Weekly Meredy.com E-book - Little Women - Part Two

Part One of Little Women

Part Two of Little Women

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

AUNT MARCH SETTLES THE QUESTION

Like bees swarming after their queen, mother and daughters hovered about Mr. March the next day, neglecting everything to look at, wait upon, and
listen  to  the  new  invalid, who was in a fair way to be killed by kindness. As he sat propped up in a big chair by Beth's sofa, with the other
three  close  by,  and  Hannah popping in her head now and then 'to peek at the dear man', nothing seemed needed to complete their happiness. But
something  was  needed,  and  the  elder  ones  felt it, though none confessed the fact. Mr. and Mrs. March looked at one another with an anxious
expression,  as  their eyes followed Meg. Jo had sudden fits of sobriety, and was seen to shake her fist at Mr. Brooke's umbrella, which had been
left  in  the  hall.  Meg  was  absent-minded, shy, and silent, started when the bell rang, and colored when John's name was mentioned. Amy said,
"Everyone  seemed  waiting for something, and couldn't settle down, which was queer, since Father was safe at home," and Beth innocently wondered
why their neighbors didn't run over as usual.

Laurie went by in the afternoon, and seeing Meg at the window, seemed suddenly possessed with a melodramatic fit, for he fell down on one knee in
the snow, beat his breast, tore his hair, and clasped his hands imploringly, as if begging some boon. And when Meg told him to behave himself and
go away, he wrung imaginary tears out of his handkerchief, and staggered round the corner as if in utter despair.

"What does the goose mean?" said Meg, laughing and trying to look unconscious.

"He's showing you how your John will go on by-and-by. Touching, isn't it?" answered Jo scornfully.

"Don't  say  my  John, it isn't proper or true," but Meg's voice lingered over the words as if they sounded pleasant to her. "Please don't plague
me, Jo, I've told you I don't care much about him, and there isn't to be anything said, but we are all to be friendly, and go on as before."

"We  can't,  for  something  has been said, and Laurie's mischief has spoiled you for me. I see it, and so does Mother. You are not like your old
self  a  bit, and seem ever so far away from me. I don't mean to plague you and will bear it like a man, but I do wish it was all settled. I hate
to wait, so if you mean ever to do it, make haste and have it over quickly," said Jo pettishly.

"I  can't  say  anything till he speaks, and he won't, because Father said I was too young," began Meg, bending over her work with a queer little
smile, which suggested that she did not quite agree with her father on that point.

"If he did speak, you wouldn't know what to say, but would cry or blush, or let him have his own way, instead of giving a good, decided no."

"I'm  not  so  silly  and  weak  as you think. I know just what I should say, for I've planned it all, so I needn't be taken unawares. There's no
knowing what may happen, and I wished to be prepared."

Jo  couldn't  help  smiling at the important air which Meg had unconsciously assumed and which was as becoming as the pretty color varying in her
cheeks.

"Would you mind telling me what you'd say?" asked Jo more respectfully.

"Not  at  all.  You are sixteen now, quite old enough to be my confident, and my experience will be useful to you by-and-by, perhaps, in your own
affairs of this sort."

"Don't  mean  to  have any. It's fun to watch other people philander, but I should feel like a fool doing it myself," said Jo, looking alarmed at
the thought.

"I  think not, if you liked anyone very much, and he liked you." Meg spoke as if to herself, and glanced out at the lane where she had often seen
lovers walking together in the summer twilight.

"I thought you were going to tell your speech to that man," said Jo, rudely shortening her sister's little reverie.

"Oh,  I  should merely say, quite calmly and decidedly, 'Thank you, Mr. Brooke, you are very kind, but I agree with Father that I am too young to
enter into any engagement at present, so please say no more, but let us be friends as we were.'"

"Hum,  that's  stiff  and  cool  enough!  I  don't believe you'll ever say it, and I know he won't be satisfied if you do. If he goes on like the
rejected lovers in books, you'll give in, rather than hurt his feelings."

"No, I won't. I shall tell him I've made up my mind, and shall walk out of the room with dignity."

Meg  rose as she spoke, and was just going to rehearse the dignified exit, when a step in the hall made her fly into her seat and begin to sew as
fast  as if her life depended on finishing that particular seam in a given time. Jo smothered a laugh at the sudden change, and when someone gave
a modest tap, opened the door with a grim aspect which was anything but hospitable.

"Good  afternoon.  I came to get my umbrella, that is, to see how your father finds himself today," said Mr. Brooke, getting a trifle confused as
his eyes went from one telltale face to the other.

"It's  very  well, he's in the rack. I'll get him, and tell it you are here." And having jumbled her father and the umbrella well together in her
reply,  Jo  slipped out of the room to give Meg a chance to make her speech and air her dignity. But the instant she vanished, Meg began to sidle
toward the door, murmuring . . .

"Mother will like to see you. Pray sit down, I'll call her."

"Don't go. Are you afraid of me, Margaret?" and Mr. Brooke looked so hurt that Meg thought she must have done something very rude. She blushed up
to  the  little curls on her forehead, for he had never called her Margaret before, and she was surprised to find how natural and sweet it seemed
to hear him say it. Anxious to appear friendly and at her ease, she put out her hand with a confiding gesture, and said gratefully . . .

"How can I be afraid when you have been so kind to Father? I only wish I could thank you for it."

"Shall  I  tell  you  how?" asked Mr. Brooke, holding the small hand fast in both his own, and looking down at Meg with so much love in the brown
eyes that her heart began to flutter, and she both longed to run away and to stop and listen.

"Oh no, please don't, I'd rather not," she said, trying to withdraw her hand, and looking frightened in spite of her denial.

"I won't trouble you. I only want to know if you care for me a little, Meg. I love you so much, dear," added Mr. Brooke tenderly.

This  was  the  moment  for  the  calm, proper speech, but Meg didn't make it. She forgot every word of it, hung her head, and answered, "I don't
know," so softly that John had to stoop down to catch the foolish little reply.

He  seemed  to think it was worth the trouble, for he smiled to himself as if quite satisfied, pressed the plump hand gratefully, and said in his
most  persuasive  tone,  "Will  you try and find out? I want to know so much, for I can't go to work with any heart until I learn whether I am to
have my reward in the end or not."

"I'm too young," faltered Meg, wondering why she was so fluttered, yet rather enjoying it.

"I'll wait, and in the meantime, you could be learning to like me. Would it be a very hard lesson, dear?"

"Not if I chose to learn it, but. . ."

"Please  choose to learn, Meg. I love to teach, and this is easier than German," broke in John, getting possession of the other hand, so that she
had no way of hiding her face as he bent to look into it.

His  tone  was  properly  beseeching,  but  stealing  a shy look at him, Meg saw that his eyes were merry as well as tender, and that he wore the
satisfied  smile of one who had no doubt of his success. This nettled her. Annie Moffat's foolish lessons in coquetry came into her mind, and the
love  of  power, which sleeps in the bosoms of the best of little women, woke up all of a sudden and took possession of her. She felt excited and
strange,  and not knowing what else to do, followed a capricious impulse, and, withdrawing her hands, said petulantly, "I don't choose. Please go
away and let me be!"

Poor  Mr.  Brooke  looked as if his lovely castle in the air was tumbling about his ears, for he had never seen Meg in such a mood before, and it
rather bewildered him.

"Do you really mean that?" he asked anxiously, following her as she walked away.

"Yes, I do. I don't want to be worried about such things. Father says I needn't, it's too soon and I'd rather not."

"Mayn't  I hope you'll change your mind by-and-by? I'll wait and say nothing till you have had more time. Don't play with me, Meg. I didn't think
that of you."

"Don't think of me at all. I'd rather you wouldn't," said Meg, taking a naughty satisfaction in trying her lover's patience and her own power.

He  was  grave  and  pale  now, and looked decidedly more like the novel heroes whom she admired, but he neither slapped his forehead nor tramped
about  the room as they did. He just stood looking at her so wistfully, so tenderly, that she found her heart relenting in spite of herself. What
would have happened next I cannot say, if Aunt March had not come hobbling in at this interesting minute.

The  old  lady  couldn't resist her longing to see her nephew, for she had met Laurie as she took her airing, and hearing of Mr. March's arrival,
drove  straight  out  to see him. The family were all busy in the back part of the house, and she had made her way quietly in, hoping to surprise
them. She did surprise two of them so much that Meg started as if she had seen a ghost, and Mr. Brooke vanished into the study.

"Bless me, what's all this?" cried the old lady with a rap of her cane as she glanced from the pale young gentleman to the scarlet young lady.

"It's Father's friend. I'm so surprised to see you!" stammered Meg, feeling that she was in for a lecture now.

"That's  evident,"  returned  Aunt March, sitting down. "But what is Father's friend saying to make you look like a peony? There's mischief going
on, and I insist upon knowing what it is," with another rap.

"We were only talking. Mr. Brooke came for his umbrella," began Meg, wishing that Mr. Brooke and the umbrella were safely out of the house.

"Brooke?  That  boy's  tutor? Ah! I understand now. I know all about it. Jo blundered into a wrong message in one of your Father's letters, and I
made her tell me. You haven't gone and accepted him, child?" cried Aunt March, looking scandalized.

"Hush! He'll hear. Shan't I call Mother?" said Meg, much troubled.

"Not  yet. I've something to say to you, and I must free my mind at once. Tell me, do you mean to marry this Cook? If you do, not one penny of my
money ever goes to you. Remember that, and be a sensible girl," said the old lady impressively.

Now  Aunt  March possessed in perfection the art of rousing the spirit of opposition in the gentlest people, and enjoyed doing it. The best of us
have  a  spice  of  perversity  in  us,  especially  when we are young and in love. If Aunt March had begged Meg to accept John Brooke, she would
probably  have  declared she couldn't think of it, but as she was preemptorily ordered not to like him, she immediately made up her mind that she
would. Inclination as well as perversity made the decision easy, and being already much excited, Meg opposed the old lady with unusual spirit.

"I shall marry whom I please, Aunt March, and you can leave your money to anyone you like," she said, nodding her head with a resolute air.

"Highty-tighty!  Is  that  the way you take my advice, Miss? You'll be sorry for it by-and-by, when you've tried love in a cottage and found it a
failure."

"It can't be a worse one than some people find in big houses," retorted Meg.

Aunt  March put on her glasses and took a look at the girl, for she did not know her in this new mood. Meg hardly knew herself, she felt so brave
and  independent,  so  glad  to  defend John and assert her right to love him, if she liked. Aunt March saw that she had begun wrong, and after a
little  pause,  made  a  fresh  start, saying as mildly as she could, "Now, Meg, my dear, be reasonable and take my advice. I mean it kindly, and
don't  want  you  to  spoil your whole life by making a mistake at the beginning. You ought to marry well and help your family. It's your duty to
make a rich match and it ought to be impressed upon you."

"Father and Mother don't think so. They like John though he is poor."

"Your parents, my dear, have no more worldly wisdom than a pair of babies."

"I'm glad of it," cried Meg stoutly.

Aunt March took no notice, but went on with her lecture. "This Rook is poor and hasn't got any rich relations, has he?"

"No, but he has many warm friends."

"You can't live on friends, try it and see how cool they'll grow. He hasn't any business, has he?"

"Not yet. Mr. Laurence is going to help him."

"That  won't last long. James Laurence is a crotchety old fellow and not to be depended on. So you intend to marry a man without money, position,
or  business, and go on working harder than you do now, when you might be comfortable all your days by minding me and doing better? I thought you
had more sense, Meg."

"I couldn't do better if I waited half my life! John is good and wise, he's got heaps of talent, he's willing to work and sure to get on, he's so
energetic  and brave. Everyone likes and respects him, and I'm proud to think he cares for me, though I'm so poor and young and silly," said Meg,
looking prettier than ever in her earnestness.

"He knows you have got rich relations, child. That's the secret of his liking, I suspect."

"Aunt  March,  how  dare  you  say  such  a  thing?  John  is  above such meanness, and I won't listen to you a minute if you talk so," cried Meg
indignantly,  forgetting  everything but the injustice of the old lady's suspicions. "My John wouldn't marry for money, any more than I would. We
are  willing  to  work  and  we mean to wait. I'm not afraid of being poor, for I've been happy so far, and I know I shall be with him because he
loves me, and I . . ."

Meg  stopped  there,  remembering all of a sudden that she hadn't made up her mind, that she had told 'her John' to go away, and that he might be
overhearing her inconsistent remarks.

Aunt  March  was very angry, for she had set her heart on having her pretty niece make a fine match, and something in the girl's happy young face
made the lonely old woman feel both sad and sour.

"Well, I wash my hands of the whole affair! You are a willful child, and you've lost more than you know by this piece of folly. No, I won't stop.
I'm  disappointed  in  you,  and  haven't  spirits  to see your father now. Don't expect anything from me when you are married. Your Mr. Brooke's
friends must take care of you. I'm done with you forever."

And  slamming  the  door  in  Meg's face, Aunt March drove off in high dudgeon. She seemed to take all the girl's courage with her, for when left
alone,  Meg  stood for a moment, undecided whether to laugh or cry. Before she could make up her mind, she was taken possession of by Mr. Brooke,
who  said  all  in  one  breath,  "I couldn't help hearing, Meg. Thank you for defending me, and Aunt March for proving that you do care for me a
little bit."

"I didn't know how much till she abused you," began Meg.

"And I needn't go away, but may stay and be happy, may I, dear?"

Here  was  another  fine  chance  to  make the crushing speech and the stately exit, but Meg never thought of doing either, and disgraced herself
forever in Jo's eyes by meekly whispering, "Yes, John," and hiding her face on Mr. Brooke's waistcoat.

Fifteen  minutes  after  Aunt  March's  departure,  Jo came softly downstairs, paused an instant at the parlor door, and hearing no sound within,
nodded  and  smiled with a satisfied expression, saying to herself, "She has seen him away as we planned, and that affair is settled. I'll go and
hear the fun, and have a good laugh over it."

But  poor Jo never got her laugh, for she was transfixed upon the threshold by a spectacle which held her there, staring with her mouth nearly as
wide  open  as her eyes. Going in to exult over a fallen enemy and to praise a strong-minded sister for the banishment of an objectionable lover,
it  certainly  was  a  shock to behold the aforesaid enemy serenely sitting on the sofa, with the strongminded sister enthroned upon his knee and
wearing  an  expression of the most abject submission. Jo gave a sort of gasp, as if a cold shower bath had suddenly fallen upon her, for such an
unexpected turning of the tables actually took her breath away. At the odd sound the lovers turned and saw her. Meg jumped up, looking both proud
and shy, but 'that man', as Jo called him, actually laughed and said coolly, as he kissed the astonished newcomer, "Sister Jo, congratulate us!"

That  was  adding  insult  to  injury, it was altogether too much, and making some wild demonstration with her hands, Jo vanished without a word.
Rushing  upstairs,  she startled the invalids by exclaiming tragically as she burst into the room, "Oh, do somebody go down quick! John Brooke is
acting dreadfully, and Meg likes it!"

Mr.  and  Mrs. March left the room with speed, and casting herself upon the bed, Jo cried and scolded tempestuously as she told the awful news to
Beth  and  Amy. The little girls, however, considered it a most agreeable and interesting event, and Jo got little comfort from them, so she went
up to her refuge in the garret, and confided her troubles to the rats.

Nobody  ever knew what went on in the parlor that afternoon, but a great deal of talking was done, and quiet Mr. Brooke astonished his friends by
the eloquence and spirit with which he pleaded his suit, told his plans, and persuaded them to arrange everything just as he wanted it.

The  tea  bell  rang  before  he  had finished describing the paradise which he meant to earn for Meg, and he proudly took her in to supper, both
looking  so happy that Jo hadn't the heart to be jealous or dismal. Amy was very much impressed by John's devotion and Meg's dignity, Beth beamed
at  them  from  a  distance,  while Mr. and Mrs. March surveyed the young couple with such tender satisfaction that it was perfectly evident Aunt
March  was  right in calling them as 'unworldly as a pair of babies'. No one ate much, but everyone looked very happy, and the old room seemed to
brighten up amazingly when the first romance of the family began there.

"You  can't  say  nothing pleasant ever happens now, can you, Meg?" said Amy, trying to decide how she would group the lovers in a sketch she was
planning to make.

"No,  I'm sure I can't. How much has happened since I said that! It seems a year ago," answered Meg, who was in a blissful dream lifted far above
such common things as bread and butter.

"The  joys come close upon the sorrows this time, and I rather think the changes have begun," said Mrs. March. "In most families there comes, now
and then, a year full of events. This has been such a one, but it ends well, after all."

"Hope  the  next  will  end  better,"  muttered  Jo, who found it very hard to see Meg absorbed in a stranger before her face, for Jo loved a few
persons very dearly and dreaded to have their affection lost or lessened in any way.

"I  hope  the  third  year  from  this  will end better. I mean it shall, if I live to work out my plans," said Mr. Brooke, smiling at Meg, as if
everything had become possible to him now.

"Doesn't it seem very long to wait?" asked Amy, who was in a hurry for the wedding.

"I've got so much to learn before I shall be ready, it seems a short time to me," answered Meg, with a sweet gravity in her face never seen there
before.

"You  have  only  to wait, I am to do the work," said John beginning his labors by picking up Meg's napkin, with an expression which caused Jo to
shake  her  head,  and  then  say  to herself with an air of relief as the front door banged, "Here comes Laurie. Now we shall have some sensible
conversation."

But  Jo  was mistaken, for Laurie came prancing in, overflowing with good spirits, bearing a great bridal-looking bouquet for 'Mrs. John Brooke',
and evidently laboring under the delusion that the whole affair had been brought about by his excellent management.

"I  knew  Brooke  would  have  it all his own way, he always does, for when he makes up his mind to accomplish anything, it's done though the sky
falls," said Laurie, when he had presented his offering and his congratulations.

"Much  obliged  for  that recommendation. I take it as a good omen for the future and invite you to my wedding on the spot," answered Mr. Brooke,
who felt at peace with all mankind, even his mischievous pupil.

"I'll  come  if  I'm  at  the  ends of the earth, for the sight of Jo's face alone on that occasion would be worth a long journey. You don't look
festive, ma'am, what's the matter?" asked Laurie, following her into a corner of the parlor, whither all had adjourned to greet Mr. Laurence.

"I  don't  approve of the match, but I've made up my mind to bear it, and shall not say a word against it," said Jo solemnly. "You can't know how
hard it is for me to give up Meg," she continued with a little quiver in her voice.

"You don't give her up. You only go halves," said Laurie consolingly.

"It can never be the same again. I've lost my dearest friend," sighed Jo.

"You've got me, anyhow. I'm not good for much, I know, but I'll stand by you, Jo, all the days of my life. Upon my word I will!" and Laurie meant
what he said.

"I know you will, and I'm ever so much obliged. You are always a great comfort to me, Teddy," returned Jo, gratefully shaking hands.

"Well,  now,  don't  be  dismal,  there's a good fellow. It's all right you see. Meg is happy, Brooke will fly round and get settled immediately,
Grandpa will attend to him, and it will be very jolly to see Meg in her own little house. We'll have capital times after she is gone, for I shall
be through college before long, and then we'll go abroad on some nice trip or other. Wouldn't that console you?"

"I rather think it would, but there's no knowing what may happen in three years," said Jo thoughtfully.

"That's true. Don't you wish you could take a look forward and see where we shall all be then? I do," returned Laurie.

"I  think  not,  for I might see something sad, and everyone looks so happy now, I don't believe they could be much improved." And Jo's eyes went
slowly round the room, brightening as they looked, for the prospect was a pleasant one.

Father and Mother sat together, quietly reliving the first chapter of the romance which for them began some twenty years ago. Amy was drawing the
lovers,  who  sat  apart in a beautiful world of their own, the light of which touched their faces with a grace the little artist could not copy.
Beth  lay on her sofa, talking cheerily with her old friend, who held her little hand as if he felt that it possessed the power to lead him along
the  peaceful  way  she  walked. Jo lounged in her favorite low seat, with the grave quiet look which best became her, and Laurie, leaning on the
back  of  her  chair,  his  chin  on  a  level with her curly head, smiled with his friendliest aspect, and nodded at her in the long glass which
reflected them both.


So  the  curtain  falls  upon Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy. Whether it ever rises again, depends upon the reception given the first act of the domestic
drama called _Little Women_.







LITTLE WOMEN PART 2

In order that we may start afresh and go to Meg's wedding . . .



CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

GOSSIP

In  order  that we may start afresh and go to Meg's wedding with free minds, it will be well to begin with a little gossip about the Marches. And
here let me premise that if any of the elders think there is too much 'lovering' in the story, as I fear they may (I'm not afraid the young folks
will  make  that  objection),  I  can only say with Mrs. March, "What can you expect when I have four gay girls in the house, and a dashing young
neighbor over the way?"

The  three  years that have passed have brought but few changes to the quiet family. The war is over, and Mr. March safely at home, busy with his
books  and  the  small  parish which found in him a minister by nature as by grace, a quiet, studious man, rich in the wisdom that is better than
learning, the charity which calls all mankind 'brother', the piety that blossoms into character, making it august and lovely.

These  attributes,  in  spite  of  poverty  and  the  strict  integrity which shut him out from the more worldly successes, attracted to him many
admirable  persons,  as naturally as sweet herbs draw bees, and as naturally he gave them the honey into which fifty years of hard experience had
distilled  no  bitter drop. Earnest young men found the gray-headed scholar as young at heart as they; thoughtful or troubled women instinctively
brought  their  doubts to him, sure of finding the gentlest sympathy, the wisest counsel. Sinners told their sins to the pure-hearted old man and
were  both  rebuked  and  saved.  Gifted men found a companion in him. Ambitious men caught glimpses of nobler ambitions than their own, and even
worldlings confessed that his beliefs were beautiful and true, although 'they wouldn't pay'.

To  outsiders  the five energetic women seemed to rule the house, and so they did in many things, but the quiet scholar, sitting among his books,
was  still the head of the family, the household conscience, anchor, and comforter, for to him the busy, anxious women always turned in troublous
times, finding him, in the truest sense of those sacred words, husband and father.

The  girls  gave  their  hearts  into  their  mother's  keeping,  their  souls into their father's, and to both parents, who lived and labored so
faithfully  for  them,  they  gave a love that grew with their growth and bound them tenderly together by the sweetest tie which blesses life and
outlives death.

Mrs.  March is as brisk and cheery, though rather grayer, than when we saw her last, and just now so absorbed in Meg's affairs that the hospitals
and homes still full of wounded 'boys' and soldiers' widows, decidedly miss the motherly missionary's visits.

John  Brooke  did  his  duty  manfully  for  a  year, got wounded, was sent home, and not allowed to return. He received no stars or bars, but he
deserved  them,  for  he cheerfully risked all he had, and life and love are very precious when both are in full bloom. Perfectly resigned to his
discharge,  he  devoted  himself to getting well, preparing for business, and earning a home for Meg. With the good sense and sturdy independence
that  characterized  him, he refused Mr. Laurence's more generous offers, and accepted the place of bookkeeper, feeling better satisfied to begin
with an honestly earned salary than by running any risks with borrowed money.

Meg had spent the time in working as well as waiting, growing womanly in character, wise in housewifely arts, and prettier than ever, for love is
a great beautifier. She had her girlish ambitions and hopes, and felt some disappointment at the humble way in which the new life must begin. Ned
Moffat  had  just  married Sallie Gardiner, and Meg couldn't help contrasting their fine house and carriage, many gifts, and splendid outfit with
her own, and secretly wishing she could have the same. But somehow envy and discontent soon vanished when she thought of all the patient love and
labor  John  had  put  into  the little home awaiting her, and when they sat together in the twilight, talking over their small plans, the future
always grew so beautiful and bright that she forgot Sallie's splendor and felt herself the richest, happiest girl in Christendom.

Jo never went back to Aunt March, for the old lady took such a fancy to Amy that she bribed her with the offer of drawing lessons from one of the
best  teachers  going,  and  for  the  sake of this advantage, Amy would have served a far harder mistress. So she gave her mornings to duty, her
afternoons  to pleasure, and prospered finely. Jo meantime devoted herself to literature and Beth, who remained delicate long after the fever was
a  thing of the past. Not an invalid exactly, but never again the rosy, healthy creature she had been, yet always hopeful, happy, and serene, and
busy with the quiet duties she loved, everyone's friend, and an angel in the house, long before those who loved her most had learned to know it.

As  long  as  _The  Spread  Eagle_ paid her a dollar a column for her 'rubbish', as she called it, Jo felt herself a woman of means, and spun her
little  romances  diligently. But great plans fermented in her busy brain and ambitious mind, and the old tin kitchen in the garret held a slowly
increasing pile of blotted manuscript, which was one day to place the name of March upon the roll of fame.

Laurie,  having dutifully gone to college to please his grandfather, was now getting through it in the easiest possible manner to please himself.
A  universal  favorite,  thanks to money, manners, much talent, and the kindest heart that ever got its owner into scrapes by trying to get other
people  out  of  them,  he  stood  in great danger of being spoiled, and probably would have been, like many another promising boy, if he had not
possessed  a talisman against evil in the memory of the kind old man who was bound up in his success, the motherly friend who watched over him as
if  he  were  her  son, and last, but not least by any means, the knowledge that four innocent girls loved, admired, and believed in him with all
their hearts.

Being  only  'a  glorious human boy', of course he frolicked and flirted, grew dandified, aquatic, sentimental, or gymnastic, as college fashions
ordained,  hazed  and was hazed, talked slang, and more than once came perilously near suspension and expulsion. But as high spirits and the love
of  fun were the causes of these pranks, he always managed to save himself by frank confession, honorable atonement, or the irresistible power of
persuasion  which he possessed in perfection. In fact, he rather prided himself on his narrow escapes, and liked to thrill the girls with graphic
accounts  of  his  triumphs over wrathful tutors, dignified professors, and vanquished enemies. The 'men of my class', were heroes in the eyes of
the  girls,  who never wearied of the exploits of 'our fellows', and were frequently allowed to bask in the smiles of these great creatures, when
Laurie brought them home with him.

Amy  especially  enjoyed  this  high  honor,  and  became  quite  a  belle among them, for her ladyship early felt and learned to use the gift of
fascination with which she was endowed. Meg was too much absorbed in her private and particular John to care for any other lords of creation, and
Beth  too  shy  to  do more than peep at them and wonder how Amy dared to order them about so, but Jo felt quite in her own element, and found it
very  difficult  to  refrain  from  imitating  the  gentlemanly attitudes, phrases, and feats, which seemed more natural to her than the decorums
prescribed  for young ladies. They all liked Jo immensely, but never fell in love with her, though very few escaped without paying the tribute of
a sentimental sigh or two at Amy's shrine. And speaking of sentiment brings us very naturally to the 'Dovecote'.

That  was  the  name  of  the  little  brown  house  Mr. Brooke had prepared for Meg's first home. Laurie had christened it, saying it was highly
appropriate to the gentle lovers who 'went on together like a pair of turtledoves, with first a bill and then a coo'. It was a tiny house, with a
little garden behind and a lawn about as big as a pocket handkerchief in the front. Here Meg meant to have a fountain, shrubbery, and a profusion
of  lovely  flowers, though just at present the fountain was represented by a weather-beaten urn, very like a dilapidated slopbowl, the shrubbery
consisted  of  several  young larches, undecided whether to live or die, and the profusion of flowers was merely hinted by regiments of sticks to
show  where  seeds  were planted. But inside, it was altogether charming, and the happy bride saw no fault from garret to cellar. To be sure, the
hall  was  so  narrow  it was fortunate that they had no piano, for one never could have been got in whole, the dining room was so small that six
people  were a tight fit, and the kitchen stairs seemed built for the express purpose of precipitating both servants and china pell-mell into the
coalbin.  But  once  get  used  to these slight blemishes and nothing could be more complete, for good sense and good taste had presided over the
furnishing,  and the result was highly satisfactory. There were no marble-topped tables, long mirrors, or lace curtains in the little parlor, but
simple  furniture, plenty of books, a fine picture or two, a stand of flowers in the bay window, and, scattered all about, the pretty gifts which
came from friendly hands and were the fairer for the loving messages they brought.

I don't think the Parian Psyche Laurie gave lost any of its beauty because John put up the bracket it stood upon, that any upholsterer could have
draped  the  plain  muslin  curtains  more gracefully than Amy's artistic hand, or that any store-room was ever better provided with good wishes,
merry  words,  and happy hopes than that in which Jo and her mother put away Meg's few boxes, barrels, and bundles, and I am morally certain that
the  spandy  new  kitchen  never could have looked so cozy and neat if Hannah had not arranged every pot and pan a dozen times over, and laid the
fire  all  ready  for  lighting  the  minute  'Mis.  Brooke came home'. I also doubt if any young matron ever began life with so rich a supply of
dusters,  holders,  and  piece  bags,  for  Beth  made  enough  to last till the silver wedding came round, and invented three different kinds of
dishcloths for the express service of the bridal china.

People who hire all these things done for them never know what they lose, for the homeliest tasks get beautified if loving hands do them, and Meg
found  so  many proofs of this that everything in her small nest, from the kitchen roller to the silver vase on her parlor table, was eloquent of
home love and tender forethought.

What  happy  times  they had planning together, what solemn shopping excursions, what funny mistakes they made, and what shouts of laughter arose
over  Laurie's  ridiculous  bargains. In his love of jokes, this young gentleman, though nearly through college, was a much of a boy as ever. His
last  whim  had  been  to  bring  with  him  on his weekly visits some new, useful, and ingenious article for the young housekeeper. Now a bag of
remarkable  clothespins, next, a wonderful nutmeg grater which fell to pieces at the first trial, a knife cleaner that spoiled all the knives, or
a  sweeper  that picked the nap neatly off the carpet and left the dirt, labor-saving soap that took the skin off one's hands, infallible cements
which  stuck  firmly  to  nothing  but the fingers of the deluded buyer, and every kind of tinware, from a toy savings bank for odd pennies, to a
wonderful boiler which would wash articles in its own steam with every prospect of exploding in the process.

In  vain  Meg  begged  him  to  stop.  John laughed at him, and Jo called him 'Mr. Toodles'. He was possessed with a mania for patronizing Yankee
ingenuity, and seeing his friends fitly furnished forth. So each week beheld some fresh absurdity.

Everything  was  done at last, even to Amy's arranging different colored soaps to match the different colored rooms, and Beth's setting the table
for the first meal.

"Are  you  satisfied?  Does  it  seem  like home, and do you feel as if you should be happy here?" asked Mrs. March, as she and her daughter went
through the new kingdom arm in arm, for just then they seemed to cling together more tenderly than ever.

"Yes, Mother, perfectly satisfied, thanks to you all, and so happy that I can't talk about it," with a look that was far better than words.

"If  she  only  had  a servant or two it would be all right," said Amy, coming out of the parlor, where she had been trying to decide whether the
bronze Mercury looked best on the whatnot or the mantlepiece.

"Mother  and  I  have  talked that over, and I have made up my mind to try her way first. There will be so little to do that with Lotty to run my
errands and help me here and there, I shall only have enough work to keep me from getting lazy or homesick," answered Meg tranquilly.

"Sallie Moffat has four," began Amy.

"If  Meg  had  four,  the house wouldn't hold them, and master and missis would have to camp in the garden," broke in Jo, who, enveloped in a big
blue pinafore, was giving the last polish to the door handles.

"Sallie  isn't a poor man's wife, and many maids are in keeping with her fine establishment. Meg and John begin humbly, but I have a feeling that
there  will  be  quite as much happiness in the little house as in the big one. It's a great mistake for young girls like Meg to leave themselves
nothing  to do but dress, give orders, and gossip. When I was first married, I used to long for my new clothes to wear out or get torn, so that I
might have the pleasure of mending them, for I got heartily sick of doing fancywork and tending my pocket handkerchief."

"Why  didn't  you go into the kitchen and make messes, as Sallie says she does to amuse herself, though they never turn out well and the servants
laugh at her," said Meg.

"I  did  after  a while, not to 'mess' but to learn of Hannah how things should be done, that my servants need not laugh at me. It was play then,
but  there came a time when I was truly grateful that I not only possessed the will but the power to cook wholesome food for my little girls, and
help  myself  when  I could no longer afford to hire help. You begin at the other end, Meg, dear, but the lessons you learn now will be of use to
you  by-and-by  when John is a richer man, for the mistress of a house, however splendid, should know how work ought to be done, if she wishes to
be well and honestly served."

"Yes,  Mother,  I'm  sure  of  that,"  said Meg, listening respectfully to the little lecture, for the best of women will hold forth upon the all
absorbing subject of house keeping. "Do you know I like this room most of all in my baby house," added Meg, a minute after, as they went upstairs
and she looked into her well-stored linen closet.

Beth was there, laying the snowy piles smoothly on the shelves and exulting over the goodly array. All three laughed as Meg spoke, for that linen
closet  was  a  joke.  You  see, having said that if Meg married 'that Brooke' she shouldn't have a cent of her money, Aunt March was rather in a
quandary  when  time  had appeased her wrath and made her repent her vow. She never broke her word, and was much exercised in her mind how to get
round  it, and at last devised a plan whereby she could satisfy herself. Mrs. Carrol, Florence's mamma, was ordered to buy, have made, and marked
a  generous  supply  of  house  and table linen, and send it as her present, all of which was faithfully done, but the secret leaked out, and was
greatly  enjoyed  by the family, for Aunt March tried to look utterly unconscious, and insisted that she could give nothing but the old-fashioned
pearls long promised to the first bride.

"That's  a  housewifely  taste which I am glad to see. I had a young friend who set up housekeeping with six sheets, but she had finger bowls for
company and that satisfied her," said Mrs. March, patting the damask tablecloths, with a truly feminine appreciation of their fineness.

"I  haven't  a  single finger bowl, but this is a setout that will last me all my days, Hannah says." And Meg looked quite contented, as well she
might.

A  tall,  broad-shouldered  young  fellow, with a cropped head, a felt basin of a hat, and a flyaway coat, came tramping down the road at a great
pace, walked over the low fence without stopping to open the gate, straight up to Mrs. March, with both hands out and a hearty . . .

"Here I am, Mother! Yes, it's all right."

The  last  words  were  in  answer to the look the elder lady gave him, a kindly questioning look which the handsome eyes met so frankly that the
little ceremony closed, as usual, with a motherly kiss.

"For  Mrs.  John Brooke, with the maker's congratulations and compliments. Bless you, Beth! What a refreshing spectacle you are, Jo. Amy, you are
getting altogether too handsome for a single lady."

As  Laurie  spoke, he delivered a brown paper parcel to Meg, pulled Beth's hair ribbon, stared at Jo's big pinafore, and fell into an attitude of
mock rapture before Amy, then shook hands all round, and everyone began to talk.

"Where is John?" asked Meg anxiously.

"Stopped to get the license for tomorrow, ma'am."

"Which side won the last match, Teddy?" inquired Jo, who persisted in feeling an interest in manly sports despite her nineteen years.

"Ours, of course. Wish you'd been there to see."

"How is the lovely Miss Randal?" asked Amy with a significant smile.

"More cruel than ever. Don't you see how I'm pining away?" and Laurie gave his broad chest a sounding slap and heaved a melodramatic sigh.

"What's the last joke? Undo the bundle and see, Meg," said Beth, eying the knobby parcel with curiosity.

"It's a useful thing to have in the house in case of fire or thieves," observed Laurie, as a watchman's rattle appeared, amid the laughter of the
girls.

"Any  time  when  John is away and you get frightened, Mrs. Meg, just swing that out of the front window, and it will rouse the neighborhood in a
jiffy. Nice thing, isn't it?" and Laurie gave them a sample of its powers that made them cover up their ears.

"There's  gratitude  for  you!  And  speaking  of  gratitude  reminds  me  to mention that you may thank Hannah for saving your wedding cake from
destruction.  I saw it going into your house as I came by, and if she hadn't defended it manfully I'd have had a pick at it, for it looked like a
remarkably plummy one."

"I wonder if you will ever grow up, Laurie," said Meg in a matronly tone.

"I'm  doing  my  best, ma'am, but can't get much higher, I'm afraid, as six feet is about all men can do in these degenerate days," responded the
young gentleman, whose head was about level with the little chandelier.

"I  suppose  it  would  be profanation to eat anything in this spick-and-span bower, so as I'm tremendously hungry, I propose an adjournment," he
added presently.

"Mother and I are going to wait for John. There are some last things to settle," said Meg, bustling away.

"Beth  and  I  are going over to Kitty Bryant's to get more flowers for tomorrow," added Amy, tying a picturesque hat over her picturesque curls,
and enjoying the effect as much as anybody.

"Come,  Jo,  don't  desert a fellow. I'm in such a state of exhaustion I can't get home without help. Don't take off your apron, whatever you do,
it's  peculiarly  becoming,"  said Laurie, as Jo bestowed his especial aversion in her capacious pocket and offered her arm to support his feeble
steps.

"Now, Teddy, I want to talk seriously to you about tomorrow," began Jo, as they strolled away together. "You must promise to behave well, and not
cut up any pranks, and spoil our plans."

"Not a prank."

"And don't say funny things when we ought to be sober."

"I never do. You are the one for that."

"And I implore you not to look at me during the ceremony. I shall certainly laugh if you do."

"You won't see me, you'll be crying so hard that the thick fog round you will obscure the prospect."

"I never cry unless for some great affliction."

"Such as fellows going to college, hey?" cut in Laurie, with suggestive laugh.

"Don't be a peacock. I only moaned a trifle to keep the girls company."

"Exactly. I say, Jo, how is Grandpa this week? Pretty amiable?"

"Very. Why, have you got into a scrape and want to know how he'll take it?" asked Jo rather sharply.

"Now, Jo, do you think I'd look your mother in the face and say 'All right', if it wasn't?" and Laurie stopped short, with an injured air.

"No, I don't."

"Then don't go and be suspicious. I only want some money," said Laurie, walking on again, appeased by her hearty tone.

"You spend a great deal, Teddy."

"Bless you, I don't spend it, it spends itself somehow, and is gone before I know it."

"You  are  so generous and kind-hearted that you let people borrow, and can't say 'No' to anyone. We heard about Henshaw and all you did for him.
If you always spent money in that way, no one would blame you," said Jo warmly.

"Oh,  he  made a mountain out of a molehill. You wouldn't have me let that fine fellow work himself to death just for want of a little help, when
he is worth a dozen of us lazy chaps, would you?"

"Of  course not, but I don't see the use of your having seventeen waistcoats, endless neckties, and a new hat every time you come home. I thought
you'd  got  over the dandy period, but every now and then it breaks out in a new spot. Just now it's the fashion to be hideous, to make your head
look  like a scrubbing brush, wear a strait jacket, orange gloves, and clumping square-toed boots. If it was cheap ugliness, I'd say nothing, but
it costs as much as the other, and I don't get any satisfaction out of it."

Laurie  threw  back his head, and laughed so heartily at this attack, that the felt hat fell off, and Jo walked on it, which insult only afforded
him  an  opportunity  for expatiating on the advantages of a rough-and-ready costume, as he folded up the maltreated hat, and stuffed it into his
pocket.

"Don't  lecture  any more, there's a good soul! I have enough all through the week, and like to enjoy myself when I come home. I'll get myself up
regardless of expense tomorrow and be a satisfaction to my friends."

"I'll  leave  you  in peace if you'll only let your hair grow. I'm not aristocratic, but I do object to being seen with a person who looks like a
young prize fighter," observed Jo severely.

"This unassuming style promotes study, that's why we adopt it," returned Laurie, who certainly could not be accused of vanity, having voluntarily
sacrificed a handsome curly crop to the demand for quarter-inch-long stubble.

"By  the way, Jo, I think that little Parker is really getting desperate about Amy. He talks of her constantly, writes poetry, and moons about in
a most suspicious manner. He'd better nip his little passion in the bud, hadn't he?" added Laurie, in a confidential, elder brotherly tone, after
a minute's silence.

"Of  course  he  had.  We  don't want any more marrying in this family for years to come. Mercy on us, what are the children thinking of?" and Jo
looked as much scandalized as if Amy and little Parker were not yet in their teens.

"It's  a  fast  age,  and I don't know what we are coming to, ma'am. You are a mere infant, but you'll go next, Jo, and we'll be left lamenting,"
said Laurie, shaking his head over the degeneracy of the times.

"Don't  be  alarmed.  I'm  not  one  of  the  agreeable sort. Nobody will want me, and it's a mercy, for there should always be one old maid in a
family."

"You  won't give anyone a chance," said Laurie, with a sidelong glance and a little more color than before in his sunburned face. "You won't show
the  soft  side  of  your character, and if a fellow gets a peep at it by accident and can't help showing that he likes it, you treat him as Mrs.
Gummidge did her sweetheart, throw cold water over him, and get so thorny no one dares touch or look at you."

"I  don't like that sort of thing. I'm too busy to be worried with nonsense, and I think it's dreadful to break up families so. Now don't say any
more  about  it.  Meg's  wedding  has turned all our heads, and we talk of nothing but lovers and such absurdities. I don't wish to get cross, so
let's change the subject;" and Jo looked quite ready to fling cold water on the slightest provocation.

Whatever  his feelings might have been, Laurie found a vent for them in a long low whistle and the fearful prediction as they parted at the gate,
"Mark my words, Jo, you'll go next."



CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

THE FIRST WEDDING

The  June  roses  over  the  porch  were  awake bright and early on that morning, rejoicing with all their hearts in the cloudless sunshine, like
friendly  little  neighbors,  as  they  were.  Quite flushed with excitement were their ruddy faces, as they swung in the wind, whispering to one
another  what  they  had  seen, for some peeped in at the dining room windows where the feast was spread, some climbed up to nod and smile at the
sisters as they dressed the bride, others waved a welcome to those who came and went on various errands in garden, porch, and hall, and all, from
the  rosiest  full-blown  flower  to  the palest baby bud, offered their tribute of beauty and fragrance to the gentle mistress who had loved and
tended them so long.

Meg  looked very like a rose herself, for all that was best and sweetest in heart and soul seemed to bloom into her face that day, making it fair
and  tender, with a charm more beautiful than beauty. Neither silk, lace, nor orange flowers would she have. "I don't want a fashionable wedding,
but only those about me whom I love, and to them I wish to look and be my familiar self."

So she made her wedding gown herself, sewing into it the tender hopes and innocent romances of a girlish heart. Her sisters braided up her pretty
hair, and the only ornaments she wore were the lilies of the valley, which 'her John' liked best of all the flowers that grew.

"You  do  look  just  like  our  own dear Meg, only so very sweet and lovely that I should hug you if it wouldn't crumple your dress," cried Amy,
surveying her with delight when all was done.

"Then  I  am  satisfied.  But  please  hug  and kiss me, everyone, and don't mind my dress. I want a great many crumples of this sort put into it
today,"  and Meg opened her arms to her sisters, who clung about her with April faces for a minute, feeling that the new love had not changed the
old.

"Now  I'm going to tie John's cravat for him, and then to stay a few minutes with Father quietly in the study," and Meg ran down to perform these
little  ceremonies,  and  then  to  follow  her mother wherever she went, conscious that in spite of the smiles on the motherly face, there was a
secret sorrow hid in the motherly heart at the flight of the first bird from the nest.

As  the  younger girls stand together, giving the last touches to their simple toilet, it may be a good time to tell of a few changes which three
years have wrought in their appearance, for all are looking their best just now.

Jo's  angles  are  much softened, she has learned to carry herself with ease, if not grace. The curly crop has lengthened into a thick coil, more
becoming  to  the small head atop of the tall figure. There is a fresh color in her brown cheeks, a soft shine in her eyes, and only gentle words
fall from her sharp tongue today.

Beth  has  grown  slender,  pale, and more quiet than ever. The beautiful, kind eyes are larger, and in them lies an expression that saddens one,
although  it  is not sad itself. It is the shadow of pain which touches the young face with such pathetic patience, but Beth seldom complains and
always speaks hopefully of 'being better soon'.

Amy  is  with  truth  considered 'the flower of the family', for at sixteen she has the air and bearing of a full-grown woman, not beautiful, but
possessed  of  that  indescribable  charm  called grace. One saw it in the lines of her figure, the make and motion of her hands, the flow of her
dress,  the  droop  of  her  hair, unconscious yet harmonious, and as attractive to many as beauty itself. Amy's nose still afflicted her, for it
never would grow Grecian, so did her mouth, being too wide, and having a decided chin. These offending features gave character to her whole face,
but  she  never  could see it, and consoled herself with her wonderfully fair complexion, keen blue eyes, and curls more golden and abundant than
ever.

All  three  wore  suits of thin silver gray (their best gowns for the summer), with blush roses in hair and bosom, and all three looked just what
they  were,  fresh-faced, happy-hearted girls, pausing a moment in their busy lives to read with wistful eyes the sweetest chapter in the romance
of womanhood.

There  were  to  be  no  ceremonious  performances, everything was to be as natural and homelike as possible, so when Aunt March arrived, she was
scandalized  to see the bride come running to welcome and lead her in, to find the bridegroom fastening up a garland that had fallen down, and to
catch a glimpse of the paternal minister marching upstairs with a grave countenance and a wine bottle under each arm.

"Upon  my  word, here's a state of things!" cried the old lady, taking the seat of honor prepared for her, and settling the folds of her lavender
moire with a great rustle. "You oughtn't to be seen till the last minute, child."

"I'm  not a show, Aunty, and no one is coming to stare at me, to criticize my dress, or count the cost of my luncheon. I'm too happy to care what
anyone  says  or  thinks,  and  I'm going to have my little wedding just as I like it. John, dear, here's your hammer." And away went Meg to help
'that man' in his highly improper employment.

Mr.  Brooke  didn't  even say, "Thank you," but as he stooped for the unromantic tool, he kissed his little bride behind the folding door, with a
look that made Aunt March whisk out her pocket handkerchief with a sudden dew in her sharp old eyes.

A  crash,  a  cry,  and  a  laugh  from  Laurie,  accompanied by the indecorous exclamation, "Jupiter Ammon! Jo's upset the cake again!" caused a
momentary flurry, which was hardly over when a flock of cousins arrived, and 'the party came in', as Beth used to say when a child.

"Don't  let  that young giant come near me, he worries me worse than mosquitoes," whispered the old lady to Amy, as the rooms filled and Laurie's
black head towered above the rest.

"He  has  promised to be very good today, and he can be perfectly elegant if he likes," returned Amy, and gliding away to warn Hercules to beware
of the dragon, which warning caused him to haunt the old lady with a devotion that nearly distracted her.

There was no bridal procession, but a sudden silence fell upon the room as Mr. March and the young couple took their places under the green arch.
Mother  and  sisters  gathered  close, as if loath to give Meg up. The fatherly voice broke more than once, which only seemed to make the service
more  beautiful  and  solemn.  The  bridegroom's hand trembled visibly, and no one heard his replies. But Meg looked straight up in her husband's
eyes, and said, "I will!" with such tender trust in her own face and voice that her mother's heart rejoiced and Aunt March sniffed audibly.

Jo did not cry, though she was very near it once, and was only saved from a demonstration by the consciousness that Laurie was staring fixedly at
her,  with a comical mixture of merriment and emotion in his wicked black eyes. Beth kept her face hidden on her mother's shoulder, but Amy stood
like a graceful statue, with a most becoming ray of sunshine touching her white forehead and the flower in her hair.

It  wasn't at all the thing, I'm afraid, but the minute she was fairly married, Meg cried, "The first kiss for Marmee!" and turning, gave it with
her heart on her lips. During the next fifteen minutes she looked more like a rose than ever, for everyone availed themselves of their privileges
to  the fullest extent, from Mr. Laurence to old Hannah, who, adorned with a headdress fearfully and wonderfully made, fell upon her in the hall,
crying with a sob and a chuckle, "Bless you, deary, a hundred times! The cake ain't hurt a mite, and everything looks lovely."

Everybody  cleared up after that, and said something brilliant, or tried to, which did just as well, for laughter is ready when hearts are light.
There was no display of gifts, for they were already in the little house, nor was there an elaborate breakfast, but a plentiful lunch of cake and
fruit,  dressed with flowers. Mr. Laurence and Aunt March shrugged and smiled at one another when water, lemonade, and coffee were found to be to
only  sorts  of nectar which the three Hebes carried round. No one said anything, till Laurie, who insisted on serving the bride, appeared before
her, with a loaded salver in his hand and a puzzled expression on his face.

"Has  Jo  smashed  all  the  bottles by accident?" he whispered, "or am I merely laboring under a delusion that I saw some lying about loose this
morning?"

"No,  your  grandfather  kindly offered us his best, and Aunt March actually sent some, but Father put away a little for Beth, and dispatched the
rest  to the Soldier's Home. You know he thinks that wine should be used only in illness, and Mother says that neither she nor her daughters will
ever offer it to any young man under her roof."

Meg  spoke seriously and expected to see Laurie frown or laugh, but he did neither, for after a quick look at her, he said, in his impetuous way,
"I like that! For I've seen enough harm done to wish other women would think as you do."

"You are not made wise by experience, I hope?" and there was an anxious accent in Meg's voice.

"No.  I  give you my word for it. Don't think too well of me, either, this is not one of my temptations. Being brought up where wine is as common
as water and almost as harmless, I don't care for it, but when a pretty girl offers it, one doesn't like to refuse, you see."

"But  you  will, for the sake of others, if not for your own. Come, Laurie, promise, and give me one more reason to call this the happiest day of
my life."

A  demand  so sudden and so serious made the young man hesitate a moment, for ridicule is often harder to bear than self-denial. Meg knew that if
he  gave  the  promise he would keep it at all costs, and feeling her power, used it as a woman may for her friend's good. She did not speak, but
she looked up at him with a face made very eloquent by happiness, and a smile which said, "No one can refuse me anything today."

Laurie certainly could not, and with an answering smile, he gave her his hand, saying heartily, "I promise, Mrs. Brooke!"

"I thank you, very, very much."

"And  I  drink  'long  life  to  your  resolution',  Teddy," cried Jo, baptizing him with a splash of lemonade, as she waved her glass and beamed
approvingly upon him.

So  the  toast  was  drunk,  the pledge made and loyally kept in spite of many temptations, for with instinctive wisdom, the girls seized a happy
moment to do their friend a service, for which he thanked them all his life.

After  lunch,  people  strolled  about,  by twos and threes, through the house and garden, enjoying the sunshine without and within. Meg and John
happened  to  be  standing  together in the middle of the grass plot, when Laurie was seized with an inspiration which put the finishing touch to
this unfashionable wedding.

"All  the  married people take hands and dance round the new-made husband and wife, as the Germans do, while we bachelors and spinsters prance in
couples  outside!"  cried  Laurie,  promenading  down  the path with Amy, with such infectious spirit and skill that everyone else followed their
example  without  a  murmur.  Mr.  and Mrs. March, Aunt and Uncle Carrol began it, others rapidly joined in, even Sallie Moffat, after a moment's
hesitation,  threw  her  train  over  her  arm and whisked Ned into the ring. But the crowning joke was Mr. Laurence and Aunt March, for when the
stately  old  gentleman  chasseed solemnly up to the old lady, she just tucked her cane under her arm, and hopped briskly away to join hands with
the rest and dance about the bridal pair, while the young folks pervaded the garden like butterflies on a midsummer day.

Want of breath brought the impromptu ball to a close, and then people began to go.

"I wish you well, my dear, I heartily wish you well, but I think you'll be sorry for it," said Aunt March to Meg, adding to the bridegroom, as he
led her to the carriage, "You've got a treasure, young man, see that you deserve it."

"That is the prettiest wedding I've been to for an age, Ned, and I don't see why, for there wasn't a bit of style about it," observed Mrs. Moffat
to her husband, as they drove away.

"Laurie,  my  lad,  if  you  ever  want  to  indulge  in  this sort of thing, get one of those little girls to help you, and I shall be perfectly
satisfied," said Mr. Laurence, settling himself in his easy chair to rest after the excitement of the morning.

"I'll do my best to gratify you, Sir," was Laurie's unusually dutiful reply, as he carefully unpinned the posy Jo had put in his buttonhole.

The  little  house was not far away, and the only bridal journey Meg had was the quiet walk with John from the old home to the new. When she came
down, looking like a pretty Quakeress in her dove-colored suit and straw bonnet tied with white, they all gathered about her to say 'good-by', as
tenderly as if she had been going to make the grand tour.

"Don't  feel  that  I  am  separated  from  you, Marmee dear, or that I love you any the less for loving John so much," she said, clinging to her
mother,  with  full  eyes for a moment. "I shall come every day, Father, and expect to keep my old place in all your hearts, though I am married.
Beth  is going to be with me a great deal, and the other girls will drop in now and then to laugh at my housekeeping struggles. Thank you all for
my happy wedding day. 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

ARTISTIC ATTEMPTS

It  takes  people  a long time to learn the difference between talent and genius, especially ambitious young men and women. Amy was learning this
distinction  through  much tribulation, for mistaking enthusiasm for inspiration, she attempted every branch of art with youthful audacity. For a
long  time  there was a lull in the 'mud-pie' business, and she devoted herself to the finest pen-and-ink drawing, in which she showed such taste
and  skill that her graceful handiwork proved both pleasant and profitable. But over-strained eyes caused pen and ink to be laid aside for a bold
attempt at poker-sketching. While this attack lasted, the family lived in constant fear of a conflagration, for the odor of burning wood pervaded
the  house  at all hours, smoke issued from attic and shed with alarming frequency, red-hot pokers lay about promiscuously, and Hannah never went
to  bed without a pail of water and the dinner bell at her door in case of fire. Raphael's face was found boldly executed on the underside of the
moulding  board, and Bacchus on the head of a beer barrel. A chanting cherub adorned the cover of the sugar bucket, and attempts to portray Romeo
and Juliet supplied kindling for some time.

From  fire  to oil was a natural transition for burned fingers, and Amy fell to painting with undiminished ardor. An artist friend fitted her out
with  his castoff palettes, brushes, and colors, and she daubed away, producing pastoral and marine views such as were never seen on land or sea.
Her  monstrosities  in  the  way  of  cattle would have taken prizes at an agricultural fair, and the perilous pitching of her vessels would have
produced  seasickness  in the most nautical observer, if the utter disregard to all known rules of shipbuilding and rigging had not convulsed him
with  laughter  at  the  first glance. Swarthy boys and dark-eyed Madonnas, staring at you from one corner of the studio, suggested Murillo; oily
brown  shadows  of faces with a lurid streak in the wrong place, meant Rembrandt; buxom ladies and dropiscal infants, Rubens; and Turner appeared
in  tempests of blue thunder, orange lightning, brown rain, and purple clouds, with a tomato-colored splash in the middle, which might be the sun
or a bouy, a sailor's shirt or a king's robe, as the spectator pleased.

