so, and would have come about
naturally, if I had waited, as you tried to make me, but I never could be
patient, and so I got a heartache. I was a boy then, headstrong and violent,
and it took a hard lesson to show me my mistake. For it was one, Jo, as you
said, and I found it out, after making a fool of myself. Upon my word, I was so
tumbled up in my mind, at one time, that I didn’t know which I loved
best, you or Amy, and tried to love you 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 dearly. Will you believe it, and
go back to the happy old times when we first knew one another?”

“I’ll believe it, with all my heart, but, Teddy, we never can be
boy and girl again. The happy old times can’t come back, and we
mustn’t expect it. We are man and woman now, with sober work to do, for
playtime is over, and we must give up frolicking. I’m sure you feel this.
I see the change in you, and you’ll find it in me. I shall miss my boy,
but I shall love the man as much, and admire him more, because he means to be
what I hoped he would. We can’t be little playmates any longer, but we
will be brother and sister, to love and help one another all our lives,
won’t we, Laurie?”

He did not say a word, but took the hand she offered him, and laid his face
down on it for a minute, feeling that out of the grave of a boyish passion,
there had risen a beautiful, strong friendship to bless them both. Presently Jo
said cheerfully, for she didn’t want the coming home to be a sad one,
“I can’t make it true that you children are really married and
going to set up housekeeping. Why, it seems only yesterday that I was buttoning
Amy’s pinafore, and pulling your hair when you teased. Mercy me, how time
does fly!”

“As one of the children is older than yourself, you needn’t talk so
like a grandma. I flatter myself I’m a ‘gentleman growed’ as
Peggotty said of David, and when you see Amy, you’ll find her rather a
precocious infant,” said Laurie, looking amused at her maternal air.

“You may be a little older in years, but I’m ever so much older in
feeling, Teddy. Women always are, and this last year has been such a hard one
that I feel forty.”

“Poor Jo! We left you to bear it alone, while we went pleasuring. You are
older. Here’s a line, and there’s another. Unless you smile, your
eyes look sad, and when I touched the cushion, just now, I found a tear on it.
You’ve had a great deal to bear, and had to bear it all alone. What a
selfish beast I’ve been!” and Laurie pulled his own hair, with a
remorseful look.

But Jo only turned over the traitorous pillow, and answered, in a tone which
she tried to make more cheerful, “No, I had Father and Mother to help me,
and the dear babies to comfort me, and the thought that you and Amy were safe
and happy, to make the troubles here easier to bear. I am lonely, sometimes,
but I dare say it’s good for me, and…”

“You never shall be again,” broke in Laurie, putting his arm about
her, as if to fence out every human ill. “Amy and I can’t get on
without you, so you must come and teach ‘the children’ to keep
house, and go halves in everything, just as we used to do, and let us pet you,
and all be blissfully happy and friendly together.”

“If I shouldn’t be in the way, it would be very pleasant. I begin
to feel quite young already, for somehow all my troubles seemed to fly away
when you came. You always were a comfort, Teddy,” and Jo leaned her head
on his shoulder, just as she did years ago, when Beth lay ill and Laurie told
her to hold on to him.

He looked down at her, wondering if she remembered the time, but Jo was smiling
to herself, as if in truth her troubles had all vanished at his coming.

“You are the same Jo still, dropping tears about one minute, and laughing
the next. You look a little wicked now. What is it, Grandma?”

“I was wondering how you and Amy get on together.”

“Like angels!”

“Yes, of course, but which rules?”

“I don’t mind telling you that she does now, at least I let her
think so, it pleases her, you know. By-and-by we shall take turns, for
marriage, they say, halves one’s rights and doubles one’s
duties.”

“You’ll go on as you begin, and Amy will rule you all the days of
your life.”

“Well, she does it so imperceptibly that I don’t think I shall mind
much. She is the sort of woman who knows how to rule well. In fact, I rather
like it, for she winds one round her finger as softly and prettily as a skein
of silk, and makes you feel as if she was doing you a favor all the
while.”

“That ever I should live to see you a henpecked husband and enjoying
it!” cried Jo, with uplifted hands.

It was good to see Laurie square his shoulders, and smile with masculine scorn
at that insinuation, as he replied, with his “high and mighty” air,
“Amy is too well-bred for that, and I am not the sort of man to submit to
it. My wife and I respect ourselves and one another too much ever to tyrannize
or quarrel.”

Jo liked that, and thought the new dignity very becoming, but the boy seemed
changing very fast into the man, and regret mingled with her pleasure.

“I am sure of that. Amy and you never did quarrel as we used to. She is
the sun and I the wind, in the fable, and the sun managed the man best, you
remember.”

“She can blow him up as well as shine on him,” laughed Laurie.
“Such a lecture as I got at Nice! I give you my word it was a deal worse
than any of your scoldings, a regular rouser. I’ll tell you all about it
sometime, she never will, because after telling me that she despised and was
ashamed of me, she lost her heart to the despicable party and married the
good-for-nothing.”

“What baseness! Well, if she abuses you, come to me, and I’ll
defend you.”

“I look as if I needed it, don’t I?” said Laurie, getting up
and striking an attitude which suddenly changed from the imposing to the
rapturous, as Amy’s voice was heard calling, “Where is she?
Where’s my dear old Jo?”

In trooped the whole family, and everyone was hugged and kissed all over again,
and after several vain attempts, the three wanderers were set down to be looked
at and exulted over. Mr. Laurence, hale and hearty as ever, was quite as much
improved as the others by his foreign tour, for the crustiness seemed to be
nearly gone, and the old-fashioned courtliness had received a polish which made
it kindlier than ever. It was good to see him beam at ‘my
children’, as he called the young pair. It was better still to see Amy
pay him the daughterly duty and affection which completely won his old heart,
and best of all, to watch Laurie revolve about the two, as if never tired of
enjoying the pretty picture they made.

The minute she put her eyes upon Amy, Meg became conscious that her own dress
hadn’t a Parisian air, that young Mrs. Moffat would be entirely eclipsed
by young Mrs. Laurence, and that ‘her ladyship’ was altogether a
most elegant and graceful woman. Jo thought, as she watched the pair,
“How well they look together! I was right, and Laurie has found the
beautiful, accomplished girl who will become his home better than clumsy old
Jo, and be a pride, not a torment to him.” Mrs. March and her husband
smiled and nodded at each other with happy faces, for they saw that their
youngest had done well, not only in worldly things, but the better wealth of
love, confidence, and happiness.

For Amy’s face was full of the soft brightness which betokens a peaceful
heart, her voice had a new tenderness in it, and the cool, prim carriage was
changed to a gentle dignity, both womanly and winning. No little affectations
marred it, and the cordial sweetness of her manner was more charming than the
new beauty or the old grace, for it stamped her at once with the unmistakable
sign of the true gentlewoman she had hoped to become.

“Love has done much for our little girl,” said her mother softly.

“She has had a good example before her all her life, my dear,” Mr.
March whispered back, with a loving look at the worn face and gray head beside
him.

Daisy found it impossible to keep her eyes off her ‘pitty aunty’,
but attached herself like a lap dog to the wonderful chatelaine full of
delightful charms. Demi paused to consider the new relationship before he
compromised himself by the rash acceptance of a bribe, which took the tempting
form of a family of wooden bears from Berne. A flank movement produced an
unconditional surrender, however, for Laurie knew where to have him.

“Young man, when I first had the honor of making your acquaintance you
hit me in the face. Now I demand the satisfaction of a gentleman,” and
with that the tall uncle proceeded to toss and tousle the small nephew in a way
that damaged his philosophical dignity as much as it delighted his boyish soul.

“Blest if she ain’t in silk from head to foot; ain’t it a
relishin’ sight to see her settin’ there as fine as a fiddle, and
hear folks calling little Amy ‘Mis. Laurence!’” muttered old
Hannah, who could not resist frequent “peeks” through the slide as
she set the table in a most decidedly promiscuous manner.

Mercy on us, how they did talk! first one, then the other, then all burst out
together—trying to tell the history of three years in half an hour. It
was fortunate that tea was at hand, to produce a lull and provide
refreshment—for they would have been hoarse and faint if they had gone on
much longer. Such a happy procession as filed away into the little dining room!
Mr. March proudly escorted Mrs. Laurence. Mrs. March as proudly leaned on the
arm of ‘my son’. The old gentleman took Jo, with a whispered,
“You must be my girl now,” and a glance at the empty corner by the
fire, that made Jo whisper back, “I’ll try to fill her place,
sir.”

The twins pranced behind, feeling that the millennium was at hand, for everyone
was so busy with the newcomers that they were left to revel at their own sweet
will, and you may be sure they made the most of the opportunity. Didn’t
they steal sips of tea, stuff gingerbread ad libitum, get a hot biscuit apiece,
and as a crowning trespass, didn’t they each whisk a captivating little
tart into their tiny pockets, there to stick and crumble treacherously,
teaching them that both human nature and a pastry are frail? Burdened with the
guilty consciousness of the sequestered tarts, and fearing that Dodo’s
sharp eyes would pierce the thin disguise of cambric and merino which hid their
booty, the little sinners attached themselves to ‘Dranpa’, who
hadn’t his spectacles on. Amy, who was handed about like refreshments,
returned to the parlor on Father Laurence’s arm. The others paired off as
before, and this arrangement left Jo companionless. She did not mind it at the
minute, for she lingered to answer Hannah’s eager inquiry.

“Will Miss Amy ride in her coop (coupe), and use all them lovely silver
dishes that’s stored away over yander?”

“Shouldn’t wonder if she drove six white horses, ate off gold
plate, and wore diamonds and point lace every day. Teddy thinks nothing too
good for her,” returned Jo with infinite satisfaction.

“No more there is! Will you have hash or fishballs for breakfast?”
asked Hannah, who wisely mingled poetry and prose.

