Little Women
by Louisa May Alcott
Hypertext Meanings and Commentaries
from the Encyclopedia of the Self
by Mark Zimmerman
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"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
quarterinch-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 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 around. 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 chass'ed
solemnly up to the old lady, she just tucked her cane under 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
dovecolored suit and straw bonnet tied with white, they all gathered
about her to say goodby, 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. Goodby, goodby!"

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

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 `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
charabanc.)

"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 to 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 salt,
and the chocolate wouldn't froth properly. Then the cake and ice cost
more than Amy expected, so did the wagon, and various other expenses,
which seemed trifling at the outset, counted up rather alarmingly
afterward. Beth got 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.

It it was not fair on Monday, the young ladies were to come on
Tuesday, and 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

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, 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
devine 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 sale, 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 critism
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

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 a with 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 spend 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 conductive
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 sown, 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 or 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 are, 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

"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 tryingon,
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 yup 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 yup 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 unconcious
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 Lamb's'. 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, make 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, a nd 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 no, 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

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 interest
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 would
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 sephia
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 won 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 ever
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 loverly 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
it's 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 forgiver 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
tiding 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

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 on of my new acquaintances left us, Mr.
Lennox, and when I said something about the Lakes of Killarney,
he sighed and and, 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 `a la mutton chop, the first thing.
Then he flattered himself that he looked like a true Briton,
but the first time he had the mud cleaned off his shoes, the
little bootblack knew that an American stood in them, and said,
with a grin, "There yer har, sir. I've 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 say 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 know 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 cultivation 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 kissed 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 Coblenz 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 Goeth'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 tome. 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 Meckar 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 is 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

"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 hop, 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
or 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 ot Jo in the sofa corner. If
`the sausage' as the 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 id 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 `went', Teddy, go and devote
yourself to one of the `pretty, modest girls' whom you do
respect, and not waste your time with the silly ones."

"You really advise it?" And Laurie looked at her with
an odd mixture of anxiety and merriment in his face.

"Yes, I do, but you'd better wait till you are through
college, on the whole, and be fitting yourself for the place
meantime. You're not half good enough for--well, whoever
the modest girl may be."  And Jo looked a little queer likewise,
for a name had almost escaped her.

"That I'm not!" acquiesced Laurie, with an expression of
humility quite new to him, as he dropped his eyes and absently
wound Jo's apron tassel round his finger.

"Mercy on us, this will never do," thought Jo, adding
aloud, "Go and sing to me. I'm dying for some music, and
always like yours."

"I'd rather stay here, thank you."

"Well, you can't, there isn't room. Go and make yourself
useful, since you are too big to be ornamental. I thought you
hated to be tied to a woman's apron string?" retorted Jo,
quoting certain rebellious words of his own.

"Ah, that depends on who wears the apron!" and Laurie
gave an audacious tweak at the tassel.

"Are you going?" demanded Jo, diving for the pillow.

He fled at once, and the minute it was well, "Up with the
bonnets of bonnie Dundee," she slipped away to return no more
till the young gentleman 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

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
Kirk 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 and `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.

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 tome 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 the 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 bay. "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 lear, 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 Andersons'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

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,
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
patent 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 know 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 sugges-
tive 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 grimest 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 villian, 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, land 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 reproach-
ing 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

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 loverlike.

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 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 her 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 window's 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, whit 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

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 fora 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 exited 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 form 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, land 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, land 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 live, 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 write 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

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 criticzing
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 out 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 got 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
tole 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's 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 ils 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 out 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 chassed 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 largenosed
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
devinely, 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 devinely 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 Jones gamboled like a flock of young giraffes. The
golden secretary darted through the room like a meteor with
a dashing frenchwoman who carped 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-NENE',"
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, now
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

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 got 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 were always 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 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-by like Daisy. Will you, lovey?"

"Iss!" and Demi shut his eyes tight, as if to catch sleep
and hurry the desired day.

Taking advantage of the propitious moment, Meg slipped
away and ran down to greet her husband with a smiling face
and the little blue bow in her hair which was his especial
admiration. He saw it at once and said with pleased surprise,
"Why, little mother, how gay we are tonight. Do you expect
company?"

"Only you, dear."

"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 togo 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 the 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, stedfast
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 lonliness, for there
were no riotous, sunny-faced babies there, and Ned lived in
a world of lis own, where there was no place for her.