Charcoal  portraits  came  next,  and the entire family hung in a row, looking as wild and crocky as if just evoked from a coalbin. Softened into
crayon  sketches,  they  did  better,  for  the  likenesses  were good, and Amy's hair, Jo's nose, Meg's mouth, and Laurie's eyes were pronounced
'wonderfully  fine'.  A  return to clay and plaster followed, and ghostly casts of her acquaintances haunted corners of the house, or tumbled off
closet  shelves  onto people's heads. Children were enticed in as models, till their incoherent accounts of her mysterious doings caused Miss Amy
to  be regarded in the light of a young ogress. Her efforts in this line, however, were brought to an abrupt close by an untoward accident, which
quenched  her  ardor.  Other  models failing her for a time, she undertook to cast her own pretty foot, and the family were one day alarmed by an
unearthly  bumping and screaming and running to the rescue, found the young enthusiast hopping wildly about the shed with her foot held fast in a
pan  full  of  plaster, which had hardened with unexpected rapidity. With much difficulty and some danger she was dug out, for Jo was so overcome
with laughter while she excavated that her knife went too far, cut the poor foot, and left a lasting memorial of one artistic attempt, at least.

After  this Amy subsided, till a mania for sketching from nature set her to haunting river, field, and wood, for picturesque studies, and sighing
for  ruins  to  copy. She caught endless colds sitting on damp grass to book 'a delicious bit', composed of a stone, a stump, one mushroom, and a
broken  mullein  stalk, or 'a heavenly mass of clouds', that looked like a choice display of featherbeds when done. She sacrificed her complexion
floating  on the river in the midsummer sun to study light and shade, and got a wrinkle over her nose trying after 'points of sight', or whatever
the squint-and-string performance is called.

If  'genius  is  eternal  patience',  as  Michelangelo  affirms,  Amy  had some claim to the divine attribute, for she persevered in spite of all
obstacles, failures, and discouragements, firmly believing that in time she should do something worthy to be called 'high art'.

She was learning, doing, and enjoying other things, meanwhile, for she had resolved to be an attractive and accomplished woman, even if she never
became  a  great  artist.  Here  she  succeeded  better,  for she was one of those happily created beings who please without effort, make friends
everywhere,  and  take  life  so  gracefully  and  easily that less fortunate souls are tempted to believe that such are born under a lucky star.
Everybody liked her, for among her good gifts was tact. She had an instinctive sense of what was pleasing and proper, always said the right thing
to  the  right  person,  did  just  what suited the time and place, and was so self-possessed that her sisters used to say, "If Amy went to court
without any rehearsal beforehand, she'd know exactly what to do."

One of her weaknesses was a desire to move in 'our best society', without being quite sure what the best really was. Money, position, fashionable
accomplishments,  and  elegant  manners  were  most desirable things in her eyes, and she liked to associate with those who possessed them, often
mistaking  the  false for the true, and admiring what was not admirable. Never forgetting that by birth she was a gentlewoman, she cultivated her
aristocratic tastes and feelings, so that when the opportunity came she might be ready to take the place from which poverty now excluded her.

"My  lady,"  as  her  friends called her, sincerely desired to be a genuine lady, and was so at heart, but had yet to learn that money cannot buy
refinement of nature, that rank does not always confer nobility, and that true breeding makes itself felt in spite of external drawbacks.

"I want to ask a favor of you, Mamma," Amy said, coming in with an important air one day.

"Well, little girl, what is it?" replied her mother, in whose eyes the stately young lady still remained 'the baby'.

"Our drawing class breaks up next week, and before the girls separate for the summer, I want to ask them out here for a day. They are wild to see
the  river,  sketch  the broken bridge, and copy some of the things they admire in my book. They have been very kind to me in many ways, and I am
grateful, for they are all rich and I know I am poor, yet they never made any difference."

"Why should they?" and Mrs. March put the question with what the girls called her 'Maria Theresa air'.

"You  know as well as I that it does make a difference with nearly everyone, so don't ruffle up like a dear, motherly hen, when your chickens get
pecked  by smarter birds. The ugly duckling turned out a swan, you know." and Amy smiled without bitterness, for she possessed a happy temper and
hopeful spirit.

Mrs. March laughed, and smoothed down her maternal pride as she asked, "Well, my swan, what is your plan?"

"I should like to ask the girls out to lunch next week, to take them for a drive to the places they want to see, a row on the river, perhaps, and
make a little artistic fete for them."

"That looks feasible. What do you want for lunch? Cake, sandwiches, fruit, and coffee will be all that is necessary, I suppose?"

"Oh,  dear,  no!  We must have cold tongue and chicken, French chocolate and ice cream, besides. The girls are used to such things, and I want my
lunch to be proper and elegant, though I do work for my living."

"How many young ladies are there?" asked her mother, beginning to look sober.

"Twelve or fourteen in the class, but I dare say they won't all come."

"Bless me, child, you will have to charter an omnibus to carry them about."

"Why,  Mother,  how  can  you  think of such a thing? Not more than six or eight will probably come, so I shall hire a beach wagon and borrow Mr.
Laurence's cherry-bounce." (Hannah's pronunciation of char-a-banc.)

"All of this will be expensive, Amy."

"Not very. I've calculated the cost, and I'll pay for it myself."

"Don't  you think, dear, that as these girls are used to such things, and the best we can do will be nothing new, that some simpler plan would be
pleasanter  to  them, as a change if nothing more, and much better for us than buying or borrowing what we don't need, and attempting a style not
in keeping with our circumstances?"

"If  I  can't  have it as I like, I don't care to have it at all. I know that I can carry it out perfectly well, if you and the girls will help a
little, and I don't see why I can't if I'm willing to pay for it," said Amy, with the decision which opposition was apt to change into obstinacy.

Mrs.  March  knew  that  experience was an excellent teacher, and when it was possible she left her children to learn alone the lessons which she
would gladly have made easier, if they had not objected to taking advice as much as they did salts and senna.

"Very  well,  Amy, if your heart is set upon it, and you see your way through without too great an outlay of money, time, and temper, I'll say no
more. Talk it over with the girls, and whichever way you decide, I'll do my best to help you."

"Thanks, Mother, you are always so kind." and away went Amy to lay her plan before her sisters.

Meg  agreed  at once, and promised her aid, gladly offering anything she possessed, from her little house itself to her very best saltspoons. But
Jo frowned upon the whole project and would have nothing to do with it at first.

"Why  in the world should you spend your money, worry your family, and turn the house upside down for a parcel of girls who don't care a sixpence
for  you?  I  thought  you had too much pride and sense to truckle to any mortal woman just because she wears French boots and rides in a coupe,"
said Jo, who, being called from the tragic climax of her novel, was not in the best mood for social enterprises.

"I  don't truckle, and I hate being patronized as much as you do!" returned Amy indignantly, for the two still jangled when such questions arose.
"The  girls  do  care  for  me,  and  I for them, and there's a great deal of kindness and sense and talent among them, in spite of what you call
fashionable nonsense. You don't care to make people like you, to go into good society, and cultivate your manners and tastes. I do, and I mean to
make  the  most of every chance that comes. You can go through the world with your elbows out and your nose in the air, and call it independence,
if you like. That's not my way."

When  Amy had whetted her tongue and freed her mind she usually got the best of it, for she seldom failed to have common sense on her side, while
Jo carried her love of liberty and hate of conventionalities to such an unlimited extent that she naturally found herself worsted in an argument.
Amy's definition of Jo's idea of independence was such a good hit that both burst out laughing, and the discussion took a more amiable turn. Much
against  her  will,  Jo  at  length  consented to sacrifice a day to Mrs. Grundy, and help her sister through what she regarded as 'a nonsensical
business'.

The  invitations  were sent, nearly all accepted, and the following Monday was set apart for the grand event. Hannah was out of humor because her
week's  work  was  deranged, and prophesied that "ef the washin' and ironin' warn't done reg'lar, nothin' would go well anywheres". This hitch in
the  mainspring  of the domestic machinery had a bad effect upon the whole concern, but Amy's motto was 'Nil desperandum', and having made up her
mind  what  to do, she proceeded to do it in spite of all obstacles. To begin with, Hannah's cooking didn't turn out well. The chicken was tough,
the tongue too salty, and the chocolate wouldn't froth properly. Then the cake and ice cost more than Amy expected, so did the wagon, and various
other  expenses,  which  seemed  trifling  at the outset, counted up rather alarmingly afterward. Beth got a cold and took to her bed. Meg had an
unusual  number  of  callers  to  keep  her  at home, and Jo was in such a divided state of mind that her breakages, accidents, and mistakes were
uncommonly numerous, serious, and trying.

If  it  was  not  fair  on Monday, the young ladies were to come on Tuesday, an arrangement which aggravated Jo and Hannah to the last degree. On
Monday  morning the weather was in that undecided state which is more exasperating than a steady pour. It drizzled a little, shone a little, blew
a  little,  and  didn't make up its mind till it was too late for anyone else to make up theirs. Amy was up at dawn, hustling people out of their
beds and through their breakfasts, that the house might be got in order. The parlor struck her as looking uncommonly shabby, but without stopping
to  sigh for what she had not, she skillfully made the best of what she had, arranging chairs over the worn places in the carpet, covering stains
on the walls with homemade statuary, which gave an artistic air to the room, as did the lovely vases of flowers Jo scattered about.

The  lunch looked charming, and as she surveyed it, she sincerely hoped it would taste well, and that the borrowed glass, china, and silver would
get  safely  home  again.  The  carriages  were promised, Meg and Mother were all ready to do the honors, Beth was able to help Hannah behind the
scenes, Jo had engaged to be as lively and amiable as an absent mind, and aching head, and a very decided disapproval of everybody and everything
would  allow,  and  as  she wearily dressed, Amy cheered herself with anticipations of the happy moment when, lunch safely over, she should drive
away with her friends for an afternoon of artistic delights, for the 'cherry bounce' and the broken bridge were her strong points.

Then came the hours of suspense, during which she vibrated from parlor to porch, while public opinion varied like the weathercock. A smart shower
at  eleven  had  evidently  quenched  the  enthusiasm of the young ladies who were to arrive at twelve, for nobody came, and at two the exhausted
family sat down in a blaze of sunshine to consume the perishable portions of the feast, that nothing might be lost.

"No  doubt  about  the  weather  today, they will certainly come, so we must fly round and be ready for them," said Amy, as the sun woke her next
morning.  She  spoke  briskly, but in her secret soul she wished she had said nothing about Tuesday, for her interest like her cake was getting a
little stale.

"I  can't  get  any  lobsters,  so  you will have to do without salad today," said Mr. March, coming in half an hour later, with an expression of
placid despair.

"Use the chicken then, the toughness won't matter in a salad," advised his wife.

"Hannah left it on the kitchen table a minute, and the kittens got at it. I'm very sorry, Amy," added Beth, who was still a patroness of cats.

"Then I must have a lobster, for tongue alone won't do," said Amy decidedly.

"Shall I rush into town and demand one?" asked Jo, with the magnanimity of a martyr.

"You'd come bringing it home under your arm without any paper, just to try me. I'll go myself," answered Amy, whose temper was beginning to fail.

Shrouded  in  a thick veil and armed with a genteel traveling basket, she departed, feeling that a cool drive would soothe her ruffled spirit and
fit her for the labors of the day. After some delay, the object of her desire was procured, likewise a bottle of dressing to prevent further loss
of time at home, and off she drove again, well pleased with her own forethought.

As  the omnibus contained only one other passenger, a sleepy old lady, Amy pocketed her veil and beguiled the tedium of the way by trying to find
out  where  all  her money had gone to. So busy was she with her card full of refractory figures that she did not observe a newcomer, who entered
without  stopping  the vehicle, till a masculine voice said, "Good morning, Miss March," and, looking up, she beheld one of Laurie's most elegant
college  friends.  Fervently  hoping that he would get out before she did, Amy utterly ignored the basket at her feet, and congratulating herself
that she had on her new traveling dress, returned the young man's greeting with her usual suavity and spirit.

They got on excellently, for Amy's chief care was soon set at rest by learning that the gentleman would leave first, and she was chatting away in
a  peculiarly  lofty  strain, when the old lady got out. In stumbling to the door, she upset the basket, and--oh horror!--the lobster, in all its
vulgar size and brilliancy, was revealed to the highborn eyes of a Tudor!

"By  Jove,  she's  forgotten  her dinner!" cried the unconscious youth, poking the scarlet monster into its place with his cane, and preparing to
hand out the basket after the old lady.

"Please don't--it's--it's mine," murmured Amy, with a face nearly as red as her fish.

"Oh, really, I beg pardon. It's an uncommonly fine one, isn't it?" said Tudor, with great presence of mind, and an air of sober interest that did
credit to his breeding.

Amy recovered herself in a breath, set her basket boldly on the seat, and said, laughing, "Don't you wish you were to have some of the salad he's
going to make, and to see the charming young ladies who are to eat it?"

Now  that  was tact, for two of the ruling foibles of the masculine mind were touched. The lobster was instantly surrounded by a halo of pleasing
reminiscences, and curiosity about 'the charming young ladies' diverted his mind from the comical mishap.

"I suppose he'll laugh and joke over it with Laurie, but I shan't see them, that's a comfort," thought Amy, as Tudor bowed and departed.

She  did  not  mention  this  meeting at home (though she discovered that, thanks to the upset, her new dress was much damaged by the rivulets of
dressing  that meandered down the skirt), but went through with the preparations which now seemed more irksome than before, and at twelve o'clock
all  was  ready  again.  Feeling that the neighbors were interested in her movements, she wished to efface the memory of yesterday's failure by a
grand success today, so she ordered the 'cherry bounce', and drove away in state to meet and escort her guests to the banquet.

"There's  the  rumble,  they're  coming! I'll go onto the porch and meet them. It looks hospitable, and I want the poor child to have a good time
after all her trouble," said Mrs. March, suiting the action to the word. But after one glance, she retired, with an indescribable expression, for
looking quite lost in the big carriage, sat Amy and one young lady.

"Run,  Beth, and help Hannah clear half the things off the table. It will be too absurd to put a luncheon for twelve before a single girl," cried
Jo, hurrying away to the lower regions, too excited to stop even for a laugh.

In  came  Amy,  quite  calm and delightfully cordial to the one guest who had kept her promise. The rest of the family, being of a dramatic turn,
played  their  parts equally well, and Miss Eliott found them a most hilarious set, for it was impossible to control entirely the merriment which
possessed  them.  The  remodeled  lunch  being gaily partaken of, the studio and garden visited, and art discussed with enthusiasm, Amy ordered a
buggy (alas for the elegant cherry-bounce), and drove her friend quietly about the neighborhood till sunset, when 'the party went out'.

As  she  came  walking  in,  looking very tired but as composed as ever, she observed that every vestige of the unfortunate fete had disappeared,
except a suspicious pucker about the corners of Jo's mouth.

"You've had a loverly afternoon for your drive, dear," said her mother, as respectfully as if the whole twelve had come.

"Miss Eliott is a very sweet girl, and seemed to enjoy herself, I thought," observed Beth, with unusual warmth.

"Could  you  spare  me  some of your cake? I really need some, I have so much company, and I can't make such delicious stuff as yours," asked Meg
soberly.

"Take  it  all. I'm the only one here who likes sweet things, and it will mold before I can dispose of it," answered Amy, thinking with a sigh of
the generous store she had laid in for such an end as this.

"It's a pity Laurie isn't here to help us," began Jo, as they sat down to ice cream and salad for the second time in two days.

A  warning  look  from her mother checked any further remarks, and the whole family ate in heroic silence, till Mr. March mildly observed, "salad
was  one of the favorite dishes of the ancients, and Evelyn . . ." Here a general explosion of laughter cut short the 'history of salads', to the
great surprise of the learned gentleman.

"Bundle everything into a basket and send it to the Hummels. Germans like messes. I'm sick of the sight of this, and there's no reason you should
all die of a surfeit because I've been a fool," cried Amy, wiping her eyes.

"I  thought  I  should have died when I saw you two girls rattling about in the what-you-call-it, like two little kernels in a very big nutshell,
and Mother waiting in state to receive the throng," sighed Jo, quite spent with laughter.

"I'm very sorry you were disappointed, dear, but we all did our best to satisfy you," said Mrs. March, in a tone full of motherly regret.

"I  am satisfied. I've done what I undertook, and it's not my fault that it failed. I comfort myself with that," said Amy with a little quiver in
her voice. "I thank you all very much for helping me, and I'll thank you still more if you won't allude to it for a month, at least."

No one did for several months, but the word 'fete' always produced a general smile, and Laurie's birthday gift to Amy was a tiny coral lobster in
the shape of a charm for her watch guard.



CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

LITERARY LESSONS

Fortune suddenly smiled upon Jo, and dropped a good luck penny in her path. Not a golden penny, exactly, but I doubt if half a million would have
given more real happiness then did the little sum that came to her in this wise.

Every few weeks she would shut herself up in her room, put on her scribbling suit, and 'fall into a vortex', as she expressed it, writing away at
her  novel  with  all  her  heart and soul, for till that was finished she could find no peace. Her 'scribbling suit' consisted of a black woolen
pinafore  on  which  she  could wipe her pen at will, and a cap of the same material, adorned with a cheerful red bow, into which she bundled her
hair  when  the  decks  were  cleared  for action. This cap was a beacon to the inquiring eyes of her family, who during these periods kept their
distance,  merely popping in their heads semi-occasionally to ask, with interest, "Does genius burn, Jo?" They did not always venture even to ask
this  question,  but took an observation of the cap, and judged accordingly. If this expressive article of dress was drawn low upon the forehead,
it  was  a  sign that hard work was going on, in exciting moments it was pushed rakishly askew, and when despair seized the author it was plucked
wholly off, and cast upon the floor. At such times the intruder silently withdrew, and not until the red bow was seen gaily erect upon the gifted
brow, did anyone dare address Jo.

She  did  not  think  herself  a  genius by any means, but when the writing fit came on, she gave herself up to it with entire abandon, and led a
blissful  life, unconscious of want, care, or bad weather, while she sat safe and happy in an imaginary world, full of friends almost as real and
dear  to  her  as  any  in the flesh. Sleep forsook her eyes, meals stood untasted, day and night were all too short to enjoy the happiness which
blessed her only at such times, and made these hours worth living, even if they bore no other fruit. The 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 sell, and we don't. Make a good, popular book, and get as much money as you can. By-and-by, when you've
got  a  name,  you can afford to digress, and have philosophical and metaphysical people in your novels," said Amy, who took a strictly practical
view of the subject.

"Well,"  said  Jo,  laughing, "if my people are 'philosophical and metaphysical', it isn't my fault, for I know nothing about such things, except
what  I  hear father say, sometimes. If I've got some of his wise ideas jumbled up with my romance, so much the better for me. Now, Beth, what do
you say?"

"I  should  so  like to see it printed soon," was all Beth said, and smiled in saying it. But there was an unconscious emphasis on the last word,
and  a  wistful look in the eyes that never lost their childlike candor, which chilled Jo's heart for a minute with a forboding fear, and decided
her to make her little venture 'soon'.

So,  with  Spartan  firmness,  the  young authoress laid her first-born on her table, and chopped it up as ruthlessly as any ogre. In the hope of
pleasing everyone, she took everyone's advice, and like the old man and his donkey in the fable suited nobody.

Her  father  liked the metaphysical streak which had unconsciously got into it, so that was allowed to remain though she had her doubts about it.
Her  mother  thought  that  there  was  a trifle too much description. Out, therefore it came, and with it many necessary links in the story. Meg
admired  the tragedy, so Jo piled up the agony to suit her, while Amy objected to the fun, and, with the best intentions in life, Jo quenched the
spritly  scenes  which  relieved the somber character of the story. Then, to complicate the ruin, she cut it down one third, and confidingly sent
the poor little romance, like a picked robin, out into the big, busy world to try its fate.

Well,  it was printed, and she got three hundred dollars for it, likewise plenty of praise and blame, both so much greater than she expected that
she was thrown into a state of bewilderment from which it took her some time to recover.

"You  said,  Mother,  that criticism would help me. But how can it, when it's so contradictory that I don't know whether I've written a promising
book  or  broken all the ten commandments?" cried poor Jo, turning over a heap of notices, the perusal of which filled her with pride and joy one
minute,  wrath  and  dismay  the  next.  "This  man  says,  'An exquisite book, full of truth, beauty, and earnestness.' 'All is sweet, pure, and
healthy.'"  continued  the  perplexed  authoress.  "The  next,  'The theory of the book is bad, full of morbid fancies, spiritualistic ideas, and
unnatural  characters.'  Now,  as I had no theory of any kind, don't believe in Spiritualism, and copied my characters from life, I don't see how
this  critic  can be right. Another says, 'It's one of the best American novels which has appeared for years.' (I know better than that), and the
next  asserts  that 'Though it is original, and written with great force and feeling, it is a dangerous book.' 'Tisn't! Some make fun of it, some
overpraise,  and  nearly  all insist that I had a deep theory to expound, when I only wrote it for the pleasure and the money. I wish I'd printed
the whole or not at all, for I do hate to be so misjudged."

Her family and friends administered comfort and commendation liberally. Yet it was a hard time for sensitive, high-spirited Jo, who meant so well
and  had  apparently  done  so  ill. But it did her good, for those whose opinion had real value gave her the criticism which is an author's best
education, and when the first soreness was over, she could laugh at her poor little book, yet believe in it still, and feel herself the wiser and
stronger for the buffeting she had received.

"Not being a genius, like Keats, it won't kill me," she said stoutly, "and I've got the joke on my side, after all, for the parts that were taken
straight  out  of  real  life  are  denounced  as  impossible  and  absurd, and the scenes that I made up out of my own silly head are pronounced
'charmingly natural, tender, and true'. So I'll comfort myself with that, and when I'm ready, I'll up again and take another."



CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

DOMESTIC EXPERIENCES

Like  most other young matrons, Meg began her married life with the determination to be a model housekeeper. John should find home a paradise, he
should  always  see a smiling face, should fare sumptuously every day, and never know the loss of a button. She brought so much love, energy, and
cheerfulness  to  the  work that she could not but succeed, in spite of some obstacles. Her paradise was not a tranquil one, for the little woman
fussed,  was over-anxious to please, and bustled about like a true Martha, cumbered with many cares. She was too tired, sometimes, even to smile,
John  grew  dyspeptic after a course of dainty dishes and ungratefully demanded plain fare. As for buttons, she soon learned to wonder where they
went,  to shake her head over the carelessness of men, and to threaten to make him sew them on himself, and see if his work would stand impatient
and clumsy fingers any better than hers.

They  were  very  happy,  even after they discovered that they couldn't live on love alone. John did not find Meg's beauty diminished, though she
beamed  at  him from behind the familiar coffee pot. Nor did Meg miss any of the romance from the daily parting, when her husband followed up his
kiss  with  the  tender  inquiry, "Shall I send some veal or mutton for dinner, darling?" The little house ceased to be a glorified bower, but it
became  a  home,  and the young couple soon felt that it was a change for the better. At first they played keep-house, and frolicked over it like
children.  Then  John  took  steadily  to  business,  feeling  the  cares of the head of a family upon his shoulders, and Meg laid by her cambric
wrappers, put on a big apron, and fell to work, as before said, with more energy than discretion.

While  the  cooking  mania  lasted she went through Mrs. Cornelius's Receipt Book as if it were a mathematical exercise, working out the problems
with  patience  and  care.  Sometimes  her  family were invited in to help eat up a too bounteous feast of successes, or Lotty would be privately
dispatched  with  a batch of failures, which were to be concealed from all eyes in the convenient stomachs of the little Hummels. An evening with
John over the account books usually produced a temporary lull in the culinary enthusiasm, and a frugal fit would ensue, during which the poor man
was  put  through a course of bread pudding, hash, and warmed-over coffee, which tried his soul, although he bore it with praiseworthy fortitude.
Before the golden mean was found, however, Meg added to her domestic possessions what young couples seldom get on long without, a family jar.

Fired  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 spent a long day picking, boiling, straining, and fussing over her
jelly. She did her best, she asked advice of Mrs. Cornelius, she racked her brain to remember what Hannah did that she left undone, she reboiled,
resugared, and restrained, but that dreadful stuff wouldn't 'jell'.

She longed to run home, bib and all, and ask Mother to lend her a hand, but John and she had agreed that they would never annoy anyone with their
private worries, experiments, or quarrels. They had laughed over that last word as if the idea it suggested was a most preposterous one, but they
had  held  to their resolve, and whenever they could get on without help they did so, and no one interfered, for Mrs. March had advised the plan.
So Meg wrestled alone with the refractory sweetmeats all that hot summer day, and at five o'clock sat down in her topsy-turvey kitchen, wrung her
bedaubed hands, lifted up her voice and wept.

Now, in the first flush of the new life, she had often said, "My husband shall always feel free to bring a friend home whenever he likes. I shall
always be prepared. There shall be no flurry, no scolding, no discomfort, but a neat house, a cheerful wife, and a good dinner. John, dear, never
stop to ask my leave, invite whom you please, and be sure of a welcome from me."

How charming that was, to be sure! John quite glowed with pride to hear her say it, and felt what a blessed thing it was to have a superior wife.
But,  although  they  had  had company from time to time, it never happened to be unexpected, and Meg had never had an opportunity to distinguish
herself  till  now. It always happens so in this vale of tears, there is an inevitability about such things which we can only wonder at, deplore,
and bear as we best can.

If  John had not forgotten all about the jelly, it really would have been unpardonable in him to choose that day, of all the days in the year, to
bring  a  friend  home  to dinner unexpectedly. Congratulating himself that a handsome repast had been ordered that morning, feeling sure that it
would  be ready to the minute, and indulging in pleasant anticipations of the charming effect it would produce, when his pretty wife came running
out to meet him, he escorted his friend to his mansion, with the irrepressible satisfaction of a young host and husband.

It  is  a world of disappointments, as John discovered when he reached the Dovecote. The front door usually stood hospitably open. Now it was not
only  shut,  but locked, and yesterday's mud still adorned the steps. The parlor windows were closed and curtained, no picture of the pretty wife
sewing  on  the  piazza,  in white, with a distracting little bow in her hair, or a bright-eyed hostess, smiling a shy welcome as she greeted her
guest. Nothing of the sort, for not a soul appeared but a sanginary-looking boy asleep under the current bushes.

"I'm afraid something has happened. Step into the garden, Scott, while I look up Mrs. Brooke," said John, alarmed at the silence and solitude.

Round  the  house  he hurried, led by a pungent smell of burned sugar, and Mr. Scott strolled after him, with a queer look on his face. He paused
discreetly at a distance when Brooke disappeared, but he could both see and hear, and being a bachelor, enjoyed the prospect mightily.

In  the  kitchen  reigned  confusion  and despair. One edition of jelly was trickled from pot to pot, another lay upon the floor, and a third was
burning gaily on the stove. Lotty, with Teutonic phlegm, was calmly eating bread and currant wine, for the jelly was still in a hopelessly liquid
state, while Mrs. Brooke, with her apron over her head, sat sobbing dismally.

"My  dearest  girl,  what  is  the  matter?"  cried  John, rushing in, with awful visions of scalded hands, sudden news of affliction, and secret
consternation at the thought of the guest in the garden.

"Oh,  John,  I  am  so  tired  and hot and cross and worried! I've been at it till I'm all worn out. Do come and help me or I shall die!" and the
exhausted  housewife  cast  herself upon his breast, giving him a sweet welcome in every sense of the word, for her pinafore had been baptized at
the same time as the floor.

"What  worries  you  dear?  Has  anything dreadful happened?" asked the anxious John, tenderly kissing the crown of the little cap, which was all
askew.

"Yes," sobbed Meg despairingly.

"Tell me quick, then. Don't cry. I can bear anything better than that. Out with it, love."

"The . . . The jelly won't jell and I don't know what to do!"

John Brooke laughed then as he never dared to laugh afterward, and the derisive Scott smiled involuntarily as he heard the hearty peal, which put
the finishing stroke to poor Meg's woe.

"Is  that  all?  Fling  it out of the window, and don't bother any more about it. I'll buy you quarts if you want it, but for heaven's sake don't
have hysterics, for I've brought Jack Scott home to dinner, and . . ."

John  got no further, for Meg cast him off, and clasped her hands with a tragic gesture as she fell into a chair, exclaiming in a tone of mingled
indignation, reproach, and dismay . . .

"A man to dinner, and everything in a mess! John Brooke, how could you do such a thing?"

"Hush, he's in the garden! I forgot the confounded jelly, but it can't be helped now," said John, surveying the prospect with an anxious eye.

"You  ought  to  have  sent  word,  or told me this morning, and you ought to have remembered how busy I was," continued Meg petulantly, for even
turtledoves will peck when ruffled.

"I  didn't know it this morning, and there was no time to send word, for I met him on the way out. I never thought of asking leave, when you have
always told me to do as I liked. I never tried it before, and hang me if I ever do again!" added John, with an aggrieved air.

"I should hope not! Take him away at once. I can't see him, and there isn't any dinner."

"Well, I like that! Where's the beef and vegetables I sent home, and the pudding you promised?" cried John, rushing to the larder.

"I hadn't time to cook anything. I meant to dine at Mother's. I'm sorry, but I was so busy," and Meg's tears began again.

John  was  a  mild  man, but he was human, and after a long day's work to come home tired, hungry, and hopeful, to find a chaotic house, an empty
table,  and  a  cross wife was not exactly conducive to repose of mind or manner. He restrained himself however, and the little squall would have
blown over, but for one unlucky word.

"It's a scrape, I acknowledge, but if you will lend a hand, we'll pull through and have a good time yet. Don't cry, dear, but just exert yourself
a  bit,  and  fix  us  up  something  to eat. We're both as hungry as hunters, so we shan't mind what it is. Give us the cold meat, and bread and
cheese. We won't ask for jelly."

He  meant  it  to  be a good-natured joke, but that one word sealed his fate. Meg thought it was too cruel to hint about her sad failure, and the
last atom of patience vanished as he spoke.

"You  must  get yourself out of the scrape as you can. I'm too used up to 'exert' myself for anyone. It's like a man to propose a bone and vulgar
bread  and  cheese for company. I won't have anything of the sort in my house. Take that Scott up to Mother's, and tell him I'm away, sick, dead,
anything. I won't see him, and you two can laugh at me and my jelly as much as you like. You won't have anything else here." and having delivered
her defiance all on one breath, Meg cast away her pinafore and precipitately left the field to bemoan herself in her own room.

What those two creatures did in her absence, she never knew, but Mr. Scott was not taken 'up to Mother's', and when Meg descended, after they had
strolled  away  together,  she  found traces of a promiscuous lunch which filled her with horror. Lotty reported that they had eaten "a much, and
greatly laughed, and the master bid her throw away all the sweet stuff, and hide the pots."

Meg  longed to go and tell Mother, but a sense of shame at her own short-comings, of loyalty to John, "who might be cruel, but nobody should know
it," restrained her, and after a summary cleaning up, she dressed herself prettily, and sat down to wait for John to come and be forgiven.

Unfortunately, John didn't come, not seeing the matter in that light. He had carried it off as a good joke with Scott, excused his little wife as
well as he could, and played the host so hospitably that his friend enjoyed the impromptu dinner, and promised to come again, but John was angry,
though  he  did  not  show it, he felt that Meg had deserted him in his hour of need. "It wasn't fair to tell a man to bring folks home any time,
with  perfect  freedom, and when he took you at your word, to flame up and blame him, and leave him in the lurch, to be laughed at or pitied. No,
by George, it wasn't! And Meg must know it."

He  had  fumed  inwardly during the feast, but when the flurry was over and he strolled home after seeing Scott off, a milder mood came over him.
"Poor  little  thing!  It  was hard upon her when she tried so heartily to please me. She was wrong, of course, but then she was young. I must be
patient  and  teach her." He hoped she had not gone home--he hated gossip and interference. For a minute he was ruffled again at the mere thought
of  it,  and  then the fear that Meg would cry herself sick softened his heart, and sent him on at a quicker pace, resolving to be calm and kind,
but firm, quite firm, and show her where she had failed in her duty to her spouse.

Meg  likewise  resolved  to be 'calm and kind, but firm', and show him his duty. She longed to run to meet him, and beg pardon, and be kissed and
comforted,  as she was sure of being, but, of course, she did nothing of the sort, and when she saw John coming, began to hum quite naturally, as
she rocked and sewed, like a lady of leisure in her best parlor.

John  was  a  little  disappointed  not  to find a tender Niobe, but feeling that his dignity demanded the first apology, he made none, only came
leisurely in and laid himself upon the sofa with the singularly relevant remark, "We are going to have a new moon, my dear."

"I've no objection," was Meg's equally soothing remark. A few other topics of general interest were introduced by Mr. Brooke and wet-blanketed by
Mrs. Brooke, and conversation languished. John went to one window, unfolded his paper, and wrapped himself in it, figuratively speaking. Meg went
to  the  other  window,  and sewed as if new rosettes for slippers were among the necessaries of life. Neither spoke. Both looked quite 'calm and
firm', and both felt desperately uncomfortable.

"Oh,  dear,"  thought  Meg,  "married  life  is  very trying, and does need infinite patience as well as love, as Mother says." The word 'Mother'
suggested other maternal counsels given long ago, and received with unbelieving protests.

"John  is  a  good  man, but he has his faults, and you must learn to see and bear with them, remembering your own. He is very decided, but never
will  be  obstinate,  if you reason kindly, not oppose impatiently. He is very accurate, and particular about the truth--a good trait, though you
call him 'fussy'. Never deceive him by look or word, Meg, and he will give you the confidence you deserve, the support you need. He has a temper,
not like ours--one flash and then all over--but the white, still anger that is seldom stirred, but once kindled is hard to quench. Be careful, be
very  careful, not to wake his anger against yourself, for peace and happiness depend on keeping his respect. Watch yourself, be the first to ask
pardon  if  you  both  err, and guard against the little piques, misunderstandings, and hasty words that often pave the way for bitter sorrow and
regret."

These  words  came  back  to  Meg,  as  she sat sewing in the sunset, especially the last. This was the first serious disagreement, her own hasty
speeches  sounded both silly and unkind, as she recalled them, her own anger looked childish now, and thoughts of poor John coming home to such a
scene  quite melted her heart. She glanced at him with tears in her eyes, but he did not see them. She put down her work and got up, thinking, "I
will  be  the  first to say, 'Forgive me'", but he did not seem to hear her. She went very slowly across the room, for pride was hard to swallow,
and  stood  by  him,  but  he  did  not turn his head. For a minute she felt as if she really couldn't do it, then came the thought, "This is the
beginning.  I'll  do  my  part,  and  have nothing to reproach myself with," and stooping down, she softly kissed her husband on the forehead. Of
course that settled it. The penitent kiss was better than a world of words, and John had her on his knee in a minute, saying tenderly . . .

"It was too bad to laugh at the poor little jelly pots. Forgive me, dear. I never will again!"

But  he did, oh bless you, yes, hundreds of times, and so did Meg, both declaring that it was the sweetest jelly they ever made, for family peace
was preserved in that little family jar.

After  this, Meg had Mr. Scott to dinner by special invitation, and served him up a pleasant feast without a cooked wife for the first course, on
which  occasion  she was so gay and gracious, and made everything go off so charmingly, that Mr. Scott told John he was a lucky fellow, and shook
his head over the hardships of bachelorhood all the way home.

In  the  autumn, new trials and experiences came to Meg. Sallie Moffat renewed her friendship, was always running out for a dish of gossip at the
little  house,  or  inviting  'that poor dear' to come in and spend the day at the big house. It was pleasant, for in dull weather Meg often felt
lonely. All were busy at home, John absent till night, and nothing to do but sew, or read, or potter about. So it naturally fell out that Meg got
into the way of gadding and gossiping with her friend. Seeing Sallie's pretty things made her long for such, and pity herself because she had not
got  them.  Sallie  was very kind, and often offered her the coveted trifles, but Meg declined them, knowing that John wouldn't like it, and then
this foolish little woman went and did what John disliked even worse.

She  knew her husband's income, and she loved to feel that he trusted her, not only with his happiness, but what some men seem to value more--his
money. She knew where it was, was free to take what she liked, and all he asked was that she should keep account of every penny, pay bills once a
month, and remember that she was a poor man's wife. Till now she had done well, been prudent and exact, kept her little account books neatly, and
showed  them  to  him monthly without fear. But that autumn the serpent got into Meg's paradise, and tempted her like many a modern Eve, not with
apples, but with dress. Meg didn't like to be pitied and made to feel poor. It irritated her, but she was ashamed to confess it, and now and then
she  tried to console herself by buying something pretty, so that Sallie needn't think she had to economize. She always felt wicked after it, for
the  pretty things were seldom necessaries, but then they cost so little, it wasn't worth worrying about, so the trifles increased unconsciously,
and in the shopping excursions she was no longer a passive looker-on.

But the trifles cost more than one would imagine, and when she cast up her accounts at the end of the month the sum total rather scared her. John
was  busy  that  month and left the bills to her, the next month he was absent, but the third he had a grand quarterly settling up, and Meg never
forgot  it. A few days before she had done a dreadful thing, and it weighed upon her conscience. Sallie had been buying silks, and Meg longed for
a new one, just a handsome light one for parties, her black silk was so common, and thin things for evening wear were only proper for girls. Aunt
March usually gave the sisters a present of twenty-five dollars apiece at New Year's. That was only a month to wait, and here was a lovely violet
silk going at a bargain, and she had the money, if she only dared to take it. John always said what was his was hers, but would he think it right
to spend not only the prospective five-and-twenty, but another five-and-twenty out of the household fund? That was the question. Sallie had urged
her  to  do  it,  had  offered to lend the money, and with the best intentions in life had tempted Meg beyond her strength. In an evil moment the
shopman  held  up the lovely, shimmering folds, and said, "A bargain, I assure, you, ma'am." She answered, "I'll take it," and it was cut off and
paid  for,  and  Sallie  had  exulted, and she had laughed as if it were a thing of no consequence, and driven away, feeling as if she had stolen
something, and the police were after her.

When  she  got  home, she tried to assuage the pangs of remorse by spreading forth the lovely silk, but it looked less silvery now, didn't become
her,  after  all,  and  the  words  'fifty  dollars'  seemed  stamped  like a pattern down each breadth. She put it away, but it haunted her, not
delightfully  as  a  new dress should, but dreadfully like the ghost of a folly that was not easily laid. When John got out his books that night,
Meg's  heart  sank,  and  for  the first time in her married life, she was afraid of her husband. The kind, brown eyes looked as if they could be
stern,  and  though  he was unusually merry, she fancied he had found her out, but didn't mean to let her know it. The house bills were all paid,
the  books  all  in  order.  John had praised her, and was undoing the old pocketbook which they called the 'bank', when Meg, knowing that it was
quite empty, stopped his hand, saying nervously . . .

"You haven't seen my private expense book yet."

John  never asked to see it, but she always insisted on his doing so, and used to enjoy his masculine amazement at the queer things women wanted,
and made him guess what piping was, demand fiercely the meaning of a hug-me-tight, or wonder how a little thing composed of three rosebuds, a bit
of  velvet, and a pair of strings, could possibly be a bonnet, and cost six dollars. That night he looked as if he would like the fun of quizzing
her figures and pretending to be horrified at her extravagance, as he often did, being particularly proud of his prudent wife.

The  little  book  was  brought slowly out and laid down before him. Meg got behind his chair under pretense of smoothing the wrinkles out of his
tired forehead, and standing there, she said, with her panic increasing with every word . . .

"John,  dear,  I'm  ashamed  to  show you my book, for I've really been dreadfully extravagant lately. I go about so much I must have things, you
know, and Sallie advised my getting it, so I did, and my New Year's money will partly pay for it, but I was sorry after I had done it, for I knew
you'd think it wrong in me."

John  laughed, and drew her round beside him, saying goodhumoredly, "Don't go and hide. I won't beat you if you have got a pair of killing boots.
I'm rather proud of my wife's feet, and don't mind if she does pay eight or nine dollars for her boots, if they are good ones."

That  had  been  one  of her last 'trifles', and John's eye had fallen on it as he spoke. "Oh, what will he say when he comes to that awful fifty
dollars!" thought Meg, with a shiver.

"It's worse than boots, it's a silk dress," she said, with the calmness of desperation, for she wanted the worst over.

"Well, dear, what is the 'dem'd total', as Mr. Mantalini says?"

That  didn't  sound  like  John,  and  she knew he was looking up at her with the straightforward look that she had always been ready to meet and
answer  with  one  as  frank  till  now.  She turned the page and her head at the same time, pointing to the sum which would have been bad enough
without  the  fifty,  but  which was appalling to her with that added. For a minute the room was very still, then John said slowly--but she could
feel it cost him an effort to express no displeasure--. . .

"Well, I don't know that fifty is much for a dress, with all the furbelows and notions you have to have to finish it off these days."

"It isn't made or trimmed," sighed Meg, faintly, for a sudden recollection of the cost still to be incurred quite overwhelmed her.

"Twenty-five  yards of silk seems a good deal to cover one small woman, but I've no doubt my wife will look as fine as Ned Moffat's when she gets
it on," said John dryly.

"I  know  you are angry, John, but I can't help it. I don't mean to waste your money, and I didn't think those little things would count up so. I
can't resist them when I see Sallie buying all she wants, and pitying me because I don't. I try to be contented, but it is hard, and I'm tired of
being poor."

The  last  words  were  spoken  so  low she thought he did not hear them, but he did, and they wounded him deeply, for he had denied himself many
pleasures for Meg's sake. She could have bitten her tongue out the minute she had said it, for John pushed the books away and got up, saying with
a  little quiver in his voice, "I was afraid of this. I do my best, Meg." If he had scolded her, or even shaken her, it would not have broken her
heart like those few words. She ran to him and held him close, crying, with repentant tears, "Oh, John, my dear, kind, hard-working boy. I didn't
mean it! It was so wicked, so untrue and ungrateful, how could I say it! Oh, how could I say it!"

He  was  very  kind,  forgave  her  readily,  and  did not utter one reproach, but Meg knew that she had done and said a thing which would not be
forgotten  soon,  although  he  might  never  allude  to  it again. She had promised to love him for better or worse, and then she, his wife, had
reproached  him  with  his  poverty,  after  spending  his  earnings recklessly. It was dreadful, and the worst of it was John went on so quietly
afterward, just as if nothing had happened, except that he stayed in town later, and worked at night when she had gone to cry herself to sleep. A
week  of  remorse  nearly  made Meg sick, and the discovery that John had countermanded the order for his new greatcoat reduced her to a state of
despair which was pathetic to behold. He had simply said, in answer to her surprised inquiries as to the change, "I can't afford it, my dear."

Meg said no more, but a few minutes after he found her in the hall with her face buried in the old greatcoat, crying as if her heart would break.

They  had  a long talk that night, and Meg learned to love her husband better for his poverty, because it seemed to have made a man of him, given
him  the  strength  and  courage  to  fight his own way, and taught him a tender patience with which to bear and comfort the natural longings and
failures of those he loved.

Next  day she put her pride in her pocket, went to Sallie, told the truth, and asked her to buy the silk as a favor. The good-natured Mrs. Moffat
willingly  did so, and had the delicacy not to make her a present of it immediately afterward. Then Meg ordered home the greatcoat, and when John
arrived,  she put it on, and asked him how he liked her new silk gown. One can imagine what answer he made, how he received his present, and what
a  blissful  state  of  things  ensued.  John  came  home early, Meg gadded no more, and that greatcoat was put on in the morning by a very happy
husband, and taken off at night by a most devoted little wife. So the year rolled round, and at midsummer there came to Meg a new experience, the
deepest and tenderest of a woman's life.

Laurie  came sneaking into the kitchen of the Dovecote one Saturday, with an excited face, and was received with the clash of cymbals, for Hannah
clapped her hands with a saucepan in one and the cover in the other.

"How's the little mamma? Where is everybody? Why didn't you tell me before I came home?" began Laurie in a loud whisper.

"Happy as a queen, the dear! Every soul of 'em is upstairs a worshipin'. We didn't want no hurrycanes round. Now you go into the parlor, and I'll
send 'em down to you," with which somewhat involved reply Hannah vanished, chuckling ecstatically.

Presently  Jo  appeared,  proudly  bearing  a flannel bundle laid forth upon a large pillow. Jo's face was very sober, but her eyes twinkled, and
there was an odd sound in her voice of repressed emotion of some sort.

"Shut your eyes and hold out your arms," she said invitingly.

Laurie  backed  precipitately into a corner, and put his hands behind him with an imploring gesture. "No, thank you. I'd rather not. I shall drop
it or smash it, as sure as fate."

"Then you shan't see your nevvy," said Jo decidedly, turning as if to go.

"I  will, I will! Only you must be responsible for damages." and obeying orders, Laurie heroically shut his eyes while something was put into his
arms.  A  peal  of laughter from Jo, Amy, Mrs. March, Hannah, and John caused him to open them the next minute, to find himself invested with two
babies instead of one.

No  wonder they laughed, for the expression of his face was droll enough to convulse a Quaker, as he stood and stared wildly from the unconscious
innocents to the hilarious spectators with such dismay that Jo sat down on the floor and screamed.

"Twins,  by  Jupiter!" was all he said for a minute, then turning to the women with an appealing look that was comically piteous, he added, "Take
'em quick, somebody! I'm going to laugh, and I shall drop 'em."

Jo  rescued  his  babies,  and marched up and down, with one on each arm, as if already initiated into the mysteries of babytending, while Laurie
laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.

"It's  the best joke of the season, isn't it? I wouldn't have told you, for I set my heart on surprising you, and I flatter myself I've done it,"
said Jo, when she got her breath.

"I  never  was  more staggered in my life. Isn't it fun? Are they boys? What are you going to name them? Let's have another look. Hold me up, Jo,
for  upon  my  life it's one too many for me," returned Laurie, regarding the infants with the air of a big, benevolent Newfoundland looking at a
pair of infantile kittens.

"Boy and girl. Aren't they beauties?" said the proud papa, beaming upon the little red squirmers as if they were unfledged angels.

"Most remarkable children I ever saw. Which is which?" and Laurie bent like a well-sweep to examine the prodigies.

"Amy  put a blue ribbon on the boy and a pink on the girl, French fashion, so you can always tell. Besides, one has blue eyes and one brown. Kiss
them, Uncle Teddy," said wicked Jo.

"I'm afraid they mightn't like it," began Laurie, with unusual timidity in such matters.

"Of course they will, they are used to it now. Do it this minute, sir!" commanded Jo, fearing he might propose a proxy.

Laurie screwed up his face and obeyed with a gingerly peck at each little cheek that produced another laugh, and made the babies squeal.

"There,  I knew they didn't like it! That's the boy, see him kick, he hits out with his fists like a good one. Now then, young Brooke, pitch into
a man of your own size, will you?" cried Laurie, delighted with a poke in the face from a tiny fist, flapping aimlessly about.

"He's to be named John Laurence, and the girl Margaret, after mother and grandmother. We shall call her Daisey, so as not to have two Megs, and I
suppose the mannie will be Jack, unless we find a better name," said Amy, with aunt-like interest.

"Name him Demijohn, and call him Demi for short," said Laurie

"Daisy and Demi, just the thing! I knew Teddy would do it," cried Jo clapping her hands.

Teddy certainly had done it that time, for the babies were 'Daisy' and 'Demi' to the end of the chapter.



CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CALLS

"Come, Jo, it's time."

"For what?"

"You don't mean to say you have forgotten that you promised to make half a dozen calls with me today?"

"I've  done  a good many rash and foolish things in my life, but I don't think I ever was mad enough to say I'd make six calls in one day, when a
single one upsets me for a week."

"Yes,  you  did,  it  was  a  bargain between us. I was to finish the crayon of Beth for you, and you were to go properly with me, and return our
neighbors' visits."

"If it was fair, that was in the bond, and I stand to the letter of my bond, Shylock. There is a pile of clouds in the east, it's not fair, and I
don't go."

"Now,  that's  shirking.  It's  a  lovely day, no prospect of rain, and you pride yourself on keeping promises, so be honorable, come and do your
duty, and then be at peace for another six months."

At  that  minute Jo was particularly absorbed in dressmaking, for she was mantua-maker general to the family, and took especial credit to herself
because  she  could  use a needle as well as a pen. It was very provoking to be arrested in the act of a first trying-on, and ordered out to make
calls  in her best array on a warm July day. She hated calls of the formal sort, and never made any till Amy compelled her with a bargain, bribe,
or promise. In the present instance there was no escape, and having clashed her scissors rebelliously, while protesting that she smelled thunder,
she gave in, put away her work, and taking up her hat and gloves with an air of resignation, told Amy the victim was ready.

"Jo  March,  you  are  perverse  enough  to provoke a saint! You don't intend to make calls in that state, I hope," cried Amy, surveying her with
amazement.

"Why not? I'm neat and cool and comfortable, quite proper for a dusty walk on a warm day. If people care more for my clothes than they do for me,
I  don't  wish to see them. You can dress for both, and be as elegant as you please. It pays for you to be fine. It doesn't for me, and furbelows
only worry me."

"Oh, dear!" sighed Amy, "now she's in a contrary fit, and will drive me distracted before I can get her properly ready. I'm sure it's no pleasure
to  me  to  go  today,  but it's a debt we owe society, and there's no one to pay it but you and me. I'll do anything for you, Jo, if you'll only
dress  yourself  nicely,  and  come  and  help  me  do  the  civil. You can talk so well, look so aristocratic in your best things, and behave so
beautifully, if you try, that I'm proud of you. I'm afraid to go alone, do come and take care of me."

"You're an artful little puss to flatter and wheedle your cross old sister in that way. The idea of my being aristocratic and well-bred, and your
being  afraid to go anywhere alone! I don't know which is the most absurd. Well, I'll go if I must, and do my best. You shall be commander of the
expedition, and I'll obey blindly, will that satisfy you?" said Jo, with a sudden change from perversity to lamblike submission.

"You're  a  perfect  cherub!  Now  put  on  all  your  best  things,  and I'll tell you how to behave at each place, so that you will make a good
impression.  I  want people to like you, and they would if you'd only try to be a little more agreeable. Do your hair the pretty way, and put the
pink  rose  in  your  bonnet.  It's becoming, and you look too sober in your plain suit. Take your light gloves and the embroidered handkerchief.
We'll stop at Meg's, and borrow her white sunshade, and then you can have my dove-colored one."

While  Amy  dressed, she issued her orders, and Jo obeyed them, not without entering her protest, however, for she sighed as she rustled into her
new  organdie,  frowned darkly at herself as she tied her bonnet strings in an irreproachable bow, wrestled viciously with pins as she put on her
collar,  wrinkled  up  her  features  generally  as she shook out the handkerchief, whose embroidery was as irritating to her nose as the present
mission  was  to  her  feelings,  and  when  she  had  squeezed her hands into tight gloves with three buttons and a tassel, as the last touch of
elegance, she turned to Amy with an imbecile expression of countenance, saying meekly . . .

"I'm perfectly miserable, but if you consider me presentable, I die happy."

"You're highly satisfactory. Turn slowly round, and let me get a careful view." Jo revolved, and Amy gave a touch here and there, then fell back,
with  her  head  on  one  side, observing graciously, "Yes, you'll do. Your head is all I could ask, for that white bonnet with the rose is quite
ravishing.  Hold back your shoulders, and carry your hands easily, no matter if your gloves do pinch. There's one thing you can do well, Jo, that
is,  wear  a  shawl.  I can't, but it's very nice to see you, and I'm so glad Aunt March gave you that lovely one. It's simple, but handsome, and
those  folds  over  the  arm  are  really artistic. Is the point of my mantle in the middle, and have I looped my dress evenly? I like to show my
boots, for my feet are pretty, though my nose isn't."

"You  are  a  thing of beauty and a joy forever," said Jo, looking through her hand with the air of a connoisseur at the blue feather against the
golden hair. "Am I to drag my best dress through the dust, or loop it up, please, ma'am?"

"Hold  it  up when you walk, but drop it in the house. The sweeping style suits you best, and you must learn to trail your skirts gracefully. You
haven't  half  buttoned one cuff, do it at once. You'll never look finished if you are not careful about the little details, for they make up the
pleasing whole."

Jo  sighed,  and  proceeded  to  burst  the buttons off her glove, in doing up her cuff, but at last both were ready, and sailed away, looking as
'pretty as picters', Hannah said, as she hung out of the upper window to watch them.

"Now,  Jo dear, the Chesters consider themselves very elegant people, so I want you to put on your best deportment. Don't make any of your abrupt
remarks,  or  do  anything odd, will you? Just be calm, cool, and quiet, that's safe and ladylike, and you can easily do it for fifteen minutes,"
said Amy, as they approached the first place, having borrowed the white parasol and been inspected by Meg, with a baby on each arm.

"Let  me  see.  'Calm, cool, and quiet', yes, I think I can promise that. I've played the part of a prim young lady on the stage, and I'll try it
off. My powers are great, as you shall see, so be easy in your mind, my child."

Amy  looked  relieved,  but  naughty  Jo  took her at her word, for during the first call she sat with every limb gracefully composed, every fold
correctly  draped,  calm  as a summer sea, cool as a snowbank, and as silent as the sphinx. In vain Mrs. Chester alluded to her 'charming novel',
and the Misses Chester introduced parties, picnics, the opera, and the fashions. Each and all were answered by a smile, a bow, and a demure "Yes"
or "No" with the chill on. In vain Amy telegraphed the word 'talk', tried to draw her out, and administered covert pokes with her foot. Jo sat as
if blandly unconscious of it all, with deportment like Maud's face, 'icily regular, splendidly null'.

"What a haughty, uninteresting creature that oldest Miss March is!" was the unfortunately audible remark of one of the ladies, as the door closed
upon  their  guests. Jo laughed noiselessly all through the hall, but Amy looked disgusted at the failure of her instructions, and very naturally
laid the blame upon Jo.

"How  could  you mistake me so? I merely meant you to be properly dignified and composed, and you made yourself a perfect stock and stone. Try to
be  sociable at the Lambs'. Gossip as other girls do, and be interested in dress and flirtations and whatever nonsense comes up. They move in the
best society, are valuable persons for us to know, and I wouldn't fail to make a good impression there for anything."

"I'll  be  agreeable.  I'll  gossip and giggle, and have horrors and raptures over any trifle you like. I rather enjoy this, and now I'll imitate
what  is called 'a charming girl'. I can do it, for I have May Chester as a model, and I'll improve upon her. See if the Lambs don't say, 'What a
lively, nice creature that Jo March is!"