“I don’t care,” and Jo shut the door, feeling that food was
an uncongenial topic just then. She stood a minute looking at the party
vanishing above, and as Demi’s short plaid legs toiled up the last stair,
a sudden sense of loneliness came over her so strongly that she looked about
her with dim eyes, as if to find something to lean upon, for even Teddy had
deserted her. If she had known what birthday gift was coming every minute
nearer and nearer, she would not have said to herself, “I’ll weep a
little weep when I go to bed. It won’t do to be dismal now.” Then
she drew her hand over her eyes, for one of her boyish habits was never to know
where her handkerchief was, and had just managed to call up a smile when there
came a knock at the porch door.

She opened 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.

“Oh, Mr. Bhaer, I am so glad to see you!” cried Jo, with a clutch,
as if she feared the night would swallow him up before she could get him in.

“And I to see Miss Marsch, but no, you haf a party,” and the
Professor paused as the sound of voices and the tap of dancing feet came down
to them.

“No, we haven’t, only the family. My sister and friends have just
come home, and we are all very happy. Come in, and make one of us.”

Though a very social man, I think Mr. Bhaer would have gone decorously away,
and come again another day, but how could he, when Jo shut the door behind him,
and bereft him of his hat? Perhaps her face had something to do with it, for
she forgot to hide her joy at seeing him, and showed it with a frankness that
proved irresistible to the solitary man, whose welcome far exceeded his boldest
hopes.

“If I shall not be Monsieur de Trop, I will so gladly see them all. You
haf been ill, my friend?”

He put the question abruptly, for, as Jo hung up his coat, the light fell on
her face, and he saw a change in it.

“Not ill, but tired and sorrowful. We have had trouble since I saw you
last.”

“Ah, yes, I know. My heart was sore for you when I heard that,” and
he shook hands again, with such a sympathetic face that Jo felt as if no
comfort could equal the look of the kind eyes, the grasp of the big, warm hand.

“Father, Mother, this is my friend, Professor Bhaer,” she said,
with a face and tone of such irrepressible pride and pleasure that she might as
well have blown a trumpet and opened the door with a flourish.

If the stranger had any doubts about his reception, they were set at rest in a
minute by the cordial welcome he received. Everyone 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
traveler who knocks at a strange door, and when it opens, finds himself at
home. The children went to him like bees to a honeypot, and establishing
themselves on each knee, proceeded to captivate him by rifling his pockets,
pulling his beard, and investigating his watch, with juvenile audacity. The
women telegraphed their approval to one another, and Mr. March, feeling that he
had got a kindred spirit, opened his choicest stores for his guest’s
benefit, while silent John listened and enjoyed the talk, but said not a word,
and Mr. Laurence found it impossible to go to sleep.

If Jo had not been otherwise engaged, Laurie’s behavior would have amused
her, for a faint twinge, not of jealousy, but something like suspicion, caused
that gentleman to stand aloof at first, and observe the newcomer with brotherly
circumspection. But it did not last long. He got interested in spite of
himself, and before he knew it, was drawn into the circle. For Mr. Bhaer talked
well in this genial atmosphere, and did himself justice. He seldom spoke to
Laurie, but he looked at him often, and a shadow would pass across his face, as
if regretting his own lost youth, as he watched the young man in his prime.
Then his eyes would turn to Jo so wistfully that she would have surely answered
the mute inquiry if she had seen it. But Jo had her own eyes to take care of,
and feeling that they could not be trusted, she prudently kept them on the
little sock she was knitting, like a model maiden aunt.

A stealthy glance now and then refreshed her like sips of fresh water after a
dusty walk, for the sidelong peeps showed her several propitious omens. Mr.
Bhaer’s face had lost the absent-minded expression, and looked all alive
with interest in the present moment, actually young and handsome, she thought,
forgetting to compare him with Laurie, as she usually did strange men, to their
great detriment. Then he seemed quite inspired, though the burial customs of
the ancients, to which the conversation had strayed, might not be considered an
exhilarating topic. Jo quite glowed with triumph when Teddy got quenched in an
argument, and thought to herself, as she watched her father’s absorbed
face, “How he would enjoy having such a man as my Professor to talk with
every day!” Lastly, Mr. Bhaer was dressed in a new suit of black, which
made him look more like a gentleman than ever. His bushy hair had been cut and
smoothly brushed, but didn’t stay in order long, for in exciting moments,
he rumpled it up in the droll way he used to do, and Jo liked it rampantly
erect better than flat, because she thought it gave his fine forehead a
Jove-like aspect. Poor Jo, how she did glorify that plain man, as she sat
knitting away so quietly, yet letting nothing escape her, not even the fact
that Mr. Bhaer actually had gold sleeve-buttons in his immaculate wristbands.

“Dear old fellow! He couldn’t have got himself up with more care if
he’d been going a-wooing,” said Jo to herself, and then a sudden
thought born of the words made her blush so dreadfully that she had to drop her
ball, and go down after it to hide her face.

The maneuver did not succeed as well as she expected, however, for though just
in the act of setting fire to a funeral pyre, the Professor dropped his torch,
metaphorically speaking, and made a dive after the little blue ball. Of course
they bumped their heads smartly together, saw stars, and both came up flushed
and laughing, without the ball, to resume their seats, wishing they had not
left them.

Nobody knew where the evening went to, for Hannah skillfully abstracted the
babies at an early hour, nodding like two rosy poppies, and Mr. Laurence went
home to rest. The others sat round the fire, talking away, utterly regardless
of the lapse of time, till Meg, whose maternal mind was impressed with a firm
conviction that Daisy had tumbled out of bed, and Demi set his nightgown afire
studying the structure of matches, made a move to go.

“We must have our sing, in the good old way, for we are all together
again once more,” said Jo, feeling that a good shout would be a safe and
pleasant vent for the jubilant emotions of her soul.

They were not all there. But no one found the words thoughtless or untrue, for
Beth still seemed among them, a peaceful presence, invisible, but dearer than
ever, since death could not break the household league that love made
dissoluble. The little chair stood in its old place. The tidy basket, with the
bit of work she left unfinished when the needle grew ‘so heavy’,
was still on its accustomed shelf. The beloved instrument, seldom touched now
had not been moved, and above it Beth’s face, serene and smiling, as in
the early days, looked down upon them, seeming to say, “Be happy. I am
here.”

“Play something, Amy. Let them hear how much you have improved,”
said Laurie, with pardonable pride in his promising pupil.

But Amy whispered, with full eyes, as she twirled the faded stool, “Not
tonight, dear. I can’t show off tonight.”

But she did show something better than brilliancy or skill, for she sang
Beth’s songs with a tender music in her voice which the best master could
not have taught, and touched the listener’s hearts with a sweeter power
than any other inspiration could have given her. The room was very still, when
the clear voice failed suddenly at the last line of Beth’s favorite hymn.
It was hard to say…

Earth hath no sorrow that heaven cannot heal;

and Amy leaned against her husband, who stood behind her, feeling that her
welcome home was not quite perfect without Beth’s kiss.

“Now, we must finish with Mignon’s song, for Mr. Bhaer sings
that,” said Jo, before the pause grew painful. And Mr. Bhaer cleared his
throat with a gratified “Hem!” as he stepped into the corner where
Jo stood, saying…

“You will sing with me? We go excellently well together.”

A pleasing fiction, by the way, for Jo had no more idea of music than a
grasshopper. But she would have consented if he had proposed to sing a whole
opera, and warbled away, blissfully regardless of time and tune. It
didn’t much matter, for Mr. Bhaer sang like a true German, heartily and
well, and Jo soon subsided into a subdued hum, that she might listen to the
mellow voice that seemed to sing for her alone.

Know’st thou the land where the citron blooms,

used to be the Professor’s favorite line, for ‘das land’
meant Germany to him, but now he seemed to dwell, with peculiar warmth and
melody, upon the words…

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

and one listener was so thrilled by the tender invitation that she longed to
say she did know the land, and would joyfully depart thither whenever he liked.

The song was considered a great success, and the singer retired covered with
laurels. But a few minutes afterward, he forgot his manners entirely, and
stared at Amy putting on her bonnet, for she had been introduced simply as
‘my sister’, and no one had called her by her new name since he
came. He forgot himself still further when Laurie said, in his most gracious
manner, at parting…

“My wife and I are very glad to meet you, sir. Please remember that there
is always a welcome waiting for you over the way.”

Then the Professor thanked him so heartily, and looked so suddenly illuminated
with satisfaction, that Laurie thought him the most delightfully demonstrative
old fellow he ever met.

“I too shall go, but I shall gladly come again, if you will gif me leave,
dear madame, for a little business in the city will keep me here some
days.”

He spoke to Mrs. March, but he looked at Jo, and the mother’s voice gave
as cordial an assent as did the daughter’s eyes, for Mrs. March was not
so blind to her children’s interest as Mrs. Moffat supposed.

“I suspect that is a wise man,” remarked Mr. March, with placid
satisfaction, from the hearthrug, after the last guest had gone.

“I know he is a good one,” added Mrs. March, with decided approval,
as she wound up the clock.

“I thought you’d like him,” was all Jo said, as she slipped
away to her bed.

She wondered what the business was that brought Mr. Bhaer to the city, and
finally decided that he had been appointed to some great honor, somewhere, but
had been too modest to mention the fact. If she had seen his face when, safe in
his own room, he looked at the picture of a severe and rigid young lady, with a
good deal of hair, who appeared to be gazing darkly into futurity, it might
have thrown some light upon the subject, especially when he turned off the gas,
and kissed the picture in the dark.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
MY LORD AND LADY

“Please, Madam Mother, could you lend me my wife for half an hour? The
luggage has come, and I’ve been making hay of Amy’s Paris finery,
trying to find some things I want,” said Laurie, coming in the next day
to find Mrs. Laurence sitting in her mother’s lap, as if being made
‘the baby’ again.

“Certainly. Go, dear, I forgot that you have any home but this,”
and Mrs. March pressed the white hand that wore the wedding ring, as if asking
pardon for her maternal covetousness.

“I shouldn’t have come over if I could have helped it, but I
can’t get on without my little woman any more than a…”

“Weathercock can without the wind,” suggested Jo, as he paused for
a simile. Jo had grown quite her own saucy self again since Teddy came home.