Amy  felt  anxious, as well she might, for when Jo turned freakish there was no knowing where she would stop. Amy's face was a study when she saw
her  sister  skim  into the next drawing room, kiss all the young ladies with effusion, beam graciously upon the young gentlemen, and join in the
chat  with  a spirit which amazed the beholder. Amy was taken possession of by Mrs. Lamb, with whom she was a favorite, and forced to hear a long
account  of  Lucretia's  last attack, while three delightful young gentlemen hovered near, waiting for a pause when they might rush in and rescue
her.  So situated, she was powerless to check Jo, who seemed possessed by a spirit of mischief, and talked away as volubly as the lady. A knot of
heads gathered about her, and Amy strained her ears to hear what was going on, for broken sentences filled her with curiosity, and frequent peals
of laughter made her wild to share the fun. One may imagine her suffering on overhearing fragments of this sort of conversation.

"She rides splendidly. Who taught her?"

"No  one.  She  used  to  practice  mounting, holding the reins, and sitting straight on an old saddle in a tree. Now she rides anything, for she
doesn't  know  what fear is, and the stableman lets her have horses cheap because she trains them to carry ladies so well. She has such a passion
for it, I often tell her if everything else fails, she can be a horsebreaker, and get her living so."

At  this  awful speech Amy contained herself with difficulty, for the impression was being given that she was rather a fast young lady, which was
her  especial  aversion.  But  what could she do? For the old lady was in the middle of her story, and long before it was done, Jo was off again,
making more droll revelations and committing still more fearful blunders.

"Yes, Amy was in despair that day, for all the good beasts were gone, and of three left, one was lame, one blind, and the other so balky that you
had to put dirt in his mouth before he would start. Nice animal for a pleasure party, wasn't it?"

"Which did she choose?" asked one of the laughing gentlemen, who enjoyed the subject.

"None  of them. She heard of a young horse at the farm house over the river, and though a lady had never ridden him, she resolved to try, because
he  was  handsome  and spirited. Her struggles were really pathetic. There was no one to bring the horse to the saddle, so she took the saddle to
the  horse.  My dear creature, she actually rowed it over the river, put it on her head, and marched up to the barn to the utter amazement of the
old man!"

"Did she ride the horse?"

"Of  course  she did, and had a capital time. I expected to see her brought home in fragments, but she managed him perfectly, and was the life of
the party."

"Well,  I  call  that plucky!" and young Mr. Lamb turned an approving glance upon Amy, wondering what his mother could be saying to make the girl
look so red and uncomfortable.

She  was  still  redder and more uncomfortable a moment after, when a sudden turn in the conversation introduced the subject of dress. One of the
young ladies asked Jo where she got the pretty drab hat she wore to the picnic and stupid Jo, instead of mentioning the place where it was bought
two  years ago, must needs answer with unnecessary frankness, "Oh, Amy painted it. You can't buy those soft shades, so we paint ours any color we
like. It's a great comfort to have an artistic sister."

"Isn't that an original idea?" cried Miss Lamb, who found Jo great fun.

"That's  nothing  compared  to  some  of her brilliant performances. There's nothing the child can't do. Why, she wanted a pair of blue boots for
Sallie's  party,  so  she  just  painted her soiled white ones the loveliest shade of sky blue you ever saw, and they looked exactly like satin,"
added Jo, with an air of pride in her sister's accomplishments that exasperated Amy till she felt that it would be a relief to throw her cardcase
at her.

"We  read  a  story of yours the other day, and enjoyed it very much," observed the elder Miss Lamb, wishing to compliment the literary lady, who
did not look the character just then, it must be confessed.

Any  mention  of  her  'works'  always had a bad effect upon Jo, who either grew rigid and looked offended, or changed the subject with a brusque
remark,  as  now. "Sorry you could find nothing better to read. I write that rubbish because it sells, and ordinary people like it. Are you going
to New York this winter?"

As  Miss  Lamb  had  'enjoyed'  the  story, this speech was not exactly grateful or complimentary. The minute it was made Jo saw her mistake, but
fearing  to make the matter worse, suddenly remembered that it was for her to make the first move toward departure, and did so with an abruptness
that left three people with half-finished sentences in their mouths.

"Amy,  we  must  go.  Good-by,  dear, do come and see us. We are pining for a visit. I don't dare to ask you, Mr. Lamb, but if you should come, I
don't think I shall have the heart to send you away."

Jo  said  this  with  such a droll imitation of May Chester's gushing style that Amy got out of the room as rapidly as possible, feeling a strong
desire to laugh and cry at the same time.

"Didn't I do well?" asked Jo, with a satisfied air as they walked away.

"Nothing could have been worse," was Amy's crushing reply. "What possessed you to tell those stories about my saddle, and the hats and boots, and
all the rest of it?"

"Why,  it's  funny, and amuses people. They know we are poor, so it's no use pretending that we have grooms, buy three or four hats a season, and
have things as easy and fine as they do."

"You needn't go and tell them all our little shifts, and expose our poverty in that perfectly unnecessary way. You haven't a bit of proper pride,
and never will learn when to hold your tongue and when to speak," said Amy despairingly.

Poor Jo looked abashed, and silently chafed the end of her nose with the stiff handkerchief, as if performing a penance for her misdemeanors.

"How shall I behave here?" she asked, as they approached the third mansion.

"Just as you please. I wash my hands of you," was Amy's short answer.

"Then  I'll  enjoy myself. The boys are at home, and we'll have a comfortable time. Goodness knows I need a little change, for elegance has a bad
effect upon my constitution," returned Jo gruffly, being disturbed by her failure to suit.

An  enthusiastic  welcome from three big boys and several pretty children speedily soothed her ruffled feelings, and leaving Amy to entertain the
hostess  and  Mr. Tudor, who happened to be calling likewise, Jo devoted herself to the young folks and found the change refreshing. She listened
to  college  stories with deep interest, caressed pointers and poodles without a murmur, agreed heartily that "Tom Brown was a brick," regardless
of  the improper form of praise, and when one lad proposed a visit to his turtle tank, she went with an alacrity which caused Mamma to smile upon
her,  as  that  motherly  lady settled the cap which was left in a ruinous condition by filial hugs, bearlike but affectionate, and dearer to her
than the most faultless coiffure from the hands of an inspired Frenchwoman.

Leaving  her  sister to her own devices, Amy proceeded to enjoy herself to her heart's content. Mr. Tudor's uncle had married an English lady who
was  third  cousin  to  a living lord, and Amy regarded the whole family with great respect, for in spite of her American birth and breeding, she
possessed  that  reverence  for  titles  which  haunts the best of us--that unacknowledged loyalty to the early faith in kings which set the most
democratic  nation  under  the  sun in ferment at the coming of a royal yellow-haired laddie, some years ago, and which still has something to do
with  the  love the young country bears the old, like that of a big son for an imperious little mother, who held him while she could, and let him
go  with  a  farewell  scolding  when he rebelled. But even the satisfaction of talking with a distant connection of the British nobility did not
render  Amy forgetful of time, and when the proper number of minutes had passed, she reluctantly tore herself from this aristocratic society, and
looked  about  for Jo, fervently hoping that her incorrigible sister would not be found in any position which should bring disgrace upon the name
of March.

It  might  have  been  worse,  but  Amy  considered it bad. For Jo sat on the grass, with an encampment of boys about her, and a dirty-footed dog
reposing on the skirt of her state and festival dress, as she related one of Laurie's pranks to her admiring audience. One small child was poking
turtles  with  Amy's  cherished parasol, a second was eating gingerbread over Jo's best bonnet, and a third playing ball with her gloves, but all
were  enjoying  themselves, and when Jo collected her damaged property to go, her escort accompanied her, begging her to come again, "It was such
fun to hear about Laurie's larks."

"Capital  boys,  aren't  they?  I  feel  quite young and brisk again after that." said Jo, strolling along with her hands behind her, partly from
habit, partly to conceal the bespattered parasol.

"Why do you always avoid Mr. Tudor?" asked Amy, wisely refraining from any comment upon Jo's dilapidated appearance.

"Don't  like  him,  he puts on airs, snubs his sisters, worries his father, and doesn't speak respectfully of his mother. Laurie says he is fast,
and I don't consider him a desirable acquaintance, so I let him alone."

"You  might  treat  him  civilly,  at least. You gave him a cool nod, and just now you bowed and smiled in the politest way to Tommy Chamberlain,
whose father keeps a grocery store. If you had just reversed the nod and the bow, it would have been right," said Amy reprovingly.

"No, it wouldn't," returned Jo, "I neither like, respect, nor admire Tudor, though his grandfather's uncle's nephew's niece was a third cousin to
a  lord.  Tommy  is poor and bashful and good and very clever. I think well of him, and like to show that I do, for he is a gentleman in spite of
the brown paper parcels."

"It's no use trying to argue with you," began Amy.

"Not  the  least,  my  dear," interrupted Jo, "so let us look amiable, and drop a card here, as the Kings are evidently out, for which I'm deeply
grateful."

The  family  cardcase  having  done its duty the girls walked on, and Jo uttered another thanksgiving on reaching the fifth house, and being told
that the young ladies were engaged.

"Now  let  us  go  home, and never mind Aunt March today. We can run down there any time, and it's really a pity to trail through the dust in our
best bibs and tuckers, when we are tired and cross."

"Speak  for  yourself,  if  you  please.  Aunt March likes to have us pay her the compliment of coming in style, and making a formal call. It's a
little  thing to do, but it gives her pleasure, and I don't believe it will hurt your things half so much as letting dirty dogs and clumping boys
spoil them. Stoop down, and let me take the crumbs off of your bonnet."

"What  a  good  girl  you  are,  Amy!"  said  Jo, with a repentant glance from her own damaged costume to that of her sister, which was fresh and
spotless  still. "I wish it was as easy for me to do little things to please people as it is for you. I think of them, but it takes too much time
to do them, so I wait for a chance to confer a great favor, and let the small ones slip, but they tell best in the end, I fancy."

Amy  smiled  and was mollified at once, saying with a maternal air, "Women should learn to be agreeable, particularly poor ones, for they have no
other  way  of  repaying  the kindnesses they receive. If you'd remember that, and practice it, you'd be better liked than I am, because there is
more of you."

"I'm  a crotchety old thing, and always shall be, but I'm willing to own that you are right, only it's easier for me to risk my life for a person
than to be pleasant to him when I don't feel like it. It's a great misfortune to have such strong likes and dislikes, isn't it?"

"It's  a  greater not to be able to hide them. I don't mind saying that I don't approve of Tudor any more than you do, but I'm not called upon to
tell him so. Neither are you, and there is no use in making yourself disagreeable because he is."

"But  I  think  girls  ought to show when they disapprove of young men, and how can they do it except by their manners? Preaching does not do any
good,  as I know to my sorrow, since I've had Teddie to manage. But there are many little ways in which I can influence him without a word, and I
say we ought to do it to others if we can."

"Teddy  is  a remarkable boy, and can't be taken as a sample of other boys," said Amy, in a tone of solemn conviction, which would have convulsed
the 'remarkable boy' if he had heard it. "If we were belles, or women of wealth and position, we might do something, perhaps, but for us to frown
at one set of young gentlemen because we don't approve of them, and smile upon another set because we do, wouldn't have a particle of effect, and
we should only be considered odd and puritanical."

"So  we  are  to  countenance things and people which we detest, merely because we are not belles and millionaires, are we? That's a nice sort of
morality."

"I  can't  argue  about  it,  I  only know that it's the way of the world, and people who set themselves against it only get laughed at for their
pains. I don't like reformers, and I hope you never try to be one."

"I  do like them, and I shall be one if I can, for in spite of the laughing the world would never get on without them. We can't agree about that,
for  you  belong to the old set, and I to the new. You will get on the best, but I shall have the liveliest time of it. I should rather enjoy the
brickbats and hooting, I think."

"Well, compose yourself now, and don't worry Aunt with your new ideas."

"I'll  try not to, but I'm always possessed to burst out with some particularly blunt speech or revolutionary sentiment before her. It's my doom,
and I can't help it."

They  found  Aunt  Carrol  with  the  old  lady, both absorbed in some very interesting subject, but they dropped it as the girls came in, with a
conscious  look which betrayed that they had been talking about their nieces. Jo was not in a good humor, and the perverse fit returned, but Amy,
who  had  virtuously  done  her duty, kept her temper and pleased everybody, was in a most angelic frame of mind. This amiable spirit was felt at
once, and both aunts 'my deared' her affectionately, looking what they afterward said emphatically, "That child improves every day."

"Are you going to help about the fair, dear?" asked Mrs. Carrol, as Amy sat down beside her with the confiding air elderly people like so well in
the young.

"Yes, Aunt. Mrs. Chester asked me if I would, and I offered to tend a table, as I have nothing but my time to give."

"I'm  not,"  put  in  Jo  decidedly.  "I  hate  to be patronized, and the Chesters think it's a great favor to allow us to help with their highly
connected fair. I wonder you consented, Amy, they only want you to work."

"I  am  willing  to  work. It's for the freedmen as well as the Chesters, and I think it very kind of them to let me share the labor and the fun.
Patronage does not trouble me when it is well meant."

"Quite  right  and proper. I like your grateful spirit, my dear. It's a pleasure to help people who appreciate our efforts. Some do not, and that
is trying," observed Aunt March, looking over her spectacles at Jo, who sat apart, rocking herself, with a somewhat morose expression.

If  Jo  had  only  known  what  a  great  happiness was wavering in the balance for one of them, she would have turned dove-like in a minute, but
unfortunately,  we  don't have windows in our breasts, and cannot see what goes on in the minds of our friends. Better for us that we cannot as a
general  thing, but now and then it would be such a comfort, such a saving of time and temper. By her next speech, Jo deprived herself of several
years of pleasure, and received a timely lesson in the art of holding her tongue.

"I don't like favors, they oppress and make me feel like a slave. I'd rather do everything for myself, and be perfectly independent."

"Ahem!" coughed Aunt Carrol softly, with a look at Aunt March.

"I told you so," said Aunt March, with a decided nod to Aunt Carrol.

Mercifully unconscious of what she had done, Jo sat with her nose in the air, and a revolutionary aspect which was anything but inviting.

"Do you speak French, dear?" asked Mrs. Carrol, laying a hand on Amy's.

"Pretty  well, thanks to Aunt March, who lets Esther talk to me as often as I like," replied Amy, with a grateful look, which caused the old lady
to smile affably.

"How are you about languages?" asked Mrs. Carrol of Jo.

"Don't  know  a  word. I'm very stupid about studying anything, can't bear French, it's such a slippery, silly sort of language," was the brusque
reply.

Another  look  passed between the ladies, and Aunt March said to Amy, "You are quite strong and well now, dear, I believe? Eyes don't trouble you
any more, do they?"

"Not at all, thank you, ma'am. I'm very well, and mean to do great things next winter, so that I may be ready for Rome, whenever that joyful time
arrives."

"Good girl! You deserve to go, and I'm sure you will some day," said Aunt March, with an approving pat on the head, as Amy picked up her ball for
her.

Crosspatch, draw the latch, Sit by the fire and spin,

squalled  Polly, bending down from his perch on the back of her chair to peep into Jo's face, with such a comical air of impertinent inquiry that
it was impossible to help laughing.

"Most observing bird," said the old lady.

"Come and take a walk, my dear?" cried Polly, hopping toward the china closet, with a look suggestive of a lump of sugar.

"Thank  you,  I  will.  Come  Amy." and Jo brought the visit to an end, feeling more strongly than ever that calls did have a bad effect upon her
constitution.  She shook hands in a gentlemanly manner, but Amy kissed both the aunts, and the girls departed, leaving behind them the impression
of shadow and sunshine, which impression caused Aunt March to say, as they vanished . . .

"You'd better do it, Mary. I'll supply the money." and Aunt Carrol to reply decidedly, "I certainly will, if her father and mother consent."


CHAPTER THIRTY

CONSEQUENCES

Mrs.  Chester's fair was so very elegant and select that it was considered a great honor by the young ladies of the neighborhood to be invited to
take  a  table, and everyone was much interested in the matter. Amy was asked, but Jo was not, which was fortunate for all parties, as her elbows
were  decidedly  akimbo  at  this  period  of  her  life,  and  it  took a good many hard knocks to teach her how to get on easily. The 'haughty,
uninteresting  creature' was let severely alone, but Amy's talent and taste were duly complimented by the offer of the art table, and she exerted
herself to prepare and secure appropriate and valuable contributions to it.

Everything  went  on smoothly till the day before the fair opened, then there occurred one of the little skirmishes which it is almost impossible
to avoid, when some five-and-twenty women, old and young, with all their private piques and prejudices, try to work together.

May  Chester  was  rather  jealous  of  Amy  because  the  latter  was  a  greater  favorite than herself, and just at this time several trifling
circumstances occurred to increase the feeling. Amy's dainty pen-and-ink work entirely eclipsed May's painted vases--that was one thorn. Then the
all  conquering  Tudor  had danced four times with Amy at a late party and only once with May--that was thorn number two. But the chief grievance
that  rankled  in  her soul, and gave an excuse for her unfriendly conduct, was a rumor which some obliging gossip had whispered to her, that the
March  girls had made fun of her at the Lambs'. All the blame of this should have fallen upon Jo, for her naughty imitation had been too lifelike
to  escape  detection,  and  the  frolicsome Lambs had permitted the joke to escape. No hint of this had reached the culprits, however, and Amy's
dismay  can  be  imagined, when, the very evening before the fair, as she was putting the last touches to her pretty table, Mrs. Chester, who, of
course, resented the supposed ridicule of her daughter, said, in a bland tone, but with a cold look . . .

"I  find,  dear,  that  there  is  some  feeling  among  the  young ladies about my giving this table to anyone but my girls. As this is the most
prominent, and some say the most attractive table of all, and they are the chief getters-up of the fair, it is thought best for them to take this
place.  I'm  sorry, but I know you are too sincerely interested in the cause to mind a little personal disappointment, and you shall have another
table if you like."

Mrs.  Chester  fancied  beforehand  that it would be easy to deliver this little speech, but when the time came, she found it rather difficult to
utter it naturally, with Amy's unsuspicious eyes looking straight at her full of surprise and trouble.

Amy  felt  that there was something behind this, but could not guess what, and said quietly, feeling hurt, and showing that she did, "Perhaps you
had rather I took no table at all?"

"Now,  my  dear,  don't have any ill feeling, I beg. It's merely a matter of expediency, you see, my girls will naturally take the lead, and this
table  is considered their proper place. I think it very appropriate to you, and feel very grateful for your efforts to make it so pretty, but we
must  give  up our private wishes, of course, and I will see that you have a good place elsewhere. Wouldn't you like the flower table? The little
girls undertook it, but they are discouraged. You could make a charming thing of it, and the flower table is always attractive you know."

"Especially  to  gentlemen," added May, with a look which enlightened Amy as to one cause of her sudden fall from favor. She colored angrily, but
took no other notice of that girlish sarcasm, and answered with unexpected amiability . . .

"It shall be as you please, Mrs. Chester. I'll give up my place here at once, and attend to the flowers, if you like."

"You  can  put  your  own  things on your own table, if you prefer," began May, feeling a little conscience-stricken, as she looked at the pretty
racks,  the  painted  shells, and quaint illuminations Amy had so carefully made and so gracefully arranged. She meant it kindly, but Amy mistook
her meaning, and said quickly . . .

"Oh,  certainly, if they are in your way," and sweeping her contributions into her apron, pell-mell, she walked off, feeling that herself and her
works of art had been insulted past forgiveness.

"Now she's mad. Oh, dear, I wish I hadn't asked you to speak, Mama," said May, looking disconsolately at the empty spaces on her table.

"Girls' quarrels are soon over," returned her mother, feeling a trifle ashamed of her own part in this one, as well she might.

The  little girls hailed Amy and her treasures with delight, which cordial reception somewhat soothed her perturbed spirit, and she fell to work,
determined  to  succeed  florally, if she could not artistically. But everything seemed against her. It was late, and she was tired. Everyone was
too  busy with their own affairs to help her, and the little girls were only hindrances, for the dears fussed and chattered like so many magpies,
making a great deal of confusion in their artless efforts to preserve the most perfect order. The evergreen arch wouldn't stay firm after she got
it  up,  but  wiggled  and threatened to tumble down on her head when the hanging baskets were filled. Her best tile got a splash of water, which
left  a  sepia tear on the Cupid's cheek. She bruised her hands with hammering, and got cold working in a draft, which last affliction filled her
with  apprehensions for the morrow. Any girl reader who has suffered like afflictions will sympathize with poor Amy and wish her well through her
task.

There  was  great indignation at home when she told her story that evening. Her mother said it was a shame, but told her she had done right. Beth
declared  she  wouldn't  go  to  the fair at all, and Jo demanded why she didn't take all her pretty things and leave those mean people to get on
without her.

"Because  they  are mean is no reason why I should be. I hate such things, and though I think I've a right to be hurt, I don't intend to show it.
They will feel that more than angry speeches or huffy actions, won't they, Marmee?"

"That's  the  right spirit, my dear. A kiss for a blow is always best, though it's not very easy to give it sometimes," said her mother, with the
air of one who had learned the difference between preaching and practicing.

In  spite  of  various  very  natural temptations to resent and retaliate, Amy adhered to her resolution all the next day, bent on conquering her
enemy  by  kindness.  She  began well, thanks to a silent reminder that came to her unexpectedly, but most opportunely. As she arranged her table
that  morning,  while the little girls were in the anteroom filling the baskets, she took up her pet production, a little book, the antique cover
of  which  her  father  had  found  among his treasures, and in which on leaves of vellum she had beautifully illuminated different texts. As she
turned  the  pages  rich  in  dainty  devices  with  very pardonable pride, her eye fell upon one verse that made her stop and think. Framed in a
brilliant  scrollwork  of  scarlet, blue and gold, with little spirits of good will helping one another up and down among the thorns and flowers,
were the words, "Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself."

"I  ought,  but  I don't," thought Amy, as her eye went from the bright page to May's discontented face behind the big vases, that could not hide
the  vacancies  her  pretty  work  had once filled. Amy stood a minute, turning the leaves in her hand, reading on each some sweet rebuke for all
heartburnings  and  uncharitableness  of spirit. Many wise and true sermons are preached us every day by unconscious ministers in street, school,
office,  or  home.  Even  a  fair  table  may  become  a  pulpit, if it can offer the good and helpful words which are never out of season. Amy's
conscience  preached  her a little sermon from that text, then and there, and she did what many of us do not always do, took the sermon to heart,
and straightway put it in practice.

A  group  of  girls  were  standing  about May's table, admiring the pretty things, and talking over the change of saleswomen. They dropped their
voices,  but  Amy knew they were speaking of her, hearing one side of the story and judging accordingly. It was not pleasant, but a better spirit
had come over her, and presently a chance offered for proving it. She heard May say sorrowfully . . .

"It's  too  bad, for there is no time to make other things, and I don't want to fill up with odds and ends. The table was just complete then. Now
it's spoiled."

"I dare say she'd put them back if you asked her," suggested someone.

"How could I after all the fuss?" began May, but she did not finish, for Amy's voice came across the hall, saying pleasantly . . .

"You  may have them, and welcome, without asking, if you want them. I was just thinking I'd offer to put them back, for they belong to your table
rather than mine. Here they are, please take them, and forgive me if I was hasty in carrying them away last night."

As  she  spoke,  Amy returned her contribution, with a nod and a smile, and hurried away again, feeling that it was easier to do a friendly thing
than it was to stay and be thanked for it.

"Now, I call that lovely of her, don't you?" cried one girl.

May's  answer  was  inaudible,  but another young lady, whose temper was evidently a little soured by making lemonade, added, with a disagreeable
laugh, "Very lovely, for she knew she wouldn't sell them at her own table."

Now,  that  was  hard. When we make little sacrifices we like to have them appreciated, at least, and for a minute Amy was sorry she had done it,
feeling  that  virtue  was  not  always  its  own reward. But it is, as she presently discovered, for her spirits began to rise, and her table to
blossom under her skillful hands, the girls were very kind, and that one little act seemed to have cleared the atmosphere amazingly.

It was a very long day and a hard one for Amy, as she sat behind her table, often quite alone, for the little girls deserted very soon. Few cared
to buy flowers in summer, and her bouquets began to droop long before night.

The  art  table  was  the most attractive in the room. There was a crowd about it all day long, and the tenders were constantly flying to and fro
with  important faces and rattling money boxes. Amy often looked wistfully across, longing to be there, where she felt at home and happy, instead
of in a corner with nothing to do. It might seem no hardship to some of us, but to a pretty, blithe young girl, it was not only tedious, but very
trying, and the thought of Laurie and his friends made it a real martyrdom.

She  did  not go home till night, and then she looked so pale and quiet that they knew the day had been a hard one, though she made no complaint,
and  did  not  even  tell  what  she had done. Her mother gave her an extra cordial cup of tea. Beth helped her dress, and made a charming little
wreath  for her hair, while Jo astonished her family by getting herself up with unusual care, and hinting darkly that the tables were about to be
turned.

"Don't  do anything rude, pray Jo; I won't have any fuss made, so let it all pass and behave yourself," begged Amy, as she departed early, hoping
to find a reinforcement of flowers to refresh her poor little table.

"I  merely  intend  to make myself entrancingly agreeable to every one I know, and to keep them in your corner as long as possible. Teddy and his
boys  will lend a hand, and we'll have a good time yet." returned Jo, leaning over the gate to watch for Laurie. Presently the familiar tramp was
heard in the dusk, and she ran out to meet him.

"Is that my boy?"

"As sure as this is my girl!" and Laurie tucked her hand under his arm with the air of a man whose every wish was gratified.

"Oh, Teddy, such doings!" and Jo told Amy's wrongs with sisterly zeal.

"A  flock  of  our  fellows  are going to drive over by-and-by, and I'll be hanged if I don't make them buy every flower she's got, and camp down
before her table afterward," said Laurie, espousing her cause with warmth.

"The  flowers  are not at all nice, Amy says, and the fresh ones may not arrive in time. I don't wish to be unjust or suspicious, but I shouldn't
wonder if they never came at all. When people do one mean thing they are very likely to do another," observed Jo in a disgusted tone.

"Didn't Hayes give you the best out of our gardens? I told him to."

"I didn't know that, he forgot, I suppose, and, as your grandpa was poorly, I didn't like to worry him by asking, though I did want some."

"Now,  Jo, how could you think there was any need of asking? They are just as much yours as mine. Don't we always go halves in everything?" began
Laurie, in the tone that always made Jo turn thorny.

"Gracious,  I hope not! Half of some of your things wouldn't suit me at all. But we mustn't stand philandering here. I've got to help Amy, so you
go and make yourself splendid, and if you'll be so very kind as to let Hayes take a few nice flowers up to the Hall, I'll bless you forever."

"Couldn't  you  do it now?" asked Laurie, so suggestively that Jo shut the gate in his face with inhospitable haste, and called through the bars,
"Go away, Teddy, I'm busy."

Thanks  to  the conspirators, the tables were turned that night, for Hayes sent up a wilderness of flowers, with a 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 its own reward, after all.

Jo  behaved herself with exemplary propriety, and when Amy was happily surrounded by her guard of honor, Jo circulated about the Hall, picking up
various  bits  of  gossip,  which enlightened her upon the subject of the Chester change of base. She reproached herself for her share of the ill
feeling  and resolved to exonerate Amy as soon as possible. She also discovered what Amy had done about the things in the morning, and considered
her  a  model of magnanimity. As she passed the art table, she glanced over it for her sister's things, but saw no sign of them. "Tucked away out
of sight, I dare say," thought Jo, who could forgive her own wrongs, but hotly resented any insult offered her family.

"Good evening, Miss Jo. How does Amy get on?" asked May with a conciliatory air, for she wanted to show that she also could be generous.

"She  has  sold  everything  she  had  that  was worth selling, and now she is enjoying herself. The flower table is always attractive, you know,
'especially  to  gentlemen'."  Jo couldn't resist giving that little slap, but May took it so meekly she regretted it a minute after, and fell to
praising the great vases, which still remained unsold.

"Is Amy's illumination anywhere about? I took a fancy to buy that for Father," said Jo, very anxious to learn the fate of her sister's work.

"Everything  of  Amy's sold long ago. I took care that the right people saw them, and they made a nice little sum of money for us," returned May,
who had overcome sundry small temptations, as well as Amy had, that day.

Much gratified, Jo rushed back to tell the good news, and Amy looked both touched and surprised by the report of May's word and manner.

"Now,  gentlemen,  I  want you to go and do your duty by the other tables as generously as you have by mine, especially the art table," she said,
ordering out 'Teddy's own', as the girls called the college friends.

"'Charge,  Chester,  charge!'  is the motto for that table, but do your duty like men, and you'll get your money's worth of art in every sense of
the word," said the irrepressible Jo, as the devoted phalanx prepared to take the field.

"To  hear  is  to  obey,  but March is fairer far than May," said little Parker, making a frantic effort to be both witty and tender, and getting
promptly quenched by Laurie, who said . . .

"Very well, my son, for a small boy!" and walked him off, with a paternal pat on the head.

"Buy the vases," whispered Amy to Laurie, as a final heaping of coals of fire on her enemy's head.

To  May's  great  delight,  Mr. Laurence not only bought the vases, but pervaded the hall with one under each arm. The other gentlemen speculated
with  equal  rashness  in  all sorts of frail trifles, and wandered helplessly about afterward, burdened with wax flowers, painted fans, filigree
portfolios, and other useful and appropriate purchases.

Aunt  Carrol  was  there,  heard  the  story,  looked pleased, and said something to Mrs. March in a corner, which made the latter lady beam with
satisfaction,  and watch Amy with a face full of mingled pride and anxiety, though she did not betray the cause of her pleasure till several days
later.

The  fair  was  pronounced  a  success, and when May bade Amy goodnight, she did not gush as usual, but gave her an affectionate kiss, and a look
which  said  'forgive and forget'. That satisfied Amy, and when she got home she found the vases paraded on the parlor chimney piece with a great
bouquet in each. "The reward of merit for a magnanimous March," as Laurie announced with a flourish.

"You've  a  deal  more  principle  and  generosity and nobleness of character than I ever gave you credit for, Amy. You've behaved sweetly, and I
respect you with all my heart," said Jo warmly, as they brushed their hair together late that night.

"Yes,  we  all do, and love her for being so ready to forgive. It must have been dreadfully hard, after working so long and setting your heart on
selling your own pretty things. I don't believe I could have done it as kindly as you did," added Beth from her pillow.

"Why,  girls,  you  needn't  praise  me  so.  I  only  did  as  I'd be done by. You laugh at me when I say I want to be a lady, but I mean a true
gentlewoman  in  mind and manners, and I try to do it as far as I know how. I can't explain exactly, but I want to be above the little meannesses
and follies and faults that spoil so many women. I'm far from it now, but I do my best, and hope in time to be what Mother is."

Amy  spoke  earnestly,  and  Jo  said, with a cordial hug, "I understand now what you mean, and I'll never laugh at you again. You are getting on
faster  than  you  think,  and I'll take lessons of you in true politeness, for you've learned the secret, I believe. Try away, deary, you'll get
your reward some day, and no one will be more delighted than I shall."

A  week  later  Amy  did  get  her  reward,  and poor Jo found it hard to be delighted. A letter came from Aunt Carrol, and Mrs. March's face was
illuminated to such a degree when she read it that Jo and Beth, who were with her, demanded what the glad tidings were.

"Aunt Carrol is going abroad next month, and wants . . ."

"Me to go with her!" burst in Jo, flying out of her chair in an uncontrollable rapture.

"No, dear, not you. It's Amy."

"Oh, Mother! She's too young, it's my turn first. I've wanted it so long. It would do me so much good, and be so altogether splendid. I must go!"

"I'm afraid it's impossible, Jo. Aunt says Amy, decidedly, and it is not for us to dictate when she offers such a favor."

"It's always so. Amy has all the fun and I have all the work. It isn't fair, oh, it isn't fair!" cried Jo passionately.

"I'm  afraid  it's partly your own fault, dear. When Aunt spoke to me the other day, she regretted your blunt manners and too independent spirit,
and  here  she writes, as if quoting something you had said--'I planned at first to ask Jo, but as 'favors burden her', and she 'hates French', I
think  I  won't  venture to invite her. Amy is more docile, will make a good companion for Flo, and receive gratefully any help the trip may give
her."

"Oh, my tongue, my abominable tongue! Why can't I learn to keep it quiet?" groaned Jo, remembering words which had been her undoing. When she had
heard the explanation of the quoted phrases, Mrs. March said sorrowfully . . .

"I wish you could have gone, but there is no hope of it this time, so try to bear it cheerfully, and don't sadden Amy's pleasure by reproaches or
regrets."

"I'll  try," said Jo, winking hard as she knelt down to pick up the basket she had joyfully upset. "I'll take a leaf out of her book, and try not
only to seem glad, but to be so, and not grudge her one minute of happiness. But it won't be easy, for it is a dreadful disappointment," and poor
Jo bedewed the little fat pincushion she held with several very bitter tears.

"Jo,  dear, I'm very selfish, but I couldn't spare you, and I'm glad you are not going quite yet," whispered Beth, embracing her, basket and all,
with such a clinging touch and loving face that Jo felt comforted in spite of the sharp regret that made her want to box her own ears, and humbly
beg Aunt Carrol to burden her with this favor, and see how gratefully she would bear it.

By the time Amy came in, Jo was able to take her part in the family jubilation, not quite as heartily as usual, perhaps, but without repinings at
Amy's  good  fortune. The young lady herself received the news as tidings of great joy, went about in a solemn sort of rapture, and began to sort
her colors and pack her pencils that evening, leaving such trifles as clothes, money, and passports to those less absorbed in visions of art than
herself.

"It  isn't  a  mere pleasure trip to me, girls," she said impressively, as she scraped her best palette. "It will decide my career, for if I have
any genius, I shall find it out in Rome, and will do something to prove it."

"Suppose you haven't?" said Jo, sewing away, with red eyes, at the new collars which were to be handed over to Amy.

"Then  I  shall come home and teach drawing for my living," replied the aspirant for fame, with philosophic composure. But she made a wry face at
the prospect, and scratched away at her palette as if bent on vigorous measures before she gave up her hopes.

"No, you won't. You hate hard work, and you'll marry some rich man, and come home to sit in the lap of luxury all your days," said Jo.

"Your  predictions  sometimes  come  to  pass, but I don't believe that one will. I'm sure I wish it would, for if I can't be an artist myself, I
should  like  to  be  able  to help those who are," said Amy, smiling, as if the part of Lady Bountiful would suit her better than that of a poor
drawing teacher.

"Hum!" said Jo, with a sigh. "If you wish it you'll have it, for your wishes are always granted--mine never."

"Would you like to go?" asked Amy, thoughtfully patting her nose with her knife.

"Rather!"

"Well, in a year or two I'll send for you, and we'll dig in the Forum for relics, and carry out all the plans we've made so many times."

"Thank  you. I'll remind you of your promise when that joyful day comes, if it ever does," returned Jo, accepting the vague but magnificent offer
as gratefully as she could.

There  was  not  much  time  for preparation, and the house was in a ferment till Amy was off. Jo bore up very well till the last flutter of blue
ribbon  vanished,  when  she  retired  to her refuge, the garret, and cried till she couldn't cry any more. Amy likewise bore up stoutly till the
steamer sailed. Then just as the gangway was about to be withdrawn, it suddenly came over her that a whole ocean was soon to roll between her and
those who loved her best, and she clung to Laurie, the last lingerer, saying with a sob . . .

"Oh, take care of them for me, and if anything should happen . . ."

"I  will,  dear,  I  will, and if anything happens, I'll come and comfort you," whispered Laurie, little dreaming that he would be called upon to
keep his word.

So  Amy  sailed  away  to  find  the Old World, which is always new and beautiful to young eyes, while her father and friend watched her from the
shore, fervently hoping that none but gentle fortunes would befall the happy-hearted girl, who waved her hand to them till they could see nothing
but the summer sunshine dazzling on the sea.



CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

OUR FOREIGN CORRESPONDENT

London

Dearest  People,  Here  I  really sit at a front window of the Bath Hotel, Piccadilly. It's not a fashionable place, but Uncle stopped here years
ago,  and won't go anywhere else. However, we don't mean to stay long, so it's no great matter. Oh, I can't begin to tell you how I enjoy it all!
I never can, so I'll only give you bits out of my notebook, for I've done nothing but sketch and scribble since I started.

I  sent  a  line  from  Halifax,  when I felt pretty miserable, but after that I got on delightfully, seldom ill, on deck all day, with plenty of
pleasant  people  to amuse me. Everyone was very kind to me, especially the officers. Don't laugh, Jo, gentlemen really are very necessary aboard
ship, to hold on to, or to wait upon one, and as they have nothing to do, it's a mercy to make them useful, otherwise they would smoke themselves
to death, I'm afraid.

Aunt  and Flo were poorly all the way, and liked to be let alone, so when I had done what I could for them, I went and enjoyed myself. Such walks
on  deck, such sunsets, such splendid air and waves! It was almost as exciting as riding a fast horse, when we went rushing on so grandly. I wish
Beth  could  have  come,  it would have done her so much good. As for Jo, she would have gone up and sat on the maintop jib, or whatever the high
thing is called, made friends with the engineers, and tooted on the captain's speaking trumpet, she'd have been in such a state of rapture.

It was all heavenly, but I was glad to see the Irish coast, and found it very lovely, so green and sunny, with brown cabins here and there, ruins
on  some  of  the  hills,  and gentlemen's countryseats in the valleys, with deer feeding in the parks. It was early in the morning, but I didn't
regret getting up to see it, for the bay was full of little boats, the shore so picturesque, and a rosy sky overhead. I never shall forget it.

At  Queenstown one of my new acquaintances left us, Mr. Lennox, and when I said something about the Lakes of Killarney, he sighed, and sung, with
a look at me . . .

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

Wasn't that nonsensical?

We  only  stopped  at Liverpool a few hours. It's a dirty, noisy place, and I was glad to leave it. Uncle rushed out and bought a pair of dogskin
gloves,  some  ugly,  thick shoes, and an umbrella, and got shaved _'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 saw a pair exchange rose buds, for it's the
thing to wear one in the button-hole, and I thought it rather a nice little idea.

In  the  P.M.  to  Westminster Abbey, but don't expect me to describe it, that's impossible, so I'll only say it was sublime! This evening we are
going to see Fechter, which will be an appropriate end to the happiest day of my life.

It's  very late, but I can't let my letter go in the morning without telling you what happened last evening. Who do you think came in, as we were
at  tea?  Laurie's  English  friends, Fred and Frank Vaughn! I was so surprised, for I shouldn't have known them but for the cards. Both are tall
fellows  with  whiskers,  Fred  handsome  in the English style, and Frank much better, for he only limps slightly, and uses no crutches. They had
heard  from  Laurie  where  we were to be, and came to ask us to their house, but Uncle won't go, so we shall return the call, and see them as we
can.  They  went  to  the  theater  with us, and we did have such a good time, for Frank devoted himself to Flo, and Fred and I talked over past,
present,  and future fun as if we had known each other all our days. Tell Beth Frank asked for her, and was sorry to hear of her ill health. Fred
laughed  when I spoke of Jo, and sent his 'respectful compliments to the big hat'. Neither of them had forgotten Camp Laurence, or the fun we had
there. What ages ago it seems, doesn't it?

Aunt  is  tapping on the wall for the third time, so I must stop. I really feel like a dissipated London fine lady, writing here so late, with my
room  full  of  pretty  things,  and  my  head  a jumble of parks, theaters, new gowns, and gallant creatures who say "Ah!" and twirl their blond
mustaches with the true English lordliness. I long to see you all, and in spite of my nonsense am, as ever, your loving . . .

AMY


PARIS

Dear girls,

In  my  last  I  told  you  about our London visit, how kind the Vaughns were, and what pleasant parties they made for us. I enjoyed the trips to
Hampton  Court  and  the  Kensington  Museum  more  than anything else, for at Hampton I saw Raphael's cartoons, and at the Museum, rooms full of
pictures  by  Turner,  Lawrence,  Reynolds,  Hogarth,  and the other great creatures. The day in Richmond Park was charming, for we had a regular
English picnic, and I had more splendid oaks and groups of deer than I could copy, also heard a nightingale, and saw larks go up. We 'did' London
to  our  heart's  content, thanks to Fred and Frank, and were sorry to go away, for though English people are slow to take you in, when they once
make  up  their  minds  to  do it they cannot be outdone in hospitality, I think. The Vaughns hope to meet us in Rome next winter, and I shall be
dreadfully disappointed if they don't, for Grace and I are great friends, and the boys very nice fellows, especially Fred.

Well,  we were hardly settled here, when he turned up again, saying he had come for a holiday, and was going to Switzerland. Aunt looked sober at
first,  but  he  was  so  cool about it she couldn't say a word. And now we get on nicely, and are very glad he came, for he speaks French like a
native,  and  I  don't know what we should do without him. Uncle doesn't know ten words, and insists on talking English very loud, as if it would
make people understand him. Aunt's pronunciation is old-fashioned, and Flo and I, though we flattered ourselves that we knew a good deal, find we
don't, and are very grateful to have Fred do the '_parley vooing_', as Uncle calls it.

Such  delightful times as we are having! Sight-seeing from morning till night, stopping for nice lunches in the gay _cafes_, and meeting with all
sorts  of  droll  adventures.  Rainy  days I spend in the Louvre, revelling in pictures. Jo would turn up her naughty nose at some of the finest,
because  she  has  no  soul  for  art,  but I have, and I'm cultivating eye and taste as fast as I can. She would like the relics of great people
better, for I've seen her Napoleon's cocked hat and gray coat, his baby's cradle and his old toothbrush, also Marie Antoinette's little shoe, the
ring  of  Saint  Denis,  Charlemagne's  sword, and many other interesting things. I'll talk for hours about them when I come, but haven't time to
write.

The Palais Royale is a heavenly place, so full of _bijouterie_ and lovely things that I'm nearly distracted because I can't buy them. Fred wanted
to  get  me  some, but of course I didn't allow it. Then the Bois and Champs Elysees are _tres magnifique_. I've seen the imperial family several
times,  the  emperor  an  ugly,  hard-looking man, the empress pale and pretty, but dressed in bad taste, I thought--purple dress, green hat, and
yellow  gloves.  Little  Nap  is a handsome boy, who sits chatting to his tutor, and kisses his hand to the people as he passes in his four-horse
barouche, with postilions in red satin jackets and a mounted guard before and behind.

We  often  walk  in  the  Tuileries  Gardens,  for  they are lovely, though the antique Luxembourg Gardens suit me better. Pere la Chaise is very
curious,  for  many  of the tombs are like small rooms, and looking in, one sees a table, with images or pictures of the dead, and chairs for the
mourners to sit in when they come to lament. That is so Frenchy.

Our  rooms  are on the Rue de Rivoli, and sitting on the balcony, we look up and down the long, brilliant street. It is so pleasant that we spend
our  evenings  talking  there when too tired with our day's work to go out. Fred is very entertaining, and is altogether the most agreeable young
man I ever knew--except Laurie, whose manners are more charming. I wish Fred was dark, for I don't fancy light men, however, the Vaughns are very
rich and come of an excellent family, so I won't find fault with their yellow hair, as my own is yellower.

Next  week  we  are off to Germany and Switzerland, and as we shall travel fast, I shall only be able to give you hasty letters. I keep my diary,
and  try  to  'remember  correctly  and  describe  clearly all that I see and admire', as Father advised. It is good practice for me, and with my
sketchbook will give you a better idea of my tour than these scribbles.

Adieu, I embrace you tenderly. _"Votre Amie.""_


HEIDELBERG

My dear Mamma,

Having a quiet hour before we leave for Berne, I'll try to tell you what has happened, for some of it is very important, as you will see.

The  sail  up  the  Rhine  was perfect, and I just sat and enjoyed it with all my might. Get Father's old guidebooks and read about it. I haven't
words  beautiful enough to describe it. At Coblentz we had a lovely time, for some students from Bonn, with whom Fred got acquainted on the boat,
gave  us  a serenade. It was a moonlight night, and about one o'clock Flo and I were waked by the most delicious music under our windows. We flew
up,  and  hid  behind  the curtains, but sly peeps showed us Fred and the students singing away down below. It was the most romantic thing I ever
saw--the river, the bridge of boats, the great fortress opposite, moonlight everywhere, and music fit to melt a heart of stone.

When  they  were done we threw down some flowers, and saw them scramble for them, kiss their hands to the invisible ladies, and go laughing away,
to  smoke  and  drink beer, I suppose. Next morning Fred showed me one of the crumpled flowers in his vest pocket, and looked very sentimental. I
laughed  at him, and said I didn't throw it, but Flo, which seemed to disgust him, for he tossed it out of the window, and turned sensible again.
I'm afraid I'm going to have trouble with that boy, it begins to look like it.

The  baths  at  Nassau  were very gay, so was Baden-Baden, where Fred lost some money, and I scolded him. He needs someone to look after him when
Frank  is  not  with  him.  Kate  said  once  she  hoped he'd marry soon, and I quite agree with her that it would be well for him. Frankfurt was
delightful. I saw Goethe's house, Schiller's statue, and Dannecker's famous 'Ariadne.' It was very lovely, but I should have enjoyed it more if I
had  known  the  story  better. I didn't like to ask, as everyone knew it or pretended they did. I wish Jo would tell me all about it. I ought to
have read more, for I find I don't know anything, and it mortifies me.

Now  comes  the  serious  part,  for it happened here, and Fred has just gone. He has been so kind and jolly that we all got quite fond of him. I
never  thought  of  anything  but a traveling friendship till the serenade night. Since then I've begun to feel that the moonlight walks, balcony
talks,  and  daily adventures were something more to him than fun. I haven't flirted, Mother, truly, but remembered what you said to me, and have
done  my  very  best.  I  can't help it if people like me. I don't try to make them, and it worries me if I don't care for them, though Jo says I
haven't  got  any  heart. Now I know Mother will shake her head, and the girls say, "Oh, the mercenary little wretch!", but I've made up my mind,
and  if  Fred  asks  me, I shall accept him, though I'm not madly in love. I like him, and we get on comfortably together. He is handsome, young,
clever enough, and very rich--ever so much richer than the Laurences. I don't think his family would object, and I should be very happy, for they
are all kind, well-bred, generous people, and they like me. Fred, as the eldest twin, will have the estate, I suppose, and such a splendid one it
is!  A  city  house  in  a fashionable street, not so showy as our big houses, but twice as comfortable and full of solid luxury, such as English
people believe in. I like it, for it's genuine. I've seen the plate, the family jewels, the old servants, and pictures of the country place, with
its  park,  great  house,  lovely grounds, and fine horses. Oh, it would be all I should ask! And I'd rather have it than any title such as girls
snap  up  so readily, and find nothing behind. I may be mercenary, but I hate poverty, and don't mean to bear it a minute longer than I can help.
One of us _must_ marry well. Meg didn't, Jo won't, Beth can't yet, so I shall, and make everything okay all round. I wouldn't marry a man I hated
or  despised. You may be sure of that, and though Fred is not my model hero, he does very well, and in time I should get fond enough of him if he
was  very fond of me, and let me do just as I liked. So I've been turning the matter over in my mind the last week, for it was impossible to help
seeing  that  Fred liked me. He said nothing, but little things showed it. He never goes with Flo, always gets on my side of the carriage, table,
or  promenade,  looks sentimental when we are alone, and frowns at anyone else who ventures to speak to me. Yesterday at dinner, when an Austrian
officer  stared at us and then said something to his friend, a rakish-looking baron, about '_ein wonderschones Blondchen'_, Fred looked as fierce
as  a  lion, and cut his meat so savagely it nearly flew off his plate. He isn't one of the cool, stiff Englishmen, but is rather peppery, for he
has Scotch blood in him, as one might guess from his bonnie blue eyes.

Well,  last evening we went up to the castle about sunset, at least all of us but Fred, who was to meet us there after going to the Post Restante
for  letters.  We  had a charming time poking about the ruins, the vaults where the monster tun is, and the beautiful gardens made by the elector
long  ago  for  his  English wife. I liked the great terrace best, for the view was divine, so while the rest went to see the rooms inside, I sat
there  trying  to  sketch  the  gray  stone  lion's  head on the wall, with scarlet woodbine sprays hanging round it. I felt as if I'd got into a
romance,  sitting  there,  watching  the Neckar rolling through the valley, listening to the music of the Austrian band below, and waiting for my
lover, like a real storybook girl. I had a feeling that something was going to happen and I was ready for it. I didn't feel blushy or quakey, but
quite cool and only a little excited.

By-and-by  I  heard  Fred's  voice,  and  then  he came hurrying through the great arch to find me. He looked so troubled that I forgot all about
myself,  and  asked what the matter was. He said he'd just got a letter begging him to come home, for Frank was very ill. So he was going at once
on  the  night  train  and  only had time to say good-by. I was very sorry for him, and disappointed for myself, but only for a minute because he
said, as he shook hands, and said it in a way that I could not mistake, "I shall soon come back, you won't forget me, Amy?"

I  didn't promise, but I looked at him, and he seemed satisfied, and there was no time for anything but messages and good-byes, for he was off in
an  hour,  and  we all miss him very much. I know he wanted to speak, but I think, from something he once hinted, that he had promised his father
not  to  do anything of the sort yet a while, for he is a rash boy, and the old gentleman dreads a foreign daughter-in-law. We shall soon meet in
Rome, and then, if I don't change my mind, I'll say "Yes, thank you," when he says "Will you, please?"

Of  course  this  is all _very private_, but I wished you to know what was going on. Don't be anxious about me, remember I am your 'prudent Amy',
and  be  sure I will do nothing rashly. Send me as much advice as you like. I'll use it if I can. I wish I could see you for a good talk, Marmee.
Love and trust me.

Ever your AMY



CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

TENDER TROUBLES

"Jo, I'm anxious about Beth."

"Why, Mother, she has seemed unusually well since the babies came."

"It's not her health that troubles me now, it's her spirits. I'm sure there is something on her mind, and I want you to discover what it is."

"What makes you think so, Mother?"

"She  sits  alone  a  good  deal,  and doesn't talk to her father as much as she used. I found her crying over the babies the other day. When she
sings,  the  songs  are  always sad ones, and now and then I see a look in her face that I don't understand. This isn't like Beth, and it worries
me."

"Have you asked her about it?"

"I  have  tried once or twice, but she either evaded my questions or looked so distressed that I stopped. I never force my children's confidence,
and I seldom have to wait for long."

Mrs.  March  glanced  at  Jo  as she spoke, but the face opposite seemed quite unconscious of any secret disquietude but Beth's, and after sewing
thoughtfully  for  a  minute,  Jo  said, "I think she is growing up, and so begins to dream dreams, and have hopes and fears and fidgets, without
knowing  why or being able to explain them. Why, Mother, Beth's eighteen, but we don't realize it, and treat her like a child, forgetting she's a
woman."

"So she is. Dear heart, how fast you do grow up," returned her mother with a sigh and a smile.

"Can't  be  helped,  Marmee,  so  you must resign yourself to all sorts of worries, and let your birds hop out of the nest, one by one. I promise
never to hop very far, if that is any comfort to you."

"It's  a  great comfort, Jo. I always feel strong when you are at home, now Meg is gone. Beth is too feeble and Amy too young to depend upon, but
when the tug comes, you are always ready."

"Why, you know I don't mind hard jobs much, and there must always be one scrub in a family. Amy is splendid in fine works and I'm not, but I feel
in  my  element  when  all  the  carpets  are  to be taken up, or half the family fall sick at once. Amy is distinguishing herself abroad, but if
anything is amiss at home, I'm your man."

"I  leave  Beth  to your hands, then, for she will open her tender little heart to her Jo sooner than to anyone else. Be very kind, and don't let
her think anyone watches or talks about her. If she only would get quite strong and cheerful again, I shouldn't have a wish in the world."

"Happy woman! I've got heaps."

"My dear, what are they?"

"I'll  settle  Bethy's  troubles, and then I'll tell you mine. They are not very wearing, so they'll keep." and Jo stitched away, with a wise nod
which set her mother's heart at rest about her for the present at least.

While  apparently  absorbed in her own affairs, Jo watched Beth, and after many conflicting conjectures, finally settled upon one which seemed to
explain  the  change in her. A slight incident gave Jo the clue to the mystery, she thought, and lively fancy, loving heart did the rest. She was
affecting  to  write  busily one Saturday afternoon, when she and Beth were alone together. Yet as she scribbled, she kept her eye on her sister,
who  seemed  unusually quiet. Sitting at the window, Beth's work often dropped into her lap, and she leaned her head upon her hand, in a dejected
attitude,  while  her  eyes  rested  on the dull, autumnal landscape. Suddenly some one passed below, whistling like an operatic blackbird, and a
voice called out, "All serene! Coming in tonight."

Beth  started,  leaned  forward, smiled and nodded, watched the passer-by till his quick tramp died away, then said softly as if to herself, "How
strong and well and happy that dear boy looks."

"Hum!"  said  Jo, still intent upon her sister's face, for the bright color faded as quickly as it came, the smile vanished, and presently a tear
lay  shining  on the window ledge. Beth whisked it off, and in her half-averted face read a tender sorrow that made her own eyes fill. Fearing to
betray herself, she slipped away, murmuring something about needing more paper.

"Mercy  on  me,  Beth loves Laurie!" she said, sitting down in her own room, pale with the shock of the discovery which she believed she had just
made.  "I  never dreamed of such a thing. What will Mother say? I wonder if her . . ." there Jo stopped and turned scarlet with a sudden thought.
"If  he  shouldn't love back again, how dreadful it would be. He must. I'll make him!" and she shook her head threateningly at the picture of the
mischievous-looking  boy  laughing  at  her  from  the  wall.  "Oh  dear, we are growing up with a vengeance. Here's Meg married and a mamma, Amy
flourishing  away  at  Paris, and Beth in love. I'm the only one that has sense enough to keep out of mischief." Jo thought intently for a minute
with her eyes fixed on the picture, then she smoothed out her wrinkled forehead and said, with a decided nod at the face opposite, "No thank you,
sir,  you're  very  charming,  but you've no more stability than a weathercock. So you needn't write touching notes and smile in that insinuating
way, for it won't do a bit of good, and I won't have it."

Then  she  sighed, and fell into a reverie from which she did not wake till the early twilight sent her down to take new observations, which only
confirmed  her suspicion. Though Laurie flirted with Amy and joked with Jo, his manner to Beth had always been peculiarly kind and gentle, but so
was  everybody's.  Therefore,  no  one  thought  of  imagining  that  he cared more for her than for the others. Indeed, a general impression had
prevailed  in  the  family  of  late  that  'our boy' was getting fonder than ever of Jo, who, however, wouldn't hear a word upon the subject and
scolded  violently if anyone dared to suggest it. If they had known the various tender passages which had been nipped in the bud, they would have
had  the  immense  satisfaction  of  saying, "I told you so." But Jo hated 'philandering', and wouldn't allow it, always having a joke or a smile
ready at the least sign of impending danger.

When  Laurie  first  went to college, he fell in love about once a month, but these small flames were as brief as ardent, did no damage, and much
amused Jo, who took great interest in the alternations of hope, despair, and resignation, which were confided to her in their weekly conferences.
But  there  came  a  time when Laurie ceased to worship at many shrines, hinted darkly at one all-absorbing passion, and indulged occasionally in
Byronic  fits of gloom. Then he avoided the tender subject altogether, wrote philosophical notes to Jo, turned studious, and gave out that he was
going  to  'dig', intending to graduate in a blaze of glory. This suited the young lady better than twilight confidences, tender pressures of the
hand,  and eloquent glances of the eye, for with Jo, brain developed earlier than heart, and she preferred imaginary heroes to real ones, because
when tired of them, the former could be shut up in the tin kitchen till called for, and the latter were less manageable.

Things  were  in  this state when the grand discovery was made, and Jo watched Laurie that night as she had never done before. If she had not got
the  new  idea  into  her head, she would have seen nothing unusual in the fact that Beth was very quiet, and Laurie very kind to her. But having
given  the  rein  to  her  lively  fancy,  it galloped away with her at a great pace, and common sense, being rather weakened by a long course of
romance  writing, did not come to the rescue. As usual Beth lay on the sofa and Laurie sat in a low chair close by, amusing her with all sorts of
gossip,  for she depended on her weekly 'spin', and he never disappointed her. But that evening Jo fancied that Beth's eyes rested on the lively,
dark face beside her with peculiar pleasure, and that she listened with intense interest to an account of some exciting cricket match, though the
phrases,  'caught  off a tice', 'stumped off his ground', and 'the leg hit for three', were as intelligible to her as Sanskrit. She also fancied,
having  set  her  heart upon seeing it, that she saw a certain increase of gentleness in Laurie's manner, that he dropped his voice now and then,
laughed less than usual, was a little absent-minded, and settled the afghan over Beth's feet with an assiduity that was really almost tender.

"Who knows? Stranger things have happened," thought Jo, as she fussed about the room. "She will make quite an angel of him, and he will make life
delightfully  easy and pleasant for the dear, if they only love each other. I don't see how he can help it, and I do believe he would if the rest
of us were out of the way."

As  everyone  was  out of the way but herself, Jo began to feel that she ought to dispose of herself with all speed. But where should she go? And
burning to lay herself upon the shrine of sisterly devotion, she sat down to settle that point.

Now,  the  old  sofa was a regular patriarch of a sofa--long, broad, well-cushioned, and low, a trifle shabby, as well it might be, for the girls
had  slept and sprawled on it as babies, fished over the back, rode on the arms, and had menageries under it as children, and rested tired heads,
dreamed  dreams,  and listened to tender talk on it as young women. They all loved it, for it was a family refuge, and one corner had always been
Jo's  favorite  lounging place. Among the many pillows that adorned the venerable couch was one, hard, round, covered with prickly horsehair, and
furnished with a knobby button at each end. This repulsive pillow was her especial property, being used as a weapon of defense, a barricade, or a
stern preventive of too much slumber.

Laurie  knew  this  pillow  well,  and  had  cause to regard it with deep aversion, having been unmercifully pummeled with it in former days when
romping  was  allowed,  and  now  frequently debarred by it from the seat he most coveted next to Jo in the sofa corner. If 'the sausage' as they
called  it,  stood  on  end, it was a sign that he might approach and repose, but if it lay flat across the sofa, woe to man, woman, or child who
dared  disturb  it!  That  evening  Jo  forgot to barricade her corner, and had not been in her seat five minutes, before a massive form appeared
beside  her, and with both arms spread over the sofa back, both long legs stretched out before him, Laurie exclaimed, with a sigh of satisfaction
. . .

"Now, this is filling at the price."

"No slang," snapped Jo, slamming down the pillow. But it was too late, there was no room for it, and coasting onto the floor, it disappeared in a
most mysterious manner.

"Come, Jo, don't be thorny. After studying himself to a skeleton all the week, a fellow deserves petting and ought to get it."

"Beth will pet you. I'm busy."

"No, she's not to be bothered with me, but you like that sort of thing, unless you've suddenly lost your taste for it. Have you? Do you hate your
boy, and want to fire pillows at him?"

Anything  more  wheedlesome than that touching appeal was seldom heard, but Jo quenched 'her boy' by turning on him with a stern query, "How many
bouquets have you sent Miss Randal this week?"

"Not one, upon my word. She's engaged. Now then."

"I'm  glad  of  it, that's one of your foolish extravagances, sending flowers and things to girls for whom you don't care two pins," continued Jo
reprovingly.

"Sensible  girls  for  whom  I  do  care  whole  papers of pins won't let me send them 'flowers and things', so what can I do? My feelings need a
'vent'."

"Mother doesn't approve of flirting even in fun, and you do flirt desperately, Teddy."

"I'd  give  anything  if  I could answer, 'So do you'. As I can't, I'll merely say that I don't see any harm in that pleasant little game, if all
parties understand that it's only play."

"Well,  it  does  look pleasant, but I can't learn how it's done. I've tried, because one feels awkward in company not to do as everybody else is
doing, but I don't seem to get on", said Jo, forgetting to play mentor.

"Take lessons of Amy, she has a regular talent for it."

"Yes,  she  does  it  very prettily, and never seems to go too far. I suppose it's natural to some people to please without trying, and others to
always say and do the wrong thing in the wrong place."

"I'm  glad  you  can't  flirt. It's really refreshing to see a sensible, straightforward girl, who can be jolly and kind without making a fool of
herself.  Between ourselves, Jo, some of the girls I know really do go on at such a rate I'm ashamed of them. They don't mean any harm, I'm sure,
but if they knew how we fellows talked about them afterward, they'd mend their ways, I fancy."

"They  do  the  same,  and  as  their  tongues are the sharpest, you fellows get the worst of it, for you are as silly as they, every bit. If you
behaved properly, they would, but knowing you like their nonsense, they keep it up, and then you blame them."

"Much  you  know about it, ma'am," said Laurie in a superior tone. "We don't like romps and flirts, though we may act as if we did sometimes. The
pretty,  modest  girls  are never talked about, except respectfully, among gentleman. Bless your innocent soul! If you could be in my place for a
month  you'd see things that would astonish you a trifle. Upon my word, when I see one of those harum-scarum girls, I always want to say with our
friend Cock Robin . . .

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

It  was  impossible to help laughing at the funny conflict between Laurie's chivalrous reluctance to speak ill of womankind, and his very natural
dislike  of  the  unfeminine  folly  of  which  fashionable society showed him many samples. Jo knew that 'young Laurence' was regarded as a most
eligible parti by worldly mamas, was much smiled upon by their daughters, and flattered enough by ladies of all ages to make a coxcomb of him, so
she  watched  him  rather  jealously,  fearing he would be spoiled, and rejoiced more than she confessed to find that he still believed in modest
girls.  Returning suddenly to her admonitory tone, she said, dropping her voice, "If you must have a 'vent', Teddy, go and devote yourself to one
of the 'pretty, modest girls' whom you do respect, and not waste your time with the silly ones."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jo lay long awake that night, and was just dropping off when the sound of a stifled sob made her fly to Beth's bedside, with the anxious inquiry,
"What is it, dear?"

"I thought you were asleep," sobbed Beth.

"Is it the old pain, my precious?"

"No, it's a new one, but I can bear it," and Beth tried to check her tears.

"Tell me all about it, and let me cure it as I often did the other."

"You can't, there is no cure." There Beth's voice gave way, and clinging to her sister, she cried so despairingly that Jo was frightened.

"Where is it? Shall I call Mother?"

"No, no, don't call her, don't tell her. I shall be better soon. Lie down here and 'poor' my head. I'll be quiet and go to sleep, indeed I will."

Jo  obeyed,  but  as her hand went softly to and fro across Beth's hot forehead and wet eyelids, her heart was very full and she longed to speak.
But  young  as  she  was, Jo had learned that hearts, like flowers, cannot be rudely handled, but must open naturally, so though she believed she
knew the cause of Beth's new pain, she only said, in her tenderest tone, "Does anything trouble you, deary?"

"Yes, Jo," after a long pause.

"Wouldn't it comfort you to tell me what it is?"

"Not now, not yet."

"Then I won't ask, but remember, Bethy, that Mother and Jo are always glad to hear and help you, if they can."

"I know it. I'll tell you by-and-by."

"Is the pain better now?"

"Oh, yes, much better, you are so comfortable, Jo."

"Go to sleep, dear. I'll stay with you."

So  cheek to cheek they fell asleep, and on the morrow Beth seemed quite herself again, for at eighteen neither heads nor hearts ache long, and a
loving word can medicine most ills.

But Jo had made up her mind, and after pondering over a project for some days, she confided it to her mother.

"You  asked  me  the other day what my wishes were. I'll tell you one of them, Marmee," she began, as they sat along together. "I want to go away
somewhere this winter for a change."

"Why, Jo?" and her mother looked up quickly, as if the words suggested a double meaning.

With  her  eyes on her work Jo answered soberly, "I want something new. I feel restless and anxious to be seeing, doing, and learning more than I
am.  I brood too much over my own small affairs, and need stirring up, so as I can be spared this winter, I'd like to hop a little way and try my
wings."

"Where will you hop?"

"To  New  York.  I  had  a bright idea yesterday, and this is it. You know Mrs. Kirke wrote to you for some respectable young person to teach her
children and sew. It's rather hard to find just the thing, but I think I should suit if I tried."

"My dear, go out to service in that great boarding house!" and Mrs. March looked surprised, but not displeased.

"It's not exactly going out to service, for Mrs. Kirke is your friend--the kindest soul that ever lived--and would make things pleasant for me, I
know. Her family is separate from the rest, and no one knows me there. Don't care if they do. It's honest work, and I'm not ashamed of it."

"Nor I. But your writing?"

"All  the  better  for  the  change.  I  shall  see and hear new things, get new ideas, and even if I haven't much time there, I shall bring home
quantities of material for my rubbish."

"I have no doubt of it, but are these your only reasons for this sudden fancy?"

"No, Mother."

"May I know the others?"

Jo  looked up and Jo looked down, then said slowly, with sudden color in her cheeks. "It may be vain and wrong to say it, but--I'm afraid--Laurie
is getting too fond of me."

"Then you don't care for him in the way it is evident he begins to care for you?" and Mrs. March looked anxious as she put the question.

"Mercy, no! I love the dear boy, as I always have, and am immensely proud of him, but as for anything more, it's out of the question."

"I'm glad of that, Jo."

"Why, please?"

"Because, dear, I don't think you suited to one another. As friends you are very happy, and your frequent quarrels soon blow over, but I fear you
would  both rebel if you were mated for life. You are too much alike and too fond of freedom, not to mention hot tempers and strong wills, to get
on happily together, in a relation which needs infinite patience and forbearance, as well as love."

"That's  just  the feeling I had, though I couldn't express it. I'm glad you think he is only beginning to care for me. It would trouble me sadly
to make him unhappy, for I couldn't fall in love with the dear old fellow merely out of gratitude, could I?"

"You are sure of his feeling for you?"

The  color  deepened  in  Jo's cheeks as she answered, with the look of mingled pleasure, pride, and pain which young girls wear when speaking of
first  lovers,  "I'm afraid it is so, Mother. He hasn't said anything, but he looks a great deal. I think I had better go away before it comes to
anything."

"I agree with you, and if it can be managed you shall go."

Jo  looked  relieved,  and  after a pause, said, smiling, "How Mrs. Moffat would wonder at your want of management, if she knew, and how she will
rejoice that Annie may still hope."

"Ah,  Jo,  mothers  may  differ in their management, but the hope is the same in all--the desire to see their children happy. Meg is so, and I am
content with her success. You I leave to enjoy your liberty till you tire of it, for only then will you find that there is something sweeter. Amy
is  my chief care now, but her good sense will help her. For Beth, I indulge no hopes except that she may be well. By the way, she seems brighter
this last day or two. Have you spoken to her?'

"Yes, she owned she had a trouble, and promised to tell me by-and-by. I said no more, for I think I know it," and Jo told her little story.

Mrs.  March shook her head, and did not take so romantic a view of the case, but looked grave, and repeated her opinion that for Laurie's sake Jo
should go away for a time.

"Let  us  say  nothing about it to him till the plan is settled, then I'll run away before he can collect his wits and be tragic. Beth must think
I'm  going  to  please  myself, as I am, for I can't talk about Laurie to her. But she can pet and comfort him after I'm gone, and so cure him of
this romantic notion. He's been through so many little trials of the sort, he's used to it, and will soon get over his lovelornity."

Jo  spoke  hopefully,  but could not rid herself of the foreboding fear that this 'little trial' would be harder than the others, and that Laurie
would not get over his 'lovelornity' as easily as heretofore.

The  plan  was  talked over in a family council and agreed upon, for Mrs. Kirke gladly accepted Jo, and promised to make a pleasant home for her.
The  teaching  would  render  her  independent, and such leisure as she got might be made profitable by writing, while the new scenes and society
would  be  both  useful  and agreeable. Jo liked the prospect and was eager to be gone, for the home nest was growing too narrow for her restless
nature and adventurous spirit. When all was settled, with fear and trembling she told Laurie, but to her surprise he took it very quietly. He had
been  graver  than  usual  of late, but very pleasant, and when jokingly accused of turning over a new leaf, he answered soberly, "So I am, and I
mean this one shall stay turned."

Jo  was  very  much  relieved  that one of his virtuous fits should come on just then, and made her preparations with a lightened heart, for Beth
seemed more cheerful, and hoped she was doing the best for all.

"One thing I leave in your especial care," she said, the night before she left.

"You mean your papers?" asked Beth.

"No, my boy. Be very good to him, won't you?"

"Of course I will, but I can't fill your place, and he'll miss you sadly."

"It won't hurt him, so remember, I leave him in your charge, to plague, pet, and keep in order."

"I'll do my best, for your sake," promised Beth, wondering why Jo looked at her so queerly.

When  Laurie  said  good-by,  he whispered significantly, "It won't do a bit of good, Jo. My eye is on you, so mind what you do, or I'll come and
bring you home."



CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

JO'S JOURNAL

New York, November

Dear Marmee and Beth,

I'm  going  to  write  you a regular volume, for I've got heaps to tell, though I'm not a fine young lady traveling on the continent. When I lost
sight  of  Father's  dear old face, I felt a trifle blue, and might have shed a briny drop or two, if an Irish lady with four small children, all
crying  more or less, hadn't diverted my mind, for I amused myself by dropping gingerbread nuts over the seat every time they opened their mouths
to roar.

Soon the sun came out, and taking it as a good omen, I cleared up likewise and enjoyed my journey with all my heart.

Mrs. Kirke welcomed me so kindly I felt at home at once, even in that big house full of strangers. She gave me a funny little sky parlor--all she
had,  but there is a stove in it, and a nice table in a sunny window, so I can sit here and write whenever I like. A fine view and a church tower
opposite  atone  for the many stairs, and I took a fancy to my den on the spot. The nursery, where I am to teach and sew, is a pleasant room next
Mrs.  Kirke's  private  parlor, and the two little girls are pretty children, rather spoiled, I fancy, but they took to me after telling them The
Seven Bad Pigs, and I've no doubt I shall make a model governess.

I  am  to  have  my  meals  with  the children, if I prefer it to the great table, and for the present I do, for I am bashful, though no one will
believe it.

"Now,  my dear, make yourself at home," said Mrs. K. in her motherly way, "I'm on the drive from morning to night, as you may suppose with such a
family,  but a great anxiety will be off my mind if I know the children are safe with you. My rooms are always open to you, and your own shall be
as  comfortable as I can make it. There are some pleasant people in the house if you feel sociable, and your evenings are always free. Come to me
if  anything  goes  wrong,  and  be  as happy as you can. There's the tea bell, I must run and change my cap." And off she bustled, leaving me to
settle myself in my new nest.

As I went downstairs soon after, I saw something I liked. The flights are very long in this tall house, and as I stood waiting at the head of the
third  one  for a little servant girl to lumber up, I saw a gentleman come along behind her, take the heavy hod of coal out of her hand, carry it
all  the  way up, put it down at a door near by, and walk away, saying, with a kind nod and a foreign accent, "It goes better so. The little back
is too young to haf such heaviness."

Wasn't it good of him? I like such things, for as Father says, trifles show character. When I mentioned it to Mrs. K., that evening, she laughed,
and said, "That must have been Professor Bhaer, he's always doing things of that sort."

Mrs. K. told me he was from Berlin, very learned and good, but poor as a church mouse, and gives lessons to support himself and two little orphan
nephews  whom  he is educating here, according to the wishes of his sister, who married an American. Not a very romantic story, but it interested
me,  and  I  was glad to hear that Mrs. K. lends him her parlor for some of his scholars. There is a glass door between it and the nursery, and I
mean to peep at him, and then I'll tell you how he looks. He's almost forty, so it's no harm, Marmee.

After tea and a go-to-bed romp with the little girls, I attacked the big workbasket, and had a quiet evening chatting with my new friend. I shall
keep a journal-letter, and send it once a week, so goodnight, and more tomorrow.

Tuesday Eve

Had  a  lively  time  in  my  seminary this morning, for the children acted like Sancho, and at one time I really thought I should shake them all
round.  Some  good angel inspired me to try gymnastics, and I kept it up till they were glad to sit down and keep still. After luncheon, the girl
took  them  out for a walk, and I went to my needlework like little Mabel 'with a willing mind'. I was thanking my stars that I'd learned to make
nice  buttonholes,  when  the  parlor door opened and shut, and someone began to hum, Kennst Du Das Land, like a big bumblebee. It was dreadfully
improper,  I  know,  but I couldn't resist the temptation, and lifting one end of the curtain before the glass door, I peeped in. Professor Bhaer
was there, and while he arranged his books, I took a good look at him. A regular German--rather stout, with brown hair tumbled all over his head,
a  bushy  beard, good nose, the kindest eyes I ever saw, and a splendid big voice that does one's ears good, after our sharp or slipshod American
gabble.  His  clothes  were  rusty,  his hands were large, and he hadn't a really handsome feature in his face, except his beautiful teeth, yet I
liked  him, for he had a fine head, his linen was very nice, and he looked like a gentleman, though two buttons were off his coat and there was a
patch  on one shoe. He looked sober in spite of his humming, till he went to the window to turn the hyacinth bulbs toward the sun, and stroke the
cat, who received him like an old friend. Then he smiled, and when a tap came at the door, called out in a loud, brisk tone, "Herein!"

I was just going to run, when I caught sight of a morsel of a child carrying a big book, and stopped, to see what was going on.

"Me wants me Bhaer," said the mite, slamming down her book and running to meet him.

"Thou  shalt haf thy Bhaer. Come, then, and take a goot hug from him, my Tina," said the Professor, catching her up with a laugh, and holding her
so high over his head that she had to stoop her little face to kiss him.

"Now  me  mus  tuddy  my lessin," went on the funny little thing. So he put her up at the table, opened the great dictionary she had brought, and
gave  her a paper and pencil, and she scribbled away, turning a leaf now and then, and passing her little fat finger down the page, as if finding
a  word,  so  soberly  that I nearly betrayed myself by a laugh, while Mr. Bhaer stood stroking her pretty hair with a fatherly look that made me
think she must be his own, though she looked more French than German.

Another  knock and the appearance of two young ladies sent me back to my work, and there I virtuously remained through all the noise and gabbling
that  went  on  next door. One of the girls kept laughing affectedly, and saying, "Now Professor," in a coquettish tone, and the other pronounced
her German with an accent that must have made it hard for him to keep sober.

Both  seemed  to  try  his  patience sorely, for more than once I heard him say emphatically, "No, no, it is not so, you haf not attend to what I
say," and once there was a loud rap, as if he struck the table with his book, followed by the despairing exclamation, "Prut! It all goes bad this
day."

Poor  man, I pitied him, and when the girls were gone, took just one more peep to see if he survived it. He seemed to have thrown himself back in
his chair, tired out, and sat there with his eyes shut till the clock struck two, when he jumped up, put his books in his pocket, as if ready for
another  lesson, and taking little Tina who had fallen asleep on the sofa in his arms, he carried her quietly away. I fancy he has a hard life of
it.  Mrs. Kirke asked me if I wouldn't go down to the five o'clock dinner, and feeling a little bit homesick, I thought I would, just to see what
sort  of people are under the same roof with me. So I made myself respectable and tried to slip in behind Mrs. Kirke, but as she is short and I'm
tall,  my  efforts at concealment were rather a failure. She gave me a seat by her, and after my face cooled off, I plucked up courage and looked
about  me.  The long table was full, and every one intent on getting their dinner, the gentlemen especially, who seemed to be eating on time, for
they  bolted in every sense of the word, vanishing as soon as they were done. There was the usual assortment of young men absorbed in themselves,
young  couples  absorbed in each other, married ladies in their babies, and old gentlemen in politics. I don't think I shall care to have much to
do with any of them, except one sweetfaced maiden lady, who looks as if she had something in her.

Cast  away  at the very bottom of the table was the Professor, shouting answers to the questions of a very inquisitive, deaf old gentleman on one
side,  and  talking  philosophy  with  a  Frenchman on the other. If Amy had been here, she'd have turned her back on him forever because, sad to
relate,  he had a great appetite, and shoveled in his dinner in a manner which would have horrified 'her ladyship'. I didn't mind, for I like 'to
see folks eat with a relish', as Hannah says, and the poor man must have needed a deal of food after teaching idiots all day.

As  I  went  upstairs  after  dinner, two of the young men were settling their hats before the hall mirror, and I heard one say low to the other,
"Who's the new party?"

"Governess, or something of that sort."

"What the deuce is she at our table for?"

"Friend of the old lady's."

"Handsome head, but no style."

"Not a bit of it. Give us a light and come on."

I  felt angry at first, and then I didn't care, for a governess is as good as a clerk, and I've got sense, if I haven't style, which is more than
some people have, judging from the remarks of the elegant beings who clattered away, smoking like bad chimneys. I hate ordinary people!


Thursday

Yesterday  was a quiet day spent in teaching, sewing, and writing in my little room, which is very cozy, with a light and fire. I picked up a few
bits  of  news  and  was introduced to the Professor. It seems that Tina is the child of the Frenchwoman who does the fine ironing in the laundry
here. The little thing has lost her heart to Mr. Bhaer, and follows him about the house like a dog whenever he is at home, which delights him, as
he  is  very  fond  of  children, though a 'bacheldore'. Kitty and Minnie Kirke likewise regard him with affection, and tell all sorts of stories
about  the  plays  he  invents,  the presents he brings, and the splendid tales he tells. The younger men quiz him, it seems, call him Old Fritz,
Lager  Beer,  Ursa  Major, and make all manner of jokes on his name. But he enjoys it like a boy, Mrs. Kirke says, and takes it so good-naturedly
that they all like him in spite of his foreign ways.

The  maiden lady is a Miss Norton, rich, cultivated, and kind. She spoke to me at dinner today (for I went to table again, it's such fun to watch
people), and asked me to come and see her at her room. She has fine books and pictures, knows interesting persons, and seems friendly, so I shall
make myself agreeable, for I do want to get into good society, only it isn't the same sort that Amy likes.

I  was  in  our parlor last evening when Mr. Bhaer came in with some newspapers for Mrs. Kirke. She wasn't there, but Minnie, who is a little old
woman, introduced me very prettily. "This is Mamma's friend, Miss March."

"Yes, and she's jolly and we like her lots," added Kitty, who is an 'enfant terrible'.

We both bowed, and then we laughed, for the prim introduction and the blunt addition were rather a comical contrast.

"Ah,  yes,  I  hear  these  naughty  ones go to vex you, Mees Marsch. If so again, call at me and I come," he said, with a threatening frown that
delighted the little wretches.

I  promised I would, and he departed, but it seems as if I was doomed to see a good deal of him, for today as I passed his door on my way out, by
accident  I  knocked  against  it with my umbrella. It flew open, and there he stood in his dressing gown, with a big blue sock on one hand and a
darning needle in the other. He didn't seem at all ashamed of it, for when I explained and hurried on, he waved his hand, sock and all, saying in
his loud, cheerful way . . .

"You haf a fine day to make your walk. Bon voyage, Mademoiselle."

I  laughed  all  the  way  downstairs,  but  it  was  a little pathetic, also to think of the poor man having to mend his own clothes. The German
gentlemen embroider, I know, but darning hose is another thing and not so pretty.


Saturday

Nothing  has  happened  to  write  about,  except a call on Miss Norton, who has a room full of pretty things, and who was very charming, for she
showed me all her treasures, and asked me if I would sometimes go with her to lectures and concerts, as her escort, if I enjoyed them. She put it
as  a  favor, but I'm sure Mrs. Kirke has told her about us, and she does it out of kindness to me. I'm as proud as Lucifer, but such favors from
such people don't burden me, and I accepted gratefully.

When I got back to the nursery there was such an uproar in the parlor that I looked in, and there was Mr. Bhaer down on his hands and knees, with
Tina  on his back, Kitty leading him with a jump rope, and Minnie feeding two small boys with seedcakes, as they roared and ramped in cages built
of chairs.

"We are playing nargerie," explained Kitty.

"Dis is mine effalunt!" added Tina, holding on by the Professor's hair.

"Mamma always allows us to do what we like Saturday afternoon, when Franz and Emil come, doesn't she, Mr. Bhaer?" said Minnie.

The  'effalunt'  sat  up,  looking as much in earnest as any of them, and said soberly to me, "I gif you my wort it is so, if we make too large a
noise you shall say Hush! to us, and we go more softly."

I  promised  to  do so, but left the door open and enjoyed the fun as much as they did, for a more glorious frolic I never witnessed. They played
tag  and soldiers, danced and sang, and when it began to grow dark they all piled onto the sofa about the Professor, while he told charming fairy
stories  of  the  storks on the chimney tops, and the little 'koblods', who ride the snowflakes as they fall. I wish Americans were as simple and
natural as Germans, don't you?

I'm so fond of writing, I should go spinning on forever if motives of economy didn't stop me, for though I've used thin paper and written fine, I
tremble  to  think of the stamps this long letter will need. Pray forward Amy's as soon as you can spare them. My small news will sound very flat
after her splendors, but you will like them, I know. Is Teddy studying so hard that he can't find time to write to his friends? Take good care of
him for me, Beth, and tell me all about the babies, and give heaps of love to everyone. From your faithful Jo.

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

DECEMBER

My Precious Betsey,

As  this is to be a scribble-scrabble letter, I direct it to you, for it may amuse you, and give you some idea of my goings on, for though quiet,
they  are rather amusing, for which, oh, be joyful! After what Amy would call Herculaneum efforts, in the way of mental and moral agriculture, my
young  ideas begin to shoot and my little twigs to bend as I could wish. They are not so interesting to me as Tina and the boys, but I do my duty
by  them,  and they are fond of me. Franz and Emil are jolly little lads, quite after my own heart, for the mixture of German and American spirit
in  them  produces  a  constant state of effervescence. Saturday afternoons are riotous times, whether spent in the house or out, for on pleasant
days they all go to walk, like a seminary, with the Professor and myself to keep order, and then such fun!

We  are  very  good friends now, and I've begun to take lessons. I really couldn't help it, and it all came about in such a droll way that I must
tell you. To begin at the beginning, Mrs. Kirke called to me one day as I passed Mr. Bhaer's room where she was rummaging.

"Did  you  ever  see  such  a  den,  my  dear? Just come and help me put these books to rights, for I've turned everything upside down, trying to
discover what he has done with the six new handkerchiefs I gave him not long ago."

I  went  in,  and  while we worked I looked about me, for it was 'a den' to be sure. Books and papers everywhere, a broken meerschaum, and an old
flute over the mantlepiece as if done with, a ragged bird without any tail chirped on one window seat, and a box of white mice adorned the other.
Half-finished  boats  and  bits  of  string  lay among the manuscripts. Dirty little boots stood drying before the fire, and traces of the dearly
beloved  boys,  for whom he makes a slave of himself, were to be seen all over the room. After a grand rummage three of the missing articles were
found, one over the bird cage, one covered with ink, and a third burned brown, having been used as a holder.

"Such  a  man!"  laughed  good-natured Mrs. K., as she put the relics in the rag 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 learn, for Tina runs in and out, leaving the door open, and I can hear. I had been sitting near this
door,  finishing  off  the  last sock, and trying to understand what he said to a new scholar, who is as stupid as I am. The girl had gone, and I
thought he had also, it was so still, and I was busily gabbling over a verb, and rocking to and fro in a most absurd way, when a little crow made
me look up, and there was Mr. Bhaer looking and laughing quietly, while he made signs to Tina not to betray him.

"So!"  he  said,  as I stopped and stared like a goose, "you peep at me, I peep at you, and this is not bad, but see, I am not pleasanting when I
say, haf you a wish for German?"

"Yes, but you are too busy. I am too stupid to learn," I blundered out, as red as a peony.

"Prut!  We  will  make the time, and we fail not to find the sense. At efening I shall gif a little lesson with much gladness, for look you, Mees
Marsch,  I  haf this debt to pay." And he pointed to my work 'Yes,' they say to one another, these so kind ladies, 'he is a stupid old fellow, he
will  see  not  what  we do, he will never observe that his sock heels go not in holes any more, he will think his buttons grow out new when they
fall,  and  believe  that  strings  make  theirselves.' "Ah! But I haf an eye, and I see much. I haf a heart, and I feel thanks for this. Come, a
little lesson then and now, or--no more good fairy works for me and mine."

Of  course I couldn't say anything after that, and as it really is a splendid opportunity, I made the bargain, and we began. I took four lessons,
and  then  I stuck fast in a grammatical bog. The Professor was very patient with me, but it must have been torment to him, and now and then he'd
look  at me with such an expression of mild despair that it was a toss-up with me whether to laugh or cry. I tried both ways, and when it came to
a  sniff  or  utter  mortification  and  woe,  he just threw the grammar on to the floor and marched out of the room. I felt myself disgraced and
deserted forever, but didn't blame him a particle, and was scrambling my papers together, meaning to rush upstairs and shake myself hard, when in
he came, as brisk and beaming as if I'd covered myself in glory.

"Now  we  shall  try  a new way. You and I will read these pleasant little _marchen_ together, and dig no more in that dry book, that goes in the
corner for making us trouble."

He  spoke so kindly, and opened Hans 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

FRIEND

Though very happy in the social atmosphere about her, and very busy with the daily work that earned her bread and made it sweeter for the effort,
Jo  still  found  time  for literary labors. The purpose which now took possession of her was a natural one to a poor and ambitious girl, but the
means she took to gain her end were not the best. She saw that money conferred power, money and power, therefore, she resolved to have, not to be
used  for herself alone, but for those whom she loved more than life. The dream of filling home with comforts, giving Beth everything she wanted,
from  strawberries  in  winter to an organ in her bedroom, going abroad herself, and always having more than enough, so that she might indulge in
the luxury of charity, had been for years Jo's most cherished castle in the air.

The  prize-story  experience  had seemed to open a way which might, after long traveling and much uphill work, lead to this delightful chateau en
Espagne.  But  the  novel  disaster  quenched her courage for a time, for public opinion is a giant which has frightened stouter-hearted Jacks on
bigger beanstalks than hers. Like that immortal hero, she reposed awhile after the first attempt, which resulted in a tumble and the least lovely
of  the  giant's treasures, if I remember rightly. But the 'up again and take another' spirit was as strong in Jo as in Jack, so she scrambled up
on the shady side this time and got more booty, but nearly left behind her what was far more precious than the moneybags.

She took to writing sensation stories, for in those dark ages, even all-perfect America read rubbish. She told no one, but concocted a 'thrilling
tale',  and  boldly  carried  it herself to Mr. Dashwood, editor of the Weekly Volcano. She had never read Sartor Resartus, but she had a womanly
instinct that clothes possess an influence more powerful over many than the worth of character or the magic of manners. So she dressed herself in
her  best,  and  trying  to persuade herself that she was neither excited nor nervous, bravely climbed two pairs of dark and dirty stairs to find
herself  in  a  disorderly  room,  a cloud of cigar smoke, and the presence of three gentlemen, sitting with their heels rather higher than their
hats,  which articles of dress none of them took the trouble to remove on her appearance. Somewhat daunted by this reception, Jo hesitated on the
threshold, murmuring in much embarrassment . . .

"Excuse me, I was looking for the Weekly Volcano office. I wished to see Mr. Dashwood."

Down  went  the highest pair of heels, up rose the smokiest gentleman, and carefully cherishing his cigar between his fingers, he advanced with a
nod  and  a  countenance  expressive  of nothing but sleep. Feeling that she must get through the matter somehow, Jo produced her manuscript and,
blushing redder and redder with each sentence, blundered out fragments of the little speech carefully prepared for the occasion.

"A friend of mine desired me to offer--a story--just as an experiment--would like your opinion--be glad to write more if this suits."

While  she blushed and blundered, Mr. Dashwood had taken the manuscript, and was turning over the leaves with a pair of rather dirty fingers, and
casting critical glances up and down the neat pages.

"Not a first attempt, I take it?" observing that the pages were numbered, covered only on one side, and not tied up with a ribbon--sure sign of a
novice.

"No, sir. She has had some experience, and got a prize for a tale in the _Blarneystone Banner_."

"Oh,  did  she?"  and  Mr.  Dashwood  gave Jo a quick look, which seemed to take note of everything she had on, from the bow in her bonnet to the
buttons on her boots. "Well, you can leave it, if you like. We've more of this sort of thing on hand than we know what to do with at present, but
I'll run my eye over it, and give you an answer next week."

Now,  Jo  did  _not_ like to leave it, for Mr. Dashwood didn't suit her at all, but, under the circumstances, there was nothing for her to do but
bow  and  walk  away,  looking  particularly tall and dignified, as she was apt to do when nettled or abashed. Just then she was both, for it was
perfectly evident from the knowing glances exchanged among the gentlemen that her little fiction of 'my friend' was considered a good joke, and a
laugh,  produced  by  some inaudible remark of the editor, as he closed the door, completed her discomfiture. Half resolving never to return, she
went  home,  and  worked  off her irritation by stitching pinafores vigorously, and in an hour or two was cool enough to laugh over the scene and
long for next week.

When  she  went  again, Mr. Dashwood was alone, whereat she rejoiced. Mr. Dashwood was much wider awake than before, which was agreeable, and Mr.
Dashwood was not too deeply absorbed in a cigar to remember his manners, so the second interview was much more comfortable than the first.

"We'll  take this (editors never say I), if you don't object to a few alterations. It's too long, but omitting the passages I've marked will make
it just the right length," he said, in a businesslike tone.

Jo  hardly knew her own MS. again, so crumpled and underscored were its pages and paragraphs, but feeling as a tender parent might on being asked
to cut off her baby's legs in order that it might fit into a new cradle, she looked at the marked passages and was surprised to find that all the
moral reflections--which she had carefully put in as ballast for much romance--had been stricken out.

"But, Sir, I thought every story should have some sort of a moral, so I took care to have a few of my sinners repent."

Mr. Dashwoods's editorial gravity relaxed into a smile, for Jo had forgotten her 'friend', and spoken as only an author could.

"People want to be amused, not preached at, you know. Morals don't sell nowadays." Which was not quite a correct statement, by the way.

"You think it would do with these alterations, then?"

"Yes, it's a new plot, and pretty well worked up--language good, and so on," was Mr. Dashwood's affable reply.

"What do you--that is, what compensation--" began Jo, not exactly knowing how to express herself.

"Oh,  yes,  well, we give from twenty-five to thirty for things of this sort. Pay when it comes out," returned Mr. Dashwood, as if that point had
escaped him. Such trifles do escape the editorial mind, it is said.

"Very  well,  you can have it," said Jo, handing back the story with a satisfied air, for after the dollar-a-column work, even twenty-five seemed
good pay.

"Shall  I  tell  my  friend  you  will take another if she has one better than this?" asked Jo, unconscious of her little slip of the tongue, and
emboldened by her success.

"Well,  we'll  look  at  it. Can't promise to take it. Tell her to make it short and spicy, and never mind the moral. What name would your friend
like to put on it?" in a careless tone.

"None at all, if you please, she doesn't wish her name to appear and has no nom de plume," said Jo, blushing in spite of herself.

"Just  as  she likes, of course. The tale will be out next week. Will you call for the money, or shall I send it?" asked Mr. Dashwood, who felt a
natural desire to know who his new contributor might be.

"I'll call. Good morning, Sir."

As she departed, Mr. Dashwood put up his feet, with the graceful remark, "Poor and proud, as usual, but she'll do."

Following  Mr. Dashwood's directions, and making Mrs. Northbury her model, Jo rashly took a plunge into the frothy sea of sensational literature,
but thanks to the life preserver thrown her by a friend, she came up again not much the worse for her ducking.

Like  most young scribblers, she went abroad for her characters and scenery, and banditti, counts, gypsies, nuns, and duchesses appeared upon her
stage,  and  played  their  parts  with  as  much accuracy and spirit as could be expected. Her readers were not particular about such trifles as
grammar,  punctuation,  and  probability,  and  Mr.  Dashwood  graciously permitted her to fill his columns at the lowest prices, not thinking it
necessary  to  tell her that the real cause of his hospitality was the fact that one of his hacks, on being offered higher wages, had basely left
him in the lurch.

She  soon  became  interested  in her work, for her emaciated purse grew stout, and the little hoard she was making to take Beth to the mountains
next  summer  grew  slowly but surely as the weeks passed. One thing disturbed her satisfaction, and that was that she did not tell them at home.
She  had  a  feeling  that Father and Mother would not approve, and preferred to have her own way first, and beg pardon afterward. It was easy to
keep  her  secret,  for  no name appeared with her stories. Mr. Dashwood had of course found it out very soon, but promised to be dumb, and for a
wonder kept his word.

She thought it would do her no harm, for she sincerely meant to write nothing of which she would be ashamed, and quieted all pricks of conscience
by anticipations of the happy minute when she should show her earnings and laugh over her well-kept secret.

But  Mr. Dashwood rejected any but thrilling tales, and as thrills could not be produced except by harrowing up the souls of the readers, history
and  romance,  land  and  sea,  science  and art, police records and lunatic asylums, had to be ransacked for the purpose. Jo soon found that her
innocent  experience  had  given  her  but few glimpses of the tragic world which underlies society, so regarding it in a business light, she set
about supplying her deficiencies with characteristic energy. Eager to find material for stories, and bent on making them original in plot, if not
masterly  in  execution,  she searched newspapers for accidents, incidents, and crimes. She excited the suspicions of public librarians by asking
for  works  on  poisons.  She  studied  faces in the street, and characters, good, bad, and indifferent, all about her. She delved in the dust of
ancient  times  for  facts  or  fictions  so  old that they were as good as new, and introduced herself to folly, sin, and misery, as well as her
limited  opportunities  allowed.  She  thought she was prospering finely, but unconsciously she was beginning to desecrate some of the womanliest
attributes  of  a  woman's character. She was living in bad society, and imaginary though it was, its influence affected her, for she was feeding
heart  and  fancy  on dangerous and unsubstantial food, and was fast brushing the innocent bloom from her nature by a premature acquaintance with
the darker side of life, which comes soon enough to all of us.

She  was  beginning to feel rather than see this, for much describing of other people's passions and feelings set her to studying and speculating
about  her own, a morbid amusement in which healthy young minds do not voluntarily indulge. Wrongdoing always brings its own punishment, and when
Jo most needed hers, she got it.

I  don't  know  whether the study of Shakespeare helped her to read character, or the natural instinct of a woman for what was honest, brave, and
strong,  but while endowing her imaginary heroes with every perfection under the sun, Jo was discovering a live hero, who interested her in spite
of many human imperfections. Mr. Bhaer, in one of their conversations, had advised her to study simple, true, and lovely characters, wherever she
found  them,  as  good training for a writer. Jo took him at his word, for she coolly turned round and studied him--a proceeding which would have
much surprised him, had he known it, for the worthy Professor was very humble in his own conceit.

Why  everybody  liked  him  was  what  puzzled  Jo,  at  first.  He  was neither rich nor great, young nor handsome, in no respect what is called
fascinating, imposing, or brilliant, and yet he was as attractive as a genial fire, and people seemed to gather about him as naturally as about a
warm  hearth.  He  was  poor,  yet  always appeared to be giving something away; a stranger, yet everyone was his friend; no longer young, but as
happy-hearted  as  a boy; plain and peculiar, yet his face looked beautiful to many, and his oddities were freely forgiven for his sake. Jo often
watched  him,  trying  to discover the charm, and at last decided that it was benevolence which worked the miracle. If he had any sorrow, 'it sat
with  its  head  under  its  wing',  and  he turned only his sunny side to the world. There were lines upon his forehead, but Time seemed to have
touched  him  gently,  remembering  how  kind he was to others. The pleasant curves about his mouth were the memorials of many friendly words and
cheery laughs, his eyes were never cold or hard, and his big hand had a warm, strong grasp that was more expressive than words.

His  very  clothes  seemed  to  partake  of  the  hospitable  nature  of  the  wearer. They looked as if they were at ease, and liked to make him
comfortable.  His  capacious waistcoat was suggestive of a large heart underneath. His rusty coat had a social air, and the baggy pockets plainly
proved  that little hands often went in empty and came out full. His very boots were benevolent, and his collars never stiff and raspy like other
people's.

"That's  it!"  said Jo to herself, when she at length discovered that genuine good will toward one's fellow men could beautify and dignify even a
stout German teacher, who shoveled in his dinner, darned his own socks, and was burdened with the name of Bhaer.

Jo  valued  goodness  highly,  but  she  also  possessed  a  most feminine respect for intellect, and a little discovery which she made about the
Professor  added  much  to  her  regard  for  him. He never spoke of himself, and no one ever knew that in his native city he had been a man much
honored  and  esteemed  for learning and integrity, till a countryman came to see him. He never spoke of himself, and in a conversation with Miss
Norton  divulged  the  pleasing  fact. From her Jo learned it, and liked it all the better because Mr. Bhaer had never told it. She felt proud to
know  that  he  was  an  honored  Professor  in Berlin, though only a poor language-master in America, and his homely, hard-working life was much
beautified  by  the  spice  of  romance which this discovery gave it. Another and a better gift than intellect was shown her in a most unexpected
manner.  Miss  Norton  had  the  entree  into  most  society, which Jo would have had no chance of seeing but for her. The solitary woman felt an
interest in the ambitious girl, and kindly conferred many favors of this sort both on Jo and the Professor. She took them with her one night to a
select symposium, held in honor of several celebrities.

Jo  went  prepared  to  bow down and adore the mighty ones whom she had worshiped with youthful enthusiasm afar off. But her reverence for genius
received  a  severe  shock  that  night, and it took her some time to recover from the discovery that the great creatures were only men and women
after all. Imagine her dismay, on stealing a glance of timid admiration at the poet whose lines suggested an ethereal being fed on 'spirit, fire,
and  dew',  to  behold him devouring his supper with an ardor which flushed his intellectual countenance. Turning as from a fallen idol, she made
other  discoveries  which  rapidly  dispelled  her romantic illusions. The great novelist vibrated between two decanters with the regularity of a
pendulum;  the  famous  divine flirted openly with one of the Madame de Staels of the age, who looked daggers at another Corinne, who was amiably
satirizing her, after outmaneuvering her in efforts to absorb the profound philosopher, who imbibed tea Johnsonianly and appeared to slumber, the
loquacity of the lady rendering speech impossible. The scientific celebrities, forgetting their mollusks and glacial periods, gossiped about art,
while  devoting  themselves  to oysters and ices with characteristic energy; the young musician, who was charming the city like a second Orpheus,
talked horses; and the specimen of the British nobility present happened to be the most ordinary man of the party.

Before  the  evening  was half over, Jo felt so completely disillusioned, that she sat down in a corner to recover herself. Mr. Bhaer soon joined
her,  looking  rather  out  of  his  element,  and  presently  several of the philosophers, each mounted on his hobby, came ambling up to hold an
intellectual  tournament  in  the  recess. The conversations were miles beyond Jo's comprehension, but she enjoyed it, though Kant and Hegel were
unknown  gods,  the  Subjective  and Objective unintelligible terms, and the only thing 'evolved from her inner consciousness' was a bad headache
after  it  was  all  over.  It dawned upon her gradually that the world was being picked to pieces, and put together on new and, according to the
talkers,  on  infinitely  better principles than before, that religion was in a fair way to be reasoned into nothingness, and intellect was to be
the  only  God.  Jo knew nothing about philosophy or metaphysics of any sort, but a curious excitement, half pleasurable, half painful, came over
her as she listened with a sense of being turned adrift into time and space, like a young balloon out on a holiday.

She  looked  round  to  see  how the Professor liked it, and found him looking at her with the grimmest expression she had ever seen him wear. He
shook  his  head  and  beckoned  her  to come away, but she was fascinated just then by the freedom of Speculative Philosophy, and kept her seat,
trying to find out what the wise gentlemen intended to rely upon after they had annihilated all the old beliefs.

Now, Mr. Bhaer was a diffident man and slow to offer his own opinions, not because they were unsettled, but too sincere and earnest to be lightly
spoken.  As  he glanced from Jo to several other young people, attracted by the brilliancy of the philosophic pyrotechnics, he knit his brows and
longed  to  speak,  fearing  that some inflammable young soul would be led astray by the rockets, to find when the display was over that they had
only an empty stick or a scorched hand.

He  bore  it as long as he could, but when he was appealed to for an opinion, he blazed up with honest indignation and defended religion with all
the  eloquence  of  truth--an eloquence which made his broken English musical and his plain face beautiful. He had a hard fight, for the wise men
argued  well,  but  he didn't know when he was beaten and stood to his colors like a man. Somehow, as he talked, the world got right again to Jo.
The  old  beliefs,  that had lasted so long, seemed better than the new. God was not a blind force, and immortality was not a pretty fable, but a
blessed  fact.  She  felt  as  if  she had solid ground under her feet again, and when Mr. Bhaer paused, outtalked but not one whit convinced, Jo
wanted to clap her hands and thank him.

She did neither, but she remembered the scene, and gave the Professor her heartiest respect, for she knew it cost him an effort to speak out then
and  there,  because  his  conscience  would  not  let  him  be  silent. She began to see that character is a better possession than money, rank,
intellect,  or  beauty, and to feel that if greatness is what a wise man has defined it to be, 'truth, reverence, and good will', then her friend
Friedrich Bhaer was not only good, but great.

This belief strengthened daily. She valued his esteem, she coveted his respect, she wanted to be worthy of his friendship, and just when the wish
was  sincerest,  she came near to losing everything. It all grew out of a cocked hat, for one evening the Professor came in to give Jo her lesson
with a paper soldier cap on his head, which Tina had put there and he had forgotten to take off.

"It's  evident he doesn't look in his glass before coming down," thought Jo, with a smile, as he said "Goot efening," and sat soberly down, quite
unconscious of the ludicrous contrast between his subject and his headgear, for he was going to read her the Death of Wallenstein.

She said nothing at first, for she liked to hear him laugh out his big, hearty laugh when anything funny happened, so she left him to discover it
for  himself, and presently forgot all about it, for to hear a German read Schiller is rather an absorbing occupation. After the reading came the
lesson,  which  was  a  lively  one,  for Jo was in a gay mood that night, and the cocked hat kept her eyes dancing with merriment. The Professor
didn't know what to make of her, and stopped at last to ask with an air of mild surprise that was irresistible. . .

"Mees Marsch, for what do you laugh in your master's face? Haf you no respect for me, that you go on so bad?"

"How can I be respectful, Sir, when you forget to take your hat off?" said Jo.

Lifting  his  hand to his head, the absent-minded Professor gravely felt and removed the little cocked hat, looked at it a minute, and then threw
back his head and laughed like a merry bass viol.

"Ah!  I see him now, it is that imp Tina who makes me a fool with my cap. Well, it is nothing, but see you, if this lesson goes not well, you too
shall wear him."

But  the  lesson  did  not  go at all for a few minutes because Mr. Bhaer caught sight of a picture on the hat, and unfolding it, said with great
disgust, "I wish these papers did not come in the house. They are not for children to see, nor young people to read. It is not well, and I haf no
patience with those who make this harm."

Jo  glanced  at  the  sheet and saw a pleasing illustration composed of a lunatic, a corpse, a villain, and a viper. She did not like it, but the
impulse  that  made her turn it over was not one of displeasure but fear, because for a minute she fancied the paper was the Volcano. It was not,
however,  and  her  panic  subsided  as  she remembered that even if it had been and one of her own tales in it, there would have been no name to
betray  her.  She  had betrayed herself, however, by a look and a blush, for though an absent man, the Professor saw a good deal more than people
fancied.  He  knew  that  Jo  wrote,  and  had met her down among the newspaper offices more than once, but as she never spoke of it, he asked no
questions  in  spite  of  a strong desire to see her work. Now it occurred to him that she was doing what she was ashamed to own, and it troubled
him.  He  did  not say to himself, "It is none of my business. I've no right to say anything," as many people would have done. He only remembered
that  she  was  young  and  poor, a girl far away from mother's love and father's care, and he was moved to help her with an impulse as quick and
natural as that which would prompt him to put out his hand to save a baby from a puddle. All this flashed through his mind in a minute, but not a
trace  of  it appeared in his face, and by the time the paper was turned, and Jo's needle threaded, he was ready to say quite naturally, but very
gravely . . .

"Yes,  you are right to put it from you. I do not think that good young girls should see such things. They are made pleasant to some, but I would
more rather give my boys gunpowder to play with than this bad trash."

"All  may  not  be bad, only silly, you know, and if there is a demand for it, I don't see any harm in supplying it. Many very respectable people
make an honest living out of what are called sensation stories," said Jo, scratching gathers so energetically that a row of little slits followed
her pin.

"There  is  a  demand for whisky, but I think you and I do not care to sell it. If the respectable people knew what harm they did, they would not
feel that the living was honest. They haf no right to put poison in the sugarplum, and let the small ones eat it. No, they should think a little,
and sweep mud in the street before they do this thing."

Mr.  Bhaer  spoke warmly, and walked to the fire, crumpling the paper in his hands. Jo sat still, looking as if the fire had come to her, for her
cheeks burned long after the cocked hat had turned to smoke and gone harmlessly up the chimney.

"I should like much to send all the rest after him," muttered the Professor, coming back with a relieved air.

Jo  thought  what  a blaze her pile of papers upstairs would make, and her hard-earned money lay rather heavily on her conscience at that minute.
Then she thought consolingly to herself, "Mine are not like that, they are only silly, never bad, so I won't be worried," and taking up her book,
she said, with a studious face, "Shall we go on, Sir? I'll be very good and proper now."

"I  shall  hope  so,"  was  all  he said, but he meant more than she imagined, and the grave, kind look he gave her made her feel as if the words
Weekly Volcano were printed in large type on her forehead.

As  soon  as  she went to her room, she got out her papers, and carefully reread every one of her stories. Being a little shortsighted, Mr. Bhaer
sometimes  used  eye glasses, and Jo had tried them once, smiling to see how they magnified the fine print of her book. Now she seemed to have on
the Professor's mental or moral spectacles also, for the faults of these poor stories glared at her dreadfully and filled her with dismay.

"They  are  trash,  and will soon be worse trash if I go on, for each is more sensational than the last. I've gone blindly on, hurting myself and
other  people, for the sake of money. I know it's so, for I can't read this stuff in sober earnest without being horribly ashamed of it, and what
should I do if they were seen at home or Mr. Bhaer got hold of them?"

Jo turned hot at the bare idea, and stuffed the whole bundle into her stove, nearly setting the chimney afire with the blaze.

"Yes,  that's  the  best place for such inflammable nonsense. I'd better burn the house down, I suppose, than let other people blow themselves up
with my gunpowder," she thought as she watched the Demon of the Jura whisk away, a little black cinder with fiery eyes.

But  when  nothing  remained  of  all  her three month's work except a heap of ashes and the money in her lap, Jo looked sober, as she sat on the
floor, wondering what she ought to do about her wages.

"I  think  I  haven't done much harm yet, and may keep this to pay for my time," she said, after a long meditation, adding impatiently, "I almost
wish  I hadn't any conscience, it's so inconvenient. If I didn't care about doing right, and didn't feel uncomfortable when doing wrong, I should
get on capitally. I can't help wishing sometimes, that Mother and Father hadn't been so particular about such things."

Ah, Jo, instead of wishing that, thank God that 'Father and Mother were particular', and pity from your heart those who have no such guardians to
hedge  them  round  with principles which may seem like prison walls to impatient youth, but which will prove sure foundations to build character
upon in womanhood.

Jo  wrote  no more sensational stories, deciding that the money did not pay for her share of the sensation, but going to the other extreme, as is
the  way with people of her stamp, she took a course of Mrs. Sherwood, Miss Edgeworth, and Hannah More, and then produced a tale which might have
been  more  properly called an essay or a sermon, so intensely moral was it. She had her doubts about it from the beginning, for her lively fancy
and  girlish  romance  felt  as  ill  at  ease in the new style as she would have done masquerading in the stiff and cumbrous costume of the last
century.  She  sent  this didactic gem to several markets, but it found no purchaser, and she was inclined to agree with Mr. Dashwood that morals
didn't sell.

Then  she  tried a child's story, which she could easily have disposed of if she had not been mercenary enough to demand filthy lucre for it. The
only  person  who  offered enough to make it worth her while to try juvenile literature was a worthy gentleman who felt it his mission to convert
all the world to his particular belief. But much as she liked to write for children, Jo could not consent to depict all her naughty boys as being
eaten  by bears or tossed by mad bulls because they did not go to a particular Sabbath school, nor all the good infants who did go as rewarded by
every  kind  of bliss, from gilded gingerbread to escorts of angels when they departed this life with psalms or sermons on their lisping tongues.
So nothing came of these trials, and Jo corked up her inkstand, and said in a fit of very wholesome humility . . .