“Exactly, for Amy keeps me pointing due west most of the time, with only
an occasional whiffle round to the south, and I haven’t had an easterly
spell since I was married. Don’t know anything about the north, but am
altogether salubrious and balmy, hey, my lady?”

“Lovely weather so far. I don’t know how long it will last, but
I’m not afraid of storms, for I’m learning how to sail my ship.
Come home, dear, and I’ll find your bootjack. I suppose that’s what
you are rummaging after among my things. Men are so helpless, Mother,”
said Amy, with a matronly air, which delighted her husband.

“What are you going to do with yourselves after you get settled?”
asked Jo, buttoning Amy’s cloak as she used to button her pinafores.

“We have our plans. We don’t mean to say much about them yet,
because we are such very new brooms, but we don’t intend to be idle.
I’m going into business with a devotion that shall delight Grandfather,
and prove to him that I’m not spoiled. I need something of the sort to
keep me steady. I’m tired of dawdling, and mean to work like a
man.”

“And Amy, what is she going to do?” asked Mrs. March, well pleased
at Laurie’s decision and the energy with which he spoke.

“After doing the civil all round, and airing our best bonnet, we shall
astonish you by the elegant hospitalities of our mansion, the brilliant society
we shall draw about us, and the beneficial influence we shall exert over the
world at large. That’s about it, isn’t it, Madame Recamier?”
asked Laurie with a quizzical look at Amy.

“Time will show. Come away, Impertinence, and don’t shock my family
by calling me names before their faces,” answered Amy, resolving that
there should be a home with a good wife in it before she set up a salon as a
queen of society.

“How happy those children seem together!” observed Mr. March,
finding it difficult to become absorbed in his Aristotle after the young couple
had gone.

“Yes, and I think it will last,” added Mrs. March, with the restful
expression of a pilot who has brought a ship safely into port.

“I know it will. Happy Amy!” and Jo sighed, then smiled brightly as
Professor Bhaer opened the gate with an impatient push.

Later in the evening, when his mind had been set at rest about the bootjack,
Laurie said suddenly to his wife, “Mrs. Laurence.”

“My Lord!”

“That man intends to marry our Jo!”

“I hope so, don’t you, dear?”

“Well, my love, I consider him a trump, in the fullest sense of that
expressive word, but I do wish he was a little younger and a good deal
richer.”

“Now, Laurie, don’t be too fastidious and worldly-minded. If they
love one another it doesn’t matter a particle how old they are nor how
poor. Women never should marry for money…” Amy caught herself up short
as the words escaped her, and looked at her husband, who replied, with
malicious gravity…

“Certainly not, though you do hear charming girls say that they intend to
do it sometimes. If my memory serves me, you once thought it your duty to make
a rich match. That accounts, perhaps, for your marrying a good-for-nothing like
me.”

“Oh, my dearest boy, don’t, don’t say that! I forgot you were
rich when I said ‘Yes’. I’d have married you if you
hadn’t a penny, and I sometimes wish you were poor that I might show how
much I love you.” And Amy, who was very dignified in public and very fond
in private, gave convincing proofs of the truth of her words.

“You don’t really think I am such a mercenary creature as I tried
to be once, do you? It would break my heart if you didn’t believe that
I’d gladly pull in the same boat with you, even if you had to get your
living by rowing on the lake.”

“Am I an idiot and a brute? How could I think so, when you refused a
richer man for me, and won’t let me give you half I want to now, when I
have the right? Girls do it every day, poor things, and are taught to think it
is their only salvation, but you had better lessons, and though I trembled for
you at one time, I was not disappointed, for the daughter was true to the
mother’s teaching. I told Mamma so yesterday, and she looked as glad and
grateful as if I’d given her a check for a million, to be spent in
charity. You are not listening to my moral remarks, Mrs. Laurence,” and
Laurie paused, for Amy’s eyes had an absent look, though fixed upon his
face.

“Yes, I am, and admiring the mole in your chin at the same time. I
don’t wish to make you vain, but I must confess that I’m prouder of
my handsome husband than of all his money. Don’t laugh, but your nose is
such a comfort to me,” and Amy softly caressed the well-cut feature with
artistic satisfaction.

Laurie had received many compliments in his life, but never one that suited him
better, as he plainly showed though he did laugh at his wife’s peculiar
taste, while she said slowly, “May I ask you a question, dear?”

“Of course, you may.”

“Shall you care if Jo does marry Mr. Bhaer?”

“Oh, that’s the trouble is it? I thought there was something in the
dimple that didn’t quite suit you. Not being a dog in the manger, but the
happiest fellow alive, I assure you I can dance at Jo’s wedding with a
heart as light as my heels. Do you doubt it, my darling?”

Amy looked up at him, and was satisfied. Her little jealous fear vanished
forever, and she thanked him, with a face full of love and confidence.

“I wish we could do something for that capital old Professor.
Couldn’t we invent a rich relation, who shall obligingly die out there in
Germany, and leave him a tidy little fortune?” said Laurie, when they
began to pace up and down the long drawing room, arm in arm, as they were fond
of doing, in memory of the chateau garden.

“Jo would find us out, and spoil it all. She is very proud of him, just
as he is, and said yesterday that she thought poverty was a beautiful
thing.”

“Bless her dear heart! She won’t think so when she has a literary
husband, and a dozen little professors and professorins to support. We
won’t interfere now, but watch our chance, and do them a good turn in
spite of themselves. I owe Jo for a part of my education, and she believes in
people’s paying their honest debts, so I’ll get round her in that
way.”

“How delightful it is to be able to help others, isn’t it? That was
always one of my dreams, to have the power of giving freely, and thanks to you,
the dream has come true.”

“Ah, we’ll do quantities of good, won’t we? There’s one
sort of poverty that I particularly like to help. Out-and-out beggars get taken
care of, but poor gentle folks 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
blarnerying beggar. I suppose it’s wrong, but I do, though it is
harder.”

“Because it takes a gentleman to do it,” added the other member of
the domestic admiration society.

“Thank you, I’m afraid I don’t deserve that pretty
compliment. But I was going to say that while I was dawdling about abroad, I
saw a good many talented young fellows making all sorts of sacrifices, and
enduring real hardships, that they might realize their dreams. Splendid
fellows, some of them, working like heros, poor and friendless, but so full of
courage, patience, and ambition that I was ashamed of myself, and longed to
give them a right good lift. Those are people whom it’s a satisfaction to
help, for if they’ve got genius, it’s an honor to be allowed to
serve them, and not let it be lost or delayed for want of fuel to keep the pot
boiling. If they haven’t, it’s a pleasure to comfort the poor
souls, and keep them from despair when they find it out.”

“Yes, indeed, and there’s another class who can’t ask, and
who suffer in silence. I know something of it, for I belonged to it before you
made a princess of me, as the king does the beggarmaid in the old story.
Ambitious girls have a hard time, Laurie, and often have to see youth, health,
and precious opportunities go by, just for want of a little help at the right
minute. People have been very kind to me, and whenever I see girls struggling
along, as we used to do, I want to put out my hand and help them, as I was
helped.”

“And so you shall, like an angel as you are!” cried Laurie,
resolving, with a glow of philanthropic zeal, to found and endow an institution
for the express benefit of young women with artistic tendencies. “Rich
people have no right to sit down and enjoy themselves, or let their money
accumulate for others to waste. It’s not half so sensible to leave
legacies when one dies as it is to use the money wisely while alive, and enjoy
making one’s fellow creatures happy with it. We’ll have a good time
ourselves, and add an extra relish to our own pleasure by giving other people a
generous taste. Will you be a little Dorcas, going about emptying a big basket
of comforts, and filling it up with good deeds?”

“With all my heart, if you will be a brave St. Martin, stopping as you
ride gallantly through the world to share your cloak with the beggar.”

“It’s a bargain, and we shall get the best of it!”

So the young pair shook hands upon it, and then paced happily on again, feeling
that their pleasant home was more homelike 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.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
DAISY AND DEMI

I cannot feel that I have done my duty as humble historian of the March family,
without devoting at least one chapter to the two most precious and important
members of it. Daisy and Demi had now arrived at years of discretion, for in
this fast age babies of three or four assert their rights, and get them, too,
which is more than many of their elders do. If there ever were a pair of twins
in danger of being utterly spoiled 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 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
‘sewinsheen’, a mysterious structure of string, chairs,
clothespins, and spools, for wheels to go ‘wound and wound’. Also a
basket hung over the back of a chair, in which he vainly tried to hoist his too
confiding sister, who, with feminine devotion, allowed her little head to be
bumped till rescued, when the young inventor indignantly remarked, “Why,
Marmar, dat’s my lellywaiter, and me’s trying to pull her
up.”

Though utterly unlike in character, the twins got on remarkably well together,
and seldom quarreled more than thrice a day. Of course, Demi tyrannized over
Daisy, and gallantly defended her from every other aggressor, while Daisy made
a galley slave of herself, and adored her brother as the one perfect being in
the world. A rosy, chubby, sunshiny little soul was Daisy, who found her way to
everybody’s heart, and nestled there. One of the captivating children,
who seem made to be kissed and cuddled, adorned and adored like little
goddesses, and produced for general approval on all festive occasions. Her
small virtues were so sweet that she would have been quite angelic if a few
small naughtinesses had not kept her delightfully human. It was all fair
weather in her world, and every morning she scrambled up to the window in her
little nightgown to look out, and say, no matter whether it rained or shone,
“Oh, pitty day, oh, pitty day!” Everyone was a friend, and she
offered kisses to a stranger so confidingly that the most inveterate bachelor
relented, and baby-lovers became faithful worshipers.

“Me loves evvybody,” she once said, opening her arms, with her
spoon in one hand, and her mug in the other, as if eager to embrace and nourish
the whole world.

As she grew, her mother began to feel that the Dovecote would be blessed by the
presence of an inmate as serene and loving as that which had helped to make the
old house home, and to pray that she might be spared a loss like that which had
lately taught them how long they had entertained an angel unawares. Her
grandfather often called her ‘Beth’, and her grandmother watched
over her with untiring devotion, as if trying to atone for some past mistake,
which no eye but her own could see.