"I  don't know anything. I'll wait until I do before I try again, and meantime, 'sweep mud in the street' if I can't do better, that's honest, at
least." Which decision proved that her second tumble down the beanstalk had done her some good.

While  these  internal revolutions were going on, her external life had been as busy and uneventful as usual, and if she sometimes looked serious
or  a  little  sad no one observed it but Professor Bhaer. He did it so quietly that Jo never knew he was watching to see if she would accept and
profit  by  his  reproof,  but  she  stood the test, and he was satisfied, for though no words passed between them, he knew that she had given up
writing.  Not only did he guess it by the fact that the second finger of her right hand was no longer inky, but she spent her evenings downstairs
now,  was met no more among newspaper offices, and studied with a dogged patience, which assured him that she was bent on occupying her mind with
something useful, if not pleasant.

He  helped  her in many ways, proving himself a true friend, and Jo was happy, for while her pen lay idle, she was learning other lessons besides
German, and laying a foundation for the sensation story of her own life.

It  was a pleasant winter and a long one, for she did not leave Mrs. Kirke till June. Everyone seemed sorry when the time came. The children were
inconsolable, and Mr. Bhaer's hair stuck straight up all over his head, for he always rumpled it wildly when disturbed in mind.

"Going home? Ah, you are happy that you haf a home to go in," he said, when she told him, and sat silently pulling his beard in the corner, while
she held a little levee on that last evening.

She was going early, so she bade them all goodbye overnight, and when his turn came, she said warmly, "Now, Sir, you won't forget to come and see
us, if you ever travel our way, will you? I'll never forgive you if you do, for I want them all to know my friend."

"Do you? Shall I come?" he asked, looking down at her with an eager expression which she did not see.

"Yes, come next month. Laurie graduates then, and you'd enjoy commencement as something new."

"That is your best friend, of whom you speak?" he said in an altered tone.

"Yes, my boy Teddy. I'm very proud of him and should like you to see him."

Jo  looked  up  then, quite unconscious of anything but her own pleasure in the prospect of showing them to one another. Something in Mr. Bhaer's
face  suddenly  recalled the fact that she might find Laurie more than a 'best friend', and simply because she particularly wished not to look as
if  anything was the matter, she involuntarily began to blush, and the more she tried not to, the redder she grew. If it had not been for Tina on
her  knee. She didn't know what would have become of her. Fortunately the child was moved to hug her, so she managed to hide her face an instant,
hoping  the  Professor  did  not  see  it.  But he did, and his own changed again from that momentary anxiety to its usual expression, as he said
cordially . . .

"I  fear  I shall not make the time for that, but I wish the friend much success, and you all happiness. Gott bless you!" And with that, he shook
hands warmly, shouldered Tina, and went away.

But  after the boys were abed, he sat long before his fire with the tired look on his face and the 'heimweh', or homesickness, lying heavy at his
heart. Once, when he remembered Jo as she sat with the little child in her lap and that new softness in her face, he leaned his head on his hands
a minute, and then roamed about the room, as if in search of something that he could not find.

"It  is  not  for  me,  I must not hope it now," he said to himself, with a sigh that was almost a groan. Then, as if reproaching himself for the
longing that he could not repress, he went and kissed the two tousled heads upon the pillow, took down his seldom-used meerschaum, and opened his
Plato.

He  did  his  best  and  did  it  manfully,  but  I don't think he found that a pair of rampant boys, a pipe, or even the divine Plato, were very
satisfactory substitutes for wife and child at home.

Early  as it was, he was at the station next morning to see Jo off, and thanks to him, she began her solitary journey with the pleasant memory of
a  familiar  face smiling its farewell, a bunch of violets to keep her company, and best of all, the happy thought, "Well, the winter's gone, and
I've written no books, earned no fortune, but I've made a friend worth having and I'll try to keep him all my life."



CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

HEARTACHE

Whatever  his  motive might have been, Laurie studied to some purpose that year, for he graduated with honor, and gave the Latin oration with the
grace  of  a  Phillips  and the eloquence of a Demosthenes, so his friends said. They were all there, his grandfather--oh, so proud--Mr. and Mrs.
March, John and Meg, Jo and Beth, and all exulted over him with the sincere admiration which boys make light of at the time, but fail to win from
the world by any after-triumphs.

"I've  got  to  stay for this confounded supper, but I shall be home early tomorrow. You'll come and meet me as usual, girls?" Laurie said, as he
put the sisters into the carriage after the joys of the day were over. He said 'girls', but he meant Jo, for she was the only one who kept up the
old custom. She had not the heart to refuse her splendid, successful boy anything, and answered warmly . . .

"I'll come, Teddy, rain or shine, and march before you, playing 'Hail the conquering hero comes' on a jew's-harp."

Laurie thanked her with a look that made her think in a sudden panic, "Oh, deary me! I know he'll say something, and then what shall I do?"

Evening meditation and morning work somewhat allayed her fears, and having decided that she wouldn't be vain enough to think people were going to
propose  when  she  had  given  them every reason to know what her answer would be, she set forth at the appointed time, hoping Teddy wouldn't do
anything  to  make her hurt his poor feelings. A call at Meg's, and a refreshing sniff and sip at the Daisy and Demijohn, still further fortified
her for the tete-a-tete, but when she saw a stalwart figure looming in the distance, she had a strong desire to turn about and run away.

"Where's the jew's-harp, Jo?" cried Laurie, as soon as he was within speaking distance.

"I forgot it." And Jo took heart again, for that salutation could not be called lover-like.

She  always used to take his arm on these occasions, now she did not, and he made no complaint, which was a bad sign, but talked on rapidly about
all  sorts  of  faraway  subjects,  till  they turned from the road into the little path that led homeward through the grove. Then he walked more
slowly,  suddenly lost his fine flow of language, and now and then a dreadful pause occurred. To rescue the conversation from one of the wells of
silence into which it kept falling, Jo said hastily, "Now you must have a good long holiday!"

"I intend to."

Something in his resolute tone made Jo look up quickly to find him looking down at her with an expression that assured her the dreaded moment had
come, and made her put out her hand with an imploring, "No, Teddy. Please don't!"

"I will, and you must hear me. It's no use, Jo, we've got to have it out, and the sooner the better for both of us," he answered, getting flushed
and excited all at once.

"Say what you like then. I'll listen," said Jo, with a desperate sort of patience.

Laurie  was  a  young  lover,  but  he was in earnest, and meant to 'have it out', if he died in the attempt, so he plunged into the subject with
characteristic impetuousity, saying in a voice that would get choky now and then, in spite of manful efforts to keep it steady . . .

"I've  loved  you ever since I've known you, Jo, couldn't help it, you've been so good to me. I've tried to show it, but you wouldn't let me. Now
I'm going to make you hear, and give me an answer, for I can't go on so any longer."

"I wanted to save you this. I thought you'd understand . . ." began Jo, finding it a great deal harder than she expected.

"I  know  you did, but the girls are so queer you never know what they mean. They say no when they mean yes, and drive a man out of his wits just
for the fun of it," returned Laurie, entrenching himself behind an undeniable fact.

"I don't. I never wanted to make you care for me so, and I went away to keep you from it if I could."

"I  thought  so.  It was like you, but it was no use. I only loved you all the more, and I worked hard to please you, and I gave up billiards and
everything  you  didn't like, and waited and never complained, for I hoped you'd love me, though I'm not half good enough . . ." Here there was a
choke that couldn't be controlled, so he decapitated buttercups while he cleared his 'confounded throat'.

"You,  you  are, you're a great deal too good for me, and I'm so grateful to you, and so proud and fond of you, I don't know why I can't love you
as you want me to. I've tried, but I can't change the feeling, and it would be a lie to say I do when I don't."

"Really, truly, Jo?"

He stopped short, and caught both her hands as he put his question with a look that she did not soon forget.

"Really, truly, dear."

They  were  in the grove now, close by the stile, and when the last words fell reluctantly from Jo's lips, Laurie dropped her hands and turned as
if to go on, but for once in his life the fence was too much for him. So he just laid his head down on the mossy post, and stood so still that Jo
was frightened.

"Oh,  Teddy,  I'm sorry, so desperately sorry, I could kill myself if it would do any good! I wish you wouldn't take it so hard, I can't help it.
You  know  it's  impossible  for people to make themselves love other people if they don't," cried Jo inelegantly but remorsefully, as she softly
patted his shoulder, remembering the time when he had comforted her so long ago.

"They  do  sometimes,"  said  a  muffled  voice  from the post. "I don't believe it's the right sort of love, and I'd rather not try it," was the
decided answer.

There  was  a  long  pause, while a blackbird sung blithely on the willow by the river, and the tall grass rustled in the wind. Presently Jo said
very soberly, as she sat down on the step of the stile, "Laurie, I want to tell you something."

He started as if he had been shot, threw up his head, and cried out in a fierce tone, "Don't tell me that, Jo, I can't bear it now!"

"Tell what?" she asked, wondering at his violence.

"That you love that old man."

"What old man?" demanded Jo, thinking he must mean his grandfather.

"That  devilish  Professor you were always writing about. If you say you love him, I know I shall do something desperate;" and he looked as if he
would keep his word, as he clenched his hands with a wrathful spark in his eyes.

Jo  wanted  to  laugh, but restrained herself and said warmly, for she too, was getting excited with all this, "Don't swear, Teddy! He isn't old,
nor  anything  bad, but good and kind, and the best friend I've got, next to you. Pray, don't fly into a passion. I want to be kind, but I know I
shall get angry if you abuse my Professor. I haven't the least idea of loving him or anybody else."

"But you will after a while, and then what will become of me?"

"You'll love someone else too, like a sensible boy, and forget all this trouble."

"I can't love anyone else, and I'll never forget you, Jo, Never! Never!" with a stamp to emphasize his passionate words.

"What  shall  I  do with him?" sighed Jo, finding that emotions were more unmanagable than she expected. "You haven't heard what I wanted to tell
you.  Sit  down  and listen, for indeed I want to do right and make you happy," she said, hoping to soothe him with a little reason, which proved
that she knew nothing about love.

Seeing  a ray of hope in that last speech, Laurie threw himself down on the grass at her feet, leaned his arm on the lower step of the stile, and
looked  up  at her with an expectant face. Now that arrangement was not conducive to calm speech or clear thought on Jo's part, for how could she
say hard things to her boy while he watched her with eyes full of love and longing, and lashes still wet with the bitter drop or two her hardness
of  heart had wrung from him? She gently turned his head away, saying, as she stroked the wavy hair which had been allowed to grow for her sake--
how  touching  that was, to be sure! "I agree with Mother that you and I are not suited to each other, because our quick tempers and strong wills
would  probably  make  us  very miserable, if we were so foolish as to . . ." Jo paused a little over the last word, but Laurie uttered it with a
rapturous expression.

"Marry--no we shouldn't! If you loved me, Jo, I should be a perfect saint, for you could make me anything you like."

"No,  I can't. I've tried and failed, and I won't risk our happiness by such a serious experiment. We don't agree and we never shall, so we'll be
good friends all our lives, but we won't go and do anything rash."

"Yes, we will if we get the chance," muttered Laurie rebelliously.

"Now do be reasonable, and take a sensible view of the case," implored Jo, almost at her wit's end.

"I  won't  be  reasonable.  I  don't want to take what you call 'a sensible view'. It won't help me, and it only makes it harder. I don't believe
you've got any heart."

"I wish I hadn't."

There was a little quiver in Jo's voice, and thinking it a good omen, Laurie turned round, bringing all his persuasive powers to bear as he said,
in  the  wheedlesome tone that had never been so dangerously wheedlesome before, "Don't disappoint us, dear! Everyone expects it. Grandpa has set
his heart upon it, your people like it, and I can't get on without you. Say you will, and let's be happy. Do, do!"

Not  until  months afterward did Jo understand how she had the strength of mind to hold fast to the resolution she had made when she decided that
she did not love her boy, and never could. It was very hard to do, but she did it, knowing that delay was both useless and cruel.

"I can't say 'yes' truly, so I won't say it at all. You'll see that I'm right, by-and-by, and thank me for it . . ." she began solemnly.

"I'll be hanged if I do!" and Laurie bounced up off the grass, burning with indignation at the very idea.

"Yes,  you  will!" persisted Jo. "You'll get over this after a while, and find some lovely accomplished girl, who will adore you, and make a fine
mistress  for  your  fine house. I shouldn't. I'm homely and awkward and odd and old, and you'd be ashamed of me, and we should quarrel--we can't
help  it  even  now, you see--and I shouldn't like elegant society and you would, and you'd hate my scribbling, and I couldn't get on without it,
and we should be unhappy, and wish we hadn't done it, and everything would be horrid!"

"Anything more?" asked Laurie, finding it hard to listen patiently to this prophetic burst.

"Nothing more, except that I don't believe I shall ever marry. I'm happy as I am, and love my liberty too well to be in a hurry to give it up for
any mortal man."

"I  know better!" broke in Laurie. "You think so now, but there'll come a time when you will care for somebody, and you'll love him tremendously,
and  live  and  die for him. I know you will, it's your way, and I shall have to stand by and see it," and the despairing lover cast his hat upon
the ground with a gesture that would have seemed comical, if his face had not been so tragic.

"Yes, I will live and die for him, if he ever comes and makes me love him in spite of myself, and you must do the best you can!" cried Jo, losing
patience with poor Teddy. "I've done my best, but you won't be reasonable, and it's selfish of you to keep teasing for what I can't give. I shall
always be fond of you, very fond indeed, as a friend, but I'll never marry you, and the sooner you believe it the better for both of us--so now!"

That  speech  was  like  gunpowder.  Laurie looked at her a minute as if he did not quite know what to do with himself, then turned sharply away,
saying in a desperate sort of tone, "You'll be sorry some day, Jo."

"Oh, where are you going?" she cried, for his face frightened her.

"To the devil!" was the consoling answer.

For  a  minute Jo's heart stood still, as he swung himself down the bank toward the river, but it takes much folly, sin or misery to send a young
man  to  a  violent  death,  and  Laurie  was not one of the weak sort who are conquered by a single failure. He had no thought of a melodramatic
plunge,  but  some  blind  instinct led him to fling hat and coat into his boat, and row away with all his might, making better time up the river
than  he  had done in any race. Jo drew a long breath and unclasped her hands as she watched the poor fellow trying to outstrip the trouble which
he carried in his heart.

"That  will  do  him good, and he'll come home in such a tender, penitent state of mind, that I shan't dare to see him," she said, adding, as she
went  slowly home, feeling as if she had murdered some innocent thing, and buried it under the leaves. "Now I must go and prepare Mr. Laurence to
be very kind to my poor boy. I wish he'd love Beth, perhaps he may in time, but I begin to think I was mistaken about her. Oh dear! How can girls
like to have lovers and refuse them? I think it's dreadful."

Being  sure  that  no  one could do it so well as herself, she went straight to Mr. Laurence, told the hard story bravely through, and then broke
down,  crying  so dismally over her own insensibility that the kind old gentleman, though sorely disappointed, did not utter a reproach. He found
it  difficult to understand how any girl could help loving Laurie, and hoped she would change her mind, but he knew even better than Jo that love
cannot  be  forced,  so  he  shook  his  head  sadly and resolved to carry his boy out of harm's way, for Young Impetuosity's parting words to Jo
disturbed him more than he would confess.

When  Laurie  came home, dead tired but quite composed, his grandfather met him as if he knew nothing, and kept up the delusion very successfully
for  an  hour or two. But when they sat together in the twilight, the time they used to enjoy so much, it was hard work for the old man to ramble
on  as usual, and harder still for the young one to listen to praises of the last year's success, which to him now seemed like love's labor lost.
He  bore  it  as long as he could, then went to his piano and began to play. The 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, with a whisper
full  of  motherly solicitude. Then feeling that he was going very fast, he hastily embraced them all round, not forgetting the afflicted Hannah,
and  ran  downstairs as if for his life. Jo followed a minute after to wave her hand to him if he looked round. He did look round, came back, put
his arms about her as she stood on the step above him, and looked up at her with a face that made his short appeal eloquent and pathetic.

"Oh, Jo, can't you?"

"Teddy, dear, I wish I could!"

That was all, except a little pause. Then Laurie straightened himself up, said, "It's all right, never mind," and went away without another word.
Ah,  but  it  wasn't  all  right, and Jo did mind, for while the curly head lay on her arm a minute after her hard answer, she felt as if she had
stabbed her dearest friend, and when he left her without a look behind him, she knew that the boy Laurie never would come again.



CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

BETH'S SECRET

When  Jo  came  home  that  spring,  she  had  been struck with the change in Beth. No one spoke of it or seemed aware of it, for it had come too
gradually  to  startle  those who saw her daily, but to eyes sharpened by absence, it was very plain and a heavy weight fell on Jo's heart as she
saw  her sister's face. It was no paler and but littler thinner than in the autumn, yet there was a strange, transparent look about it, as if the
mortal was being slowly refined away, and the immortal shining through the frail flesh with an indescribably pathetic beauty. Jo saw and felt it,
but  said nothing at the time, and soon the first impression lost much of its power, for Beth seemed happy, no one appeared to doubt that she was
better, and presently in other cares Jo for a time forgot her fear.

But  when  Laurie  was gone, and peace prevailed again, the vague anxiety returned and haunted her. She had confessed her sins and been forgiven,
but  when she showed her savings and proposed a mountain trip, Beth had thanked her heartily, but begged not to go so far away from home. Another
little  visit  to  the  seashore  would suit her better, and as Grandma could not be prevailed upon to leave the babies, Jo took Beth down to the
quiet place, where she could live much in the open air, and let the fresh sea breezes blow a little color into her pale cheeks.

It  was  not  a fashionable place, but even among the pleasant people there, the girls made few friends, preferring to live for one another. Beth
was  too  shy  to  enjoy society, and Jo too wrapped up in her to care for anyone else. So they were all in all to each other, and came and went,
quite unconscious of the interest they 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  from her, and her arms instinctively tightened their hold upon the dearest treasure she possessed. For a minute her eyes were too
dim  for seeing, and when they cleared, Beth was looking up at her so tenderly that there was hardly any need for her to say, "Jo, dear, I'm glad
you know it. I've tried to tell you, but I couldn't."

There  was  no  answer  except her sister's cheek against her own, not even tears, for when most deeply moved, Jo did not cry. She was the weaker
then, and Beth tried to comfort and sustain her, with her arms about her and the soothing words she whispered in her ear.

"I've known it for a good while, dear, and now I'm used to it, it isn't hard to think of or to bear. Try to see it so and don't be troubled about
me, because it's best, indeed it is."

"Is this what made you so unhappy in the autumn, Beth? You did not feel it then, and keep it to yourself so long, did you?" asked Jo, refusing to
see or say that it was best, but glad to know that Laurie had no part in Beth's trouble.

"Yes,  I  gave up hoping then, but I didn't like to own it. I tried to think it was a sick fancy, and would not let it trouble anyone. But when I
saw you all so well and strong and full of happy plans, it was hard to feel that I could never be like you, and then I was miserable, Jo."

"Oh, Beth, and you didn't tell me, didn't let me comfort and help you? How could you shut me out, bear it all alone?"

Jo's  voice  was  full of tender reproach, and her heart ached to think of the solitary struggle that must have gone on while Beth learned to say
goodbye to health, love, and life, and take up her cross so cheerfully.

"Perhaps  it  was  wrong, but I tried to do right. I wasn't sure, no one said anything, and I hoped I was mistaken. It would have been selfish to
frighten you all when Marmee was so anxious about Meg, and Amy away, and you so happy with Laurie--at least I thought so then."

"And I thought you loved him, Beth, and I went away because I couldn't," cried Jo, glad to say all the truth.

Beth  looked  so  amazed at the idea that Jo smiled in spite of her pain, and added softly, "Then you didn't, dearie? I was afraid it was so, and
imagined your poor little heart full of lovelornity all that while."

"Why,  Jo,  how could I, when he was so fond of you?" asked Beth, as innocently as a child. "I do love him dearly. He is so good to me, how can I
help It? But he could never be anything to me but my brother. I hope he truly will be, sometime."

"Not  through  me,"  said  Jo decidedly. "Amy is left for him, and they would suit excellently, but I have no heart for such things, now. I don't
care what becomes of anybody but you, Beth. You must get well."

"I  want  to, oh, so much! I try, but every day I lose a little, and feel more sure that I shall never gain it back. It's like the tide, Jo, when
it turns, it goes slowly, but it can't be stopped."

"It  shall be stopped, your tide must not turn so soon, nineteen is too young, Beth. I can't let you go. I'll work and pray and fight against it.
I'll  keep  you  in  spite  of everything. There must be ways, it can't be too late. God won't be so cruel as to take you from me," cried poor Jo
rebelliously, for her spirit was far less piously submissive than Beth's.

Simple,  sincere  people  seldom speak much of their piety. It shows itself in acts rather than in words, and has more influence than homilies or
protestations. Beth could not reason upon or explain the faith that gave her courage and patience to give up life, and cheerfully wait for death.
Like  a  confiding child, she asked no questions, but left everything to God and nature, Father and Mother of us all, feeling sure that they, and
they  only,  could  teach  and  strengthen heart and spirit for this life and the life to come. She did not rebuke Jo with saintly speeches, only
loved  her better for her passionate affection, and clung more closely to the dear human love, from which our Father never means us to be weaned,
but through which He draws us closer to Himself. She could not say, "I'm glad to go," for life was very sweet for her. She could only sob out, "I
try to be willing," while she held fast to Jo, as the first bitter wave of this great sorrow broke over them together.

By and by Beth said, with recovered serenity, "You'll tell them this when we go home?"

"I think they will see it without words," sighed Jo, for now it seemed to her that Beth changed every day.

"Perhaps  not.  I've  heard  that  the people who love best are often blindest to such things. If they don't see it, you will tell them for me. I
don't  want  any  secrets,  and it's kinder to prepare them. Meg has John and the babies to comfort her, but you must stand by Father and Mother,
won't you Jo?"

"If  I  can.  But,  Beth, I don't give up yet. I'm going to believe that it is a sick fancy, and not let you think it's true." said Jo, trying to
speak cheerfully.

Beth  lay  a minute thinking, and then said in her quiet way, "I don't know how to express myself, and shouldn't try to anyone but you, because I
can't speak out except to my Jo. I only mean to say that I have a feeling that it never was intended I should live long. I'm not like the rest of
you. I never made any plans about what I'd do when I grew up. I never thought of being married, as you all did. I couldn't seem to imagine myself
anything  but  stupid  little Beth, trotting about at home, of no use anywhere but there. I never wanted to go away, and the hard part now is the
leaving you all. I'm not afraid, but it seems as if I should be homesick for you even in heaven."

Jo could not speak, and for several minutes there was no sound but the sigh of the wind and the lapping of the tide. A white-winged gull flew by,
with  the flash of sunshine on its silvery breast. Beth watched it till it vanished, and her eyes were full of sadness. A little gray-coated sand
bird came tripping over the beach 'peeping' softly to itself, as if enjoying the sun and sea. It came quite close to Beth, and looked at her with
a  friendly eye and sat upon a warm stone, dressing its wet feathers, quite at home. Beth smiled and felt comforted, for the tiny thing seemed to
offer its small friendship and remind her that a pleasant world was still to be enjoyed.

"Dear little bird! See, Jo, how tame it is. I like peeps better than the gulls. They are not so wild and handsome, but they seem happy, confiding
little  things.  I  used to call them my birds last summer, and Mother said they reminded her of me --busy, quaker-colored creatures, always near
the  shore,  and  always  chirping  that  contented little song of theirs. You are the gull, Jo, strong and wild, fond of the storm and the wind,
flying  far out to sea, and happy all alone. Meg is the turtledove, and Amy is like the lark she writes about, trying to get up among the clouds,
but  always dropping down into its nest again. Dear little girl! She's so ambitious, but her heart is good and tender, and no matter how high she
flies, she never will forget home. I hope I shall see her again, but she seems so far away."

"She  is  coming  in  the spring, and I mean that you shall be all ready to see and enjoy her. I'm going to have you well and rosy by that time,"
began  Jo,  feeling  that  of  all the changes in Beth, the talking change was the greatest, for it seemed to cost no effort now, and she thought
aloud in a way quite unlike bashful Beth.

"Jo, dear, don't hope any more. It won't do any good. I'm sure of that. We won't be miserable, but enjoy being together while we wait. We'll have
happy times, for I don't suffer much, and I think the tide will go out easily, if you help me."

Jo leaned down to kiss the tranquil face, and with that silent kiss, she dedicated herself soul and body to Beth.

She  was  right.  There  was no need of any words when they got home, for Father and Mother saw plainly now what they had prayed to be saved from
seeing.  Tired  with  her  short journey, Beth went at once to bed, saying how glad she was to be home, and when Jo went down, she found that she
would be spared the hard task of telling Beth's secret. Her father stood leaning his head on the mantelpiece and did not turn as she came in, but
her mother stretched out her arms as if for help, and Jo went to comfort her without a word.



CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

NEW IMPRESSIONS

At  three  o'clock  in  the afternoon, all the fashionable world at Nice may be seen on the Promenade des Anglais--a charming place, for the wide
walk,  bordered  with  palms, flowers, and tropical shrubs, is bounded on one side by the sea, on the other by the grand drive, lined with hotels
and  villas,  while  beyond  lie orange orchards and the hills. Many nations are represented, many languages spoken, many costumes worn, and on a
sunny  day the spectacle is as gay and brilliant as a carnival. Haughty English, lively French, sober Germans, handsome Spaniards, ugly Russians,
meek  Jews,  free-and-easy  Americans,  all  drive,  sit,  or  saunter here, chatting over the news, and criticizing the latest celebrity who has
arrived--Ristori or Dickens, Victor Emmanuel or the Queen of the Sandwich Islands. The equipages are as varied as the company and attract as much
attention, especially the low basket barouches in which ladies drive themselves, with a pair of dashing ponies, gay nets to keep their voluminous
flounces from overflowing the diminutive vehicles, and little grooms on the perch behind.

Along this walk, on Christmas Day, a tall young man walked slowly, with his hands behind him, and a somewhat absent expression of countenance. He
looked  like  an  Italian, was dressed like an Englishman, and had the independent air of an American--a combination which caused sundry pairs of
feminine  eyes  to  look  approvingly  after  him,  and sundry dandies in black velvet suits, with rose-colored neckties, buff gloves, and orange
flowers  in their buttonholes, to shrug their shoulders, and then envy him his inches. There were plenty of pretty faces to admire, but the young
man took little notice of them, except to glance now and then at some blonde girl in blue. Presently he strolled out of the promenade and stood a
moment  at  the crossing, as if undecided whether to go and listen to the band in the Jardin Publique, or to wander along the beach toward Castle
Hill.  The  quick  trot  of  ponies' feet made him look up, as one of the little carriages, containing a single young lady, came rapidly down the
street.  The  lady  was  young,  blonde, and dressed in blue. He stared a minute, then his whole face woke up, and, waving his hat like a boy, he
hurried forward to meet her.

"Oh, Laurie, is it really you? I thought you'd never come!" cried Amy, dropping the reins and holding out both hands, to the great scandalization
of a French mamma, who hastened her daughter's steps, lest she should be demoralized by beholding the free manners of these 'mad English'.

"I was detained by the way, but I promised to spend Christmas with you, and here I am."

"How is your grandfather? When did you come? Where are you staying?"

"Very well--last night--at the Chauvain. I called at your hotel, but you were out."

"I  have  so much to say, I don't know where to begin! Get in and we can talk at our ease. I was going for a drive and longing for company. Flo's
saving up for tonight."

"What happens then, a ball?"

"A Christmas party at our hotel. There are many Americans there, and they give it in honor of the day. You'll go with us, of course? Aunt will be
charmed."

"Thank  you.  Where now?" asked Laurie, leaning back and folding his arms, a proceeding which suited Amy, who preferred to drive, for her parasol
whip and blue reins over the white ponies backs afforded her infinite satisfaction.

"I'm  going to the bankers first for letters, and then to Castle Hill. The view is so lovely, and I like to feed the peacocks. Have you ever been
there?"

"Often, years ago, but I don't mind having a look at it."

"Now tell me all about yourself. The last I heard of you, your grandfather wrote that he expected you from Berlin."

"Yes,  I  spent  a  month there and then joined him in Paris, where he has settled for the winter. He has friends there and finds plenty to amuse
him, so I go and come, and we get on capitally."

"That's a sociable arrangement," said Amy, missing something in Laurie's manner, though she couldn't tell what.

"Why,  you  see,  he  hates  to travel, and I hate to keep still, so we each suit ourselves, and there is no trouble. I am often with him, and he
enjoys  my  adventures,  while  I  like  to feel that someone is glad to see me when I get back from my wanderings. Dirty old hole, isn't it?" he
added, with a look of disgust as they drove along the boulevard to the Place Napoleon in the old city.

"The  dirt is picturesque, so I don't mind. The river and the hills are delicious, and these glimpses of the narrow cross streets are my delight.
Now we shall have to wait for that procession to pass. It's going to the Church of St. John."

While Laurie listlessly watched the procession of priests under their canopies, white-veiled nuns bearing lighted tapers, and some brotherhood in
blue  chanting  as  they  walked,  Amy watched him, and felt a new sort of shyness steal over her, for he was changed, and she could not find the
merry-faced  boy  she  left  in  the moody-looking man beside her. He was handsomer than ever and greatly improved, she thought, but now that the
flush of pleasure at meeting her was over, he looked tired and spiritless--not sick, nor exactly unhappy, but older and graver than a year or two
of  prosperous  life  should have made him. She couldn't understand it and did not venture to ask questions, so she shook her head and touched up
her ponies, as the procession wound away across the arches of the Paglioni bridge and vanished in the church.

"Que pensez-vous?" she said, airing her French, which had improved in quantity, if not in quality, since she came abroad.

"That  mademoiselle has made good use of her time, and the result is charming," replied Laurie, bowing with his hand on his heart and an admiring
look.

She  blushed with pleasure, but somehow the compliment did not satisfy her like the blunt praises he used to give her at home, when he promenaded
round  her  on festival occasions, and told her she was 'altogether jolly', with a hearty smile and an approving pat on the head. She didn't like
the new tone, for though not blase, it sounded indifferent in spite of the look.

"If  that's  the  way  he's going to grow up, I wish he'd stay a boy," she thought, with a curious sense of disappointment and discomfort, trying
meantime to seem quite easy and gay.

At  Avigdor's  she found the precious home letters and, giving the reins to Laurie, read them luxuriously as they wound up the shady road between
green hedges, where tea roses bloomed as freshly as in June.

"Beth is very poorly, Mother says. I often think I ought to go home, but they all say 'stay'. So I do, for I shall never have another chance like
this," said Amy, looking sober over one page.

"I  think you are right, there. You could do nothing at home, and it is a great comfort to them to know that you are well and happy, and enjoying
so much, my dear."

He drew a little nearer, and looked more like his old self as he said that, and the fear that sometimes weighed on Amy's heart was lightened, for
the  look,  the  act,  the  brotherly  'my  dear',  seemed  to assure her that if any trouble did come, she would not be alone in a strange land.
Presently she laughed and showed him a small sketch of Jo in her scribbling suit, with the bow rampantly erect upon her cap, and issuing from her
mouth the words, 'Genius burns!'.

Laurie smiled, took it, put it in his vest pocket 'to keep it from blowing away', and listened with interest to the lively letter Amy read him.

"This will be a regularly merry Christmas to me, with presents in the morning, you and letters in the afternoon, and a party at night," said Amy,
as  they alighted among the ruins of the old fort, and a flock of splendid peacocks came trooping about them, tamely waiting to be fed. While Amy
stood  laughing  on  the  bank  above  him  as she scattered crumbs to the brilliant birds, Laurie looked at her as she had looked at him, with a
natural  curiosity  to  see what changes time and absence had wrought. He found nothing to perplex or disappoint, much to admire and approve, for
overlooking  a  few  little affectations of speech and manner, she was as sprightly and graceful as ever, with the addition of that indescribable
something  in  dress  and  bearing  which  we  call  elegance.  Always  mature  for her age, she had gained a certain aplomb in both carriage and
conversation,  which  made  her seem more of a woman of the world than she was, but her old petulance now and then showed itself, her strong will
still held its own, and her native frankness was unspoiled by foreign polish.

Laurie  did  not  read  all this while he watched her feed the peacocks, but he saw enough to satisfy and interest him, and carried away a pretty
little  picture  of a bright-faced girl standing in the sunshine, which brought out the soft hue of her dress, the fresh color of her cheeks, the
golden gloss of her hair, and made her a prominent figure in the pleasant scene.

As  they  came  up  onto the stone plateau that crowns the hill, Amy waved her hand as if welcoming him to her favorite haunt, and said, pointing
here  and there, "Do you remember the Cathedral and the Corso, the fishermen dragging their nets in the bay, and the lovely road to Villa Franca,
Schubert's Tower, just below, and best of all, that speck far out to sea which they say is Corsica?"

"I remember. It's not much changed," he answered without enthusiasm.

"What Jo would give for a sight of that famous speck!" said Amy, feeling in good spirits and anxious to see him so also.

"Yes,"  was all he said, but he turned and strained his eyes to see the island which a greater usurper than even Napoleon now made interesting in
his sight.

"Take  a  good  look  at  it  for  her  sake, and then come and tell me what you have been doing with yourself all this while," said Amy, seating
herself, ready for a good talk.

But  she  did  not  get  it,  for  though  he  joined her and answered all her questions freely, she could only learn that he had roved about the
Continent and been to Greece. So after idling away an hour, they drove home again, and having paid his respects to Mrs. Carrol, Laurie left them,
promising to return in the evening.

It  must  be  recorded of Amy that she deliberately prinked that night. Time and absence had done its work on both the young people. She had seen
her  old  friend  in  a  new light, not as 'our boy', but as a handsome and agreeable man, and she was conscious of a very natural desire to find
favor in his sight. Amy knew her good points, and made the most of them with the taste and skill which is a fortune to a poor and pretty woman.

Tarlatan  and  tulle were cheap at Nice, so she enveloped herself in them on such occasions, and following the sensible English fashion of simple
dress  for  young  girls,  got up charming little toilettes with fresh flowers, a few trinkets, and all manner of dainty devices, which were both
inexpensive  and  effective.  It  must  be  confessed  that  the artist sometimes got possession of the woman, and indulged in antique coiffures,
statuesque  attitudes,  and  classic draperies. But, dear heart, we all have our little weaknesses, and find it easy to pardon such in the young,
who satisfy our eyes with their comeliness, and keep our hearts merry with their artless vanities.

"I  do  want him to think I look well, and tell them so at home," said Amy to herself, as she put on Flo's old white silk ball dress, and covered
it  with  a  cloud  of fresh illusion, out of which her white shoulders and golden head emerged with a most artistic effect. Her hair she had the
sense to let alone, after gathering up the thick waves and curls into a Hebe-like knot at the back of her head.

"It's  not  the  fashion,  but  it's becoming, and I can't afford to make a fright of myself," she used to say, when advised to frizzle, puff, or
braid, as the latest style commanded.

Having  no  ornaments  fine  enough  for this important occasion, Amy looped her fleecy skirts with rosy clusters of azalea, and framed the white
shoulders  in  delicate  green vines. Remembering the painted boots, she surveyed her white satin slippers with girlish satisfaction, and 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 large-
nosed  Jew in tight boots, affably beamed upon the world, as if his master's name crowned him with a golden halo. A stout Frenchman, who knew the
Emperor,  came  to  indulge  his  mania  for  dancing, and Lady de Jones, a British matron, adorned the scene with her little family of eight. Of
course, there were many light-footed, shrill-voiced American girls, handsome, lifeless-looking English ditto, and a few plain but piquante French
demoiselles,  likewise the usual set of traveling young gentlemen who disported themselves gaily, while mammas of all nations lined the walls and
smiled upon them benignly when they danced with their daughters.

Any young girl can imagine Amy's state of mind when she 'took the stage' that night, leaning on Laurie's arm. She knew she looked well, she loved
to  dance,  she  felt that her foot was on her native heath in a ballroom, and enjoyed the delightful sense of power which comes when young girls
first discover the new and lovely kingdom they are born to rule by virtue of beauty, youth, and womanhood. She did pity the Davis girls, who were
awkward,  plain,  and  destitute of escort, except a grim papa and three grimmer maiden aunts, and she bowed to them in her friendliest manner as
she  passed,  which  was good of her, as it permitted them to see her dress, and burn with curiosity to know who her distinguished-looking friend
might  be.  With  the  first  burst  of the band, Amy's color rose, her eyes began to sparkle, and her feet to tap the floor impatiently, for she
danced  well  and  wanted  Laurie to know it. Therefore the shock she received can better be imagined than described, when he said in a perfectly
tranquil tone, "Do you care to dance?"

"One usually does at a ball."

Her amazed look and quick answer caused Laurie to repair his error as fast as possible.

"I meant the first dance. May I have the honor?"

"I  can give you one if I put off the Count. He dances 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 Joneses gamboled like a flock of young giraffes. The golden
secretary  darted  through  the room like a meteor with a dashing frenchwoman who carpeted the floor with her pink satin train. The serene Teuton
found  the  supper-table  and  was happy, eating steadily through the bill of fare, and dismayed the garcons by the ravages he committed. But the
Emperor's  friend  covered  himself with glory, for he danced everything, whether he knew it or not, and introduced impromptu pirouettes when the
figures  bewildered  him.  The  boyish abandon of that stout man was charming to behold, for though he 'carried weight', he danced like an India-
rubber  ball.  He  ran, he flew, he pranced, his face glowed, his bald head shown, his coattails waved wildly, his pumps actually twinkled in the
air, and when the music stopped, he wiped the drops from his brow, and beamed upon his fellow men like a French Pickwick without glasses.

Amy  and  her Pole distinguished themselves by equal enthusiasm but more graceful agility, and Laurie found himself involuntarily keeping time to
the  rhythmic  rise  and fall of the white slippers as they flew by as indefatigably as if winged. When little Vladimir finally relinquished her,
with assurances that he was 'desolated to leave so early', she was ready to rest, and see how her recreant knight had borne his punishment.

It  had  been successful, for at three-and-twenty, blighted affections find a balm in friendly society, and young nerves will thrill, young blood
dance,  and  healthy  young spirits rise, when subjected to the enchantment of beauty, light, music, and motion. Laurie had a waked-up look as he
rose  to  give  her his seat, and when he hurried away to bring her some supper, she said to herself, with a satisfied smile, "Ah, I thought that
would do him good!"

"You look like Balzac's '_Femme Peinte Par Elle-Meme_'," he said, as he fanned her with one hand and held her coffee cup in the other.

"My  rouge  won't  come  off."  and  Amy  rubbed  her brilliant cheek, and showed him her white glove with a sober simplicity that made him laugh
outright.

"What do you call this stuff?" he asked, touching a fold of her dress that had blown over his knee.

"Illusion."

"Good name for it. It's very pretty--new thing, isn't it?"

"It's as old as the hills. You have seen it on dozens of girls, and you never found out that it was pretty till now--stupide!"

"I never saw it on you before, which accounts for the mistake, you see."

"None of that, it is forbidden. I'd rather take coffee than compliments just now. No, don't lounge, it makes me nervous."

Laurie sat bold upright, and meekly took her empty plate feeling an odd sort of pleasure in having 'little Amy' order him about, for she had lost
her  shyness  now, and felt an irrestible desire to trample on him, as girls have a delightful way of doing when lords of creation show any signs
of subjection.

"Where did you learn all this sort of thing?" he asked with a quizzical look.

"As  'this  sort  of  thing'  is  rather  a  vague expression, would you kindly explain?" returned Amy, knowing perfectly well what he meant, but
wickedly leaving him to describe what is indescribable.

"Well--the  general  air, the style, the self-possession, the--the--illusion--you know", laughed Laurie, breaking down and helping himself out of
his quandary with the new word.

Amy  was  gratified,  but  of course didn't show it, and demurely answered, "Foreign life polishes one in spite of one's self. I study as well as
play,  and  as for this"--with a little gesture toward her dress--"why, tulle is cheap, posies to be had for nothing, and I am used to making the
most of my poor little things."

Amy rather regretted that last sentence, fearing it wasn't in good taste, but Laurie liked her better for it, and found himself both admiring and
respecting  the brave patience that made the most of opportunity, and the cheerful spirit that covered poverty with flowers. Amy did not know why
he  looked  at her so kindly, nor why he filled up her book with his own name, and devoted himself to her for the rest of the evening in the most
delightful  manner;  but  the  impulse  that  wrought  this agreeable change was the result of one of the new impressions which both of them were
unconsciously giving and receiving.



CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

ON THE SHELF

In  France  the  young  girls  have a dull time of it till they are married, when 'Vive la liberte!' becomes their motto. In America, as everyone
knows,  girls  early  sign  the declaration of independence, and enjoy their freedom with republican zest, but the young matrons usually abdicate
with  the first heir to the throne and go into a seclusion almost as close as a French nunnery, though by no means as quiet. Whether they like it
or  not,  they  are  virtually put upon the shelf as soon as the wedding excitement is over, and most of them might exclaim, as did a very pretty
woman the other day, "I'm as handsome as ever, but no one takes any notice of me because I'm married."

Not  being  a  belle  or even a fashionable lady, Meg did not experience this affliction till her babies were a year old, for in her little world
primitive customs prevailed, and she found herself more admired and beloved than ever.

As  she  was a womanly little woman, the maternal instinct was very strong, and she was entirely absorbed in her children, to the utter exclusion
of  everything  and everybody else. Day and night she brooded over them with tireless devotion and anxiety, leaving John to the tender mercies of
the  help,  for  an Irish lady now presided over the kitchen department. Being a domestic man, John decidedly missed the wifely attentions he had
been  accustomed  to  receive, but as he adored his babies, he cheerfully relinquished his comfort for a time, supposing with masculine ignorance
that  peace  would soon be restored. But three months passed, and there was no return of repose. Meg looked worn and nervous, the babies absorbed
every  minute of her time, the house was neglected, and Kitty, the cook, who took life 'aisy', kept him on short commons. When he went out in the
morning  he was bewildered by small commissions for the captive mamma, if he came gaily in at night, eager to embrace his family, he was quenched
by  a  "Hush!  They  are just asleep after worrying all day." If he proposed a little amusement at home, "No, it would disturb the babies." If he
hinted at a lecture or a concert, he was answered with a reproachful look, and a decided - "Leave my children for pleasure, never!" His sleep was
broken  by  infant wails and visions of a phantom figure pacing noiselessly to and fro in the watches of the night. His meals were interrupted by
the  frequent flight of the presiding genius, who deserted him, half-helped, if a muffled chirp sounded from the nest above. And when he read his
paper  of  an evening, Demi's colic got into the shipping list and Daisy's fall affected the price of stocks, for Mrs. Brooke was only interested
in domestic news.

The  poor man was very uncomfortable, for the children had bereft him of his wife, home was merely a nursery and the perpetual 'hushing' made him
feel  like a brutal intruder whenever he entered the sacred precincts of Babyland. He bore it very patiently for six months, and when no signs of
amendment appeared, he did what other paternal exiles do--tried to get a little comfort elsewhere. Scott had married and gone to housekeeping not
far  off,  and  John  fell into the way of running over for an hour or two of an evening, when his own parlor was empty, and his own wife singing
lullabies  that  seemed  to have no end. Mrs. Scott was a lively, pretty girl, with nothing to do but be agreeable, and she performed her mission
most  successfully. The parlor was always bright and attractive, the chessboard ready, the piano in tune, plenty of gay gossip, and a nice little
supper set forth in tempting style.

John  would  have  preferred  his own fireside if it had not been so lonely, but as it was he gratefully took the next best thing and enjoyed his
neighbor's society.

Meg  rather  approved  of  the  new arrangement at first, and found it a relief to know that John was having a good time instead of dozing in the
parlor,  or  tramping  about  the  house  and waking the children. But by-and-by, when the teething worry was over and the idols went to sleep at
proper  hours,  leaving Mamma time to rest, she began to miss John, and find her workbasket dull company, when he was not sitting opposite in his
old  dressing  gown, comfortably scorching his slippers on the fender. She would not ask him to stay at home, but felt injured because he did not
know  that  she  wanted him without being told, entirely forgetting the many evenings he had waited for her in vain. She was nervous and worn out
with  watching  and  worry,  and in that unreasonable frame of mind which the best of mothers occasionally experience when domestic cares oppress
them.  Want  of  exercise robs them of cheerfulness, and too much devotion to that idol of American women, the teapot, makes them feel as if they
were all nerve and no muscle.

"Yes,"  she  would say, looking in the glass, "I'm getting old and ugly. John doesn't find me interesting any longer, so he leaves his faded wife
and goes to see his pretty neighbor, who has no incumbrances. Well, the babies love me, they don't care if I am thin and pale and haven't time to
crimp my hair, they are my comfort, and some day John will see what I've gladly sacrificed for them, won't he, my precious?"

To  which  pathetic  appeal Daisy would answer with a coo, or Demi with a crow, and Meg would put by her lamentations for a maternal revel, which
soothed  her  solitude  for  the time being. But the pain increased as politics absorbed John, who was always running over to discuss interesting
points  with  Scott,  quite  unconscious  that  Meg  missed him. Not a word did she say, however, till her mother found her in tears one day, and
insisted on knowing what the matter was, for Meg's drooping spirits had not escaped her observation.

"I  wouldn't  tell  anyone  except you, Mother, but I really do need advice, for if John goes on much longer I might as well be widowed," replied
Mrs. Brooke, drying her tears on Daisy's bib with an injured air.

"Goes on how, my dear?" asked her mother anxiously.

"He's  away  all  day,  and  at  night  when I want to see him, he is continually going over to the Scotts'. It isn't fair that I should have the
hardest work, and never any amusement. Men are very selfish, even the best of them."

"So are women. Don't blame John till you see where you are wrong yourself."

"But it can't be right for him to neglect me."

"Don't you neglect him?"

"Why, Mother, I thought you'd take my part!"

"So I do, as far as sympathizing goes, but I think the fault is yours, Meg."

"I don't see how."

"Let  me  show you. Did John ever neglect you, as you call it, while you made it a point to give him your society of an evening, his only leisure
time?"

"No, but I can't do it now, with two babies to tend."

"I  think  you  could, dear, and I think you ought. May I speak quite freely, and will you remember that it's Mother who blames as well as Mother
who sympathizes?"

"Indeed  I will! Speak to me as if I were little Meg again. I often feel as if I needed teaching more than ever since these babies look to me for
everything."

Meg  drew  her  low  chair  beside her mother's, and with a little interruption in either lap, the two women rocked and talked lovingly together,
feeling that the tie of motherhood made them more one than ever.

"You  have  only  made the mistake that most young wives make--forgotten your duty to your husband in your love for your children. A very natural
and  forgivable  mistake,  Meg,  but  one that had better be remedied before you take to different ways, for children should draw you nearer than
ever, not separate you, as if they were all yours, and John had nothing to do but support them. I've seen it for some weeks, but have not spoken,
feeling sure it would come right in time."

"I'm  afraid  it won't. If I ask him to stay, he'll think I'm jealous, and I wouldn't insult him by such an idea. He doesn't see that I want him,
and I don't know how to tell him without words."

"Make  it  so  pleasant he won't want to go away. My dear, he's longing for his little home, but it isn't home without you, and you are always in
the nursery."

"Oughtn't I to be there?"

"Not  all  the time, too much confinement makes you nervous, and then you are unfitted for everything. Besides, you owe something to John as well
as  to  the babies. Don't neglect husband for children, don't shut him out of the nursery, but teach him how to help in it. His place is there as
well  as  yours, and the children need him. Let him feel that he has a part to do, and he will do it gladly and faithfully, and it will be better
for you all."

"You really think so, Mother?"

"I  know  it, Meg, for I've tried it, and I seldom give advice unless I've proved its practicability. When you and Jo were little, I went on just
as  you  are,  feeling  as  if  I didn't do my duty unless I devoted myself wholly to you. Poor Father took to his books, after I had refused all
offers of help, and left me to try my experiment alone. I struggled along as well as I could, but Jo was too much for me. I nearly spoiled her by
indulgence.  You  were  poorly,  and I worried about you till I fell sick myself. Then Father came to the rescue, quietly managed everything, and
made himself so helpful that I saw my mistake, and never have been able to 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  always  were  my  docile  daughter.  Well, dear, if I were you, I'd let John have more to do with the management of Demi, for the boy needs
training,  and it's none too soon to begin. Then I'd do what I have often proposed, let Hannah come and help you. She is a capital nurse, and you
may  trust  the  precious  babies to her while you do more housework. You need the exercise, Hannah would enjoy the rest, and John would find his
wife  again.  Go  out  more,  keep cheerful as well as busy, for you are the sunshine-maker of the family, and if you get dismal there is no fair
weather. Then I'd try to take an interest in whatever John likes--talk with him, let him read to you, exchange ideas, and help each other in that
way.  Don't shut yourself up in a bandbox because you are a woman, but understand what is going on, and educate yourself to take your part in the
world's work, for it all affects you and yours."

"John is so sensible, I'm afraid he will think I'm stupid if I ask questions about politics and things."

"I don't believe he would. Love covers a multitude of sins, and of whom could you ask more freely than of him? Try it, and see if he doesn't find
your society far more agreeable than Mrs. Scott's suppers."

"I will. Poor John! I'm afraid I have neglected him sadly, but I thought I was right, and he never said anything."

"He  tried  not  to  be  selfish,  but he has felt rather forlorn, I fancy. This is just the time, Meg, when young married people are apt to grow
apart,  and  the very time when they ought to be most together, for the first tenderness soon wears off, unless care is taken to preserve it. And
no  time  is  so beautiful and precious to parents as the first years of the little lives given to them to train. Don't let John be a stranger to
the  babies, for they will do more to keep him safe and happy in this world of trial and temptation than anything else, and through them you will
learn to know and love one another as you should. Now, dear, good-by. Think over Mother's preachment, act upon it if it seems good, and God bless
you all."

Meg  did  think it over, found it good, and acted upon it, though the first attempt was not made exactly as she planned to have it. Of course the
children  tyrannized  over her, and ruled the house as soon as they found out that kicking and squalling brought them whatever they wanted. Mamma
was  an  abject  slave  to  their  caprices, but Papa was not so easily subjugated, and occasionally afflicted his tender spouse by an attempt at
paternal  discipline  with his obstreperous son. For Demi inherited a trifle of his sire's firmness of character, we won't call it obstinacy, and
when he made up his little mind to have or to do anything, all the king's horses and all the king's men could not change that pertinacious little
mind.  Mamma  thought the dear too young to be taught to conquer his prejudices, but Papa believed that it never was too soon to learn obedience.
So  Master  Demi early discovered that when he undertook to 'wrastle' with 'Parpar', he always got the worst of it, yet like the Englishman, baby
respected the man who conquered him, and loved the father whose grave "No, no," was more impressive than all Mamma's love pats.

A few days after the talk with her mother, Meg resolved to try a social evening with John, so she ordered a nice supper, set the parlor in order,
dressed  herself  prettily,  and  put the children to bed early, that nothing should interfere with her experiment. But unfortunately Demi's most
unconquerable  prejudice  was  against  going to bed, and that night he decided to go on a rampage. So poor Meg sang and rocked, told stories and
tried every sleep-prevoking wile she could devise, but all in vain, the big eyes wouldn't shut, and long after Daisy had gone to byelow, like the
chubby  little  bunch  of  good  nature  she  was,  naughty  Demi lay staring at the light, with the most discouragingly wide-awake expression of
countenance.

"Will  Demi  lie  still  like  a good boy, while Mamma runs down and gives poor Papa his tea?" asked Meg, as the hall door softly closed, and the
well-known step went tip-toeing into the dining room.

"Me has tea!" said Demi, preparing to join in the revel.

"No, but I'll save you some little cakies for breakfast, if you'll go bye-bye like Daisy. Will you, lovey?"

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

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

"Only you, dear."

"Is it a birthday, anniversary, or anything?"

"No,  I'm  tired  of  being  dowdy,  so  I  dressed  up as a change. You always make yourself nice for table, no matter how tired you are, so why
shouldn't I when I have the time?"

"I do it out of respect for you, my dear," said old-fashioned John.

"Ditto, ditto, Mr. Brooke," laughed Meg, looking young and pretty again, as she nodded to him over the teapot.

"Well,  it's  altogether  delightful,  and  like old times. This tastes right. I drink your health, dear." and John sipped his tea with an air of
reposeful rapture, which was of very short duration however, for as he put down his cup, the door handle rattled mysteriously, and a little voice
was heard, saying impatiently . . .

"Opy doy. Me's tummin!"

"It's  that  naughty boy. I told him to go to sleep alone, and here he is, downstairs, getting his death a-cold pattering over that canvas," said
Meg, answering the call.

"Mornin'  now,"  announced  Demi  in  joyful tone as he entered, with his long nightgown gracefully festooned over his arm and every curl bobbing
gayly as he pranced about the table, eyeing the 'cakies' with loving glances.

"No, it isn't morning yet. You must go to bed, and not trouble poor Mamma. Then you can have the little cake with sugar on it."

"Me  loves  Parpar,"  said the artful one, preparing to climb the paternal knee and revel in forbidden joys. But John shook his head, and said to
Meg . . .

"If you told him to stay up there, and go to sleep alone, make him do it, or he will never learn to mind you."

"Yes, of course. Come, Demi," and Meg led her son away, feeling a strong desire to spank the little marplot who hopped beside her, laboring under
the delusion that the bribe was to be administered as soon as they reached the nursery.

Nor  was he disappointed, for that shortsighted woman actually gave him a lump of sugar, tucked him into his bed, and forbade any more promenades
till morning.

"Iss!" said Demi the perjured, blissfully sucking his sugar, and regarding his first attempt as eminently successful.

Meg  returned  to her place, and supper was progressing pleasantly, when the little ghost walked again, and exposed the maternal delinquencies by
boldly demanding, "More sudar, Marmar."

"Now  this won't do," said John, hardening his heart against the engaging little sinner. "We shall never know any peace till that child learns to
go  to  bed properly. You have made a slave of yourself long enough. Give him one lesson, and then there will be an end of it. Put him in his bed
and leave him, Meg."

"He won't stay there, he never does unless I sit by him."

"I'll manage him. Demi, go upstairs, and get into your bed, as Mamma bids you."

"S'ant!" replied the young rebel, helping himself to the coveted 'cakie', and beginning to eat the same with calm audacity.

"You must never say that to Papa. I shall carry you if you don't go yourself."

"Go 'way, me don't love Parpar." and Demi retired to his mother's skirts for protection.

But  even that refuge proved unavailing, for he was delivered over to the enemy, with a "Be gentle with him, John," which struck the culprit with
dismay,  for  when Mamma deserted him, then the judgment day was at hand. Bereft of his cake, defrauded of his frolic, and borne away by a strong
hand  to that detested bed, poor Demi could not restrain his wrath, but openly defied Papa, and kicked and screamed lustily all the way upstairs.
The  minute he was put into bed on one side, he rolled out on the other, and made for the door, only to be ignominiously caught up by the tail of
his  little  toga  and  put  back  again, which lively performance was kept up till the young man's strength gave out, when he devoted himself to
roaring at the top of his voice. This vocal exercise usually conquered Meg, but John sat as unmoved as the post which is popularly believed to be
deaf.  No  coaxing,  no  sugar, no lullaby, no story, even the light was put out and only the red glow of the fire enlivened the 'big dark' which
Demi regarded with curiosity rather than fear. This new order of things disgusted him, and he howled dismally for 'Marmar', as his angry passions
subsided, and recollections of his tender bondwoman returned to the captive autocrat. The plaintive wail which succeeded the passionate roar went
to Meg's heart, and she ran up to say beseechingly . . .

"Let me stay with him, he'll be good now, John."

"No, my dear. I've told him he must go to sleep, as you bid him, and he must, if I stay here all night."

"But he'll cry himself sick," pleaded Meg, reproaching herself for deserting her boy.

"No,  he  won't,  he's  so  tired  he  will  soon  drop off and then the matter is settled, for he will understand that he has got to mind. Don't
interfere, I'll manage him."

"He's my child, and I can't have his spirit broken by harshness."

"He's my child, and I won't have his temper spoiled by indulgence. Go down, my dear, and leave the boy to me."

When John spoke in that masterful tone, Meg always obeyed, and never regretted her docility.

"Please let me kiss him once, John?"

"Certainly. Demi, say good night to Mamma, and let her go and rest, for she is very tired with taking care of you all day."

Meg always insisted upon it that the kiss won the victory, for after it was given, Demi sobbed more quietly, and lay quite still at the bottom of
the bed, whither he had wriggled in his anguish of mind.

"Poor little man, he's worn out with sleep and crying. I'll cover him up, and then go and set Meg's heart at rest," thought John, creeping to the
bedside, hoping to find his rebellious heir asleep.

But  he wasn't, for the moment his father peeped at him, Demi's eyes opened, his little chin began to quiver, and he put up his arms, saying with
a penitent hiccough, "Me's dood, now."

Sitting  on the stairs outside Meg wondered at the long silence which followed the uproar, and after imagining all sorts of impossible accidents,
she  slipped into the room to set her fears at rest. Demi lay fast asleep, not in his usual spreadeagle attitude, but in a subdued bunch, cuddled
close  in  the  circle  of  his father's arm and holding his father's finger, as if he felt that justice was tempered with mercy, and had gone to
sleep  a  sadder  and  wiser  baby. So held, John had waited with a womanly patience till the little hand relaxed its hold, and while waiting had
fallen asleep, more tired by that tussle with his son than with his whole day's work.

As  Meg stood watching the two faces on the pillow, she smiled to herself, and then slipped away again, saying in a satisfied tone, "I never need
fear that John will be too harsh with my babies. He does know how to manage them, and will be a great help, for Demi is getting too much for me."

When  John came down at last, expecting to find a pensive or reproachful wife, he was agreeably surprised to find Meg placidly trimming a bonnet,
and  to be greeted with the request to read something about the election, if he was not too tired. John saw in a minute that a revolution of some
kind  was  going on, but wisely asked no questions, knowing that Meg was such a transparent little person, she couldn't keep a secret to save her
life,  and  therefore  the  clue would soon appear. He read a long debate with the most amiable readiness and then explained it in his most lucid
manner,  while  Meg  tried  to  look  deeply interested, to ask intelligent questions, and keep her thoughts from wandering from the state of the
nation  to  the  state  of her bonnet. In her secret soul, however, she decided that politics were as bad as mathematics, and that the mission of
politicians  seemed  to  be calling each other names, but she kept these feminine ideas to herself, and when John paused, shook her head and said
with what she thought diplomatic ambiguity, "Well, I really don't see what we are coming to."

John  laughed,  and watched her for a minute, as she poised a pretty little preparation of lace and flowers on her hand, and regarded it with the
genuine interest which his harangue had failed to waken.

"She  is  trying  to  like politics for my sake, so I'll try and like millinery for hers, that's only fair," thought John the Just, adding aloud,
"That's very pretty. Is it what you call a breakfast cap?"

"My dear man, it's a bonnet! My very best go-to-concert-and-theater bonnet."

"I beg your pardon, it was so small, I naturally mistook it for one of the flyaway things you sometimes wear. How do you keep it on?"

"These  bits  of lace are fastened under the chin with a rosebud, so," and Meg illustrated by putting on the bonnet and regarding him with an air
of calm satisfaction that was irresistible.

"It's  a  love  of  a  bonnet,  but I prefer the face inside, for it looks young and happy again," and John kissed the smiling face, to the great
detriment of the rosebud under the chin.

"I'm  glad  you  like  it, for I want you to take me to one of the new concerts some night. I really need some music to put me in tune. Will you,
please?"

"Of  course I will, with all my heart, or anywhere else you like. You have been shut up so long, it will do you no end of good, and I shall enjoy
it, of all things. What put it into your head, little mother?"

"Well,  I had a talk with Marmee the other day, and told her how nervous and cross and out of sorts I felt, and she said I needed change and less
care,  so Hannah is to help me with the children, and I'm to see to things about the house more, and now and then have a little fun, just to keep
me  from getting to be a fidgety, broken-down old woman before my time. It's only an experiment, John, and I want to try it for your sake as much
as for mine, because I've neglected you shamefully lately, and I'm going to make home what it used to be, if I can. You don't object, I hope?"

Never mind what John said, or what a very narrow escape the little bonnet had from utter ruin. All that we have any business to know is that John
did not appear to object, judging from the changes which gradually took place in the house and its inmates. It was not all Paradise by any means,
but  everyone was better for the division of labor system. The children throve under the paternal rule, for accurate, 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 loneliness, for there were no riotous, sunny-faced
babies there, and Ned lived in a world of his own, where there was no place for her.

This household happiness did not come all at once, but John and Meg had found the key to it, and each year of married life taught them how to use
it,  unlocking  the  treasuries  of real home love and mutual helpfulness, which the poorest may possess, and the richest cannot buy. This is the
sort  of  shelf on which young wives and mothers may consent to be laid, safe from the restless fret and fever of the world, finding loyal lovers
in  the little sons and daughters who cling to them, undaunted by sorrow, poverty, or age, walking side by side, through fair and stormy weather,
with  a  faithful  friend,  who  is, in the true sense of the good old Saxon word, the 'house-band', and learning, as Meg learned, that a woman's
happiest kingdom is home, her highest honor the art of ruling it not as a queen, but as a wise wife and mother.



CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

LAZY LAURENCE

Laurie  went to Nice intending to stay a week, and remained a month. He was tired of wandering about alone, and Amy's familiar presence seemed to
give  a  homelike charm to the foreign scenes in which she bore a part. He rather missed the 'petting' he used to receive, and enjoyed a taste of
it  again, for no attentions, however flattering, from strangers, were half so pleasant as the sisterly adoration of the girls at home. Amy never
would  pet  him like the others, but she was very glad to see him now, and quite clung to him, feeling that he was the representative of the dear
family  for  whom  she  longed  more  than she would confess. They naturally took comfort in each other's society and were much together, riding,
walking,  dancing, or dawdling, for at Nice no one can be very industrious during the gay season. But, while apparently amusing themselves in the
most  careless  fashion, they were half-consciously making discoveries and forming opinions about each other. Amy rose daily in the estimation of
her  friend,  but he sank in hers, and each felt the truth before a word was spoken. Amy tried to please, and succeeded, for she was grateful for
the  many  pleasures  he gave her, and repaid him with the little services to which womanly women know how to lend an indescribable charm. Laurie
made  no effort of any kind, but just let himself drift along as comfortably as possible, trying to forget, and feeling that all women owed him a
kind  word  because  one  had been cold to him. It cost him no effort to be generous, and he would have given Amy all the trinkets in Nice if she
would  have  taken them, but at the same time he felt that he could not change the opinion she was forming of him, and he rather dreaded the keen
blue eyes that seemed to watch him with such half-sorrowful, half-scornful surprise.

"All  the  rest  have  gone to Monaco for the day. I preferred to stay at home and write letters. They are done now, and I am going to Valrosa to
sketch, will you come?" said Amy, as she joined Laurie one lovely day when he lounged in as usual, about noon.

"Well, yes, but isn't it rather warm for such a long walk?" he answered slowly, for the shaded salon looked inviting after the glare without.

"I'm  going to have the little carriage, and Baptiste can drive, so you'll have nothing to do but hold your umbrella, and keep your gloves nice,"
returned Amy, with a sarcastic glance at the immaculate kids, which were a weak point with Laurie.

"Then I'll go with pleasure." and he put out his hand for her sketchbook. But she tucked it under her arm with a sharp . . .

"Don't trouble yourself. It's no exertion to me, but you don't look equal to it."

Laurie lifted his eyebrows and followed at a leisurely pace as she ran downstairs, but when they got into the carriage he took the reins himself,
and left little Baptiste nothing to do but fold his arms and fall asleep on his perch.

The  two  never  quarreled. Amy was too well-bred, and just now Laurie was too lazy, so in a minute he peeped under her hatbrim with an inquiring
air. She answered him with a smile, and they went on together in the most amicable manner.

It  was a lovely drive, along winding roads rich in the picturesque scenes that delight beauty-loving eyes. Here an ancient monastery, whence the
solemn  chanting  of the monks came down to them. There a bare-legged shepherd, in wooden shoes, pointed hat, and rough jacket over one shoulder,
sat piping on a stone while his goats skipped among the rocks or lay at his feet. Meek, mouse-colored donkeys, laden with panniers of freshly cut
grass  passed  by,  with a pretty girl in a capaline sitting between the green piles, or an old woman spinning with a distaff as she went. Brown,
soft-eyed  children ran out from the quaint stone hovels to offer nosegays, or bunches of oranges still on the bough. Gnarled olive trees covered
the  hills with their dusky foliage, fruit hung golden in the orchard, and great scarlet anemones fringed the roadside, while beyond green slopes
and craggy heights, the Maritime Alps rose sharp and white against the blue Italian sky.

Valrosa  well deserved its name, for in that climate of perpetual summer roses blossomed everywhere. They overhung the archway, thrust themselves
between the bars of the great gate with a sweet welcome to passers-by, and lined the avenue, winding through lemon trees and feathery palms up to
the  villa on the hill. Every shadowy nook, where seats invited one to stop and rest, was a mass of bloom, every cool grotto had its marble nymph
smiling  from a veil of flowers and every fountain reflected crimson, white, or pale pink roses, leaning down to smile at their own beauty. Roses
covered the walls of the house, draped the cornices, climbed the pillars, and ran riot over the balustrade of the wide terrace, whence one looked
down on the sunny Mediterranean, and the white-walled city on its shore.

"This  is  a  regular  honeymoon  paradise,  isn't  it?  Did you ever see such roses?" asked Amy, pausing on the terrace to enjoy the view, and a
luxurious whiff of perfume that came wandering by.

"No,  nor  felt  such  thorns," returned Laurie, with his thumb in his mouth, after a vain attempt to capture a solitary scarlet flower that grew
just beyond his reach.

"Try  lower down, and pick those that have no thorns," said Amy, gathering three of the tiny cream-colored ones that starred the wall behind her.
She put them in his buttonhole as a peace offering, and he stood a minute looking down at them with a curious expression, for in the Italian part
of his nature there was a touch of superstition, and he was just then in that state of half-sweet, half-bitter melancholy, when imaginative young
men  find  significance in trifles and food for romance everywhere. He had thought of Jo in reaching after the thorny red rose, for vivid flowers
became her, and she had often worn ones like that from the greenhouse at home. The pale roses Amy gave him were the sort that the Italians lay in
dead hands, never in bridal wreaths, and for a moment he wondered if the omen was for Jo or for himself, but the next instant his American common
sense got the better of sentimentality, and he laughed a heartier laugh than Amy had heard since he came.

"It's good advice, you'd better take it and save your fingers," she said, thinking her speech amused him.

"Thank you, I will," he answered in jest, and a few months later he did it in earnest.

"Laurie, when are you going to your grandfather?" she asked presently, as she settled herself on a rustic seat.

"Very soon."

"You have said that a dozen times within the last three weeks."

"I dare say, short answers save trouble."

"He expects you, and you really ought to go."

"Hospitable creature! I know it."

"Then why don't you do it?"

"Natural depravity, I suppose."

"Natural indolence, you mean. It's really dreadful!" and Amy looked severe.

"Not  so bad as it seems, for I should only plague him if I went, so I might as well stay and plague you a little longer, you can bear it better,
in fact I think it agrees with you excellently," and Laurie composed himself for a lounge on the broad ledge of the balustrade.

Amy  shook  her head and opened her sketchbook with an air of resignation, but she had made up her mind to lecture 'that boy' and in a minute she
began again.

"What are you doing just now?"

"Watching lizards."

"No, no. I mean what do you intend and wish to do?"

"Smoke a cigarette, if you'll allow me."

"How provoking you are! I don't approve of cigars and I will only allow it on condition that you let me put you into my sketch. I need a figure."

"With  all  the  pleasure  in  life. How will you have me, full length or three-quarters, on my head or my heels? I should respectfully suggest a
recumbent posture, then put yourself in also and call it 'Dolce far niente'."

"Stay as you are, and go to sleep if you like. I intend to work hard," said Amy in her most energetic tone.

"What delightful enthusiasm!" and he leaned against a tall urn with an air of entire satisfaction.

"What would Jo say if she saw you now?" asked Amy impatiently, hoping to stir him up by the mention of her still more energetic sister's name.

"As  usual,  'Go  away,  Teddy.  I'm  busy!'"  He  laughed  as he spoke, but the laugh was not natural, and a shade passed over his face, for the
utterance  of  the  familiar  name  touched  the  wound that was not healed yet. Both tone and shadow struck Amy, for she had seen and heard them
before,  and now she looked up in time to catch a new expression on Laurie's face--a hard bitter look, full of pain, dissatisfaction, and regret.
It  was  gone before she could study it and the listless expression back again. She watched him for a moment with artistic pleasure, thinking how
like an Italian he looked, as he lay basking in the sun with uncovered head and eyes full of southern dreaminess, for he seemed to have forgotten
her and fallen into a reverie.

"You look like the effigy of a young knight asleep on his tomb," she said, carefully tracing the well-cut profile defined against the dark stone.

"Wish I was!"

"That's  a  foolish wish, unless you have spoiled your life. You are so changed, I sometimes think--" there Amy stopped, with a half-timid, half-
wistful look, more significant than her unfinished speech.

Laurie  saw  and understood the affectionate anxiety which she hesitated to express, and looking straight into her eyes, said, just as he used to
say it to her mother, "It's all right, ma'am."

That satisfied her and set at rest the doubts that had begun to worry her lately. It also touched her, and she showed that it did, by the cordial
tone in which she said . . .

"I'm  glad  of  that!  I  didn't think you'd been a very bad boy, but I fancied you might have wasted money at that wicked Baden-Baden, lost your
heart  to some charming Frenchwoman with a husband, or got into some of the scrapes that young men seem to consider a necessary part of a foreign
tour.  Don't stay out there in the sun, come and lie on the grass here and 'let us be friendly', as Jo used to say when we got in the sofa corner
and told secrets."

Laurie obediently threw himself down on the turf, and began to amuse himself by sticking daisies into the ribbons of Amy's hat, that lay there.

"I'm all ready for the secrets." and he glanced up with a decided expression of interest in his eyes.

"I've none to tell. You may begin."

"Haven't one to bless myself with. I thought perhaps you'd had some news from home.."

"You have heard all that has come lately. Don't you hear often? I fancied Jo would send you volumes."

"She's  very  busy. I'm roving about so, it's impossible to be regular, you know. When do you begin your great work of art, Raphaella?" he asked,
changing the subject abruptly after another pause, in which he had been wondering if Amy knew his secret and wanted to talk about it.

"Never,"  she  answered,  with  a despondent but decided air. "Rome took all the vanity out of me, for after seeing the wonders there, I felt too
insignificant to live and gave up all my foolish hopes in despair."

"Why should you, with so much energy and talent?"

"That's  just why, because talent isn't genius, and no amount of energy can make it so. I want to be great, or nothing. I won't be a common-place
dauber, so I don't intend to try any more."

"And what are you going to do with yourself now, if I may ask?"

"Polish up my other talents, and be an ornament to society, if I get the chance."

It  was  a characteristic speech, and sounded daring, but audacity becomes young people, and Amy's ambition had a good foundation. Laurie smiled,
but he liked the spirit with which she took up a new purpose when a long-cherished one died, and spent no time lamenting.

"Good! And here is where Fred Vaughn comes in, I fancy."

Amy  preserved a discreet silence, but there was a conscious look in her downcast face that made Laurie sit up and say gravely, "Now I'm going to
play brother, and ask questions. May I?"

"I don't promise to answer."

"Your face will, if your tongue won't. You aren't woman of the world enough yet to hide your feelings, my dear. I heard rumors about Fred and you
last  year,  and  it's  my private opinion that if he had not been called home so suddenly and detained so long, something would have come of it,
hey?"

"That's not for me to say," was Amy's grim reply, but her lips would smile, and there was a traitorous sparkle of the eye which betrayed that she
knew her power and enjoyed the knowledge.

"You are not engaged, I hope?" and Laurie looked very elder-brotherly and grave all of a sudden.

"No."

"But you will be, if he comes back and goes properly down on his knees, won't you?"

"Very likely."

"Then you are fond of old Fred?"

"I could be, if I tried."

"But  you  don't intend to try till the proper moment? Bless my soul, what unearthly prudence! He's a good fellow, Amy, but not the man I fancied
you'd like."

"He is rich, a gentleman, and has delightful manners," began Amy, trying to be quite cool and dignified, but feeling a little ashamed of herself,
in spite of the sincerity of her intentions.

"I  understand. Queens of society can't get on without money, so you mean to make a good match, and start in that way? Quite right and proper, as
the world goes, but it sounds odd from the lips of one of your mother's girls."

"True, nevertheless."

A  short speech, but the quiet decision with which it was uttered contrasted curiously with the young speaker. Laurie felt this instinctively and
laid  himself  down  again,  with  a  sense of disappointment which he could not explain. His look and silence, as well as a certain inward self-
disapproval, ruffled Amy, and made her resolve to deliver her lecture without delay.

"I wish you'd do me the favor to rouse yourself a little," she said sharply.

"Do it for me, there's a dear girl."

"I could, if I tried." and she looked as if she would like doing it in the most summary style.

"Try, then. I give you leave," returned Laurie, who enjoyed having someone to tease, after his long abstinence from his favorite pastime.

"You'd be angry in five minutes."

"I'm never angry with you. It takes two flints to make a fire. You are as cool and soft as snow."

"You  don't know what I can do. Snow produces a glow and a tingle, if applied rightly. Your indifference is half affectation, and a good stirring
up would prove it."

"Stir  away,  it  won't hurt me and it may amuse you, as the big man said when his little wife beat him. Regard me in the light of a husband or a
carpet, and beat till you are tired, if that sort of exercise agrees with you."

Being  decidedly  nettled  herself,  and  longing  to see him shake off the apathy that so altered him, Amy sharpened both tongue and pencil, and
began.

"Flo and I have got a new name for you. It's Lazy Laurence. How do you like it?"

She thought it would annoy him, but he only folded his arms under his head, with an imperturbable, "That's not bad. Thank you, ladies."

"Do you want to know what I honestly think of you?"

"Pining to be told."

"Well, I despise you."

If  she had even said 'I hate you' in a petulant or coquettish tone, he would have laughed and rather liked it, but the grave, almost sad, accent
in her voice made him open his eyes, and ask quickly . . .

"Why, if you please?"

"Because, with every chance for being good, useful, and happy, you are faulty, lazy, and miserable."

"Strong language, mademoiselle."

"If you like it, I'll go on."

"Pray do, it's quite interesting."

"I thought you'd find it so. Selfish people always like to talk about themselves."

"Am I selfish?" the question slipped out involuntarily and in a tone of surprise, for the one virtue on which he prided himself was generosity.

"Yes, very selfish," continued Amy, in a calm, cool voice, twice as effective just then as an angry one. "I'll show you how, for I've studied you
while we were frolicking, and I'm not at all satisfied with you. Here you have been abroad nearly six months, and done nothing but waste time and
money and disappoint your friends."

"Isn't a fellow to have any pleasure after a four-year grind?"

"You  don't  look  as  if you'd had much. At any rate, you are none the better for it, as far as I can see. I said when we first met that you had
improved. Now I take it all back, for I don't think you half so nice as when I left you at home. You have grown abominably lazy, you like gossip,
and  waste  time  on  frivolous  things, you are contented to be petted and admired by silly people, instead of being loved and respected by wise
ones.  With  money,  talent,  position,  health, and beauty, ah you like that old Vanity! But it's the truth, so I can't help saying it, with all
these  splendid things to use and enjoy, you can find nothing to do but dawdle, and instead of being the man you ought to be, you are only . . ."
there she stopped, with a look that had both pain and pity in it.

"Saint  Laurence  on  a gridiron," added Laurie, blandly finishing the sentence. But the lecture began to take effect, for there was a wide-awake
sparkle in his eyes now and a half-angry, half-injured expression replaced the former indifference.

"I  supposed  you'd  take  it  so. You men tell us we are angels, and say we can make you what we will, but the instant we honestly try to do you
good,  you  laugh  at  us  and  won't  listen,  which  proves  how  much  your flattery is worth." Amy spoke bitterly, and turned her back on the
exasperating martyr at her feet.

In  a  minute a hand came down over the page, so that she could not draw, and Laurie's voice said, with a droll imitation of a penitent child, "I
will be good, oh, I will be good!"

But  Amy  did  not  laugh, for she was in earnest, and tapping on the outspread hand with her pencil, said soberly, "Aren't you ashamed of a hand
like  that? It's as soft and white as a woman's, and looks as if it never did anything but wear Jouvin's best gloves and pick flowers for ladies.
You  are not a dandy, thank Heaven, so I'm glad to see there are no diamonds or big seal rings on it, only the little old one Jo gave you so long
ago. Dear soul, I wish she was here to help me!"

"So do I!"

The  hand  vanished  as suddenly as it came, and there was energy enough in the echo of her wish to suit even Amy. She glanced down at him with a
new  thought  in  her  mind,  but he was lying with his hat half over his face, as if for shade, and his mustache hid his mouth. She only saw his
chest  rise  and fall, with a long breath that might have been a sigh, and the hand that wore the ring nestled down into the grass, as if to hide
something too precious or too tender to be spoken of. All in a minute various hints and trifles assumed shape and significance in Amy's mind, and
told her what her sister never had confided to her. She remembered that Laurie never spoke voluntarily of Jo, she recalled the shadow on his face
just  now,  the change in his character, and the wearing of the little old ring which was no ornament to a handsome hand. Girls are quick to read
such signs and feel their eloquence. Amy had fancied that perhaps a love trouble was at the bottom of the alteration, and now she was sure of it.
Her keen eyes filled, and when she spoke again, it was in a voice that could be beautifully soft and kind when she chose to make it so.

"I know I have no right to talk so to you, Laurie, and if you weren't the sweetest-tempered fellow in the world, you'd be very angry with me. But
we  are  all  so  fond and proud of you, I couldn't bear to think they should be disappointed in you at home as I have been, though, perhaps they
would understand the change better than I do."

"I think they would," came from under the hat, in a grim tone, quite as touching as a broken one.

"They ought to have told me, and not let me go blundering and scolding, when I should have been more kind and patient than ever. I never did like
that Miss Randal and now I hate her!" said artful Amy, wishing to be sure of her facts this time.

"Hang Miss Randal!" and Laurie knocked the hat off his face with a look that left no doubt of his sentiments toward that young lady.

"I beg pardon, I thought . . ." and there she paused diplomatically.

"No,  you didn't, you knew perfectly well I never cared for anyone but Jo," Laurie said that in his old, impetuous tone, and turned his face away
as he spoke.

"I  did  think so, but as they never said anything about it, and you came away, I supposed I was mistaken. And Jo wouldn't be kind to you? Why, I
was sure she loved you dearly."

"She  was  kind,  but  not in the right way, and it's lucky for her she didn't love me, if I'm the good-for-nothing fellow you think me. It's her
fault though, and you may tell her so."

The hard, bitter look came back again as he said that, and it troubled Amy, for she did not know what balm to apply.

"I was wrong, I didn't know. I'm very sorry I was so cross, but I can't help wishing you'd bear it better, Teddy, dear."

"Don't,  that's  her  name  for me!" and Laurie put up his hand with a quick gesture to stop the words spoken in Jo's half-kind, half-reproachful
tone. "Wait till you've tried it yourself," he added in a low voice, as he pulled up the grass by the handful.

"I'd take it manfully, and be respected if I couldn't be loved," said Amy, with the decision of one who knew nothing about it.

Now,  Laurie  flattered  himself that he had borne it remarkably well, making no moan, asking no sympathy, and taking his trouble away to live it
down  alone. Amy's lecture put the matter in a new light, and for the first time it did look weak and selfish to lose heart at the first failure,
and  shut  himself  up  in moody indifference. He felt as if suddenly shaken out of a pensive dream and found it impossible to go to sleep again.
Presently he sat up and asked slowly, "Do you think Jo would despise me as you do?"

"Yes, if she saw you now. She hates lazy people. Why don't you do something splendid, and make her love you?"

"I did my best, but it was no use."

"Graduating  well, you mean? That was no more than you ought to have done, for your grandfather's sake. It would have been shameful to fail after
spending so much time and money, when everyone knew that you could do well."

"I did fail, say what you will, for Jo wouldn't love me," began Laurie, leaning his head on his hand in a despondent attitude.

"No,  you didn't, and you'll say so in the end, for it did you good, and proved that you could do something if you tried. If you'd only set about
another task of some sort, you'd soon be your hearty, happy self again, and forget your trouble."

"That's impossible."

"Try it and see. You needn't shrug your shoulders, and think, 'Much she knows about such things'. I don't pretend to be wise, but I am observing,
and  I  see a great deal more than you'd imagine. I'm interested in other people's experiences and inconsistencies, and though I can't explain, I
remember and use them for my own benefit. Love Jo all your days, if you choose, but don't let it spoil you, for it's wicked to throw away so many
good  gifts  because  you  can't  have the one you want. There, I won't lecture any more, for I know you'll wake up and be a man in spite of that
hardhearted girl."

Neither  spoke  for  several  minutes. Laurie sat turning the little ring on his finger, and Amy put the last touches to the hasty sketch she had
been working at while she talked. Presently she put it on his knee, merely saying, "How do you like that?"

He looked and then he smiled, as he could not well help doing, for it was capitally done, the long, lazy figure on the grass, with listless face,
half-shut eyes, and one hand holding a cigar, from which came the little wreath of smoke that encircled the dreamer's head.

"How well you draw!" he said, with a genuine surprise and pleasure at her skill, adding, with a half-laugh, "Yes, that's me."

"As you are. This is as you were." and Amy laid another sketch beside the one he held.

It  was  not  nearly so well done, but there was a life and spirit in it which atoned for many faults, and it recalled the past so vividly that a
sudden  change  swept over the young man's face as he looked. Only a rough sketch of Laurie taming a horse. Hat and coat were off, and every line
of  the active figure, resolute face, and commanding attitude was full of energy and meaning. The handsome brute, just subdued, stood arching his
neck  under  the  tightly  drawn  rein,  with  one foot impatiently pawing the ground, and ears pricked up as if listening for the voice that had
mastered  him.  In the ruffled mane, the rider's breezy hair and erect attitude, there was a suggestion of suddenly arrested motion, of strength,
courage,  and  youthful buoyancy that contrasted sharply with the supine grace of the '_Dolce far Niente_' sketch. Laurie said nothing but as his
eye  went  from one to the other, Amy saw him flush up and fold his lips together as if he read and accepted the little lesson she had given him.
That satisfied her, and without waiting for him to speak, she said, in her sprightly way . . .

"Don't you remember the day you played Rarey with Puck, and we all looked on? Meg and Beth were frightened, but Jo clapped and pranced, and I sat
on the fence and drew you. I found that sketch in my portfolio the other day, touched it up, and kept it to show you."

"Much obliged. You've improved immensely since then, and I congratulate you. May I venture to suggest in 'a honeymoon paradise' that five o'clock
is the dinner hour at your hotel?"

Laurie  rose  as  he  spoke,  returned  the pictures with a smile and a bow and looked at his watch, as if to remind her that even moral lectures
should  have  an end. He tried to resume his former easy, indifferent air, but it was an affectation now, for the rousing had been more effacious
than he would confess. Amy felt the shade of coldness in his manner, and said to herself . . .

"Now,  I've offended him. Well, if it does him good, I'm glad, if it makes him hate me, I'm sorry, but it's true, and I can't take back a word of
it."

They  laughed  and chatted all the way home, and little Baptiste, up behind, thought that monsieur and madamoiselle were in charming spirits. But
both  felt  ill  at ease. The friendly frankness was disturbed, the sunshine had a shadow over it, and despite their apparent gaiety, there was a
secret discontent in the heart of each.

"Shall we see you this evening, mon frere?" asked Amy, as they parted at her aunt's door.

"Unfortunately  I  have an engagement. Au revoir, madamoiselle," and Laurie bent as if to kiss her hand, in the foreign fashion, which became him
better than many men. Something in his face made Amy say quickly and warmly . . .

"No,  be  yourself with me, Laurie, and part in the good old way. I'd rather have a hearty English handshake than all the sentimental salutations
in France."

"Goodbye, dear," and with these words, uttered in the tone she liked, Laurie left her, after a handshake almost painful in its heartiness.

Next morning, instead of the usual call, Amy received a note which made her smile at the beginning and sigh at the end.

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

Yours gratefully, Telemachus


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




CHAPTER FORTY

THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW

When  the  first  bitterness  was over, the family accepted the inevitable, and tried to bear it cheerfully, helping one another by the increased
affection  which  comes  to bind households tenderly together in times of trouble. They put away their grief, and each did his or her part toward
making that last year a happy one.

The  pleasantest  room  in the house was set apart for Beth, and in it was gathered everything that she most loved, flowers, pictures, her piano,
the  little worktable, and the beloved pussies. Father's best books found their way there, Mother's easy chair, Jo's desk, Amy's finest sketches,
and  every day Meg brought her babies on a loving pilgrimage, to make sunshine for Aunty Beth. John quietly set apart a little sum, that he might
enjoy  the pleasure of keeping the invalid supplied with the fruit she loved and longed for. Old Hannah never wearied of concocting dainty dishes
to  tempt  a  capricious appetite, dropping tears as she worked, and from across the sea came little gifts and cheerful letters, seeming to bring
breaths of warmth and fragrance from lands that know no winter.

Here,  cherished like a household saint in its shrine, sat Beth, tranquil and busy as ever, for nothing could change the sweet, unselfish nature,
and  even while preparing to leave life, she tried to make it happier for those who should remain behind. The feeble fingers were never idle, and
one  of her pleasures was to make little things for the school children daily passing to and fro, to drop a pair of mittens from her window for a
pair  of  purple  hands,  a  needlebook  for  some  small  mother  of many dolls, penwipers for young penmen toiling through forests of pothooks,
scrapbooks  for  picture-loving  eyes,  and all manner of pleasant devices, till the reluctant climbers of the ladder of learning found their way
strewn  with  flowers, as it were, and came to regard the gentle giver as a sort of fairy godmother, who sat above there, and showered down gifts
miraculously  suited  to  their  tastes and needs. If Beth had wanted any reward, she found it in the bright little faces always turned up to her
window, with nods and smiles, and the droll little letters which came to her, full of blots and gratitude.

The  first  few  months were very happy ones, and Beth often used to look round, and say "How beautiful this is!" as they all sat together in her
sunny  room,  the  babies  kicking and crowing on the floor, mother and sisters working near, and father reading, in his pleasant voice, from the
wise  old  books  which  seemed  rich  in  good  and comfortable words, as applicable now as when written centuries ago, a little chapel, where a
paternal  priest  taught  his  flock  the hard lessons all must learn, trying to show them that hope can comfort love, and faith make resignation
possible.  Simple  sermons, that went straight to the souls of those who listened, for the father's heart was in the minister's religion, and the
frequent falter in the voice gave a double eloquence to the words he spoke or read.

It  was well for all that this peaceful time was given them as preparation for the sad hours to come, for by-and-by, Beth said the needle was 'so
heavy',  and  put it down forever. Talking wearied her, faces troubled her, pain claimed her for its own, and her tranquil spirit was sorrowfully
perturbed by the ills that vexed her feeble flesh. Ah me! Such heavy days, such long, long nights, such aching hearts and imploring prayers, when
those who loved her best were forced to see the thin hands stretched out to them beseechingly, to hear the bitter cry, "Help me, help me!" and to
feel that there was no help. A sad eclipse of the serene soul, a sharp struggle of the young life with death, but both were mercifully brief, and
then  the natural rebellion over, the old peace returned more beautiful than ever. With the wreck of her frail body, Beth's soul grew strong, and
though  she said little, those about her felt that she was ready, saw that the first pilgrim called was likewise the fittest, and waited with her
on the shore, trying to see the Shining Ones coming to receive her when she crossed the river.

Jo  never  left  her for an hour since Beth had said "I feel stronger when you are here." She slept on a couch in the room, waking often to renew
the  fire,  to  feed, lift, or wait upon the patient creature who seldom asked for anything, and 'tried not to be a trouble'. All day she haunted
the room, jealous of any other nurse, and prouder of being chosen then than of any honor her life ever brought her. Precious and helpful hours to
Jo, for now her heart received the teaching that it needed. Lessons in patience were so sweetly taught her that she could not fail to learn them,
charity for all, the lovely spirit that can forgive and truly forget unkindness, the loyalty to duty that makes the hardest easy, and the sincere
faith that fears nothing, but trusts undoubtingly.

Often when she woke Jo found Beth reading in her well-worn little book, heard her singing softly, to beguile the sleepless night, or saw her lean
her  face  upon  her  hands,  while  slow tears dropped through the transparent fingers, and Jo would lie watching her with thoughts too deep for
tears,  feeling that Beth, in her simple, unselfish way, was trying to wean herself from the dear old life, and fit herself for the life to come,
by sacred words of comfort, quiet prayers, and the music she loved so well.

Seeing  this  did  more  for Jo than the wisest sermons, the saintliest hymns, the most fervent prayers that any voice could utter. For with eyes
made  clear by many tears, and a heart softened by the tenderest sorrow, she recognized the beauty of her sister's life--uneventful, unambitious,
yet  full of the genuine virtues which 'smell sweet, and blossom in the dust', the self-forgetfulness that makes the humblest on earth remembered
soonest in heaven, the true success which is possible to all.

One  night  when Beth looked among the books upon her table, to find something to make her forget the mortal weariness that was almost as hard to
bear  as pain, as she turned the leaves of her old favorite, Pilgrims's Progress, she found a little paper, scribbled over in Jo's hand. The name
caught her eye and the blurred look of the lines made her sure that tears had fallen on it.

"Poor  Jo!  She's  fast  asleep, so I won't wake her to ask leave. She shows me all her things, and I don't think she'll mind if I look at this",
thought Beth, with a glance at her sister, who lay on the rug, with the tongs beside her, ready to wake up the minute the log fell apart.

MY BETH

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

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

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

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

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

Blurred  and  blotted,  faulty  and feeble as the lines were, they brought a look of inexpressible comfort to Beth's face, for her one regret had
been  that  she  had done so little, and this seemed to assure her that her life had not been useless, that her death would not bring the despair
she  feared. As she sat with the paper folded between her hands, the charred log fell asunder. Jo started up, revived the blaze, and crept to the
bedside, hoping Beth slept.

"Not  asleep,  but  so  happy,  dear.  See, I found this and read it. I knew you wouldn't care. Have I been all that to you, Jo?" she asked, with
wistful, humble earnestness.

"_Oh_, Beth, so much, so much!" and Jo's head went down upon the pillow beside her sister's.

"Then  I  don't feel as if I'd wasted my life. I'm not so good as you make me, but I have tried to do right. And now, when it's too late to begin
even to do better, it's such a comfort to know that someone loves me so much, and feels as if I'd helped them."

"More than any one in the world, Beth. I used to think I couldn't let you go, but I'm learning to feel that I don't lose you, that you'll be more
to me than ever, and death can't part us, though it seems to."

"I know it cannot, and I don't fear it any longer, for I'm sure I shall be your Beth still, to love and help you more than ever. You must take my
place, Jo, and be everything to Father and Mother when I'm gone. They will turn to you, don't fail them, and if it's hard to work alone, remember
that I don't forget you, and that you'll be happier in doing that than writing splendid books or seeing all the world, for love is the only thing
that we can carry with us when we go, and it makes the end so easy."

"I'll  try,  Beth." and then and there Jo renounced her old ambition, pledged herself to a new and better one, acknowledging the poverty of other
desires, and feeling the blessed solace of a belief in the immortality of love.

So  the  spring days came and went, the sky grew clearer, the earth greener, the flowers were up fairly early, and the birds came back in time to
say  goodbye  to  Beth,  who,  like a tired but trustful child, clung to the hands that had led her all her life, as Father and Mother guided her
tenderly through the Valley of the Shadow, and gave her up to God.

Seldom  except  in  books  do  the  dying utter memorable words, see visions, or depart with beatified countenances, and those who have sped many
parting  souls  know  that to most the end comes as naturally and simply as sleep. As Beth had hoped, the 'tide went out easily', and in the dark
hour  before dawn, on the bosom where she had drawn her first breath, she quietly drew her last, with no farewell but one loving look, one little
sigh.

With  tears  and  prayers  and  tender  hands,  Mother and sisters made her ready for the long sleep that pain would never mar again, seeing with
grateful  eyes the beautiful serenity that soon replaced the pathetic patience that had wrung their hearts so long, and feeling with reverent joy
that to their darling death was a benignant angel, not a phantom full of dread.

When  morning  came,  for  the  first  time  in  many months the fire was out, Jo's place was empty, and the room was very still. But a bird sang
blithely on a budding bough, close by, the snowdrops blossomed freshly at the window, and the spring sunshine streamed in like a benediction over
the  placid  face upon the pillow, a face so full of painless peace that those who loved it best smiled through their tears, and thanked God that
Beth was well at last.



CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

LEARNING TO FORGET

Amy's  lecture  did  Laurie  good,  though, of course, he did not own it till long afterward. Men seldom do, for when women are the advisers, the
lords of creation don't take the advice till they have persuaded themselves that it is just what they intended to do. Then they act upon it, and,
if  it  succeeds,  they  give  the  weaker vessel half the credit of it. If it fails, they generously give her the whole. Laurie went back to his
grandfather, and was so dutifully devoted for several weeks that the old gentleman declared the climate of Nice had improved him wonderfully, and
he  had  better  try it again. There was nothing the young gentleman would have liked better, but elephants could not have dragged him back after
the  scolding  he  had received. Pride forbid, and whenever the longing grew very strong, he fortified his resolution by repeating the words that
had made the deepest impression--"I despise you." "Go and do something splendid that will make her love you."

Laurie turned the matter over in his mind so often that he soon brought himself to confess that he had been selfish and lazy, but then when a man
has  a  great  sorrow,  he should be indulged in all sorts of vagaries till he has lived it down. He felt that his blighted affections were quite
dead  now,  and  though  he should never cease to be a faithful mourner, there was no occasion to wear his weeds ostentatiously. Jo wouldn't love
him,  but  he  might  make  her  respect and admire him by doing something which should prove that a girl's 'No' had not spoiled his life. He had
always  meant  to  do  something,  and  Amy's  advice was quite unnecessary. He had only been waiting till the aforesaid blighted affections were
decently interred. That being done, he felt that he was ready to 'hide his stricken heart, and still toil on'.

As  Goethe,  when  he  had  a joy or a grief, put it into a song, so Laurie resolved to embalm his love sorrow in music, and to compose a Requiem
which  should  harrow  up  Jo's soul and melt the heart of every hearer. Therefore the next time the old gentleman found him getting restless and
moody  and ordered him off, he went to Vienna, where he had musical friends, and fell to work with the firm determination to distinguish himself.
But  whether  the  sorrow was too vast to be embodied in music, or music too ethereal to uplift a mortal woe, he soon discovered that the Requiem
was  beyond  him  just  at  present. It was evident that his mind was not in working order yet, and his ideas needed clarifying, for often in the
middle of a plaintive strain, he would find himself humming a dancing tune that vividly recalled the Christmas ball at Nice, especially the stout
Frenchman, and put an effectual stop to tragic composition for the time being.

Then  he  tried  an opera, for nothing seemed impossible in the beginning, but here again unforeseen difficulties beset him. He wanted Jo for his
heroine,  and  called upon his memory to supply him with tender recollections and romantic visions of his love. But memory turned traitor, and as
if  possessed  by  the  perverse  spirit  of  the  girl,  would  only  recall  Jo's oddities, faults, and freaks, would only show her in the most
unsentimental  aspects--beating  mats  with her head tied up in a bandanna, barricading herself with the sofa pillow, or throwing cold water over
his  passion  a la Gummidge--and an irresistable laugh spoiled the pensive picture he was endeavoring to paint. Jo wouldn't be put into the opera
at  any  price,  and  he  had  to  give  her up with a "Bless that girl, what a torment she is!" and a clutch at his hair, as became a distracted
composer.

When  he  looked  about  him  for  another  and  a  less  intractable damsel to immortalize in melody, memory produced one with the most obliging
readiness. This phantom wore many faces, but it always had golden hair, was enveloped in a diaphanous cloud, and floated airily before his mind's
eye  in  a pleasing chaos of roses, peacocks, white ponies, and blue ribbons. He did not give the complacent wraith any name, but he took her for
his heroine and grew quite fond of her, as well he might, for he gifted her with every gift and grace under the sun, and escorted her, unscathed,
through trials which would have annihilated any mortal woman.

Thanks  to  this  inspiration,  he  got  on  swimmingly for a time, but gradually the work lost its charm, and he forgot to compose, while he sat
musing,  pen  in  hand, or roamed about the gay city to get some new ideas and refresh his mind, which seemed to be in a somewhat unsettled state
that  winter.  He  did  not  do  much, but he thought a great deal and was conscious of a change of some sort going on in spite of himself. "It's
genius  simmering,  perhaps. I'll let it simmer, and see what comes of it," he said, with a secret suspicion all the while that it wasn't genius,
but  something  far  more  common.  Whatever it was, it simmered to some purpose, for he grew more and more discontented with his desultory life,
began  to  long for some real and earnest work to go at, soul and body, and finally came to the wise conclusion that everyone who loved music was
not  a  composer. Returning from one of Mozart's grand operas, splendidly performed at the Royal Theatre, he looked over his own, played a few of
the  best parts, sat staring at the busts of Mendelssohn, Beethoven, and Bach, who stared benignly back again. Then suddenly he tore up his music
sheets, one by one, and as the last fluttered out of his hand, he said soberly to himself . . .

"She  is  right! Talent isn't genius, and you can't make it so. That music has taken the vanity out of me as Rome took it out of her, and I won't
be a humbug any longer. Now what shall I do?"

That seemed a hard question to answer, and Laurie began to wish he had to work for his daily bread. Now if ever, occurred an eligible opportunity
for  'going  to  the  devil',  as  he once forcibly expressed it, for he had plenty of money and nothing to do, and Satan is proverbially fond of
providing  employment  for full and idle hands. The poor fellow had temptations enough from without and from within, but he withstood them pretty
well,  for  much  as he valued liberty, he valued good faith and confidence more, so his promise to his grandfather, and his desire to be able to
look honestly into the eyes of the women who loved him, and say "All's well," kept him safe and steady.

Very  likely some Mrs. Grundy will observe, "I don't believe it, boys will be boys, young men must sow their wild oats, and women must not expect
miracles."  I dare say you don't, Mrs. Grundy, but it's true nevertheless. Women work a good many miracles, and I have a persuasion that they may
perform  even  that of raising the standard of manhood by refusing to echo such sayings. Let the boys be boys, the longer the better, and let the
young  men  sow  their  wild oats if they must. But mothers, sisters, and friends may help to make the crop a small one, and keep many tares from
spoiling  the  harvest, by believing, and showing that they believe, in the possibility of loyalty to the virtues which make men manliest in good
women's  eyes.  If  it is a feminine delusion, leave us to enjoy it while we may, for without it half the beauty and the romance of life is lost,
and  sorrowful  forebodings  would  embitter  all  our  hopes  of  the brave, tenderhearted little lads, who still love their mothers better than
themselves and are not ashamed to own it.

Laurie thought that the task of forgetting his love for Jo would absorb all his powers for years, but to his great surprise he discovered it grew
easier every day. He refused to believe it at first, got angry with himself, and couldn't understand it, but these hearts of ours are curious and
contrary things, and time and nature work their will in spite of us. Laurie's heart wouldn't ache. The wound persisted in healing with a rapidity
that  astonished him, and instead of trying to forget, he found himself trying to remember. He had not foreseen this turn of affairs, and was not
prepared for it. He was disgusted with himself, surprised at his own fickleness, and full of a queer mixture of disappointment and relief that he
could  recover  from such a tremendous blow so soon. He carefully stirred up the embers of his lost love, but they refused to burst into a blaze.
There  was  only a comfortable glow that warmed and did him good without putting him into a fever, and he was reluctantly obliged to confess that
the  boyish passion was slowly subsiding into a more tranquil sentiment, very tender, a little sad and resentful still, but that was sure to pass
away in time, leaving a brotherly affection which would last unbroken to the end.

As  the word 'brotherly' passed through his mind in one of his reveries, he smiled, and glanced up at the picture of Mozart that was before him .
. .

"Well, he was a great man, and when he couldn't have one sister he took the other, and was happy."

Laurie  did not utter the words, but he thought them, and the next instant kissed the little old ring, saying to himself, "No, I won't! I haven't
forgotten, I never can. I'll try again, and if that fails, why then . . ."

Leaving  his  sentence  unfinished, he seized pen and paper and wrote to Jo, telling her that he could not settle to anything while there was the
least  hope of her changing her mind. Couldn't she, wouldn't she--and let him come home and be happy? While waiting for an answer he did nothing,
but  he  did  it  energetically,  for  he  was  in  a fever of impatience. It came at last, and settled his mind effectually on one point, for Jo
decidedly  couldn't  and wouldn't. She was wrapped up in Beth, and never wished to hear the word love again. Then she begged him to be happy with
somebody  else,  but always keep a little corner of his heart for his loving sister Jo. In a postscript she desired him not to tell Amy that Beth
was worse, she was coming home in the spring and there was no need of saddening the remainder of her stay. That would be time enough, please God,
but Laurie must write to her often, and not let her feel lonely, homesick or anxious.

"So  I  will,  at  once. Poor little girl, it will be a sad going home for her, I'm afraid," and Laurie opened his desk, as if writing to Amy had
been the proper conclusion of the sentence left unfinished some weeks before.

But  he  did  not  write the letter that day, for as he rummaged out his best paper, he came across something which changed his purpose. Tumbling
about  in  one  part  of  the  desk  among bills, passports, and business documents of various kinds were several of Jo's letters, and in another
compartment  were  three  notes from Amy, carefully tied up with one of her blue ribbons and sweetly suggestive of the little dead roses put away
inside.  With  a  half-repentant, half-amused expression, Laurie gathered up all Jo's letters, smoothed, folded, and put them neatly into a small
drawer  of  the  desk,  stood a minute turning the ring thoughtfully on his finger, then slowly drew it off, laid it with the letters, locked the
drawer,  and  went  out  to hear High Mass at Saint Stefan's, feeling as if there had been a funeral, and though not overwhelmed with affliction,
this seemed a more proper way to spend the rest of the day than in writing letters to charming young ladies.

The  letter went very soon, however, and was promptly answered, for Amy was homesick, and confessed it in the most delightfully confiding manner.
The  correspondence  flourished  famously,  and  letters  flew to and fro with unfailing regularity all through the early spring. Laurie sold his
busts,  made  allumettes of his opera, and went back to Paris, hoping somebody would arrive before long. He wanted desperately to go to Nice, but
would not till he was asked, and Amy would not ask him, for just then she was having little experiences of her own, which made her rather wish to
avoid the quizzical eyes of 'our boy'.

Fred  Vaughn  had  returned,  and  put the question to which she had once decided to answer, "Yes, thank you," but now she said, "No, thank you,"
kindly  but  steadily,  for  when  the time came, her courage failed her, and she found that something more than money and position was needed to
satisfy  the  new  longing  that  filled her heart so full of tender hopes and fears. The words, "Fred is a good fellow, but not at all the man I
fancied  you  would  ever  like," and Laurie's face when he uttered them, kept returning to her as pertinaciously as her own did when she said in
look,  if  not  in  words,  "I  shall  marry  for  money." It troubled her to remember that now, she wished she could take it back, it sounded so
unwomanly.  She  didn't  want Laurie to think her a heartless, worldly creature. She didn't care to be a queen of society now half so much as she
did  to be a lovable woman. She was so glad he didn't hate her for the dreadful things she said, but took them so beautifully and was kinder than
ever.  His  letters  were such a comfort, for the home letters were very irregular and not half so satisfactory as his when they did come. It was
not  only  a  pleasure, but a duty to answer them, for the poor fellow was forlorn, and needed petting, since Jo persisted in being stonyhearted.
She  ought  to  have  made an effort and tried to love him. It couldn't be very hard, many people would be proud and glad to have such a dear boy
care for them. But Jo never would act like other girls, so there was nothing to do but be very kind and treat him like a brother.

If  all brothers were treated as well as Laurie was at this period, they would be a much happier race of beings than they are. Amy never lectured
now.  She  asked  his  opinion  on all subjects, she was interested in everything he did, made charming little presents for him, and sent him two
letters  a  week,  full  of  lively  gossip,  sisterly  confidences, and captivating sketches of the lovely scenes about her. As few brothers are
complimented  by  having  their  letters  carried about in their sister's pockets, read and reread diligently, cried over when short, kissed when
long,  and  treasured carefully, we will not hint that Amy did any of these fond and foolish things. But she certainly did grow a little pale and
pensive  that  spring,  lost  much  of her relish for society, and went out sketching alone a good deal. She never had much to show when she came
home,  but  was  studying nature, I dare say, while she sat for hours, with her hands folded, on the terrace at Valrosa, or absently sketched any
fancy  that  occurred  to her, a stalwart knight carved on a tomb, a young man asleep in the grass, with his hat over his eyes, or a curly haired
girl in gorgeous array, promenading down a ballroom on the arm of a tall gentleman, both faces being left a blur according to the last fashion in
art, which was safe but not altogether satisfactory.

Her  aunt  thought that she regretted her answer to Fred, and finding denials useless and explanations impossible, Amy left her to think what she
liked,  taking  care  that Laurie should know that Fred had gone to Egypt. That was all, but he understood it, and looked relieved, as he said to
himself, with a venerable air . . .

"I was sure she would think better of it. Poor old fellow! I've been through it all, and I can sympathize."

With  that  he  heaved a great sigh, and then, as if he had discharged his duty to the past, put his feet up on the sofa and enjoyed Amy's letter
luxuriously.

While  these changes were going on abroad, trouble had come at home. But the letter telling that Beth was failing never reached Amy, and when the
next  found  her  at  Vevay, for the heat had driven them from Nice in May, and they had travelled slowly to Switzerland, by way of Genoa and the
Italian lakes. She bore it very well, and quietly submitted to the family decree that she should not shorten her visit, for since it was too late
to say goodbye to Beth, she had better stay, and let absence soften her sorrow. But her heart was very heavy, she longed to be at home, and every
day looked wistfully across the lake, waiting for Laurie to come and comfort her.

He  did  come very soon, for the same mail brought letters to them both, but he was in Germany, and it took some days to reach him. The moment he
read it, he packed his knapsack, bade adieu to his fellow pedestrians, and was off to keep his promise, with a heart full of joy and sorrow, hope
and suspense.

He  knew  Vevay  well,  and  as soon as the boat touched the little quay, he hurried along the shore to La Tour, where the Carrols were living en
pension.  The  garcon  was in despair that the whole family had gone to take a promenade on the lake, but no, the blonde mademoiselle might be in
the chateau garden. If monsieur would give himself the pain of sitting down, a flash of time should present her. But monsieur could not wait even
a 'flash of time', and in the middle of the speech departed to find mademoiselle himself.

A  pleasant  old garden on the borders of the lovely lake, with chestnuts rustling overhead, ivy climbing everywhere, and the black shadow of the
tower  falling  far  across  the sunny water. At one corner of the wide, low wall was a seat, and here Amy often came to read or work, or console
herself  with  the  beauty  all  about  her.  She  was sitting here that day, leaning her head on her hand, with a homesick heart and heavy eyes,
thinking  of  Beth  and wondering why Laurie did not come. She did not hear him cross the courtyard beyond, nor see him pause in the archway that
led  from  the  subterranean  path  into the garden. He stood a minute looking at her with new eyes, seeing what no one had ever seen before, the
tender side of Amy's character. Everything about her mutely suggested love and sorrow, the blotted letters in her lap, the black ribbon that tied
up  her hair, the womanly pain and patience in her face, even the little ebony cross at her throat seemed pathetic to Laurie, for he had given it
to  her,  and she wore it as her only ornament. If he had any doubts about the reception she would give him, they were set at rest the minute she
looked up and saw him, for dropping everything, she ran to him, exclaiming in a tone of unmistakable love and longing . . .

"Oh, Laurie, Laurie, I knew you'd come to me!"

I  think  everything  was  said and settled then, for as they stood together quite silent for a moment, with the dark head bent down protectingly
over  the  light one, Amy felt that no one could comfort and sustain her so well as Laurie, and Laurie decided that Amy was the only woman in the
world  who  could  fill  Jo's  place  and  make  him  happy.  He did not tell her so, but she was not disappointed, for both felt the truth, were
satisfied, and gladly left the rest to silence.

In  a  minute  Amy went back to her place, and while she dried her tears, Laurie gathered up the scattered papers, finding in the sight of sundry
well-worn  letters  and  suggestive sketches good omens for the future. As he sat down beside her, Amy felt shy again, and turned rosy red at the
recollection of her impulsive greeting.