Demi, like a true Yankee, was of an inquiring turn, wanting to know everything,
and often getting much disturbed because he could not get satisfactory answers
to his perpetual “What for?”

He also possessed a philosophic bent, to the great delight of his grandfather,
who used to hold Socratic conversations with him, in which the precocious pupil
occasionally posed his teacher, to the undisguised satisfaction of the
womenfolk.

“What makes my legs go, Dranpa?” asked the young philosopher,
surveying those active portions of his frame with a meditative air, while
resting after a go-to-bed frolic one night.

“It’s your little mind, Demi,” replied the sage, stroking the
yellow head respectfully.

“What is a little mine?”

“It is something which makes your body move, as the spring made the
wheels go in my watch when I showed it to you.”

“Open me. I want to see it go wound.”

“I can’t do that any more than you could open the watch. God winds
you up, and you go till He stops you.”

“Does I?” and Demi’s brown eyes grew big and bright as he
took in the new thought. “Is I wounded up like the watch?”

“Yes, but I can’t show you how, for it is done when we don’t
see.”

Demi felt his back, as if expecting to find it like that of the watch, and then
gravely remarked, “I dess Dod does it when I’s asleep.”

A careful explanation followed, to which he listened so attentively that his
anxious grandmother said, “My dear, do you think it wise to talk about
such things to that baby? He’s getting great bumps over his eyes, and
learning to ask the most unanswerable questions.”

“If he is old enough to ask the question he is old enough to receive true
answers. I am not putting the thoughts into his head, but helping him unfold
those already there. These children are wiser than we are, and I have no doubt
the boy understands every word I have said to him. Now, Demi, tell me where you
keep your mind.”

If the boy had replied like Alcibiades, “By the gods, Socrates, I cannot
tell,” his grandfather would not have been surprised, but when, after
standing a moment on one leg, like a meditative young stork, he answered, in a
tone of calm conviction, “In my little belly,” the old gentleman
could only join in Grandma’s laugh, and dismiss the class in metaphysics.

There might have been cause for maternal anxiety, if Demi had not given
convincing proofs that he was a true boy, as well as a budding philosopher, for
often, after a discussion which caused Hannah to prophesy, with ominous nods,
“That child ain’t long for this world,” he would turn about
and set her fears at rest by some of the pranks with which dear, dirty, naughty
little rascals distract and delight their parent’s souls.

Meg made many moral rules, and tried to keep them, but what mother was ever
proof against the winning wiles, the ingenious evasions, or the tranquil
audacity of the miniature men and women who so early show themselves
accomplished Artful Dodgers?

“No more raisins, Demi. They’ll make you sick,” says Mamma to
the young person who offers his services in the kitchen with unfailing
regularity on plum-pudding day.

“Me likes to be sick.”

“I don’t want to have you, so run away and help Daisy make patty
cakes.”

He reluctantly departs, but his wrongs weigh upon his spirit, and by-and-by
when an opportunity comes to redress them, he outwits Mamma by a shrewd
bargain.

“Now you have been good children, and I’ll play anything you
like,” says Meg, as she leads her assistant cooks upstairs, when the
pudding is safely bouncing in the pot.

“Truly, Marmar?” asks Demi, with a brilliant idea in his
well-powdered head.

“Yes, truly. Anything you say,” replies the shortsighted parent,
preparing herself to sing, “The Three Little Kittens” half a dozen
times over, or to take her family to “Buy a penny bun,” regardless
of wind or limb. But Demi corners her by the cool reply…

“Then we’ll go and eat up all the raisins.”

Aunt Dodo was chief playmate and confidante of both children, and the trio
turned the little house topsy-turvy. Aunt Amy was as yet only a name to them,
Aunt Beth soon faded into a pleasantly vague memory, but Aunt Dodo was a living
reality, and they made the most of her, for which compliment she was deeply
grateful. But when Mr. Bhaer came, Jo neglected her playfellows, and dismay and
desolation fell upon their little souls. Daisy, who was fond of going about
peddling kisses, lost her best customer and became bankrupt. Demi, with
infantile penetration, soon discovered that Dodo like to play with ‘the
bear-man’ better than she did him, but though hurt, he concealed his
anguish, for he hadn’t the heart to insult a rival who kept a mine of
chocolate drops in his waistcoat pocket, and a watch that could be taken out of
its case and freely shaken by ardent admirers.

Some persons might have considered these pleasing liberties as bribes, but Demi
didn’t see it in that light, and continued to patronize the ‘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 surpassing worth.

Gentlemen are sometimes seized with sudden fits of admiration for the young
relatives of ladies whom they honor with their regard, but this counterfeit
philoprogenitiveness sits uneasily upon them, and does not deceive anybody a
particle. Mr. Bhaer’s devotion was sincere, however likewise
effective—for honesty is the best policy in love as in law. He was one of
the men who are at home with children, and looked particularly well when little
faces made a pleasant contrast with his manly one. His business, whatever it
was, detained him from day to day, but evening seldom failed to bring him out
to see—well, he always asked for Mr. March, so I suppose he was the
attraction. The excellent papa labored under the delusion that he was, and
reveled in long discussions with the kindred spirit, till a chance remark of
his more observing grandson suddenly enlightened him.

Mr. Bhaer came in one evening to pause on the threshold of the study,
astonished by the spectacle that met his eye. Prone upon the floor lay Mr.
March, with his respectable legs in the air, and beside him, likewise prone,
was Demi, trying to imitate the attitude with his own short, scarlet-stockinged
legs, both grovelers so seriously absorbed that they were unconscious of
spectators, till Mr. Bhaer laughed his sonorous laugh, and Jo cried out, with a
scandalized face…

“Father, Father, here’s the Professor!”

Down went the black legs and up came the gray head, as the preceptor said, with
undisturbed dignity, “Good evening, Mr. Bhaer. Excuse me for a moment. We
are just finishing our lesson. Now, Demi, make the letter and tell its
name.”

“I knows him!” and, after a few convulsive efforts, the red legs
took the shape of a pair of compasses, and the intelligent pupil triumphantly
shouted, “It’s a We, Dranpa, it’s a We!”

“He’s a born Weller,” laughed Jo, as her parent gathered
himself up, and her nephew tried to stand on his head, as the only mode of
expressing his satisfaction that school was over.

“What have you been at today, bubchen?” asked Mr. Bhaer, picking up
the gymnast.

“Me went to see little Mary.”

“And what did you there?”

“I kissed her,” began Demi, with artless frankness.

“Prut! Thou beginnest early. What did the little Mary say to that?”
asked Mr. Bhaer, continuing to confess the young sinner, who stood upon the
knee, exploring the waistcoat pocket.

“Oh, she liked it, and she kissed me, and I liked it. Don’t little
boys like little girls?” asked Demi, with his mouth full, and an air of
bland satisfaction.

“You precocious chick! Who put that into your head?” said Jo,
enjoying the innocent revelation as much as the Professor.

“’Tisn’t in mine head, it’s in mine mouf,”
answered literal Demi, putting out his tongue, with a chocolate drop on it,
thinking she alluded to confectionery, not ideas.

“Thou shouldst save some for the little friend. Sweets to the sweet,
mannling,” and Mr. Bhaer offered Jo some, with a look that made her
wonder if chocolate was not the nectar drunk by the gods. Demi also saw the
smile, was impressed by it, and artlessy inquired. ..

“Do great boys like great girls, to, ’Fessor?”

Like young Washington, Mr. Bhaer ‘couldn’t tell a lie’, so he
gave the somewhat vague reply that he believed they did sometimes, in a tone
that made Mr. March put down his clothesbrush, glance at Jo’s retiring
face, and then sink into his chair, looking as if the ‘precocious
chick’ had put an idea into his head that was both sweet and sour.

Why Dodo, when she caught him in the china closet half an hour afterward,
nearly squeezed the breath out of his little body with a tender embrace,
instead of shaking him for being there, and why she followed up this novel
performance by the unexpected gift of a big slice of bread and jelly, remained
one of the problems over which Demi puzzled his small wits, and was forced to
leave unsolved forever.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
UNDER THE UMBRELLA

While Laurie and Amy were taking conjugal strolls over velvet carpets, as they
set their house in order, and planned a blissful future, Mr. Bhaer and Jo were
enjoying promenades of a different sort, along muddy roads and sodden fields.

“I always do take a walk toward evening, and I don’t know why I
should give it up, just because I 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 until 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
returning, unless they were tired of his frequent calls.

Under the circumstances, what could Jo do but greet him civilly, and invite him
in? If she was tired of his visits, she concealed her weariness with perfect
skill, and took care that there should be coffee for supper, “as
Friedrich—I mean Mr. Bhaer—doesn’t like tea.”

By the second week, everyone knew perfectly well what was going on, yet
everyone tried to look as if they were stone-blind to the changes in Jo’s
face. They never asked why she sang about her work, did up her hair three times
a day, and got so blooming with her evening exercise. And no one seemed to have
the slightest suspicion that Professor Bhaer, while talking philosophy with the
father, was giving the daughter lessons in love.

Jo couldn’t even lose her heart in a decorous manner, but sternly tried
to quench her feelings, and failing to do so, led a somewhat agitated life. She
was mortally afraid of being laughed at for surrendering, after her many 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’ table nearly
every evening. But he exulted in private and longed for the time to come when
he could give Jo a piece of plate, with a bear and a ragged staff on it as an
appropriate coat of arms.

For a fortnight, the Professor came and went with lover-like regularity. Then
he stayed away for three whole days, and made no sign, a proceeding which
caused everybody to look sober, and Jo to become pensive, at first, and
then—alas for romance—very cross.

“Disgusted, I dare say, and gone home as suddenly as he came. It’s
nothing to me, of course, but I should think he would have come and bid us
goodbye like a gentleman,” she said to herself, with a despairing look at
the gate, as she put on her things for the customary walk one dull afternoon.