"I  couldn't  help  it,  I felt so lonely and sad, and was so very glad to see you. It was such a surprise to look up and find you, just as I was
beginning to fear you wouldn't come," she said, trying in vain to speak quite naturally.

"I  came  the  minute  I  heard. I wish I could say something to comfort you for the loss of dear little Beth, but I can only feel, and . . ." He
could not get any further, for he too turned bashful all of a sudden, and did not quite know what to say. He longed to lay Amy's head down on his
shoulder,  and tell her to have a good cry, but he did not dare, so took her hand instead, and gave it a sympathetic squeeze that was better than
words.

"You  needn't say anything, this comforts me," she said softly. "Beth is well and happy, and I mustn't wish her back, but I dread the going home,
much  as  I  long  to see them all. We won't talk about it now, for it makes me cry, and I want to enjoy you while you stay. You needn't go right
back, need you?"

"Not if you want me, dear."

"I do, so much. Aunt and Flo are very kind, but you seem like one of the family, and it would be so comfortable to have you for a little while."

Amy  spoke  and  looked  so like a homesick child whose heart was full that Laurie forgot his bashfulness all at once, and gave her just what she
wanted--the petting she was used to and the cheerful conversation she needed.

"Poor little soul, you look as if you'd grieved yourself half sick! I'm going to take care of you, so don't cry any more, but come and walk about
with me, the wind is too chilly for you to sit still," he said, in the half-caressing, half-commanding way that Amy liked, as he tied on her hat,
drew  her  arm  through his, and began to pace up and down the sunny walk under the new-leaved chestnuts. He felt more at ease upon his legs, and
Amy found it pleasant to have a strong arm to lean upon, a familiar face to smile at her, and a kind voice to talk delightfully for her alone.

The  quaint old garden had sheltered many pairs of lovers, and seemed expressly made for them, so sunny and secluded was it, with nothing but the
tower  to  overlook  them,  and the wide lake to carry away the echo of their words, as it rippled by below. For an hour this new pair walked and
talked, or rested on the wall, enjoying the sweet influences which gave such a charm to time and place, and when an unromantic dinner bell warned
them away, Amy felt as if she left her burden of loneliness and sorrow behind her in the chateau garden.

The  moment Mrs. Carrol saw the girl's altered face, she was illuminated with a new idea, and exclaimed to herself, "Now I understand it all--the
child has been pining for young Laurence. Bless my heart, I never thought of such a thing!"

With  praiseworthy  discretion,  the good lady said nothing, and betrayed no sign of enlightenment, but cordially urged Laurie to stay and begged
Amy  to  enjoy  his  society,  for  it would do her more good than so much solitude. Amy was a model of docility, and as her aunt was a good deal
occupied with Flo, she was left to entertain her friend, and did it with more than her usual success.

At  Nice,  Laurie  had lounged and Amy had scolded. At Vevay, Laurie was never idle, but always walking, riding, boating, or studying in the most
energetic  manner,  while Amy admired everything he did and followed his example as far and as fast as she could. He said the change was owing to
the climate, and she did not contradict him, being glad of a like excuse for her own recovered health and spirits.

The  invigorating air did them both good, and much exercise worked wholesome changes in minds as well as bodies. They seemed to get clearer views
of  life  and duty up there among the everlasting hills. The fresh winds blew away desponding doubts, delusive fancies, and moody mists. The warm
spring sunshine brought out all sorts of aspiring ideas, tender hopes, and happy thoughts. The lake seemed to wash away the troubles of the past,
and the grand old mountains to look benignly down upon them saying, "Little children, love one another."

In  spite of the new sorrow, it was a very happy time, so happy that Laurie could not bear to disturb it by a word. It took him a little while to
recover  from  his  surprise at the cure of his first, and as he had firmly believed, his last and only love. He consoled himself for the seeming
disloyalty  by  the  thought that Jo's sister was almost the same as Jo's self, and the conviction that it would have been impossible to love any
other  woman  but  Amy  so  soon and so well. His first wooing had been of the tempestuous order, and he looked back upon it as if through a long
vista of years with a feeling of compassion blended with regret. He was not ashamed of it, but put it away as one of the bitter-sweet experiences
of  his  life,  for  which he could be grateful when the pain was over. His second wooing, he resolved, should be as calm and simple as possible.
There  was  no  need  of having a scene, hardly any need of telling Amy that he loved her, she knew it without words and had given him his answer
long  ago.  It  all  came about so naturally that no one could complain, and he knew that everybody would be pleased, even Jo. But when our first
little  passion  has been crushed, we are apt to be wary and slow in making a second trial, so Laurie let the days pass, enjoying every hour, and
leaving to chance the utterance of the word that would put an end to the first and sweetest part of his new romance.

He  had rather imagined that the denoument would take place in the chateau garden by moonlight, and in the most graceful and decorous manner, but
it  turned  out exactly the reverse, for the matter was settled on the lake at noonday in a few blunt words. They had been floating about all the
morning,  from  gloomy  St.  Gingolf  to  sunny Montreux, with the Alps of Savoy on one side, Mont St. Bernard and the Dent du Midi on the other,
pretty  Vevay  in  the  valley,  and  Lausanne  upon  the  hill  beyond, a cloudless blue sky overhead, and the bluer lake below, dotted with the
picturesque boats that look like white-winged gulls.

They  had  been  talking  of  Bonnivard,  as they glided past Chillon, and of Rousseau, as they looked up at Clarens, where he wrote his Heloise.
Neither  had  read  it,  but  they knew it was a love story, and each privately wondered if it was half as interesting as their own. Amy had been
dabbling  her  hand  in  the water during the little pause that fell between them, and when she looked up, Laurie was leaning on his oars with an
expression in his eyes that made her say hastily, merely for the sake of saying something . . .

"You must be tired. Rest a little, and let me row. It will do me good, for since you came I have been altogether lazy and luxurious."

"I'm  not tired, but you may take an oar, if you like. There's room enough, though I have to sit nearly in the middle, else the boat won't trim,"
returned Laurie, as if he rather liked the arrangement.

Feeling  that she had not mended matters much, Amy took the offered third of a seat, shook her hair over her face, and accepted an oar. She rowed
as  well as she did many other things, and though she used both hands, and Laurie but one, the oars kept time, and the boat went smoothly through
the water.

"How well we pull together, don't we?" said Amy, who objected to silence just then.

"So well that I wish we might always pull in the same boat. Will you, Amy?" very tenderly.

"Yes, Laurie," very low.

Then  they  both stopped rowing, and unconsciously added a pretty little tableau of human love and happiness to the dissolving views reflected in
the lake.



CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

ALL ALONE

It  was  easy  to  promise self-abnegation when self was wrapped up in another, and heart and soul were purified by a sweet example. But when the
helpful  voice  was  silent,  the  daily lesson over, the beloved presence gone, and nothing remained but loneliness and grief, then Jo found her
promise  very hard to keep. How could she 'comfort Father and Mother' when her own heart ached with a ceaseless longing for her sister, how could
she  'make  the  house cheerful' when all its light and warmth and beauty seemed to have deserted it when Beth left the old home for the new, and
where  in  all  the  world could she 'find some useful, happy work to do', that would take the place of the loving service which had been its own
reward?  She  tried  in a blind, hopeless way to do her duty, secretly rebelling against it all the while, for it seemed unjust that her few joys
should  be  lessened,  her  burdens made heavier, and life get harder and harder as she toiled along. Some people seemed to get all sunshine, and
some all shadow. It was not fair, for she tried more than Amy to be good, but never got any reward, only disappointment, trouble and hard work.

Poor  Jo,  these  were  dark days to her, for something like despair came over her when she thought of spending all her life in that quiet house,
devoted  to  humdrum  cares,  a few small pleasures, and the duty that never seemed to grow any easier. "I can't do it. I wasn't meant for a life
like  this,  and  I know I shall break away and do something desperate if somebody doesn't come and help me," she said to herself, when her first
efforts failed and she fell into the moody, miserable state of mind which often comes when strong wills have to yield to the inevitable.

But  someone  did  come  and  help her, though Jo did not recognize her good angels at once because they wore familiar shapes and used the simple
spells best fitted to poor humanity. Often she started up at night, thinking Beth called her, and when the sight of the little empty bed made her
cry  with  the  bitter  cry  of unsubmissive sorrow, "Oh, Beth, come back! Come back!" she did not stretch out her yearning arms in vain. For, as
quick  to  hear  her  sobbing as she had been to hear her sister's faintest whisper, her mother came to comfort her, not with words only, but the
patient  tenderness that soothes by a touch, tears that were mute reminders of a greater grief than Jo's, and broken whispers, more eloquent than
prayers,  because  hopeful  resignation  went  hand-in-hand with natural sorrow. Sacred moments, when heart talked to heart in the silence of the
night,  turning  affliction to a blessing, which chastened grief and strengthned love. Feeling this, Jo's burden seemed easier to bear, duty grew
sweeter, and life looked more endurable, seen from the safe shelter of her mother's arms.

When  aching  heart  was a little comforted, troubled mind likewise found help, for one day she went to the study, and leaning over the good gray
head  lifted to welcome her with a tranquil smile, she said very humbly, "Father, talk to me as you did to Beth. I need it more than she did, for
I'm all wrong."

"My dear, nothing can comfort me like this," he answered, with a falter in his voice, and both arms round her, as if he too, needed help, and did
not fear to ask for it.

Then,  sitting  in  Beth's  little  chair  close  beside him, Jo told her troubles, the resentful sorrow for her loss, the fruitless efforts that
discouraged  her,  the  want  of  faith  that  made  life  look  so dark, and all the sad bewilderment which we call despair. She gave him entire
confidence,  he gave her the help she needed, and both found consolation in the act. For the time had come when they could talk together not only
as  father  and  daughter, but as man and woman, able and glad to serve each other with mutual sympathy as well as mutual love. Happy, thoughtful
times  there in the old study which Jo called 'the church of one member', and from which she came with fresh courage, recovered cheerfulness, and
a  more  submissive  spirit. For the parents who had taught one child to meet death without fear, were trying now to teach another to accept life
without despondency or distrust, and to use its beautiful opportunities with gratitude and power.

Other helps had Jo--humble, wholesome duties and delights that would not be denied their part in serving her, and which she slowly learned to see
and  value.  Brooms  and  dishcloths  never  could be as distasteful as they once had been, for Beth had presided over both, and something of her
housewifely  spirit  seemed  to linger around the little mop and the old brush, never thrown away. As she used them, Jo found herself humming the
songs  Beth  used  to hum, imitating Beth's orderly ways, and giving the little touches here and there that kept everything fresh and cozy, which
was the first step toward making home happy, though she didn't know it till Hannah said with an approving squeeze of the hand . . .

"You  thoughtful creeter, you're determined we shan't miss that dear lamb ef you can help it. We don't say much, but we see it, and the Lord will
bless you for't, see ef He don't."

As  they  sat sewing together, Jo discovered how much improved her sister Meg was, how well she could talk, how much she knew about good, womanly
impulses, thoughts, and feelings, how happy she was in husband and children, and how much they were all doing for each other.

"Marriage  is  an  excellent  thing,  after all. I wonder if I should blossom out half as well as you have, if I tried it?, always _'perwisin'_ I
could," said Jo, as she constructed a kite for Demi in the topsy-turvy nursery.

"It's  just  what you need to bring out the tender womanly half of your nature, Jo. You are like a chestnut burr, prickly outside, but silky-soft
within, and a sweet kernal, if one can only get at it. Love will make you show your heart one day, and then the rough burr will fall off."

"Frost  opens  chestnut  burrs,  ma'am,  and  it  takes a good shake to bring them down. Boys go nutting, and I don't care to be bagged by them,"
returned Jo, pasting away at the kite which no wind that blows would ever carry up, for Daisy had tied herself on as a bob.

Meg  laughed,  for  she  was  glad  to see a glimmer of Jo's old spirit, but she felt it her duty to enforce her opinion by every argument in her
power, and the sisterly chats were not wasted, especially as two of Meg's most effective arguments were the babies, whom Jo loved tenderly. Grief
is  the  best  opener of some hearts, and Jo's was nearly ready for the bag. A little more sunshine to ripen the nut, then, not a boy's impatient
shake,  but  a  man's hand reached up to pick it gently from the burr, and find the kernal sound and sweet. If she suspected this, she would have
shut up tight, and been more prickly than ever, fortunately she wasn't thinking about herself, so when the time came, down she dropped.

Now,  if  she  had been the heroine of a moral storybook, she ought at this period of her life to have become quite saintly, renounced the world,
and  gone  about  doing good in a mortified bonnet, with tracts in her pocket. But, you see, Jo wasn't a heroine, she was only a struggling human
girl  like  hundreds  of  others, and she just acted out her nature, being sad, cross, listless, or energetic, as the mood suggested. It's highly
virtuous to say we'll be good, but we can't do it all at once, and it takes a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull all together before some of us
even  get  our  feet  set  in the right way. Jo had got so far, she was learning to do her duty, and to feel unhappy if she did not, but to do it
cheerfully, ah, that was another thing! She had often said she wanted to do something splendid, no matter how hard, and now she had her wish, for
what  could  be  more  beautiful  than  to  devote her life to Father and Mother, trying to make home as happy to them as they had to her? And if
difficulties  were  necessary to increase the splendor of the effort, what could be harder for a restless, ambitious girl than to give up her own
hopes, plans, and desires, and cheerfully live for others?

Providence  had taken her at her word. Here was the task, not what she had expected, but better because self had no part in it. Now, could she do
it?  She decided that she would try, and in her first attempt she found the helps I have suggested. Still another was given her, and she took it,
not  as a reward, but as a comfort, as Christian took the refreshment afforded by the little arbor where he rested, as he climbed the hill called
Difficulty.

"Why don't you write? That always used to make you happy," said her mother once, when the desponding fit over-shadowed Jo.

"I've no heart to write, and if I had, nobody cares for my things."

"We do. Write something for us, and never mind the rest of the world. Try it, dear. I'm sure it would do you good, and please us very much."

"Don't believe I can." But Jo got out her desk and began to overhaul her half-finished manuscripts.

An  hour  afterward her mother peeped in and there she was, scratching away, with her black pinafore on, and an absorbed expression, which caused
Mrs.  March  to  smile and slip away, well pleased with the success of her suggestion. Jo never knew how it happened, but something got into that
story  that went straight to the hearts of those who read it, for when her family had laughed and cried over it, her father sent it, much against
her  will,  to  one  of  the  popular  magazines, and to her utter surprise, it was not only paid for, but others requested. Letters from several
persons,  whose praise was honor, followed the appearance of the little story, newspapers copied it, and strangers as well as friends admired it.
For a small thing it was a great success, and Jo was more astonished than when her novel was commended and condemned all at once.

"I don't understand it. What can there be in a simple little story like that to make people praise it so?" she said, quite bewildered.

"There  is  truth in it, Jo, that's the secret. Humor and pathos make it alive, and you have found your style at last. You wrote with no thoughts
of  fame  and money, and put your heart into it, my daughter. You have had the bitter, now comes the sweet. Do your best, and grow as happy as we
are in your success."

"If  there  is  anything  good  or  true  in  what I write, it isn't mine. I owe it all to you and Mother and Beth," said Jo, more touched by her
father's words than by any amount of praise from the world.

So  taught  by  love  and  sorrow,  Jo  wrote  her  little  stories, and sent them away to make friends for themselves and her, finding it a very
charitable world to such humble wanderers, for they were kindly welcomed, and sent home comfortable tokens to their mother, like dutiful children
whom good fortune overtakes.

When  Amy and Laurie wrote of their engagement, Mrs. March feared that Jo would find it difficult to rejoice over it, but her fears were soon set
at  rest,  for  though Jo looked grave at first, she took it very quietly, and was full of hopes and plans for 'the children' before she read the
letter  twice.  It  was  a sort of written duet, wherein each glorified the other in loverlike fashion, very pleasant to read and satisfactory to
think of, for no one had any objection to make.

"You like it, Mother?" said Jo, as they laid down the closely written sheets and looked at one another.

"Yes,  I  hoped  it  would  be  so, ever since Amy wrote that she had refused Fred. I felt sure then that something better than what you call the
'mercenary spirit' had come over her, and a hint here and there in her letters made me suspect that love and Laurie would win the day."

"How sharp you are, Marmee, and how silent! You never said a word to me."

"Mothers  have need of sharp eyes and discreet tongues when they have girls to manage. I was half afraid to put the idea into your head, lest you
should write and congratulate them before the thing was settled."

"I'm not the scatterbrain I was. You may trust me. I'm sober and sensible enough for anyone's confidante now."

"So you are, my dear, and I should have made you mine, only I fancied it might pain you to learn that your Teddy loved someone else."

"Now, Mother, did you really think I could be so silly and selfish, after I'd refused his love, when it was freshest, if not best?"

"I  knew  you were sincere then, Jo, but lately I have thought that if he came back, and asked again, you might perhaps, feel like giving another
answer.  Forgive me, dear, I can't help seeing that you are very lonely, and sometimes there is a hungry look in your eyes that goes to my heart.
So I fancied that your boy might fill the empty place if he tried now."

"No,  Mother,  it is better as it is, and I'm glad Amy has learned to love him. But you are right in one thing. I am lonely, and perhaps if Teddy
had tried again, I might have said 'Yes', not because I love him any more, but because I care more to be loved than when he went away."

"I'm glad of that, Jo, for it shows that you are getting on. There are plenty to love you, so try to be satisfied with Father and Mother, sisters
and brothers, friends and babies, till the best lover of all comes to give you your reward."

"Mothers  are the best lovers in the world, but I don't mind whispering to Marmee that I'd like to try all kinds. It's very curious, but the more
I  try  to  satisfy  myself  with  all sorts of natural affections, the more I seem to want. I'd no idea hearts could take in so many. Mine is so
elastic, it never seems full now, and I used to be quite contented with my family. I don't understand it."

"I do," and Mrs. March smiled her wise smile, as Jo turned back the leaves to read what Amy said of Laurie.

"It  is  so  beautiful  to be loved as Laurie loves me. He isn't sentimental, doesn't say much about it, but I see and feel it in all he says and
does,  and  it  makes me so happy and so humble that I don't seem to be the same girl I was. I never knew how good and generous and tender he was
till  now, for he lets me read his heart, and I find it full of noble impulses and hopes and purposes, and am so proud to know it's mine. He says
he  feels as if he 'could make a prosperous voyage now with me aboard as mate, and lots of love for ballast'. I pray he may, and try to be all he
believes  me,  for  I love my gallant captain with all my heart and soul and might, and never will desert him, while God lets us be together. Oh,
Mother, I never knew how much like heaven this world could be, when two people love and live for one another!"

"And  that's  our  cool,  reserved, and worldly Amy! Truly, love does work miracles. How very, very happy they must be!" and Jo laid the rustling
sheets  together  with  a  careful hand, as one might shut the covers of a lovely romance, which holds the reader fast till the end comes, and he
finds himself alone in the workaday world again.

By-and-by Jo roamed away upstairs, for it was rainy, and she could not walk. A restless spirit possessed her, and the old feeling came again, not
bitter  as  it  once was, but a sorrowfully patient wonder why one sister should have all she asked, the other nothing. It was not true, she knew
that and tried to put it away, but the natural craving for affection was strong, and Amy's happiness woke the hungry longing for someone to 'love
with heart and soul, and cling to while God let them be together'. Up in the garret, where Jo's unquiet wanderings ended stood four little wooden
chests  in  a row, each marked with its owners name, and each filled with relics of the childhood and girlhood ended now for all. Jo glanced into
them,  and  when  she  came to her own, leaned her chin on the edge, and stared absently at the chaotic collection, till a bundle of old exercise
books  caught  her eye. She drew them out, turned them over, and relived that pleasant winter at kind Mrs. Kirke's. She had smiled at first, then
she looked thoughtful, next sad, and when she came to a little message written in the Professor's hand, her lips began to tremble, the books slid
out of her lap, and she sat looking at the friendly words, as they took a new meaning, and touched a tender spot in her heart.

"Wait for me, my friend. I may be a little late, but I shall surely come."

"Oh, if he only would! So kind, so good, so patient with me always, my dear old Fritz. I didn't value him half enough when I had him, but now how
I should love to see him, for everyone seems going away from me, and I'm all alone."

And  holding the little paper fast, as if it were a promise yet to be fulfilled, Jo laid her head down on a comfortable rag bag, and cried, as if
in opposition to the rain pattering on the roof.

Was  it  all self-pity, loneliness, or low spirits? Or was it the waking up of a sentiment which had bided its time as patiently as its inspirer?
Who shall say?



CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

SURPRISES

Jo  was alone in the twilight, lying on the old sofa, looking at the fire, and thinking. It was her favorite way of spending the hour of dusk. No
one  disturbed  her, and she used to lie there on Beth's little red pillow, planning stories, dreaming dreams, or thinking tender thoughts of the
sister  who never seemed far away. Her face looked tired, grave, and rather sad, for tomorrow was her birthday, and she was thinking how fast the
years  went  by,  how old she was getting, and how little she seemed to have accomplished. Almost twenty-five, and nothing to show for it. Jo was
mistaken in that. There was a good deal to show, and by-and-by she saw, and was grateful for it.

"An  old  maid,  that's  what I'm to be. A literary spinster, with a pen for a spouse, a family of stories for children, and twenty years hence a
morsel of fame, perhaps, when, like poor Johnson, I'm old and can't enjoy it, solitary, and can't share it, independent, and don't need it. Well,
I needn't be a sour saint nor a selfish sinner, and, I dare say, old maids are very comfortable when they get used to it, but . . ." and there Jo
sighed, as if the prospect was not inviting.

It  seldom  is,  at  first,  and thirty seems the end of all things to five-and-twenty. But it's not as bad as it looks, and one can get on quite
happily  if  one  has  something in one's self to fall back upon. At twenty-five, girls begin to talk about being old maids, but secretly resolve
that  they  never  will  be. At thirty they say nothing about it, but quietly accept the fact, and if sensible, console themselves by remembering
that  they  have twenty more useful, happy years, in which they may be learning to grow old gracefully. Don't laugh at the spinsters, dear girls,
for  often  very  tender, tragic romances are hidden away in the hearts that beat so quietly under the sober gowns, and many silent sacrifices of
youth,  health,  ambition,  love  itself,  make the faded faces beautiful in God's sight. Even the sad, sour sisters should be kindly dealt with,
because  they  have  missed  the sweetest part of life, if for no other reason. And looking at them with compassion, not contempt, girls in their
bloom  should  remember that they too may miss the blossom time. That rosy cheeks don't last forever, that silver threads will come in the bonnie
brown hair, and that, by-and-by, kindness and respect will be as sweet as love and admiration now.

Gentlemen,  which  means  boys,  be courteous to the old maids, no matter how poor and plain and prim, for the only chivalry worth having is that
which is the readiest to pay deference to the old, protect the feeble, and serve womankind, regardless of rank, age, or color. Just recollect the
good  aunts  who have not only lectured and fussed, but nursed and petted, too often without thanks, the scrapes they have helped you out of, the
tips  they  have  given  you  from  their small store, the stitches the patient old fingers have set for you, the steps the willing old feet have
taken,  and  gratefully  pay the dear old ladies the little attentions that women love to receive as long as they live. The bright-eyed girls are
quick to see such traits, and will like you all the better for them, and if death, almost the only power that can part mother and son, should rob
you  of yours, you will be sure to find a tender welcome and maternal cherishing from some Aunt Priscilla, who has kept the warmest corner of her
lonely old heart for 'the best nevvy in the world'.

Jo  must  have  fallen  asleep (as I dare say my reader has during this little homily), for suddenly Laurie's ghost seemed to stand before her, a
substantial,  lifelike  ghost, leaning over her with the very look he used to wear when he felt a good deal and didn't like to show it. But, like
Jenny in the ballad . . .

She could not think it he

and lay staring up at him in startled silence, till he stooped and kissed her. Then she knew him, and flew up, crying joyfully . . .

"Oh my Teddy! Oh my Teddy!"

"Dear Jo, you are glad to see me, then?"

"Glad! My blessed boy, words can't express my gladness. Where's Amy?"

"Your mother has got her down at Meg's. We stopped there by the way, and there was no getting my wife out of their clutches."

"Your what?" cried Jo, for Laurie uttered those two words with an unconscious pride and satisfaction which betrayed him.

"Oh, the dickens! Now I've done it," and he looked so guilty that Jo was down on him like a flash.

"You've gone and got married!"

"Yes,  please,  but  I never will again," and he went down upon his knees, with a penitent clasping of hands, and a face full of mischief, mirth,
and triumph.

"Actually married?"

"Very much so, thank you."

"Mercy on us. What dreadful thing will you do next?" and Jo fell into her seat with a gasp.

"A characteristic, but not exactly complimentary, congratulation," returned Laurie, still in an abject attitude, but beaming with satisfaction.

"What can you expect, when you take one's breath away, creeping in like a burglar, and letting cats out of bags like that? Get up, you ridiculous
boy, and tell me all about it."

"Not a word, unless you let me come in my old place, and promise not to barricade."

Jo  laughed at that as she had not done for many a long day, and patted the sofa invitingly, as she said in a cordial tone, "The old pillow is up
garret, and we don't need it now. So, come and 'fess, Teddy."

"How good it sounds to hear you say 'Teddy'! No one ever calls me that but you," and Laurie sat down with an air of great content.

"What does Amy call you?"

"My lord."

"That's like her. Well, you look it," and Jo's eye plainly betrayed that she found her boy comelier than ever.

The  pillow was gone, but there was a barricade, nevertheless, a natural one, raised by time, absence, and change of heart. Both felt it, and for
a minute looked at one another as if that invisible barrier cast a little shadow over them. It was gone directly however, for Laurie said, with a
vain attempt at dignity . . .

"Don't I look like a married man and the head of a family?"

"Not a bit, and you never will. You've grown bigger and bonnier, but you are the same scapegrace as ever."

"Now really, Jo, you ought to treat me with more respect," began Laurie, who enjoyed it all immensely.

"How  can I, when the mere idea of you, married and settled, is so irresistibly funny that I can't keep sober!" answered Jo, smiling all over her
face, so infectiously that they had another laugh, and then settled down for a good talk, quite in the pleasant old fashion.

"It's no use your going out in the cold to get Amy, for they are all coming up presently. I couldn't wait. I wanted to be the one to tell you the
grand surprise, and have 'first skim' as we used to say when we squabbled about the cream."

"Of course you did, and spoiled your story by beginning at the wrong end. Now, start right, and tell me how it all happened. I'm pining to know."

"Well, I did it to please Amy," began Laurie, with a twinkle that made Jo exclaim . . .

"Fib number one. Amy did it to please you. Go on, and tell the truth, if you can, sir."

"Now  she's  beginning  to marm it. Isn't it jolly to hear her?" said Laurie to the fire, and the fire glowed and sparkled as if it quite agreed.
"It's all the same, you know, she and I being one. We planned to come home with the Carrols, a month or more ago, but they suddenly changed their
minds,  and  decided  to  pass  another  winter in Paris. But Grandpa wanted to come home. He went to please me, and I couldn't let him go alone,
neither  could  I  leave  Amy, and Mrs. Carrol had got English notions about chaperons and such nonsense, and wouldn't let Amy come with us. So I
just settled the difficulty by saying, 'Let's be married, and then we can do as we like'."

"Of course you did. You always have things to suit you."

"Not always," and something in Laurie's voice made Jo say hastily . . .

"How did you ever get Aunt to agree?"

"It  was  hard  work, but between us, we talked her over, for we had heaps of good reasons on our side. There wasn't time to write and ask leave,
but you all liked it, had consented to it by-and-by, and it was only 'taking time by the fetlock', as my wife says."

"Aren't  we  proud of those two words, and don't we like to say them?" interrupted Jo, addressing the fire in her turn, and watching with delight
the happy light it seemed to kindle in the eyes that had been so tragically gloomy when she saw them last.

"A  trifle,  perhaps,  she's  such  a  captivating  little  woman  I  can't help being proud of her. Well, then Uncle and Aunt were there to play
propriety. We were so absorbed in one another we were of no mortal use apart, and that charming arrangement would make everything easy all round,
so we did it."

"When, where, how?" asked Jo, in a fever of feminine interest and curiosity, for she could not realize it a particle.

"Six weeks ago, at the American consul's, in Paris, a very quiet wedding of course, for even in our happiness we didn't forget dear little Beth."

Jo put her hand in his as he said that, and Laurie gently smoothed the little red pillow, which he remembered well.

"Why didn't you let us know afterward?" asked Jo, in a quieter tone, when they had sat quite still a minute.

"We  wanted  to surprise you. We thought we were coming directly home, at first, but the dear old gentleman, as soon as we were married, found he
couldn't  be  ready  under  a  month,  at  least, and sent us off to spend our honeymoon wherever we liked. Amy had once called Valrosa a regular
honeymoon home, so we went there, and were as happy as people are but once in their lives. My faith! Wasn't it love among the roses!"

Laurie seemed to forget Jo for a minute, and Jo was glad of it, for the fact that he told her these things so freely and so naturally assured her
that  he  had  quite forgiven and forgotten. She tried to draw away her hand, but as if he guessed the thought that prompted the half-involuntary
impulse, Laurie held it fast, and said, with a manly gravity she had never seen in him before . . .

"Jo,  dear, I want to say one thing, and then we'll put it by forever. As I told you in my letter when I wrote that Amy had been so kind to me, I
never  shall  stop  loving  you,  but the love is altered, and I have learned to see that it is better as it is. Amy and you changed places in my
heart,  that's  all.  I  think  it was meant to be so, and would have come about naturally, if I had waited, as you tried to make me, but I never
could be patient, and so I got a heartache. I was a boy then, headstrong and violent, and it took a hard lesson to show me my mistake. For it was
one, Jo, as you said, and I found it out, after making a fool of myself. Upon my word, I was so tumbled up in my mind, at one time, that I didn't
know  which  I  loved best, you or Amy, and tried to love you both alike. But I couldn't, and when I saw her in Switzerland, everything seemed to
clear  up all at once. You both got into your right places, and I felt sure that it was well off with the old love before it was on with the new,
that  I  could  honestly  share  my heart between sister Jo and wife Amy, and love them dearly. Will you believe it, and go back to the happy old
times when we first knew one another?"

"I'll  believe  it, with all my heart, but, Teddy, we never can be boy and girl again. The happy old times can't come back, and we mustn't expect
it.  We  are  man  and  woman now, with sober work to do, for playtime is over, and we must give up frolicking. I'm sure you feel this. I see the
change  in you, and you'll find it in me. I shall miss my boy, but I shall love the man as much, and admire him more, because he means to be what
I  hoped  he would. We can't be little playmates any longer, but we will be brother and sister, to love and help one another all our lives, won't
we, Laurie?"

He  did  not  say a word, but took the hand she offered him, and laid his face down on it for a minute, feeling that out of the grave of a boyish
passion,  there had risen a beautiful, strong friendship to bless them both. Presently Jo said cheerfully, for she didn't want the coming home to
be  a  sad  one, "I can't make it true that you children are really married and going to set up housekeeping. Why, it seems only yesterday that I
was buttoning Amy's pinafore, and pulling your hair when you teased. Mercy me, how time does fly!"

"As one of the children is older than yourself, you needn't talk so like a grandma. I flatter myself I'm a 'gentleman growed' as Peggotty said of
David, and when you see Amy, you'll find her rather a precocious infant," said Laurie, looking amused at her maternal air.

"You  may be a little older in years, but I'm ever so much older in feeling, Teddy. Women always are, and this last year has been such a hard one
that I feel forty."

"Poor  Jo! We left you to bear it alone, while we went pleasuring. You are older. Here's a line, and there's another. Unless you smile, your eyes
look  sad,  and when I touched the cushion, just now, I found a tear on it. You've had a great deal to bear, and had to bear it all alone. What a
selfish beast I've been!" and Laurie pulled his own hair, with a remorseful look.

But  Jo  only  turned  over the traitorous pillow, and answered, in a tone which she tried to make more cheerful, "No, I had Father and Mother to
help  me, and the dear babies to comfort me, and the thought that you and Amy were safe and happy, to make the troubles here easier to bear. I am
lonely, sometimes, but I dare say it's good for me, and . . ."

"You  never shall be again," broke in Laurie, putting his arm about her, as if to fence out every human ill. "Amy and I can't get on without you,
so  you  must  come  and  teach  'the children' to keep house, and go halves in everything, just as we used to do, and let us pet you, and all be
blissfully happy and friendly together."

"If  I  shouldn't  be  in the way, it would be very pleasant. I begin to feel quite young already, for somehow all my troubles seemed to fly away
when you came. You always were a comfort, Teddy," and Jo leaned her head on his shoulder, just as she did years ago, when Beth lay ill and Laurie
told her to hold on to him.

He  looked  down at her, wondering if she remembered the time, but Jo was smiling to herself, as if in truth her troubles had all vanished at his
coming.

"You are the same Jo still, dropping tears about one minute, and laughing the next. You look a little wicked now. What is it, Grandma?"

"I was wondering how you and Amy get on together."

"Like angels!"

"Yes, of course, but which rules?"

"I  don't mind telling you that she does now, at least I let her think so, it pleases her, you know. By-and-by we shall take turns, for marriage,
they say, halves one's rights and doubles one's duties."

"You'll go on as you begin, and Amy will rule you all the days of your life."

"Well,  she does it so imperceptibly that I don't think I shall mind much. She is the sort of woman who knows how to rule well. In fact, I rather
like it, for she winds one round her finger as softly and prettily as a skein of silk, and makes you feel as if she was doing you a favor all the
while."

"That ever I should live to see you a henpecked husband and enjoying it!" cried Jo, with uplifted hands.

It  was  good  to  see Laurie square his shoulders, and smile with masculine scorn at that insinuation, as he replied, with his "high and mighty"
air,  "Amy is too well-bred for that, and I am not the sort of man to submit to it. My wife and I respect ourselves and one another too much ever
to tyrannize or quarrel."

Jo  liked  that,  and  thought  the  new  dignity  very becoming, but the boy seemed changing very fast into the man, and regret mingled with her
pleasure.

"I  am  sure of that. Amy and you never did quarrel as we used to. She is the sun and I the wind, in the fable, and the sun managed the man best,
you remember."

"She  can blow him up as well as shine on him," laughed Laurie. "such a lecture as I got at Nice! I give you my word it was a deal worse than any
of  your  scoldings,  a  regular  rouser. I'll tell you all about it sometime, she never will, because after telling me that she despised and was
ashamed of me, she lost her heart to the despicable party and married the good-for-nothing."

"What baseness! Well, if she abuses you, come to me, and I'll defend you."

"I  look as if I needed it, don't I?" said Laurie, getting up and striking an attitude which suddenly changed from the imposing to the rapturous,
as Amy's voice was heard calling, "Where is she? Where's my dear old Jo?"

In  trooped  the  whole  family, and everyone was hugged and kissed all over again, and after several vain attempts, the three wanderers were set
down  to  be looked at and exulted over. Mr. Laurence, hale and hearty as ever, was quite as much improved as the others by his foreign tour, for
the crustiness seemed to be nearly gone, and the old-fashioned courtliness had received a polish which made it kindlier than ever. It was good to
see  him  beam  at  'my  children',  as  he called the young pair. It was better still to see Amy pay him the daughterly duty and affection which
completely won his old heart, and best of all, to watch Laurie revolve about the two, as if never tired of enjoying the pretty picture they made.

The  minute  she  put  her eyes upon Amy, Meg became conscious that her own dress hadn't a Parisian air, that young Mrs. Moffat would be entirely
eclipsed  by  young Mrs. Laurence, and that 'her ladyship' was altogether a most elegant and graceful woman. Jo thought, as she watched the pair,
"How  well they look together! I was right, and Laurie has found the beautiful, accomplished girl who will become his home better than clumsy old
Jo,  and  be a pride, not a torment to him." Mrs. March and her husband smiled and nodded at each other with happy faces, for they saw that their
youngest had done well, not only in worldly things, but the better wealth of love, confidence, and happiness.

For Amy's face was full of the soft brightness which betokens a peaceful heart, her voice had a new tenderness in it, and the cool, prim carriage
was  changed  to  a  gentle dignity, both womanly and winning. No little affectations marred it, and the cordial sweetness of her manner was more
charming  than  the  new  beauty or the old grace, for it stamped her at once with the unmistakable sign of the true gentlewoman she had hoped to
become.

"Love has done much for our little girl," said her mother softly.

"She has had a good example before her all her life, my dear," Mr. March whispered back, with a loving look at the worn face and gray head beside
him.

Daisy  found  it  impossible  to  keep  her  eyes  off her 'pitty aunty', but attached herself like a lap dog to the wonderful chatelaine full of
delightful  charms.  Demi paused to consider the new relationship before he compromised himself by the rash acceptance of a bribe, which took the
tempting  form  of  a  family of wooden bears from Berne. A flank movement produced an unconditional surrender, however, for Laurie knew where to
have him.

"Young  man,  when  I  first had the honor of making your acquaintance you hit me in the face. Now I demand the satisfaction of a gentleman," and
with  that  the  tall uncle proceeded to toss and tousle the small nephew in a way that damaged his philosophical dignity as much as it delighted
his boyish soul.

"Blest  if  she  ain't in silk from head to foot; ain't it a relishin' sight to see her settin' there as fine as a fiddle, and hear folks calling
little  Amy  'Mis.  Laurence!'"  muttered  old  Hannah,  who  could  not resist frequent "peeks" through the slide as she set the table in a most
decidedly promiscuous manner.

Mercy  on  us,  how  they  did talk! first one, then the other, then all burst out together--trying to tell the history of three years in half an
hour.  It  was  fortunate  that tea was at hand, to produce a lull and provide refreshment--for they would have been hoarse and faint if they had
gone  on  much longer. Such a happy procession as filed away into the little dining room! Mr. March proudly escorted Mrs. Laurence. Mrs. March as
proudly  leaned  on the arm of 'my son'. The old gentleman took Jo, with a whispered, "You must be my girl now," and a glance at the empty corner
by the fire, that made Jo whisper back, "I'll try to fill her place, sir."

The  twins  pranced  behind, feeling that the millennium was at hand, for everyone was so busy with the newcomers that they were left to revel at
their own sweet will, and you may be sure they made the most of the opportunity. Didn't they steal sips of tea, stuff gingerbread ad libitum, get
a  hot  biscuit  apiece, and as a crowning trespass, didn't they each whisk a captivating little tart into their tiny pockets, there to stick and
crumble  treacherously,  teaching  them  that both human nature and a pastry are frail? Burdened with the guilty consciousness of the sequestered
tarts, and fearing that Dodo's sharp eyes would pierce the thin disguise of cambric and merino which hid their booty, the little sinners attached
themselves  to  'Dranpa',  who hadn't his spectacles on. Amy, who was handed about like refreshments, returned to the parlor on Father Laurence's
arm.  The  others paired off as before, and this arrangement left Jo companionless. She did not mind it at the minute, for she lingered to answer
Hannah's eager inquiry.

"Will Miss Amy ride in her coop (coupe), and use all them lovely silver dishes that's stored away over yander?"

"Shouldn't  wonder  if  she drove six white horses, ate off gold plate, and wore diamonds and point lace every day. Teddy thinks nothing too good
for her," returned Jo with infinite satisfaction.

"No more there is! Will you have hash or fishballs for breakfast?" asked Hannah, who wisely mingled poetry and prose.

"I  don't  care,"  and  Jo shut the door, feeling that food was an uncongenial topic just then. She stood a minute looking at the party vanishing
above,  and as Demi's short plaid legs toiled up the last stair, a sudden sense of loneliness came over her so strongly that she looked about her
with dim eyes, as if to find something to lean upon, for even Teddy had deserted her. If she had known what birthday gift was coming every minute
nearer  and  nearer,  she would not have said to herself, "I'll weep a little weep when I go to bed. It won't do to be dismal now." Then she drew
her  hand  over her eyes, for one of her boyish habits was never to know where her handkerchief was, and had just managed to call up a smile when
there came a knock at the porch door.

She  opened with hospitable haste, and started as if another ghost had come to surprise her, for there stood a tall bearded gentleman, beaming on
her from the darkness like a midnight sun.

"Oh, Mr. Bhaer, I am so glad to see you!" cried Jo, with a clutch, as if she feared the night would swallow him up before she could get him in.

"And  I  to  see  Miss Marsch, but no, you haf a party," and the Professor paused as the sound of voices and the tap of dancing feet came down to
them.

"No, we haven't, only the family. My sister and friends have just come home, and we are all very happy. Come in, and make one of us."

Though  a very social man, I think Mr. Bhaer would have gone decorously away, and come again another day, but how could he, when Jo shut the door
behind  him, and bereft him of his hat? Perhaps her face had something to do with it, for she forgot to hide her joy at seeing him, and showed it
with a frankness that proved irresistible to the solitary man, whose welcome far exceeded his boldest hopes.

"If I shall not be Monsieur de Trop, I will so gladly see them all. You haf been ill, my friend?"

He put the question abruptly, for, as Jo hung up his coat, the light fell on her face, and he saw a change in it.

"Not ill, but tired and sorrowful. We have had trouble since I saw you last."

"Ah,  yes,  I  know.  My  heart was sore for you when I heard that," and he shook hands again, with such a sympathetic face that Jo felt as if no
comfort could equal the look of the kind eyes, the grasp of the big, warm hand.

"Father,  Mother,  this is my friend, Professor Bhaer," she said, with a face and tone of such irrepressible pride and pleasure that she might as
well have blown a trumpet and opened the door with a flourish.

If  the  stranger  had any doubts about his reception, they were set at rest in a minute by the cordial welcome he received. Everyone greeted him
kindly,  for  Jo's  sake  at  first, but very soon they liked him for his own. They could not help it, for he carried the talisman that opens all
hearts,  and  these  simple people warmed to him at once, feeling even the more friendly because he was poor. For poverty enriches those who live
above  it, and is a sure passport to truly hospitable spirits. Mr. Bhaer sat looking about him with the air of a traveler who knocks at a strange
door,  and  when  it  opens,  finds  himself at home. The children went to him like bees to a honeypot, and establishing themselves on each knee,
proceeded  to captivate him by rifling his pockets, pulling his beard, and investigating his watch, with juvenile audacity. The women telegraphed
their approval to one another, and Mr. March, feeling that he had got a kindred spirit, opened his choicest stores for his guest's benefit, while
silent John listened and enjoyed the talk, but said not a word, and Mr. Laurence found it impossible to go to sleep.

If Jo had not been otherwise engaged, Laurie's behavior would have amused her, for a faint twinge, not of jealousy, but something like suspicion,
caused  that  gentleman  to  stand  aloof  at  first,  and  observe  the newcomer with brotherly circumspection. But it did not last long. He got
interested  in  spite  of himself, and before he knew it, was drawn into the circle. For Mr. Bhaer talked well in this genial atmosphere, and did
himself  justice.  He  seldom spoke to Laurie, but he looked at him often, and a shadow would pass across his face, as if regretting his own lost
youth, as he watched the young man in his prime. Then his eyes would turn to Jo so wistfully that she would have surely answered the mute inquiry
if  she  had  seen it. But Jo had her own eyes to take care of, and feeling that they could not be trusted, she prudently kept them on the little
sock she was knitting, like a model maiden aunt.

A  stealthy  glance  now and then refreshed her like sips of fresh water after a dusty walk, for the sidelong peeps showed her several propitious
omens.  Mr.  Bhaer's  face  had  lost  the absent-minded expression, and looked all alive with interest in the present moment, actually young and
handsome,  she  thought,  forgetting  to  compare him with Laurie, as she usually did strange men, to their great detriment. Then he seemed quite
inspired,  though  the  burial  customs of the ancients, to which the conversation had strayed, might not be considered an exhilarating topic. Jo
quite  glowed  with  triumph  when  Teddy got quenched in an argument, and thought to herself, as she watched her father's absorbed face, "How he
would  enjoy having such a man as my Professor to talk with every day!" Lastly, Mr. Bhaer was dressed in a new suit of black, which made him look
more  like  a  gentleman  than ever. His bushy hair had been cut and smoothly brushed, but didn't stay in order long, for in exciting moments, he
rumpled  it  up in the droll way he used to do, and Jo liked it rampantly erect better than flat, because she thought it gave his fine forehead a
Jove-like  aspect. Poor Jo, how she did glorify that plain man, as she sat knitting away so quietly, yet letting nothing escape her, not even the
fact that Mr. Bhaer actually had gold sleeve-buttons in his immaculate wristbands.

"Dear old fellow! He couldn't have got himself up with more care if he'd been going a-wooing," said Jo to herself, and then a sudden thought born
of the words made her blush so dreadfully that she had to drop her ball, and go down after it to hide her face.

The  maneuver  did  not  succeed  as  well  as she expected, however, for though just in the act of setting fire to a funeral pyre, the Professor
dropped  his  torch, metaphorically speaking, and made a dive after the little blue ball. Of course they bumped their heads smartly together, saw
stars, and both came up flushed and laughing, without the ball, to resume their seats, wishing they had not left them.

Nobody  knew  where  the  evening  went  to, for Hannah skillfully abstracted the babies at an early hour, nodding like two rosy poppies, and Mr.
Laurence  went  home to rest. The others sat round the fire, talking away, utterly regardless of the lapse of time, till Meg, whose maternal mind
was  impressed with a firm conviction that Daisy had tumbled out of bed, and Demi set his nightgown afire studying the structure of matches, made
a move to go.

"We  must  have  our  sing, in the good old way, for we are all together again once more," said Jo, feeling that a good shout would be a safe and
pleasant vent for the jubilant emotions of her soul.

They  were  not all there. But no one found the words thougtless or untrue, for Beth still seemed among them, a peaceful presence, invisible, but
dearer  than  ever,  since death could not break the household league that love made disoluble. The little chair stood in its old place. The tidy
basket,  with  the  bit  of  work she left unfinished when the needle grew 'so heavy', was still on its accustomed shelf. The beloved instrument,
seldom touched now had not been moved, and above it Beth's face, serene and smiling, as in the early days, looked down upon them, seeming to say,
"Be happy. I am here."

"Play something, Amy. Let them hear how much you have improved," said Laurie, with pardonable pride in his promising pupil.

But Amy whispered, with full eyes, as she twirled the faded stool, "Not tonight, dear. I can't show off tonight."

But  she  did  show  something  better than brilliancy or skill, for she sang Beth's songs with a tender music in her voice which the best master
could  not have taught, and touched the listener's hearts with a sweeter power than any other inspiration could have given her. The room was very
still, when the clear voice failed suddenly at the last line of Beth's favorite hymn. It was hard to say . . .

Earth hath no sorrow that heaven cannot heal;

and Amy leaned against her husband, who stood behind her, feeling that her welcome home was not quite perfect without Beth's kiss.

"Now, we must finish with Mignon's song, for Mr. Bhaer sings that," said Jo, before the pause grew painful. And Mr. Bhaer cleared his throat with
a gratified "Hem!" as he stepped into the corner where Jo stood, saying . . .

"You will sing with me? We go excellently well together."

A  pleasing  fiction,  by the way, for Jo had no more idea of music than a grasshopper. But she would have consented if he had proposed to sing a
whole opera, and warbled away, blissfully regardless of time and tune. It didn't much matter, for Mr. Bhaer sang like a true German, heartily and
well, and Jo soon subsided into a subdued hum, that she might listen to the mellow voice that seemed to sing for her alone.

Know'st thou the land where the citron blooms,

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

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

and  one  listener  was  so  thrilled  by  the  tender invitation that she longed to say she did know the land, and would joyfully depart thither
whenever he liked.

The  song  was  considered  a  great  success,  and  the  singer retired covered with laurels. But a few minutes afterward, he forgot his manners
entirely,  and  stared at Amy putting on her bonnet, for she had been introduced simply as 'my sister', and no one had called her by her new name
since he came. He forgot himself still further when Laurie said, in his most gracious manner, at parting . . .

"My wife and I are very glad to meet you, sir. Please remember that there is always a welcome waiting for you over the way."

Then  the  Professor thanked him so heartily, and looked so suddenly illuminated with satisfaction, that Laurie thought him the most delightfully
demonstrative old fellow he ever met.

"I  too  shall go, but I shall gladly come again, if you will gif me leave, dear madame, for a little business in the city will keep me here some
days."

He  spoke to Mrs. March, but he looked at Jo, and the mother's voice gave as cordial an assent as did the daughter's eyes, for Mrs. March was not
so blind to her children's interest as Mrs. Moffat supposed.

"I suspect that is a wise man," remarked Mr. March, with placid satisfaction, from the hearthrug, after the last guest had gone.

"I know he is a good one," added Mrs. March, with decided approval, as she wound up the clock.

"I thought you'd like him," was all Jo said, as she slipped away to her bed.

She  wondered  what  the  business  was  that  brought Mr. Bhaer to the city, and finally decided that he had been appointed to some great honor,
somewhere, but had been too modest to mention the fact. If she had seen his face when, safe in his own room, he looked at the picture of a severe
and rigid young lady, with a good deal of hair, who appeared to be gazing darkly into futurity, it might have thrown some light upon the subject,
especially when he turned off the gas, and kissed the picture in the dark.



CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

MY LORD AND LADY

"Please,  Madam  Mother, could you lend me my wife for half an hour? The luggage has come, and I've been making hay of Amy's Paris finery, trying
to  find  some things I want," said Laurie, coming in the next day to find Mrs. Laurence sitting in her mother's lap, as if being made 'the baby'
again.

"Certainly.  Go,  dear, I forgot that you have any home but this," and Mrs. March pressed the white hand that wore the wedding ring, as if asking
pardon for her maternal covetousness.

"I shouldn't have come over if I could have helped it, but I can't get on without my little woman any more than a . . ."

"Weathercock can without the wind," suggested Jo, as he paused for a simile. Jo had grown quite her own saucy self again since Teddy came home.

"Exactly,  for Amy keeps me pointing due west most of the time, with only an occasional whiffle round to the south, and I haven't had an easterly
spell since I was married. Don't know anything about the north, but am altogether salubrious and balmy, hey, my lady?"

"Lovely  weather so far. I don't know how long it will last, but I'm not afraid of storms, for I'm learning how to sail my ship. Come home, dear,
and  I'll  find  your  bootjack.  I  suppose  that's what you are rummaging after among my things. Men are so helpless, Mother," said Amy, with a
matronly air, which delighted her husband.

"What are you going to do with yourselves after you get settled?" asked Jo, buttoning Amy's cloak as she used to button her pinafores.

"We have our plans. We don't mean to say much about them yet, because we are such very new brooms, but we don't intend to be idle. I'm going into
business  with  a devotion that shall delight Grandfather, and prove to him that I'm not spoiled. I need something of the sort to keep me steady.
I'm tired of dawdling, and mean to work like a man."

"And Amy, what is she going to do?" asked Mrs. March, well pleased at Laurie's decision and the energy with which he spoke.

"After  doing  the  civil all round, and airing our best bonnet, we shall astonish you by the elegant hospitalities of our mansion, the brilliant
society we shall draw about us, and the beneficial influence we shall exert over the world at large. That's about it, isn't it, Madame Recamier?"
asked Laurie with a quizzical look at Amy.

"Time  will  show. Come away, Impertinence, and don't shock my family by calling me names before their faces," answered Amy, resolving that there
should be a home with a good wife in it before she set up a salon as a queen of society.

"How happy those children seem together!" observed Mr. March, finding it difficult to become absorbed in his Aristotle after the young couple had
gone.

"Yes, and I think it will last," added Mrs. March, with the restful expression of a pilot who has brought a ship safely into port.

"I know it will. Happy Amy!" and Jo sighed, then smiled brightly as Professor Bhaer opened the gate with an impatient push.

Later in the evening, when his mind had been set at rest about the bootjack, Laurie said suddenly to his wife, "Mrs. Laurence."

"My Lord!"

"That man intends to marry our Jo!"

"I hope so, don't you, dear?"

"Well,  my  love,  I  consider  him  a trump, in the fullest sense of that expressive word, but I do wish he was a little younger and a good deal
richer."

"Now,  Laurie,  don't  be too fastidious and worldly-minded. If they love one another it doesn't matter a particle how old they are nor how poor.
Women  never  should  marry  for  money . . ." Amy caught herself up short as the words escaped her, and looked at her husband, who replied, with
malicious gravity . . .

"Certainly  not, though you do hear charming girls say that they intend to do it sometimes. If my memory serves me, you once thought it your duty
to make a rich match. That accounts, perhaps, for your marrying a good-for-nothing like me."

"Oh, my dearest boy, don't, don't say that! I forgot you were rich when I said 'Yes'. I'd have married you if you hadn't a penny, and I sometimes
wish  you  were  poor that I might show how much I love you." And Amy, who was very dignified in public and very fond in private, gave convincing
proofs of the truth of her words.

"You  don't  really  think  I  am such a mercenary creature as I tried to be once, do you? It would break my heart if you didn't believe that I'd
gladly pull in the same boat with you, even if you had to get your living by rowing on the lake."

"Am I an idiot and a brute? How could I think so, when you refused a richer man for me, and won't let me give you half I want to now, when I have
the  right?  Girls  do  it  every  day, poor things, and are taught to think it is their only salvation, but you had better lessons, and though I
trembled  for  you  at  one  time, I was not disappointed, for the daughter was true to the mother's teaching. I told Mamma so yesterday, and she
looked  as  glad  and grateful as if I'd given her a check for a million, to be spent in charity. You are not listening to my moral remarks, Mrs.
Laurence," and Laurie paused, for Amy's eyes had an absent look, though fixed upon his face.

"Yes,  I  am,  and  admiring  the  mole  in  your chin at the same time. I don't wish to make you vain, but I must confess that I'm prouder of my
handsome  husband  than  of all his money. Don't laugh, but your nose is such a comfort to me," and Amy softly caressed the well-cut feature with
artistic satisfaction.

Laurie  had  received  many compliments in his life, but never one that suited him better, as he plainly showed though he did laugh at his wife's
peculiar taste, while she said slowly, "May I ask you a question, dear?"

"Of course, you may."

"Shall you care if Jo does marry Mr. Bhaer?"

"Oh,  that's  the  trouble  is it? I thought there was something in the dimple that didn't quite suit you. Not being a dog in the manger, but the
happiest fellow alive, I assure you I can dance at Jo's wedding with a heart as light as my heels. Do you doubt it, my darling?"

Amy looked up at him, and was satisfied. Her little jealous fear vanished forever, and she thanked him, with a face full of love and confidence.