“You’d better take the little umbrella, dear. It looks like
rain,” said her mother, observing that she had on her new bonnet, but not
alluding to the fact.

“Yes, Marmee, do you want anything in town? I’ve got to run in and
get some paper,” returned Jo, pulling out the bow under her chin before
the glass as an excuse for not looking at her mother.

“Yes, I want some twilled silesia, a paper of number nine needles, and
two yards of narrow lavender ribbon. Have you got your thick boots on, and
something warm under your cloak?”

“I believe so,” answered Jo absently.

“If you happen to meet Mr. Bhaer, bring him home to tea. I quite long to
see the dear man,” added Mrs. March.

Jo heard that, but made no answer, except to kiss her mother, and walk rapidly
away, thinking with a glow of gratitude, in spite of her heartache, “How
good she is to me! What do girls do who haven’t any mothers to help them
through their troubles?”

The dry-goods stores were not down among the counting-houses, banks, and
wholesale warerooms, where gentlemen most do congregate, but Jo found herself
in that part of the city before she did a single errand, loitering along as if
waiting for someone, examining engineering instruments in one window and
samples of wool in another, with most unfeminine interest, tumbling over
barrels, being half-smothered by descending bales, and hustled unceremoniously
by busy men who looked as if they wondered ‘how the deuce she got
there’. A drop of rain on her cheek recalled her thoughts from baffled
hopes to ruined ribbons. For the drops continued to fall, and being a woman as
well as a lover, she felt that, though it was too late to save her heart, she
might her bonnet. Now she remembered the little umbrella, which she had
forgotten to take in her hurry to be off, but regret was unavailing, and
nothing could be done but borrow one or submit to a drenching. She looked up at
the lowering sky, down at the crimson bow already flecked with black, forward
along the muddy street, then one long, lingering look behind, at a certain
grimy warehouse, with ‘Hoffmann, Swartz, & Co.’ over the door,
and said to herself, with a sternly reproachful air…

“It serves me right! what business had I to put on all my best things and
come philandering down here, hoping to see the Professor? Jo, I’m ashamed
of you! No, you shall not go there to borrow an umbrella, or find out where he
is, from his friends. You shall trudge away, and do your errands in the rain,
and if you catch your death and ruin your bonnet, it’s no more than you
deserve. Now then!”

With that she rushed across the street so impetuously that she narrowly escaped
annihilation from a passing truck, and precipitated herself into the arms of a
stately old gentleman, who said, “I beg pardon, ma’am,” and
looked mortally offended. Somewhat daunted, Jo righted herself, spread her
handkerchief over the devoted ribbons, and putting temptation behind her,
hurried on, with increasing dampness about the ankles, and much clashing of
umbrellas overhead. The fact that a somewhat dilapidated blue one remained
stationary above the unprotected bonnet attracted her attention, and looking
up, she saw Mr. Bhaer looking down.

“I feel to know the strong-minded lady who goes so bravely under many
horse noses, and so fast through much mud. What do you down here, my
friend?”

“I’m shopping.”

Mr. Bhaer smiled, as he glanced from the pickle factory on one side to the
wholesale hide and leather concern on the other, but he only said politely,
“You haf no umbrella. May I go also, and take for you the bundles?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Jo’s cheeks were as red as her ribbon, and she wondered what he thought
of her, but she didn’t care, for in a minute she found herself walking
away arm in arm with her Professor, feeling as if the sun had suddenly burst
out with uncommon brilliancy, that the world was all right again, and that one
thoroughly happy woman was paddling through the wet that day.

“We thought you had gone,” said Jo hastily, for she knew he was
looking at her. Her bonnet wasn’t big enough to hide her face, and she
feared he might think the joy it betrayed unmaidenly.

“Did you believe that I should go with no farewell to those who haf been
so heavenly kind to me?” he asked so reproachfully that she felt as if
she had insulted him by the suggestion, and answered heartily…

“No, I didn’t. I knew you were busy about your own affairs, but we
rather missed you, Father and Mother especially.”

“And you?”

“I’m always glad to see you, sir.”

In her anxiety to keep her voice quite calm, Jo made it rather cool, and the
frosty little monosyllable at the end seemed to chill the Professor, for his
smile vanished, as he said gravely…

“I thank you, and come one more time before I go.”

“You are going, then?”

“I haf no longer any business here, it is done.”

“Successfully, I hope?” said Jo, for the bitterness of
disappointment was in that short reply of his.

“I ought to think so, for I haf a way opened to me by which I can make my
bread and gif my Junglings much help.”

“Tell me, please! I like to know all about the—the boys,”
said Jo eagerly.

“That is so kind, I gladly tell you. My friends find for me a place in a
college, where I teach as at home, and earn enough to make the way smooth for
Franz and Emil. For this I should be grateful, should I not?”

“Indeed you should. How splendid it will be to have you doing what you
like, and be able to see you often, and the boys!” cried Jo, clinging to
the lads as an excuse for the satisfaction she could not help betraying.

“Ah! But we shall not meet often, I fear, this place is at the
West.”

“So far away!” and Jo left her skirts to their fate, as if it
didn’t matter now what became of her clothes or herself.

Mr. Bhaer could read several languages, but he had not learned to read women
yet. He flattered himself that he knew Jo pretty well, and was, therefore, much
amazed by the contradictions of voice, face, and manner, which she showed him
in rapid succession that day, for she was in half a dozen different moods in
the course of half an hour. When she met him she looked surprised, though it
was impossible to help suspecting that she had come for that express purpose.
When he offered her his arm, she took it with a look that filled him with
delight, but when he asked if she missed him, she gave such a chilly, formal
reply that despair fell upon him. On learning his good fortune she almost
clapped her hands. Was the joy all for the boys? Then on hearing his
destination, she said, “So far away!” in a tone of despair that
lifted him on to a pinnacle of hope, but the next minute she tumbled him down
again by observing, like one entirely absorbed in the matter…

“Here’s the place for my errands. Will you come in? It won’t
take long.”

Jo rather prided herself upon her shopping capabilities, and particularly
wished to impress her escort with the neatness and dispatch with which she
would accomplish the business. But owing to the flutter she was in, everything
went amiss. She upset the tray of needles, forgot the silesia was to be
‘twilled’ till it was cut off, gave the wrong change, and covered
herself with confusion by asking for lavender ribbon at the calico counter. Mr.
Bhaer stood by, watching her blush and blunder, and as he watched, his own
bewilderment seemed to subside, for he was beginning to see that on some
occasions, women, like dreams, go by contraries.

When they came out, he put the parcel under his arm with a more cheerful
aspect, and splashed through the puddles as if he rather enjoyed it on the
whole.

“Should we no do a little what you call shopping for the babies, and haf
a farewell feast tonight if I go for my last call at your so pleasant
home?” he asked, stopping before a window full of fruit and flowers.

“What will we buy?” asked Jo, ignoring the latter part of his
speech, and sniffing the mingled odors with an affectation of delight as they
went in.

“May they haf oranges and figs?” asked Mr. Bhaer, with a paternal
air.

“They eat them when they can get them.”

“Do you care for nuts?”

“Like a squirrel.”

“Hamburg grapes. Yes, we shall drink to the Fatherland in those?”

Jo frowned upon that piece of extravagance, and asked why he didn’t buy a
frail of dates, a cask of raisins, and a bag of almonds, and be 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 knobby bundles, and giving her the flowers to hold, he put up
the old umbrella, and they traveled on again.

“Miss Marsch, I haf a great favor to ask of you,” began the
Professor, after a moist promenade of half a block.

“Yes, sir?” and Jo’s heart began to beat so hard she was
afraid he would hear it.

“I am bold to say it in spite of the rain, because so short a time
remains to me.”

“Yes, sir,” and Jo nearly crushed the small flowerpot with the
sudden squeeze she gave it.

“I wish to get a little dress for my Tina, and I am too stupid to go
alone. Will you kindly gif me a word of taste and help?”

“Yes, sir,” and Jo felt as calm and cool all of a sudden as if she
had stepped into a refrigerator.

“Perhaps also a shawl for Tina’s mother, she is so poor and sick,
and the husband is such a care. Yes, yes, a thick, warm shawl would be a
friendly thing to take the little mother.”

“I’ll do it with pleasure, Mr. Bhaer.” “I’m going
very fast, and he’s getting dearer every minute,” added Jo to
herself, then with a mental shake she entered into the business with an energy
that was pleasant to behold.

Mr. Bhaer left it all to her, so she chose a pretty gown for Tina, and then
ordered out the shawls. The clerk, being a married man, condescended to take an
interest in the couple, who appeared to be shopping for their family.

“Your lady may prefer this. It’s a superior article, a most
desirable color, quite chaste and genteel,” he said, shaking out a
comfortable gray shawl, and throwing it over Jo’s shoulders.

“Does this suit you, Mr. Bhaer?” she asked, turning her back to
him, and feeling deeply grateful for the chance of hiding her face.

“Excellently well, we will haf it,” answered the Professor, smiling
to himself as he paid for it, while Jo continued to rummage the counters like a
confirmed bargain-hunter.

“Now shall we go home?” he asked, as if the words were very
pleasant to him.

“Yes, it’s late, and I’m so tired.” Jo’s
voice was more pathetic than she knew. For now the sun seemed to have gone in
as suddenly as it came out, and the world grew muddy and miserable again, and
for the first time she discovered that her feet were cold, her head ached, and
that her heart was colder than the former, fuller of pain than the latter. Mr.
Bhaer was going away, he only cared for her as a friend, it was all a mistake,
and the sooner it was over the better. With this idea in her head, she hailed
an approaching omnibus with such a hasty gesture that the daisies flew out of
the pot and were badly damaged.

“This is not our omniboos,” said the Professor, waving the loaded
vehicle away, and stopping to pick up the poor little flowers.

“I beg your pardon. I didn’t see the name distinctly. Never mind, I
can walk. I’m used to plodding in the mud,” returned Jo, winking
hard, because she would have died rather than openly wipe her eyes.

Mr. Bhaer saw the drops on her cheeks, though she turned her head away. The
sight seemed to touch him very much, for suddenly stooping down, he asked in a
tone that meant a great deal, “Heart’s dearest, why do you
cry?”

Now, if Jo had not been new to this sort of thing she would have said she
wasn’t crying, had a cold in her head, or told any other feminine fib
proper to the occasion. Instead of which, that undignified creature answered,
with an irrepressible sob, “Because you are going away.”

“Ach, mein Gott, that is so good!” cried Mr. Bhaer, managing to
clasp his hands in spite of the umbrella and the bundles, “Jo, I haf
nothing but much love to gif you. I came to see if you could care for it, and I
waited to be sure that I was something more than a friend. Am I? Can you make a
little place in your heart for old Fritz?” he added, all in one breath.

“Oh, yes!” said Jo, and he was quite satisfied, for she folded both
hands over his arm, and looked up at him with an expression that plainly showed
how happy she would be to walk through life beside him, even though she had no
better shelter than the old umbrella, if he carried it.

It was certainly proposing under difficulties, for even if he had desired to do
so, Mr. Bhaer could not go down upon his knees, on account of the mud. Neither
could he offer Jo his hand, except figuratively, for both were full. Much less
could he indulge in tender remonstrations in the open street, though he was
near it. So the only way in which he could express his rapture was to look at
her, with an expression which glorified his face to such a degree that there
actually seemed to be little rainbows in the drops that sparkled on his beard.
If he had not loved Jo very much, I don’t think he could have done it
then, for she looked far from lovely, with her skirts in a deplorable state,
her rubber boots splashed to the ankle, and her bonnet a ruin. Fortunately, Mr.
Bhaer considered her the most beautiful woman living, and she found him more
“Jove-like” than ever, though his hatbrim was quite limp with the
little rills trickling thence upon his shoulders (for he held the umbrella all
over Jo), and every finger of his gloves needed mending.

Passers-by probably thought them a pair of harmless lunatics, for they entirely
forgot to hail a bus, and strolled leisurely along, oblivious of deepening dusk
and fog. Little they cared what anybody thought, for they were enjoying the
happy hour that seldom comes but once in any life, the magical moment which
bestows youth on the old, beauty on the plain, wealth on the poor, and gives
human hearts a foretaste of heaven. The Professor looked as if he had conquered
a kingdom, and the world had nothing more to offer him in the way of bliss.
While Jo trudged beside him, feeling as if her place had always been there, and
wondering how she ever could have chosen any other lot. Of course, she was the
first to speak—intelligibly, I mean, for the emotional remarks which
followed her impetuous “Oh, yes!” were not of a coherent or
reportable character.

“Friedrich, why didn’t you…”

“Ah, heaven, she gifs me the name that no one speaks since Minna
died!” cried the Professor, pausing in a puddle to regard her with
grateful delight.

“I always call you so to myself—I forgot, but I won’t unless
you like it.”

“Like it? It is more sweet to me than I can tell. Say ‘thou’,
also, and I shall say your language is almost as beautiful as mine.”

“Isn’t ‘thou’ a little sentimental?” asked Jo,
privately thinking it a lovely monosyllable.

“Sentimental? Yes. Thank Gott, we Germans believe in sentiment, and keep
ourselves young mit it. Your English ‘you’ is so cold, say
‘thou’, heart’s dearest, it means so much to me,”
pleaded Mr. Bhaer, more like a romantic student than a grave professor.

“Well, then, why didn’t thou tell me all this sooner?” asked
Jo bashfully.

“Now I shall haf to show thee all my heart, and I so gladly will, because
thou must take care of it hereafter. See, then, my Jo—ah, the dear, funny
little name—I had a wish to tell something the day I said goodbye in New
York, but I thought the handsome friend was betrothed to thee, and so I spoke
not. Wouldst thou have said ‘Yes’, then, if I had spoken?”

“I don’t know. I’m afraid not, for I didn’t have any
heart just then.”

“Prut! That I do not believe. It was asleep till the fairy prince came
through the wood, and waked it up. Ah, well, ‘Die erste Liebe ist die
beste’, but that I should not expect.”

“Yes, the first love is the best, but be so contented, for I never had
another. Teddy was only a boy, and soon got over his little fancy,” said
Jo, anxious to correct the Professor’s mistake.

“Good! Then I shall rest happy, and be sure that thou givest me all. I
haf waited so long, I am grown selfish, as thou wilt find, Professorin.”

“I like that,” cried Jo, delighted with her new name. “Now
tell me what brought you, at last, just when I wanted you?”

“This,” and Mr. Bhaer took a little worn paper out of his waistcoat
pocket.

Jo unfolded it, and looked much abashed, for it was one of her own
contributions to a paper that paid for poetry, which accounted for her sending
it an occasional attempt.

“How could that bring you?” she asked, wondering what he meant.

“I found it by chance. I knew it by the names and the initials, and in it
there was one little verse that seemed to call me. Read and find him. I will
see that you go not in the wet.”

IN THE GARRET

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s very bad poetry, but I felt it when I wrote it, one day when
I was very lonely, and had a good cry on a rag bag. I never thought it would go
where it could tell tales,” said Jo, tearing up the verses the Professor
had treasured so long.

“Let it go, it has done its duty, and I will haf a fresh one when I read
all the brown book in which she keeps her little secrets,” said Mr. Bhaer
with a smile as he watched the fragments fly away on the wind.
“Yes,” he added earnestly, “I read that, and I think to
myself, She has a sorrow, she is lonely, she would find comfort in true love. I
haf a heart full, full for her. Shall I not go and say, ‘If this is not
too poor a thing to gif for what I shall hope to receive, take it in
Gott’s name?’”

“And so you came to find that it was not too poor, but the one precious
thing I needed,” whispered Jo.

“I had no courage to think that at first, heavenly kind as was your
welcome to me. But soon I began to hope, and then I said, ‘I will haf her
if I die for it,’ and so I will!” cried Mr. Bhaer, with a defiant
nod, as if the walls of mist closing round them were barriers which he was to
surmount or valiantly knock down.

Jo thought that was splendid, and resolved to be worthy of her knight, though
he did not come prancing on a charger in gorgeous array.

“What made you stay away so long?” she asked presently, finding it
so pleasant to ask confidential questions and get delightful answers that she
could not keep silent.

“It was not easy, but I could not find the heart to take you from that so
happy home until I could haf a prospect of one to gif you, after much time,
perhaps, and hard work. How could I ask you to gif up so much for a poor old
fellow, who has no fortune but a little learning?”

“I’m glad you are poor. I couldn’t bear a rich
husband,” said Jo decidedly, adding in a softer tone, “Don’t
fear poverty. I’ve known it long enough to lose my dread and be happy
working for those I love, and don’t call yourself old—forty is the
prime of life. I couldn’t help loving you if you were seventy!”

The Professor found that so touching that he would have been glad of his
handkerchief, if he could have got at it. As he couldn’t, Jo wiped his
eyes for him, and said, laughing, as she took away a bundle or two…

“I may be strong-minded, but no one can say I’m out of my sphere
now, for woman’s special mission is supposed to be drying tears and
bearing burdens. I’m to carry my share, Friedrich, and help to earn the
home. Make up your mind to that, or I’ll never go,” she added
resolutely, as he tried to reclaim his load.

“We shall see. Haf you patience to wait a long time, Jo? I must go away
and do my work alone. I must help my boys first, because, even for you, I may
not break my word to Minna. Can you forgif that, and be happy while we hope and
wait?”

“Yes, I know I can, for we love one another, and that makes all the rest
easy to bear. I have my duty, also, and my work. I couldn’t enjoy myself
if I neglected them even for you, so there’s no need of hurry or
impatience. You can do your part out West, I can do mine here, and both be
happy hoping for the best, and leaving the future to be as God wills.”

“Ah! Thou gifest me such hope and courage, and I haf nothing to gif back
but a full heart and these empty hands,” cried the Professor, quite
overcome.

Jo never, never would learn to be proper, for when he said that as they stood
upon the steps, she just put both hands into his, whispering tenderly,
“Not empty now,” and stooping down, kissed her Friedrich under the
umbrella. It was dreadful, but she would have done it if the flock of
draggle-tailed sparrows on the hedge had been human beings, for she was very
far gone indeed, and quite regardless of everything but her own happiness.
Though it came in such a very simple guise, that was the crowning moment of
both their lives, when, turning from the night and storm and loneliness to the
household light and warmth and peace waiting to receive them, with a glad
“Welcome home!” Jo led her lover in, and shut the door.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
HARVEST TIME

For a year Jo and her Professor worked and waited, hoped and loved, met
occasionally, and wrote such voluminous letters that the rise in the price of
paper was accounted for, Laurie said. The second year began rather soberly, for
their prospects did not brighten, and Aunt March died suddenly. But when their
first sorrow was over—for they loved the old lady in spite of her sharp
tongue—they found they had cause for rejoicing, for she had left
Plumfield to Jo, which made all sorts of joyful things possible.

“It’s a fine old place, and will bring a handsome sum, for of
course you intend to sell it,” said Laurie, as they were all talking the
matter over some weeks later.

“No, I don’t,” was Jo’s decided answer, as she petted
the fat poodle, whom she had adopted, out of respect to his former mistress.

“You don’t mean to live there?”

“Yes, I do.”

“But, my dear girl, it’s an immense house, and will take a power of
money to keep it in order. The garden and orchard alone need two or three men,
and farming isn’t in Bhaer’s line, I take it.”

“He’ll try his hand at it there, if I propose it.”

“And you expect to live on the produce of the place? Well, that sounds
paradisiacal, but you’ll find it desperate hard work.”

“The crop we are going to raise is a profitable one,” and Jo
laughed.

“Of what is this fine crop to consist, ma’am?”

“Boys. I want to open a school for little lads—a good, happy,
homelike school, with me to take care of them and Fritz to teach them.”

“That’s a truly Joian plan for you! Isn’t that just like
her?” cried Laurie, appealing to the family, who looked as much surprised
as he.

“I like it,” said Mrs. March decidedly.

“So do I,” added her husband, who welcomed the thought of a chance
for trying the Socratic method of education on modern youth.

“It will be an immense care for Jo,” said Meg, stroking the head of
her one all-absorbing son.

“Jo can do it, and be happy in it. It’s a splendid idea. Tell us
all about it,” cried Mr. Laurence, who had been longing to lend the
lovers a hand, but knew that they would refuse his help.

“I knew you’d stand by me, sir. Amy does too—I see it in her
eyes, though she prudently waits to turn it over in her mind before she speaks.
Now, my dear people,” continued Jo earnestly, “just understand that
this isn’t a new idea of mine, but a long cherished plan. Before my Fritz
came, I used to think how, when I’d made my fortune, and no one needed me
at home, I’d hire a big house, and pick up some poor, forlorn little lads
who hadn’t any mothers, and take care of them, and make life jolly for
them before it was too late. I see so many going to ruin for want of help at
the right minute, I love so to do anything for them, I seem to feel their
wants, and sympathize with their troubles, and oh, I should so like to be a
mother to them!”

Mrs. March held out her hand to Jo, who took it, smiling, with tears in her
eyes, and went on in the old enthusiastic way, which they had not seen for a
long while.

“I told my plan to Fritz once, and he said it was just what he would
like, and agreed to try it when we got rich. Bless his dear heart, he’s
been doing it all his life—helping poor boys, I mean, not getting rich,
that he’ll never be. Money doesn’t stay in his pocket long enough
to lay up any. But now, thanks to my good old aunt, who loved me better than I
ever deserved, I’m rich, at least I feel so, and we can live at Plumfield
perfectly well, if we have a flourishing school. It’s just the place for
boys, the house is big, and the furniture strong and plain. There’s
plenty of room for dozens inside, and splendid grounds outside. They could help
in the garden and orchard. Such work is healthy, isn’t it, sir? Then
Fritz could train and teach in his own way, and Father will help him. I can
feed and nurse and pet and scold them, and Mother will be my stand-by.
I’ve always longed for lots of boys, and never had enough, now I can fill
the house full and revel in the little dears to my heart’s content. Think
what luxury— Plumfield my own, and a wilderness of boys to enjoy it with
me.”

As Jo waved her hands and gave a sigh of rapture, the family went off into a
gale of merriment, and Mr. Laurence laughed till they thought he’d have
an apoplectic fit.

“I don’t see anything funny,” she said gravely, when she
could be heard. “Nothing could be more natural and proper than for my
Professor to open a school, and for me to prefer to reside in my own
estate.”

“She is putting on airs already,” said Laurie, who regarded the
idea in the light of a capital joke. “But may I inquire how you intend to
support the establishment? If all the pupils are little ragamuffins, I’m
afraid your crop won’t be profitable in a worldly sense, Mrs.
Bhaer.”

“Now don’t be a wet-blanket, Teddy. Of course I shall have rich
pupils, also—perhaps begin with such altogether. Then, when I’ve
got a start, I can take in a ragamuffin or two, just for a relish. Rich
people’s children often need care and comfort, as well as poor.
I’ve seen unfortunate little creatures left to servants, or backward ones
pushed forward, when it’s real cruelty. Some are naughty through
mismanagment or neglect, and some lose their mothers. Besides, the best have to
get through the hobbledehoy age, and that’s the very time they need most
patience and kindness. People laugh at them, and hustle them about, try to keep
them out of sight, and expect them to turn all at once from pretty children
into fine young men. They don’t complain much—plucky little
souls—but they feel it. I’ve been through something of it, and I
know all about it. I’ve a special interest in such young bears, and like
to show them that I see the warm, honest, well-meaning boys’ hearts, in
spite of the clumsy arms and legs and the topsy-turvy heads. I’ve had
experience, too, for haven’t I brought up one boy to be a pride and honor
to his family?”

“I’ll testify that you tried to do it,” said Laurie with a
grateful look.

“And I’ve succeeded beyond my hopes, for here you are, a steady,
sensible businessman, doing heaps of good with your money, and laying up the
blessings of the poor, instead of dollars. But you are not merely a
businessman, you love good and beautiful things, enjoy them yourself, and let
others go halves, as you always did in the old times. I am proud of you, Teddy,
for you get better every year, and everyone feels it, though you won’t
let them say so. Yes, and when I have my flock, I’ll just point to you,
and say ‘There’s your model, my lads’.”

Poor Laurie didn’t know where to look, for, man though he was, something
of the old bashfulness came over him as this burst of praise made all faces
turn approvingly upon him.

“I say, Jo, that’s rather too much,” he began, just in his
old boyish way. “You have all done more for me than I can ever thank you
for, except by doing my best not to disappoint you. You have rather cast me off
lately, Jo, but I’ve had the best of help, nevertheless. So, if
I’ve got on at all, you may thank these two for it,” and he laid
one hand gently on his grandfather’s head, and the other on Amy’s
golden one, for the three were never far apart.

“I do think that families are the most beautiful things in all the
world!” burst out Jo, who was in an unusually up-lifted frame of mind
just then. “When I have one of my own, I hope it will be as happy as the
three I know and love the best. If John and my Fritz were only here, it would
be quite a little heaven on earth,” she added more quietly. And that
night when she went to her room after a blissful evening of family counsels,
hopes, and plans, her heart was so full of happiness that she could only calm
it by kneeling beside the empty bed always near her own, and thinking tender
thoughts of Beth.

It was a very astonishing year altogether, for things seemed to happen in an
unusually rapid and delightful manner. Almost before she knew where she was, Jo
found herself married and settled at Plumfield. Then a family of six or seven
boys sprung up like mushrooms, and flourished surprisingly, poor boys as well
as rich, for Mr. Laurence was continually finding some touching case of
destitution, and begging the Bhaers to take pity on the child, and he would
gladly pay a trifle for its support. In this way, the sly old gentleman got
round proud Jo, and furnished her with the style of boy in which she most
delighted.

Of course it was uphill work at first, and Jo made queer mistakes, but the wise
Professor steered her safely into calmer waters, and the most rampant
ragamuffin was conquered in the end. How Jo did enjoy her ‘wilderness of
boys’, and how poor, dear Aunt March would have lamented had she been
there to see the sacred precincts of prim, well-ordered Plumfield overrun with
Toms, Dicks, and Harrys! There was a sort of poetic justice about it, after
all, for the old lady had been the terror of the boys for miles around, and now
the exiles feasted freely on forbidden plums, kicked up the gravel with profane
boots unreproved, and played cricket in the big field where the irritable
‘cow with a crumpled horn’ used to invite rash youths to come and
be tossed. It became a sort of boys’ paradise, and Laurie suggested that
it should be called the ‘Bhaer-garten’, as a compliment to its
master and appropriate to its inhabitants.

It never was a fashionable school, and the Professor did not lay up a fortune,
but it was just what Jo intended it to be—‘a happy, homelike place
for boys, who needed teaching, care, and kindness’. Every room in the big
house was soon full. Every little plot in the garden soon had its owner. A
regular menagerie appeared in barn and shed, for pet animals were allowed. And
three times a day, Jo smiled at her Fritz from the head of a long table lined
on either side with rows of happy young faces, which all turned to her with
affectionate eyes, confiding words, and grateful hearts, full of love for
‘Mother Bhaer’. She had boys enough now, and did not tire of them,
though they were not angels, by any means, and some of them caused both
Professor and Professorin much trouble and anxiety. But her faith in the good
spot which exists in the heart of the naughtiest, sauciest, most tantalizing
little ragamuffin gave her patience, skill, and in time success, for no mortal
boy could hold out long with Father Bhaer shining on him as benevolently as the
sun, and Mother Bhaer forgiving him seventy times seven. Very precious to Jo
was the friendship of the lads, their penitent sniffs and whispers after
wrongdoing, their droll or touching little confidences, their pleasant
enthusiasms, hopes, and plans, even their misfortunes, for they only endeared
them to her all the more. There were slow boys and bashful boys, feeble boys
and riotous boys, boys that lisped and boys that stuttered, one or two lame
ones, and a merry little quadroon, who could not be taken in elsewhere, but who
was welcome to the ‘Bhaer-garten’, though some people predicted
that his admission would ruin the school.

Yes, Jo was a very happy woman there, in spite of hard work, much anxiety, and
a perpetual racket. She enjoyed it heartily and found the applause of her boys
more satisfying than any praise of the world, for now she told no stories
except to her flock of enthusiastic believers and admirers. As the years went
on, two little lads of her own came to increase her happiness—Rob, named
for Grandpa, and Teddy, a happy-go-lucky baby, who seemed to have inherited his
papa’s sunshiny temper as well as his mother’s lively spirit. How
they ever grew up alive in that whirlpool of boys was a mystery to their
grandma and aunts, but they flourished like dandelions in spring, and their
rough nurses loved and served them well.

There were a great many holidays at Plumfield, and one of the most delightful
was the yearly apple-picking. For then the Marches, Laurences, Brookes and
Bhaers turned out in full force and made a day of it. Five years after
Jo’s wedding, one of these fruitful festivals occurred, a mellow October
day, when the air was full of an exhilarating freshness which made the spirits
rise and the blood dance healthily in the veins. The old orchard wore its
holiday attire. Goldenrod and asters fringed the mossy walls. Grasshoppers
skipped briskly in the sere grass, and crickets chirped like fairy pipers at a
feast. Squirrels were busy with their small harvesting. Birds twittered their
adieux from the alders in the lane, and every tree stood ready to send down its
shower of red or yellow apples at the first shake. Everybody was there.
Everybody laughed and sang, climbed up and tumbled down. Everybody declared
that there never had been such a perfect day or such a jolly set to enjoy it,
and everyone gave themselves up to the simple pleasures of the hour as freely
as if there were no such things as care or sorrow in the world.

Mr. March strolled placidly about, quoting Tusser, Cowley, and Columella to Mr.
Laurence, while enjoying…

The gentle apple’s winey juice.

The Professor charged up and down the green aisles like a stout Teutonic
knight, with a pole for a lance, leading on the boys, who made a hook and
ladder company of themselves, and performed wonders in the way of ground and
lofty tumbling. Laurie devoted himself to the little ones, rode his small
daughter in a bushel-basket, took Daisy up among the bird’s nests, and
kept adventurous Rob from breaking his neck. Mrs. March and Meg sat among the
apple piles like a pair of Pomonas, sorting the contributions that kept pouring
in, while Amy with a beautiful motherly expression in her face sketched the
various groups, and watched over one pale lad, who sat adoring her with his
little crutch beside him.

Jo was in her element that day, and rushed about, with her gown pinned up, and
her hat anywhere but on her head, and her baby tucked under her arm, ready for
any lively adventure which might turn up. Little Teddy bore a charmed life, for
nothing ever happened to him, and Jo never felt any anxiety when he was whisked
up into a tree by one lad, galloped off on the back of another, or supplied
with sour russets by his indulgent papa, who labored under the Germanic
delusion that babies could digest anything, from pickled cabbage to buttons,
nails, and their own small shoes. She knew that little Ted would turn up again
in time, safe and rosy, dirty and serene, and she always received him back with
a hearty welcome, for Jo loved her babies tenderly.

At four o’clock a lull took place, and baskets remained empty, while the
apple pickers rested and compared rents and bruises. Then Jo and Meg, with a
detachment of the bigger boys, set forth the supper on the grass, for an
out-of-door tea was always the crowning joy of the day. The land literally
flowed with milk and honey on such occasions, for the lads were not required to
sit at table, but allowed to partake of refreshment as they liked—freedom
being the sauce best beloved by the boyish soul. They availed themselves of the
rare privilege to the fullest extent, for some tried the pleasing experiment of
drinking milk while standing on their heads, others lent a charm to leapfrog by
eating pie in the pauses of the game, cookies were sown broadcast over the
field, and apple turnovers roosted in the trees like a new style of bird. The
little girls had a private tea party, and Ted roved among the edibles at his
own sweet will.

When no one could eat any more, the Professor proposed the first regular toast,
which was always drunk at such times—“Aunt March, God bless
her!” A toast heartily given by the good man, who never forgot how much
he owed her, and quietly drunk by the boys, who had been taught to keep her
memory green.

“Now, Grandma’s sixtieth birthday! Long life to her, with three
times three!”

That was given with a will, as you may well believe, and the cheering once
begun, it was hard to stop it. Everybody’s health was proposed, from Mr.
Laurence, who was considered their special patron, to the astonished guinea
pig, who had strayed from its proper sphere in search of its young master.
Demi, as the oldest grandchild, then presented the queen of the day with
various gifts, so numerous that they were transported to the festive scene in a
wheelbarrow. Funny presents, some of them, but what would have been defects to
other eyes were ornaments to Grandma’s—for the children’s
gifts were all their own. Every stitch Daisy’s patient little fingers had
put into the handkerchiefs she hemmed was better than embroidery to Mrs. March.
Demi’s miracle of mechanical skill, though the cover wouldn’t shut,
Rob’s footstool had a wiggle in its uneven legs that she declared was
soothing, and no page of the costly book Amy’s child gave her was so fair
as that on which appeared in tipsy capitals, the words—“To dear
Grandma, from her little Beth.”

During the 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 sang with all their hearts the little song that Jo
had written, Laurie set to music, and the Professor trained his lads to give
with the best effect. This was something altogether new, and it proved a grand
success, for Mrs. March couldn’t get over her surprise, and insisted on
shaking hands with every one of the featherless birds, from tall Franz and Emil
to the little quadroon, who had the sweetest voice of all.

After this, the boys dispersed for a final lark, leaving Mrs. March and her
daughters under the festival tree.

“I don’t think I ever ought to call myself ‘unlucky Jo’
again, when my greatest wish has been so beautifully gratified,” said
Mrs. Bhaer, taking Teddy’s little fist out of the milk pitcher, in which
he was rapturously churning.

“And yet your life is very different from the one you pictured so long
ago. Do you remember our castles in the air?” asked Amy, smiling as she
watched Laurie and John playing cricket with the boys.

“Dear fellows! It does my heart good to see them forget business and
frolic for a day,” answered Jo, who now spoke in a maternal way of all
mankind. “Yes, I remember, but the life I wanted then seems selfish,
lonely, and cold to me now. I haven’t given up the hope that I may write
a good book yet, but I can wait, and I’m sure it will be all the better
for such experiences and illustrations as these,” and Jo pointed from the
lively lads in the distance to her father, leaning on the Professor’s
arm, as they walked to and fro in the sunshine, deep in one of the
conversations which both enjoyed so much, and then to her mother, sitting
enthroned among her daughters, with their children in her lap and at her feet,
as if all found help and happiness in the face which never could grow old to
them.

“My castle was the most nearly realized of all. I asked for splendid
things, to be sure, but in my heart I knew I should be satisfied, if I had a
little home, and John, and some dear children like these. I’ve got them
all, thank God, and am the happiest woman in the world,” and Meg laid her
hand on her tall boy’s head, with a face full of tender and devout
content.

“My castle is very different from what I planned, but I would not alter
it, though, like Jo, I don’t relinquish all my artistic hopes, or confine
myself to helping others fulfill their dreams of beauty. I’ve begun to
model a figure of baby, and Laurie says it is the best thing I’ve ever
done. I think so, myself, and mean to do it in marble, so that, whatever
happens, I may at least keep the image of my little angel.”

As Amy spoke, a great tear dropped on the golden hair of the sleeping child in
her arms, for her one well-beloved daughter was a frail little creature and the
dread of losing her was the shadow over Amy’s sunshine. This cross was
doing much for both father and mother, for one love and sorrow bound them
closely together. Amy’s nature was growing sweeter, deeper, and more
tender. Laurie was growing more serious, strong, and firm, and both were
learning that beauty, youth, good fortune, even love itself, cannot keep care
and pain, loss and sorrow, from the most blessed for …

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

“She is growing better, I am sure of it, my dear. Don’t despond,
but hope and keep happy,” said Mrs. March, as tenderhearted Daisy stooped
from her knee to lay her rosy cheek against her little cousin’s pale one.

“I never ought to, while I have you to cheer me up, Marmee, and Laurie to
take more than half of every burden,” replied Amy warmly. “He never
lets me see his anxiety, but is so sweet and patient with me, so devoted to
Beth, and such a stay and comfort to me always that I can’t love him
enough. So, in spite of my one cross, I can say with Meg, ‘Thank God,
I’m a happy woman.’”

“There’s no need for me to say it, for everyone can see that
I’m far happier than I deserve,” added Jo, glancing from her good
husband to her chubby children, tumbling on the grass beside her. “Fritz
is getting gray and stout. I’m growing as thin as a shadow, and am
thirty. We never shall be rich, and Plumfield may burn up any night, for that
incorrigible Tommy Bangs will smoke sweet-fern cigars under the bed-clothes,
though he’s set himself afire three times already. But in spite of these
unromantic facts, I have nothing to complain of, and never was so jolly in my
life. Excuse the remark, but living among boys, I can’t help using their
expressions now and then.”

“Yes, Jo, I think your harvest will be a good one,” began Mrs.
March, frightening away a big black cricket that was staring Teddy out of
countenance.

“Not half so good as yours, Mother. Here it is, and we never can thank
you enough for the patient sowing and reaping you have done,” cried Jo,
with the loving impetuosity which she never would outgrow.

“I hope there will be more wheat and fewer tares every year,” said
Amy softly.

“A large sheaf, but I know there’s room in your heart for it,
Marmee dear,” added Meg’s tender voice.

Touched to the heart, Mrs. March could only stretch out her arms, as if to
gather children and grandchildren to herself, and say, with face and voice full
of motherly love, gratitude, and humility…

“Oh, my girls, however long you may live, I never can wish you a greater
happiness than this!”

Little Women

by Louisa May Alcott

Contents

PART 1

CHAPTER ONE PLAYING PILGRIMS

CHAPTER TWO A MERRY CHRISTMAS

CHAPTER THREE THE LAURENCE BOY

CHAPTER FOUR BURDENS

CHAPTER FIVE BEING NEIGHBORLY

CHAPTER SIX BETH FINDS THE PALACE BEAUTIFUL

CHAPTER SEVEN AMY’S VALLEY OF HUMILIATION

CHAPTER EIGHT JO MEETS APOLLYON

CHAPTER NINE MEG GOES TO VANITY FAIR

CHAPTER TEN THE P.C. AND P.O.

CHAPTER ELEVEN EXPERIMENTS

CHAPTER TWELVE CAMP LAURENCE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN CASTLES IN THE AIR

CHAPTER FOURTEEN SECRETS

CHAPTER FIFTEEN A TELEGRAM

CHAPTER SIXTEEN LETTERS

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN LITTLE FAITHFUL

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN DARK DAYS

CHAPTER NINETEEN AMY’S WILL

CHAPTER TWENTY CONFIDENTIAL

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE LAURIE MAKES MISCHIEF, AND JO MAKES PEACE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO PLEASANT MEADOWS

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE AUNT MARCH SETTLES THE QUESTION

PART 2

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR GOSSIP

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE THE FIRST WEDDING

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX ARTISTIC ATTEMPTS

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN LITERARY LESSONS

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT DOMESTIC EXPERIENCES

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE CALLS

CHAPTER THIRTY CONSEQUENCES

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE OUR FOREIGN CORRESPONDENT

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO TENDER TROUBLES

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE JO’S JOURNAL

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR FRIEND

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE HEARTACHE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX BETH’S SECRET

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN NEW IMPRESSIONS

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT ON THE SHELF

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE LAZY LAURENCE

CHAPTER FORTY THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE LEARNING TO FORGET

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO ALL ALONE

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE SURPRISES

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR MY LORD AND LADY

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE DAISY AND DEMI

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX UNDER THE UMBRELLA

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN HARVEST TIME

CHAPTER ONE
PLAYING PILGRIMS