"I  wish we could do something for that capital old Professor. Couldn't we invent a rich relation, who shall obligingly die out there in Germany,
and  leave  him  a tidy little fortune?" said Laurie, when they began to pace up and down the long drawing room, arm in arm, as they were fond of
doing, in memory of the chateau garden.

"Jo  would  find  us  out, and spoil it all. She is very proud of him, just as he is, and said yesterday that she thought poverty was a beautiful
thing."

"Bless  her  dear  heart! She won't think so when she has a literary husband, and a dozen little professors and professorins to support. We won't
interfere  now,  but  watch  our chance, and do them a good turn in spite of themselves. I owe Jo for a part of my education, and she believes in
people's paying their honest debts, so I'll get round her in that way."

"How  delightful  it  is to be able to help others, isn't it? That was always one of my dreams, to have the power of giving freely, and thanks to
you, the dream has come true."

"Ah,  we'll do quantities of good, won't we? There's one sort of poverty that I particularly like to help. Out-and-out beggars get taken care of,
but  poor gentle folks fare badly, because they won't ask, and people don't dare to offer charity. Yet there are a thousand ways of helping them,
if  one  only knows how to do it so delicately that it does not offend. I must say, I like to serve a decayed gentleman better than a blarnerying
beggar. I suppose it's wrong, but I do, though it is harder."

"Because it takes a gentleman to do it," added the other member of the domestic admiration society.

"Thank  you,  I'm afraid I don't deserve that pretty compliment. But I was going to say that while I was dawdling about abroad, I saw a good many
talented  young fellows making all sorts of sacrifices, and enduring real hardships, that they might realize their dreams. Splendid fellows, some
of them, working like heros, poor and friendless, but so full of courage, patience, and ambition that I was ashamed of myself, and longed to give
them  a right good lift. Those are people whom it's a satisfaction to help, for if they've got genius, it's an honor to be allowed to serve them,
and  not let it be lost or delayed for want of fuel to keep the pot boiling. If they haven't, it's a pleasure to comfort the poor souls, and keep
them from despair when they find it out."

"Yes,  indeed, and there's another class who can't ask, and who suffer in silence. I know something of it, for I belonged to it before you made a
princess  of me, as the king does the beggarmaid in the old story. Ambitious girls have a hard time, Laurie, and often have to see youth, health,
and  precious opportunities go by, just for want of a little help at the right minute. People have been very kind to me, and whenever I see girls
struggling along, as we used to do, I want to put out my hand and help them, as I was helped."

"And  so  you shall, like an angel as you are!" cried Laurie, resolving, with a glow of philanthropic zeal, to found and endow an institution for
the  express  benefit  of  young  women with artistic tendencies. "Rich people have no right to sit down and enjoy themselves, or let their money
accumulate for others to waste. It's not half so sensible to leave legacies when one dies as it is to use the money wisely while alive, and enjoy
making one's fellow creatures happy with it. We'll have a good time ourselves, and add an extra relish to our own pleasure by giving other people
a generous taste. Will you be a little Dorcas, going about emptying a big basket of comforts, and filling it up with good deeds?"

"With all my heart, if you will be a brave St. Martin, stopping as you ride gallantly through the world to share your cloak with the beggar."

"It's a bargain, and we shall get the best of it!"

So  the young pair shook hands upon it, and then paced happily on again, feeling that their pleasant home was more homelike because they hoped to
brighten other homes, believing that their own feet would walk more uprightly along the flowery path before them, if they smoothed rough ways for
other feet, and feeling that their hearts were more closely knit together by a love which could tenderly remember those less blest than they.



CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

DAISY AND DEMI

I  cannot  feel  that I have done my duty as humble historian of the March family, without devoting at least one chapter to the two most precious
and  important  members  of  it. Daisy and Demi had now arrived at years of discretion, for in this fast age babies of three or four assert their
rights,  and  get them, too, which is more than many of their elders do. If there ever were a pair of twins in danger of being utterly spoiled by
adoration,  it was these prattling Brookes. Of course they were the most remarkable children ever born, as will be shown when I mention that they
walked  at  eight  months, talked fluently at twelve months, and at two years they took their places at table, and behaved with a propriety which
charmed  all  beholders. At three, Daisy demanded a 'needler', and actually made a bag with four stitches in it. She likewise set up housekeeping
in  the  sideboard,  and  managed  a  microscopic cooking stove with a skill that brought tears of pride to Hannah's eyes, while Demi learned his
letters with his grandfather, who invented a new mode of teaching the alphabet by forming letters with his arms and legs, thus uniting gymnastics
for  head  and  heels.  The boy early developed a mechanical genius which delighted his father and distracted his mother, for he tried to imitate
every  machine he saw, and kept the nursery in a chaotic condition, with his 'sewinsheen', a mysterious structure of string, chairs, clothespins,
and  spools, for wheels to go 'wound and wound'. Also a basket hung over the back of a chair, in which he vainly tried to hoist his too confiding
sister,  who,  with  feminine  devotion,  allowed  her little head to be bumped till rescued, when the young inventor indignantly remarked, "Why,
Marmar, dat's my lellywaiter, and me's trying to pull her up."

Though  utterly  unlike  in  character,  the  twins got on remarkably well together, and seldom quarreled more than thrice a day. Of course, Demi
tyrannized  over Daisy, and gallantly defended her from every other aggressor, while Daisy made a galley slave of herself, and adored her brother
as the one perfect being in the world. A rosy, chubby, sunshiny little soul was Daisy, who found her way to everybody's heart, and nestled there.
One  of  the  captivating  children,  who  seem made to be kissed and cuddled, adorned and adored like little goddesses, and produced for general
approval  on  all  festive occasions. Her small virtues were so sweet that she would have been quite angelic if a few small naughtinesses had not
kept  her  delightfully  human. It was all fair weather in her world, and every morning she scrambled up to the window in her little nightgown to
look  out,  and  say,  no  matter  whether it rained or shone, "Oh, pitty day, oh, pitty day!" Everyone was a friend, and she offered kisses to a
stranger so confidingly that the most inveterate bachelor relented, and baby-lovers became faithful worshipers.

"Me  loves  evvybody,"  she once said, opening her arms, with her spoon in one hand, and her mug in the other, as if eager to embrace and nourish
the whole world.

As  she  grew,  her  mother  began to feel that the Dovecote would be blessed by the presence of an inmate as serene and loving as that which had
helped  to  make  the  old  house  home,  and  to  pray  that she might be spared a loss like that which had lately taught them how long they had
entertained an angel unawares. Her grandfather often called her 'Beth', and her grandmother watched over her with untiring devotion, as if trying
to atone for some past mistake, which no eye but her own could see.

Demi,  like  a  true  Yankee,  was  of  an  inquiring turn, wanting to know everything, and often getting much disturbed because he could not get
satisfactory answers to his perpetual "What for?"

He  also  possessed  a  philosophic bent, to the great delight of his grandfather, who used to hold Socratic conversations with him, in which the
precocious pupil occasionally posed his teacher, to the undisguised satisfaction of the womenfolk.

"What  makes  my legs go, Dranpa?" asked the young philosopher, surveying those active portions of his frame with a meditative air, while resting
after a go-to-bed frolic one night.

"It's your little mind, Demi," replied the sage, stroking the yellow head respectfully.

"What is a little mine?"

"It is something which makes your body move, as the spring made the wheels go in my watch when I showed it to you."

"Open me. I want to see it go wound."

"I can't do that any more than you could open the watch. God winds you up, and you go till He stops you."

"Does I?" and Demi's brown eyes grew big and bright as he took in the new thought. "Is I wounded up like the watch?"

"Yes, but I can't show you how, for it is done when we don't see."

Demi felt his back, as if expecting to find it like that of the watch, and then gravely remarked, "I dess Dod does it when I's asleep."

A  careful  explanation  followed,  to which he listened so attentively that his anxious grandmother said, "My dear, do you think it wise to talk
about such things to that baby? He's getting great bumps over his eyes, and learning to ask the most unanswerable questions."

"If  he  is old enough to ask the question he is old enough to receive true answers. I am not putting the thoughts into his head, but helping him
unfold  those  already  there.  These children are wiser than we are, and I have no doubt the boy understands every word I have said to him. Now,
Demi, tell me where you keep your mind."

If  the  boy  had replied like Alcibiades, "By the gods, Socrates, I cannot tell," his grandfather would not have been surprised, but when, after
standing  a  moment on one leg, like a meditative young stork, he answered, in a tone of calm conviction, "In my little belly," the old gentleman
could only join in Grandma's laugh, and dismiss the class in metaphysics.

There  might  have  been  cause  for  maternal  anxiety,  if  Demi  had  not given convincing proofs that he was a true boy, as well as a budding
philosopher,  for  often, after a discussion which caused Hannah to prophesy, with ominous nods, "That child ain't long for this world," he would
turn  about  and  set  her fears at rest by some of the pranks with which dear, dirty, naughty little rascals distract and delight their parent's
souls.

Meg  made  many  moral  rules,  and  tried to keep them, but what mother was ever proof against the winning wiles, the ingenious evasions, or the
tranquil audacity of the miniature men and women who so early show themselves accomplished Artful Dodgers?

"No  more  raisins, Demi. They'll make you sick," says Mamma to the young person who offers his services in the kitchen with unfailing regularity
on plum-pudding day.

"Me likes to be sick."

"I don't want to have you, so run away and help Daisy make patty cakes."

He  reluctantly  departs,  but  his  wrongs weigh upon his spirit, and by-and-by when an opportunity comes to redress them, he outwits Mamma by a
shrewd bargain.

"Now  you  have  been  good  children, and I'll play anything you like," says Meg, as she leads her assistant cooks upstairs, when the pudding is
safely bouncing in the pot.

"Truly, Marmar?" asks Demi, with a brilliant idea in his well-powdered head.

"Yes,  truly.  Anything you say," replies the shortsighted parent, preparing herself to sing, "The Three Little Kittens" half a dozen times over,
or to take her family to "Buy a penny bun," regardless of wind or limb. But Demi corners her by the cool reply . . .

"Then we'll go and eat up all the raisins."

Aunt  Dodo  was chief playmate and confidante of both children, and the trio turned the little house topsy-turvy. Aunt Amy was as yet only a name
to  them,  Aunt  Beth  soon  faded  into  a pleasantly vague memory, but Aunt Dodo was a living reality, and they made the most of her, for which
compliment  she  was  deeply  grateful.  But  when Mr. Bhaer came, Jo neglected her playfellows, and dismay and desolation fell upon their little
souls.  Daisy,  who  was  fond of going about peddling kisses, lost her best customer and became bankrupt. Demi, with infantile penetration, soon
discovered that Dodo like to play with 'the bear-man' better than she did him, but though hurt, he concealed his anguish, for he hadn't the heart
to  insult  a rival who kept a mine of chocolate drops in his waistcoat pocket, and a watch that could be taken out of its case and freely shaken
by ardent admirers.

Some  persons might have considered these pleasing liberties as bribes, but Demi didn't see it in that light, and continued to patronize the 'the
bear-man'  with pensive affability, while Daisy bestowed her small affections upon him at the third call, and considered his shoulder her throne,
his arm her refuge, his gifts treasures surpassing worth.

Gentlemen  are  sometimes  seized  with  sudden  fits of admiration for the young relatives of ladies whom they honor with their regard, but this
counterfeit  philoprogenitiveness  sits  uneasily  upon  them, and does not deceive anybody a particle. Mr. Bhaer's devotion was sincere, however
likewise  effective--for  honesty  is  the  best  policy  in  love  as  in  law.  He was one of the men who are at home with children, and looked
particularly well when little faces made a pleasant contrast with his manly one. His business, whatever it was, detained him from day to day, but
evening  seldom  failed  to  bring  him  out  to see--well, he always asked for Mr. March, so I suppose he was the attraction. The excellent papa
labored  under  the  delusion  that  he  was, and reveled in long discussions with the kindred spirit, till a chance remark of his more observing
grandson suddenly enlightened him.

Mr.  Bhaer came in one evening to pause on the threshold of the study, astonished by the spectacle that met his eye. Prone upon the floor lay Mr.
March,  with  his  respectable  legs  in  the  air,  and beside him, likewise prone, was Demi, trying to imitate the attitude with his own short,
scarlet-stockinged  legs,  both  grovelers  so  seriously  absorbed that they were unconscious of spectators, till Mr. Bhaer laughed his sonorous
laugh, and Jo cried out, with a scandalized face . . .

"Father, Father, here's the Professor!"

Down  went  the  black legs and up came the gray head, as the preceptor said, with undisturbed dignity, "Good evening, Mr. Bhaer. Excuse me for a
moment. We are just finishing our lesson. Now, Demi, make the letter and tell its name."

"I  knows  him!"  and, after a few convulsive efforts, the red legs took the shape of a pair of compasses, and the intelligent pupil triumphantly
shouted, "It's a We, Dranpa, it's a We!"

"He's  a  born  Weller," laughed Jo, as her parent gathered himself up, and her nephew tried to stand on his head, as the only mode of expressing
his satisfaction that school was over.

"What have you been at today, bubchen?" asked Mr. Bhaer, picking up the gymnast.

"Me went to see little Mary."

"And what did you there?"

"I kissed her," began Demi, with artless frankness.

"Prut!  Thou  beginnest early. What did the little Mary say to that?" asked Mr. Bhaer, continuing to confess the young sinner, who stood upon the
knee, exploring the waistcoat pocket.

"Oh,  she liked it, and she kissed me, and I liked it. Don't little boys like little girls?" asked Demi, with his mouth full, and an air of bland
satisfaction.

"You precocious chick! Who put that into your head?" said Jo, enjoying the innocent revelation as much as the Professor.

"'Tisn't  in  mine  head, it's in mine mouf," answered literal Demi, putting out his tongue, with a chocolate drop on it, thinking she alluded to
confectionery, not ideas.

"Thou  shouldst  save some for the little friend. Sweets to the sweet, mannling," and Mr. Bhaer offered Jo some, with a look that made her wonder
if chocolate was not the nectar drunk by the gods. Demi also saw the smile, was impressed by it, and artlessy inquired. ..

"Do great boys like great girls, to, 'Fessor?"

Like  young  Washington, Mr. Bhaer 'couldn't tell a lie', so he gave the somewhat vague reply that he believed they did sometimes, in a tone that
made  Mr.  March  put down his clothesbrush, glance at Jo's retiring face, and then sink into his chair, looking as if the 'precocious chick' had
put an idea into his head that was both sweet and sour.

Why  Dodo,  when  she  caught  him  in  the  china closet half an hour afterward, nearly squeezed the breath out of his little body with a tender
embrace,  instead  of  shaking him for being there, and why she followed up this novel performance by the unexpected gift of a big slice of bread
and jelly, remained one of the problems over which Demi puzzled his small wits, and was forced to leave unsolved forever.



CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

UNDER THE UNBRELLA

While Laurie and Amy were taking conjugal strolls over velvet carpets, as they set their house in order, and planned a blissful future, Mr. Bhaer
and Jo were enjoying promenades of a different sort, along muddy roads and sodden fields.

"I  always  do take a walk toward evening, and I don't know why I should give it up, just because I happen to meet the Professor on his way out,"
said  Jo  to  herself,  after  two or three encounters, for though there were two paths to Meg's whichever one she took she was sure to meet him,
either  going  or  returning.  He  was always walking rapidly, and never seemed to see her until quite close, when he would look as if his short-
sighted  eyes  had  failed  to  recognize  the approaching lady till that moment. Then, if she was going to Meg's he always had something for the
babies.  If  her  face  was  turned homeward, he had merely strolled down to see the river, and was just returning, unless they were tired of his
frequent calls.

Under  the  circumstances, what could Jo do but greet him civilly, and invite him in? If she was tired of his visits, she concealed her weariness
with perfect skill, and took care that there should be coffee for supper, "as Friedrich--I mean Mr. Bhaer--doesn't like tea."

By the second week, everyone knew perfectly well what was going on, yet everyone tried to look as if they were stone-blind to the changes in Jo's
face.  They never asked why she sang about her work, did up her hair three times a day, and got so blooming with her evening exercise. And no one
seemed to have the slightest suspicion that Professor Bhaer, while talking philosophy with the father, was giving the daughter lessons in love.

Jo  couldn't  even  lose  her heart in a decorous manner, but sternly tried to quench her feelings, and failing to do so, led a somewhat agitated
life.  She  was  mortally  afraid  of being laughed at for surrendering, after her many and vehement declarations of independence. Laurie was her
especial  dread,  but thanks to the new manager, he behaved with praiseworthy propriety, never called Mr. Bhaer 'a capital old fellow' in public,
never alluded, in the remotest manner, to Jo's improved appearance, or expressed the least surprise at seeing the Professor's hat on the Marches'
table  nearly  every evening. But he exulted in private and longed for the time to come when he could give Jo a piece of plate, with a bear and a
ragged staff on it as an appropriate coat of arms.

For a fortnight, the Professor came and went with lover-like regularity. Then he stayed away for three whole days, and made no sign, a proceeding
which caused everybody to look sober, and Jo to become pensive, at first, and then--alas for romance--very cross.

"Disgusted,  I  dare  say,  and gone home as suddenly as he came. It's nothing to me, of course, but I should think he would have come and bid us
goodbye  like  a  gentleman,"  she  said to herself, with a despairing look at the gate, as she put on her things for the customary walk one dull
afternoon.

"You'd better take the little umbrella, dear. It looks like rain," said her mother, observing that she had on her new bonnet, but not alluding to
the fact.

"Yes,  Marmee,  do  you want anything in town? I've got to run in and get some paper," returned Jo, pulling out the bow under her chin before the
glass as an excuse for not looking at her mother.

"Yes, I want some twilled silesia, a paper of number nine needles, and two yards of narrow lavender ribbon. Have you got your thick boots on, and
something warm under your cloak?"

"I believe so," answered Jo absently.

"If you happen to meet Mr. Bhaer, bring him home to tea. I quite long to see the dear man," added Mrs. March.

Jo  heard  that,  but  made  no  answer,  except  to  kiss  her mother, and walk rapidly away, thinking with a glow of gratitude, in spite of her
heartache, "How good she is to me! What do girls do who haven't any mothers to help them through their troubles?"

The  dry-goods  stores  were not down among the counting-houses, banks, and wholesale warerooms, where gentlemen most do congregate, but Jo found
herself  in that part of the city before she did a single errand, loitering along as if waiting for someone, examining engineering instruments in
one  window  and  samples of wool in another, with most unfeminine interest, tumbling over barrels, being half-smothered by descending bales, and
hustled  unceremoniously  by  busy  men  who  looked  as if they wondered 'how the deuce she got there'. A drop of rain on her cheek recalled her
thoughts  from  baffled  hopes to ruined ribbons. For the drops continued to fall, and being a woman as well as a lover, she felt that, though it
was  too late to save her heart, she might her bonnet. Now she remembered the little umbrella, which she had forgotten to take in her hurry to be
off, but regret was unavailing, and nothing could be done but borrow one or submit to a drenching. She looked up at the lowering sky, down at the
crimson  bow already flecked with black, forward along the muddy street, then one long, lingering look behind, at a certain grimy warehouse, with
'Hoffmann, Swartz, & Co.' over the door, and said to herself, with a sternly reproachful air . . .

"It  serves  me  right!  what  business  had I to put on all my best things and come philandering down here, hoping to see the Professor? Jo, I'm
ashamed  of  you! No, you shall not go there to borrow an umbrella, or find out where he is, from his friends. You shall trudge away, and do your
errands in the rain, and if you catch your death and ruin your bonnet, it's no more than you deserve. Now then!"

With  that she rushed across the street so impetuously that she narrowly escaped annihilation from a passing truck, and precipitated herself into
the  arms of a stately old gentleman, who said, "I beg pardon, ma'am," and looked mortally offended. Somewhat daunted, Jo righted herself, spread
her  handkerchief  over  the  devoted ribbons, and putting temptation behind her, hurried on, with increasing dampness about the ankles, and much
clashing  of  umbrellas  overhead.  The  fact that a somewhat dilapidated blue one remained stationary above the unprotected bonnet attracted her
attention, and looking up, she saw Mr. Bhaer looking down.

"I  feel  to  know  the  strong-minded  lady  who goes so bravely under many horse noses, and so fast through much mud. What do you down here, my
friend?"

"I'm shopping."

Mr.  Bhaer  smiled,  as  he  glanced from the pickle factory on one side to the wholesale hide and leather concern on the other, but he only said
politely, "You haf no umbrella. May I go also, and take for you the bundles?"

"Yes, thank you."

Jo's  cheeks  were  as red as her ribbon, and she wondered what he thought of her, but she didn't care, for in a minute she found herself walking
away  arm  in  arm with her Professor, feeling as if the sun had suddenly burst out with uncommon brilliancy, that the world was all right again,
and that one thoroughly happy woman was paddling through the wet that day.

"We  thought you had gone," said Jo hastily, for she knew he was looking at her. Her bonnet wasn't big enough to hide her face, and she feared he
might think the joy it betrayed unmaidenly.

"Did  you  believe that I should go with no farewell to those who haf been so heavenly kind to me?" he asked so reproachfully that she felt as if
she had insulted him by the suggestion, and answered heartily . . .

"No, I didn't. I knew you were busy about your own affairs, but we rather missed you, Father and Mother especially."

"And you?"

"I'm always glad to see you, sir."

In her anxiety to keep her voice quite calm, Jo made it rather cool, and the frosty little monosyllable at the end seemed to chill the Professor,
for his smile vanished, as he said gravely . . .

"I thank you, and come one more time before I go."

"You are going, then?"

"I haf no longer any business here, it is done."

"Successfully, I hope?" said Jo, for the bitterness of disappointment was in that short reply of his.

"I ought to think so, for I haf a way opened to me by which I can make my bread and gif my Junglings much help."

"Tell me, please! I like to know all about the--the boys," said Jo eagerly.

"That  is  so  kind,  I  gladly  tell you. My friends find for me a place in a college, where I teach as at home, and earn enough to make the way
smooth for Franz and Emil. For this I should be grateful, should I not?"

"Indeed  you  should. How splendid it will be to have you doing what you like, and be able to see you often, and the boys!" cried Jo, clinging to
the lads as an excuse for the satisfaction she could not help betraying.

"Ah! But we shall not meet often, I fear, this place is at the West."

"So far away!" and Jo left her skirts to their fate, as if it didn't matter now what became of her clothes or herself.

Mr.  Bhaer  could  read  several  languages, but he had not learned to read women yet. He flattered himself that he knew Jo pretty well, and was,
therefore, much amazed by the contradictions of voice, face, and manner, which she showed him in rapid succession that day, for she was in half a
dozen  different moods in the course of half an hour. When she met him she looked surprised, though it was impossible to help suspecting that she
had  come  for  that express purpose. When he offered her his arm, she took it with a look that filled him with delight, but when he asked if she
missed  him,  she gave such a chilly, formal reply that despair fell upon him. On learning his good fortune she almost clapped her hands. Was the
joy  all  for  the boys? Then on hearing his destination, she said, "So far away!" in a tone of despair that lifted him on to a pinnacle of hope,
but the next minute she tumbled him down again by observing, like one entirely absorbed in the matter . . .

"Here's the place for my errands. Will you come in? It won't take long."

Jo  rather prided herself upon her shopping capabilities, and particularly wished to impress her escort with the neatness and dispatch with which
she  would accomplish the business. But owing to the flutter she was in, everything went amiss. She upset the tray of needles, forgot the silesia
was  to  be  'twilled' till it was cut off, gave the wrong change, and covered herself with confusion by asking for lavender ribbon at the calico
counter.  Mr.  Bhaer stood by, watching her blush and blunder, and as he watched, his own bewilderment seemed to subside, for he was beginning to
see that on some occasions, women, like dreams, go by contraries.

When  they  came out, he put the parcel under his arm with a more cheerful aspect, and splashed through the puddles as if he rather enjoyed it on
the whole.

"Should  we  no  do a little what you call shopping for the babies, and haf a farewell feast tonight if I go for my last call at your so pleasant
home?" he asked, stopping before a window full of fruit and flowers.

"What  will we buy?" asked Jo, ignoring the latter part of his speech, and sniffing the mingled odors with an affectation of delight as they went
in.

"May they haf oranges and figs?" asked Mr. Bhaer, with a paternal air.

"They eat them when they can get them."

"Do you care for nuts?"

"Like a squirrel."

"Hamburg grapes. Yes, we shall drink to the Fatherland in those?"

Jo  frowned  upon  that piece of extravagance, and asked why he didn't buy a frail of dates, a cask of raisins, and a bag of almonds, and be done
with  it? Whereat Mr. Bhaer confiscated her purse, produced his own, and finished the marketing by buying several pounds of grapes, a pot of rosy
daisies,  and  a  pretty jar of honey, to be regarded in the light of a demijohn. Then distorting his pockets with knobby bundles, and giving her
the flowers to hold, he put up the old umbrella, and they traveled on again.

"Miss Marsch, I haf a great favor to ask of you," began the Professor, after a moist promenade of half a block.

"Yes, sir?" and Jo's heart began to beat so hard she was afraid he would hear it.

"I am bold to say it in spite of the rain, because so short a time remains to me."

"Yes, sir," and Jo nearly crushed the small flowerpot with the sudden squeeze she gave it.

"I wish to get a little dress for my Tina, and I am too stupid to go alone. Will you kindly gif me a word of taste and help?"

"Yes, sir," and Jo felt as calm and cool all of a sudden as if she had stepped into a refrigerator.

"Perhaps  also  a  shawl  for  Tina's  mother,  she is so poor and sick, and the husband is such a care. Yes, yes, a thick, warm shawl would be a
friendly thing to take the little mother."

"I'll do it with pleasure, Mr. Bhaer." "I'm going very fast, and he's getting dearer every minute," added Jo to herself, then with a mental shake
she entered into the business with an energy that was pleasant to behold.

Mr.  Bhaer left it all to her, so she chose a pretty gown for Tina, and then ordered out the shawls. The clerk, being a married man, condescended
to take an interest in the couple, who appeared to be shopping for their family.

"Your  lady  may prefer this. It's a superior article, a most desirable color, quite chaste and genteel," he said, shaking out a comfortable gray
shawl, and throwing it over Jo's shoulders.

"Does this suit you, Mr. Bhaer?" she asked, turning her back to him, and feeling deeply grateful for the chance of hiding her face.

"Excellently well, we will haf it," answered the Professor, smiling to himself as he paid for it, while Jo continued to rummage the counters like
a confirmed bargain-hunter.

"Now shall we go home?" he asked, as if the words were very pleasant to him.

"Yes,  it's  late, and I'm _so_ tired." Jo's voice was more pathetic than she knew. For now the sun seemed to have gone in as suddenly as it came
out,  and  the  world grew muddy and miserable again, and for the first time she discovered that her feet were cold, her head ached, and that her
heart  was  colder  than  the  former,  fuller of pain than the latter. Mr. Bhaer was going away, he only cared for her as a friend, it was all a
mistake,  and the sooner it was over the better. With this idea in her head, she hailed an approaching omnibus with such a hasty gesture that the
daisies flew out of the pot and were badly damaged.

"This is not our omniboos," said the Professor, waving the loaded vehicle away, and stopping to pick up the poor little flowers.

"I  beg  your  pardon.  I  didn't  see  the name distinctly. Never mind, I can walk. I'm used to plodding in the mud," returned Jo, winking hard,
because she would have died rather than openly wipe her eyes.

Mr.  Bhaer  saw the drops on her cheeks, though she turned her head away. The sight seemed to touch him very much, for suddenly stooping down, he
asked in a tone that meant a great deal, "Heart's dearest, why do you cry?"

Now,  if  Jo had not been new to this sort of thing she would have said she wasn't crying, had a cold in her head, or told any other feminine fib
proper to the occasion. Instead of which, that undignified creature answered, with an irrepressible sob, "Because you are going away."

"Ach,  mein Gott, that is so good!" cried Mr. Bhaer, managing to clasp his hands in spite of the umbrella and the bundles, "Jo, I haf nothing but
much love to gif you. I came to see if you could care for it, and I waited to be sure that I was something more than a friend. Am I? Can you make
a little place in your heart for old Fritz?" he added, all in one breath.

"Oh,  yes!"  said  Jo,  and  he was quite satisfied, for she folded both hands over his arm, and looked up at him with an expression that plainly
showed how happy she would be to walk through life beside him, even though she had no better shelter than the old umbrella, if he carried it.

It was certainly proposing under difficulties, for even if he had desired to do so, Mr. Bhaer could not go down upon his knees, on account of the
mud. Neither could he offer Jo his hand, except figuratively, for both were full. Much less could he indulge in tender remonstrations in the open
street,  though  he was near it. So the only way in which he could express his rapture was to look at her, with an expression which glorified his
face to such a degree that there actually seemed to be little rainbows in the drops that sparkled on his beard. If he had not loved Jo very much,
I don't think he could have done it then, for she looked far from lovely, with her skirts in a deplorable state, her rubber boots splashed to the
ankle,  and  her  bonnet  a  ruin. Fortunately, Mr. Bhaer considered her the most beautiful woman living, and she found him more "Jove-like" than
ever,  though  his  hatbrim  was quite limp with the little rills trickling thence upon his shoulders (for he held the umbrella all over Jo), and
every finger of his gloves needed mending.

Passers-by  probably thought them a pair of harmless lunatics, for they entirely forgot to hail a bus, and strolled leisurely along, oblivious of
deepening dusk and fog. Little they cared what anybody thought, for they were enjoying the happy hour that seldom comes but once in any life, the
magical  moment  which  bestows  youth  on  the  old,  beauty on the plain, wealth on the poor, and gives human hearts a foretaste of heaven. The
Professor  looked as if he had conquered a kingdom, and the world had nothing more to offer him in the way of bliss. While Jo trudged beside him,
feeling as if her place had always been there, and wondering how she ever could have chosen any other lot. Of course, she was the first to speak-
-intelligibly, I mean, for the emotional remarks which followed her impetuous "Oh, yes!" were not of a coherent or reportable character.

"Friedrich, why didn't you . . ."

"Ah,  heaven,  she  gifs  me  the name that no one speaks since Minna died!" cried the Professor, pausing in a puddle to regard her with grateful
delight.

"I always call you so to myself--I forgot, but I won't unless you like it."

"Like it? It is more sweet to me than I can tell. Say 'thou', also, and I shall say your language is almost as beautiful as mine."

"Isn't 'thou' a little sentimental?" asked Jo, privately thinking it a lovely monosyllable.

"Sentimental?  Yes.  Thank  Gott,  we  Germans  believe in sentiment, and keep ourselves young mit it. Your English 'you' is so cold, say 'thou',
heart's dearest, it means so much to me," pleaded Mr. Bhaer, more like a romantic student than a grave professor.

"Well, then, why didn't thou tell me all this sooner?" asked Jo bashfully.

"Now  I  shall  haf to show thee all my heart, and I so gladly will, because thou must take care of it hereafter. See, then, my Jo--ah, the dear,
funny  little  name--I  had a wish to tell something the day I said goodbye in New York, but I thought the handsome friend was betrothed to thee,
and so I spoke not. Wouldst thou have said 'Yes', then, if I had spoken?"

"I don't know. I'm afraid not, for I didn't have any heart just then."

"Prut!  That  I  do  not  believe. It was asleep till the fairy prince came through the wood, and waked it up. Ah, well, 'Die erste Liebe ist die
beste', but that I should not expect."

"Yes,  the  first love is the best, but be so contented, for I never had another. Teddy was only a boy, and soon got over his little fancy," said
Jo, anxious to correct the Professor's mistake.

"Good! Then I shall rest happy, and be sure that thou givest me all. I haf waited so long, I am grown selfish, as thou wilt find, Professorin."

"I like that," cried Jo, delighted with her new name. "Now tell me what brought you, at last, just when I wanted you?"

"This," and Mr. Bhaer took a little worn paper out of his waistcoat pocket.

Jo unfolded it, and looked much abashed, for it was one of her own contributions to a paper that paid for poetry, which accounted for her sending
it an occasional attempt.

"How could that bring you?" she asked, wondering what he meant.

"I found it by chance. I knew it by the names and the initials, and in it there was one little verse that seemed to call me. Read and find him. I
will see that you go not in the wet."


IN THE GARRET

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's  very  bad poetry, but I felt it when I wrote it, one day when I was very lonely, and had a good cry on a rag bag. I never thought it would
go where it could tell tales," said Jo, tearing up the verses the Professor had treasured so long.

"Let  it  go,  it  has  done its duty, and I will haf a fresh one when I read all the brown book in which she keeps her little secrets," said Mr.
Bhaer  with  a  smile as he watched the fragments fly away on the wind. "Yes," he added earnestly, "I read that, and I think to myself, She has a
sorrow,  she is lonely, she would find comfort in true love. I haf a heart full, full for her. Shall I not go and say, 'If this is not too poor a
thing to gif for what I shall hope to receive, take it in Gott's name?'"

"And so you came to find that it was not too poor, but the one precious thing I needed," whispered Jo.

"I  had no courage to think that at first, heavenly kind as was your welcome to me. But soon I began to hope, and then I said, 'I will haf her if
I  die  for  it,'  and  so I will!" cried Mr. Bhaer, with a defiant nod, as if the walls of mist closing round them were barriers which he was to
surmount or valiantly knock down.

Jo thought that was splendid, and resolved to be worthy of her knight, though he did not come prancing on a charger in gorgeous array.

"What  made you stay away so long?" she asked presently, finding it so pleasant to ask confidential questions and get delightful answers that she
could not keep silent.

"It  was  not easy, but I could not find the heart to take you from that so happy home until I could haf a prospect of one to gif you, after much
time, perhaps, and hard work. How could I ask you to gif up so much for a poor old fellow, who has no fortune but a little learning?"

"I'm  glad  you  are  poor.  I couldn't bear a rich husband," said Jo decidedly, adding in a softer tone, "Don't fear poverty. I've known it long
enough  to  lose  my dread and be happy working for those I love, and don't call yourself old--forty is the prime of life. I couldn't help loving
you if you were seventy!"

The  Professor  found that so touching that he would have been glad of his handkerchief, if he could have got at it. As he couldn't, Jo wiped his
eyes for him, and said, laughing, as she took away a bundle or two . . .

"I  may  be  strong-minded,  but  no one can say I'm out of my sphere now, for woman's special mission is supposed to be drying tears and bearing
burdens.  I'm  to carry my share, Friedrich, and help to earn the home. Make up your mind to that, or I'll never go," she added resolutely, as he
tried to reclaim his load.

"We shall see. Haf you patience to wait a long time, Jo? I must go away and do my work alone. I must help my boys first, because, even for you, I
may not break my word to Minna. Can you forgif that, and be happy while we hope and wait?"

"Yes, I know I can, for we love one another, and that makes all the rest easy to bear. I have my duty, also, and my work. I couldn't enjoy myself
if I neglected them even for you, so there's no need of hurry or impatience. You can do your part out West, I can do mine here, and both be happy
hoping for the best, and leaving the future to be as God wills."

"Ah!  Thou  gifest  me  such  hope and courage, and I haf nothing to gif back but a full heart and these empty hands," cried the Professor, quite
overcome.

Jo  never,  never  would  learn  to  be  proper, for when he said that as they stood upon the steps, she just put both hands into his, whispering
tenderly,  "Not  empty now," and stooping down, kissed her Friedrich under the umbrella. It was dreadful, but she would have done it if the flock
of  draggle-tailed  sparrows on the hedge had been human beings, for she was very far gone indeed, and quite regardless of everything but her own
happiness.  Though  it came in such a very simple guise, that was the crowning moment of both their lives, when, turning from the night and storm
and loneliness to the household light and warmth and peace waiting to receive them, with a glad "Welcome home!" Jo led her lover in, and shut the
door.



CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

HARVEST TIME

For  a  year  Jo  and  her Professor worked and waited, hoped and loved, met occasionally, and wrote such voluminous letters that the rise in the
price  of  paper  was accounted for, Laurie said. The second year began rather soberly, for their prospects did not brighten, and Aunt March died
suddenly.  But  when  their  first  sorrow  was  over--for  they  loved  the old lady in spite of her sharp tongue--they found they had cause for
rejoicing, for she had left Plumfield to Jo, which made all sorts of joyful things possible.

"It's  a  fine  old  place, and will bring a handsome sum, for of course you intend to sell it," said Laurie, as they were all talking the matter
over some weeks later.

"No, I don't," was Jo's decided answer, as she petted the fat poodle, whom she had adopted, out of respect to his former mistress.

"You don't mean to live there?"

"Yes, I do."

"But,  my  dear  girl,  it's an immense house, and will take a power of money to keep it in order. The garden and orchard alone need two or three
men, and farming isn't in Bhaer's line, I take it."

"He'll try his hand at it there, if I propose it."

"And you expect to live on the produce of the place? Well, that sounds paradisiacal, but you'll find it desperate hard work."

"The crop we are going to raise is a profitable one," and Jo laughed.

"Of what is this fine crop to consist, ma'am?"

"Boys. I want to open a school for little lads--a good, happy, homelike school, with me to take care of them and Fritz to teach them."

"That's a truly Joian plan for you! Isn't that just like her?" cried Laurie, appealing to the family, who looked as much surprised as he.

"I like it," said Mrs. March decidedly.

"So do I," added her husband, who welcomed the thought of a chance for trying the Socratic method of education on modern youth.

"It will be an immense care for Jo," said Meg, stroking the head of her one all-absorbing son.

"Jo  can  do  it,  and be happy in it. It's a splendid idea. Tell us all about it," cried Mr. Laurence, who had been longing to lend the lovers a
hand, but knew that they would refuse his help.

"I  knew  you'd  stand  by me, sir. Amy does too--I see it in her eyes, though she prudently waits to turn it over in her mind before she speaks.
Now,  my  dear  people,"  continued Jo earnestly, "just understand that this isn't a new idea of mine, but a long cherished plan. Before my Fritz
came,  I  used  to think how, when I'd made my fortune, and no one needed me at home, I'd hire a big house, and pick up some poor, forlorn little
lads  who hadn't any mothers, and take care of them, and make life jolly for them before it was too late. I see so many going to ruin for want of
help  at the right minute, I love so to do anything for them, I seem to feel their wants, and sympathize with their troubles, and oh, I should so
like to be a mother to them!"

Mrs.  March  held  out  her hand to Jo, who took it, smiling, with tears in her eyes, and went on in the old enthusiastic way, which they had not
seen for a long while.

"I told my plan to Fritz once, and he said it was just what he would like, and agreed to try it when we got rich. Bless his dear heart, he's been
doing  it  all his life--helping poor boys, I mean, not getting rich, that he'll never be. Money doesn't stay in his pocket long enough to lay up
any.  But  now,  thanks to my good old aunt, who loved me better than I ever deserved, I'm rich, at least I feel so, and we can live at Plumfield
perfectly  well,  if  we  have  a flourishing school. It's just the place for boys, the house is big, and the furniture strong and plain. There's
plenty  of  room for dozens inside, and splendid grounds outside. They could help in the garden and orchard. Such work is healthy, isn't it, sir?
Then  Fritz  could  train  and teach in his own way, and Father will help him. I can feed and nurse and pet and scold them, and Mother will be my
stand-by.  I've  always  longed for lots of boys, and never had enough, now I can fill the house full and revel in the little dears to my heart's
content. Think what luxury--Plumfield my own, and a wilderness of boys to enjoy it with me."

As  Jo  waved her hands and gave a sigh of rapture, the family went off into a gale of merriment, and Mr. Laurence laughed till they thought he'd
have an apoplectic fit.

"I  don't see anything funny," she said gravely, when she could be heard. "Nothing could be more natural and proper than for my Professor to open
a school, and for me to prefer to reside in my own estate."

"She is putting on airs already," said Laurie, who regarded the idea in the light of a capital joke. "But may I inquire how you intend to support
the establishment? If all the pupils are little ragamuffins, I'm afraid your crop won't be profitable in a worldly sense, Mrs. Bhaer."

"Now  don't be a wet-blanket, Teddy. Of course I shall have rich pupils, also--perhaps begin with such altogether. Then, when I've got a start, I
can  take  in  a ragamuffin or two, just for a relish. Rich people's children often need care and comfort, as well as poor. I've seen unfortunate
little creatures left to servants, or backward ones pushed forward, when it's real cruelty. Some are naughty through mismanagment or neglect, and
some  lose  their  mothers.  Besides,  the  best  have  to  get through the hobbledehoy age, and that's the very time they need most patience and
kindness.  People  laugh  at them, and hustle them about, try to keep them out of sight, and expect them to turn all at once from pretty children
into fine young men. They don't complain much--plucky little souls--but they feel it. I've been through something of it, and I know all about it.
I've a special interest in such young bears, and like to show them that I see the warm, honest, well-meaning boys' hearts, in spite of the clumsy
arms and legs and the topsy-turvy heads. I've had experience, too, for haven't I brought up one boy to be a pride and honor to his family?"

"I'll testify that you tried to do it," said Laurie with a grateful look.

"And  I've  succeeded  beyond  my hopes, for here you are, a steady, sensible businessman, doing heaps of good with your money, and laying up the
blessings of the poor, instead of dollars. But you are not merely a businessman, you love good and beautiful things, enjoy them yourself, and let
others  go halves, as you always did in the old times. I am proud of you, Teddy, for you get better every year, and everyone feels it, though you
won't let them say so. Yes, and when I have my flock, I'll just point to you, and say 'There's your model, my lads'."

Poor  Laurie  didn't  know where to look, for, man though he was, something of the old bashfulness came over him as this burst of praise made all
faces turn approvingly upon him.

"I  say,  Jo, that's rather too much," he began, just in his old boyish way. "You have all done more for me than I can ever thank you for, except
by  doing  my best not to disappoint you. You have rather cast me off lately, Jo, but I've had the best of help, nevertheless. So, if I've got on
at  all, you may thank these two for it," and he laid one hand gently on his grandfather's head, and the other on Amy's golden one, for the three
were never far apart.

"I  do  think  that  families are the most beautiful things in all the world!" burst out Jo, who was in an unusually up-lifted frame of mind just
then. "When I have one of my own, I hope it will be as happy as the three I know and love the best. If John and my Fritz were only here, it would
be quite a little heaven on earth," she added more quietly. And that night when she went to her room after a blissful evening of family counsels,
hopes,  and  plans,  her  heart  was  so  full of happiness that she could only calm it by kneeling beside the empty bed always near her own, and
thinking tender thoughts of Beth.

It  was a very astonishing year altogether, for things seemed to happen in an unusually rapid and delightful manner. Almost before she knew where
she  was,  Jo  found  herself  married  and  settled  at  Plumfield.  Then a family of six or seven boys sprung up like mushrooms, and flourished
surprisingly,  poor  boys  as well as rich, for Mr. Laurence was continually finding some touching case of destitution, and begging the Bhaers to
take  pity  on  the child, and he would gladly pay a trifle for its support. In this way, the sly old gentleman got round proud Jo, and furnished
her with the style of boy in which she most delighted.

Of  course  it  was  uphill work at first, and Jo made queer mistakes, but the wise Professor steered her safely into calmer waters, and the most
rampant ragamuffin was conquered in the end. How Jo did enjoy her 'wilderness of boys', and how poor, dear Aunt March would have lamented had she
been  there  to see the sacred precincts of prim, well-ordered Plumfield overrun with Toms, Dicks, and Harrys! There was a sort of poetic justice
about  it,  after  all,  for the old lady had been the terror of the boys for miles around, and now the exiles feasted freely on forbidden plums,
kicked  up  the  gravel with profane boots unreproved, and played cricket in the big field where the irritable 'cow with a crumpled horn' used to
invite  rash  youths to come and be tossed. It became a sort of boys' paradise, and Laurie suggested that it should be called the 'Bhaer-garten',
as a compliment to its master and appropriate to its inhabitants.

It  never  was  a  fashionable  school, and the Professor did not lay up a fortune, but it was just what Jo intended it to be--'a happy, homelike
place for boys, who needed teaching, care, and kindness'. Every room in the big house was soon full. Every little plot in the garden soon had its
owner.  A  regular menagerie appeared in barn and shed, for pet animals were allowed. And three times a day, Jo smiled at her Fritz from the head
of  a  long  table  lined  on  either  side  with rows of happy young faces, which all turned to her with affectionate eyes, confiding words, and
grateful  hearts,  full of love for 'Mother Bhaer'. She had boys enough now, and did not tire of them, though they were not angels, by any means,
and  some of them caused both Professor and Professorin much trouble and anxiety. But her faith in the good spot which exists in the heart of the
naughtiest,  sauciest,  most  tantalizing  little ragamuffin gave her patience, skill, and in time success, for no mortal boy could hold out long
with  Father  Bhaer  shining  on  him as benevolently as the sun, and Mother Bhaer forgiving him seventy times seven. Very precious to Jo was the
friendship  of  the  lads,  their  penitent  sniffs  and  whispers  after  wrongdoing, their droll or touching little confidences, their pleasant
enthusiasms,  hopes,  and  plans, even their misfortunes, for they only endeared them to her all the more. There were slow boys and bashful boys,
feeble boys and riotous boys, boys that lisped and boys that stuttered, one or two lame ones, and a merry little quadroon, who could not be taken
in elsewhere, but who was welcome to the 'Bhaer-garten', though some people predicted that his admission would ruin the school.

Yes, Jo was a very happy woman there, in spite of hard work, much anxiety, and a perpetual racket. She enjoyed it heartily and found the applause
of her boys more satisfying than any praise of the world, for now she told no stories except to her flock of enthusiastic believers and admirers.
As  the  years  went on, two little lads of her own came to increase her happiness--Rob, named for Grandpa, and Teddy, a happy-go-lucky baby, who
seemed  to have inherited his papa's sunshiny temper as well as his mother's lively spirit. How they ever grew up alive in that whirlpool of boys
was a mystery to their grandma and aunts, but they flourished like dandelions in spring, and their rough nurses loved and served them well.

There  were  a  great  many  holidays at Plumfield, and one of the most delightful was the yearly apple-picking. For then the Marches, Laurences,
Brookes  and  Bhaers  turned  out  in full force and made a day of it. Five years after Jo's wedding, one of these fruitful festivals occurred, a
mellow  October  day,  when the air was full of an exhilarating freshness which made the spirits rise and the blood dance healthily in the veins.
The  old  orchard  wore  its  holiday  attire.  Goldenrod and asters fringed the mossy walls. Grasshoppers skipped briskly in the sere grass, and
crickets  chirped  like fairy pipers at a feast. Squirrels were busy with their small harvesting. Birds twittered their adieux from the alders in
the  lane,  and every tree stood ready to send down its shower of red or yellow apples at the first shake. Everybody was there. Everybody laughed
and  sang,  climbed  up  and  tumbled  down. Everybody declared that there never had been such a perfect day or such a jolly set to enjoy it, and
everyone gave themselves up to the simple pleasures of the hour as freely as if there were no such things as care or sorrow in the world.

Mr. March strolled placidly about, quoting Tusser, Cowley, and Columella to Mr. Laurence, while enjoying . . .

The gentle apple's winey juice.

The  Professor  charged  up and down the green aisles like a stout Teutonic knight, with a pole for a lance, leading on the boys, who made a hook
and  ladder company of themselves, and performed wonders in the way of ground and lofty tumbling. Laurie devoted himself to the little ones, rode
his  small daughter in a bushel-basket, took Daisy up among the bird's nests, and kept adventurous Rob from breaking his neck. Mrs. March and Meg
sat  among the apple piles like a pair of Pomonas, sorting the contributions that kept pouring in, while Amy with a beautiful motherly expression
in her face sketched the various groups, and watched over one pale lad, who sat adoring her with his little crutch beside him.

Jo  was  in  her element that day, and rushed about, with her gown pinned up, and her hat anywhere but on her head, and her baby tucked under her
arm,  ready  for  any lively adventure which might turn up. Little Teddy bore a charmed life, for nothing ever happened to him, and Jo never felt
any  anxiety  when  he was whisked up into a tree by one lad, galloped off on the back of another, or supplied with sour russets by his indulgent
papa,  who  labored  under  the  Germanic delusion that babies could digest anything, from pickled cabbage to buttons, nails, and their own small
shoes.  She  knew  that  little  Ted would turn up again in time, safe and rosy, dirty and serene, and she always received him back with a hearty
welcome, for Jo loved her babies tenderly.

At  four  o'clock  a lull took place, and baskets remained empty, while the apple pickers rested and compared rents and bruises. Then Jo and Meg,
with  a detachment of the bigger boys, set forth the supper on the grass, for an out-of-door tea was always the crowning joy of the day. The land
literally  flowed with milk and honey on such occasions, for the lads were not required to sit at table, but allowed to partake of refreshment as
they  liked--freedom  being  the  sauce best beloved by the boyish soul. They availed themselves of the rare privilege to the fullest extent, for
some tried the pleasing experiment of drinking milk while standing on their heads, others lent a charm to leapfrog by eating pie in the pauses of
the  game,  cookies were sown broadcast over the field, and apple turnovers roosted in the trees like a new style of bird. The little girls had a
private tea party, and Ted roved among the edibles at his own sweet will.

When  no  one  could  eat  any more, the Professor proposed the first regular toast, which was always drunk at such times--"Aunt March, God bless
her!"  A  toast heartily given by the good man, who never forgot how much he owed her, and quietly drunk by the boys, who had been taught to keep
her memory green.

"Now, Grandma's sixtieth birthday! Long life to her, with three times three!"

That  was  given with a will, as you may well believe, and the cheering once begun, it was hard to stop it. Everybody's health was proposed, from
Mr.  Laurence,  who  was  considered  their special patron, to the astonished guinea pig, who had strayed from its proper sphere in search of its
young  master.  Demi, as the oldest grandchild, then presented the queen of the day with various gifts, so numerous that they were transported to
the festive scene in a wheelbarrow. Funny presents, some of them, but what would have been defects to other eyes were ornaments to Grandma's--for
the  children's  gifts  were all their own. Every stitch Daisy's patient little fingers had put into the handkerchiefs she hemmed was better than
embroidery  to  Mrs.  March.  Demi's miracle of mechanical skill, though the cover wouldn't shut, Rob's footstool had a wiggle in its uneven legs
that  she declared was soothing, and no page of the costly book Amy's child gave her was so fair as that on which appeared in tipsy capitals, the
words--"To dear Grandma, from her little Beth."

During  the  ceremony  the  boys  had mysteriously disappeared, and when Mrs. March had tried to thank her children, and broken down, while Teddy
wiped her eyes on his pinafore, the Professor suddenly began to sing. Then, from above him, voice after voice took up the words, and from tree to
tree  echoed  the music of the unseen choir, as the boys sang with all their hearts the little song that Jo had written, Laurie set to music, and
the  Professor  trained  his  lads to give with the best effect. This was something altogether new, and it proved a grand success, for Mrs. March
couldn't  get  over  her  surprise, and insisted on shaking hands with every one of the featherless birds, from tall Franz and Emil to the little
quadroon, who had the sweetest voice of all.

After this, the boys dispersed for a final lark, leaving Mrs. March and her daughters under the festival tree.

"I  don't think I ever ought to call myself 'unlucky Jo' again, when my greatest wish has been so beautifully gratified," said Mrs. Bhaer, taking
Teddy's little fist out of the milk pitcher, in which he was rapturously churning.

"And  yet  your  life is very different from the one you pictured so long ago. Do you remember our castles in the air?" asked Amy, smiling as she
watched Laurie and John playing cricket with the boys.

"Dear  fellows!  It  does  my  heart  good to see them forget business and frolic for a day," answered Jo, who now spoke in a maternal way of all
mankind.  "Yes,  I remember, but the life I wanted then seems selfish, lonely, and cold to me now. I haven't given up the hope that I may write a
good  book  yet, but I can wait, and I'm sure it will be all the better for such experiences and illustrations as these," and Jo pointed from the
lively  lads  in  the  distance  to  her  father,  leaning  on the Professor's arm, as they walked to and fro in the sunshine, deep in one of the
conversations  which  both  enjoyed so much, and then to her mother, sitting enthroned among her daughters, with their children in her lap and at
her feet, as if all found help and happiness in the face which never could grow old to them.

"My castle was the most nearly realized of all. I asked for splendid things, to be sure, but in my heart I knew I should be satisfied, if I had a
little home, and John, and some dear children like these. I've got them all, thank God, and am the happiest woman in the world," and Meg laid her
hand on her tall boy's head, with a face full of tender and devout content.

"My castle is very different from what I planned, but I would not alter it, though, like Jo, I don't relinquish all my artistic hopes, or confine
myself  to  helping  others  fulfill their dreams of beauty. I've begun to model a figure of baby, and Laurie says it is the best thing I've ever
done. I think so, myself, and mean to do it in marble, so that, whatever happens, I may at least keep the image of my little angel."

As  Amy  spoke,  a  great tear dropped on the golden hair of the sleeping child in her arms, for her one well-beloved daughter was a frail little
creature  and  the dread of losing her was the shadow over Amy's sunshine. This cross was doing much for both father and mother, for one love and
sorrow bound them closely together. Amy's nature was growing sweeter, deeper, and more tender. Laurie was growing more serious, strong, and firm,
and  both were learning that beauty, youth, good fortune, even love itself, cannot keep care and pain, loss and sorrow, from the most blessed for
. . .


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


"She  is  growing better, I am sure of it, my dear. Don't despond, but hope and keep happy," said Mrs. March, as tenderhearted Daisy stooped from
her knee to lay her rosy cheek against her little cousin's pale one.

"I  never  ought  to,  while I have you to cheer me up, Marmee, and Laurie to take more than half of every burden," replied Amy warmly. "He never
lets  me see his anxiety, but is so sweet and patient with me, so devoted to Beth, and such a stay and comfort to me always that I can't love him
enough. So, in spite of my one cross, I can say with Meg, 'Thank God, I'm a happy woman.'"

"There's  no  need  for  me to say it, for everyone can see that I'm far happier than I deserve," added Jo, glancing from her good husband to her
chubby  children,  tumbling  on  the grass beside her. "Fritz is getting gray and stout. I'm growing as thin as a shadow, and am thirty. We never
shall  be rich, and Plumfield may burn up any night, for that incorrigible Tommy Bangs will smoke sweet-fern cigars under the bed-clothes, though
he's  set  himself afire three times already. But in spite of these unromantic facts, I have nothing to complain of, and never was so jolly in my
life. Excuse the remark, but living among boys, I can't help using their expressions now and then."

"Yes,  Jo,  I  think  your  harvest  will  be  a  good one," began Mrs. March, frightening away a big black cricket that was staring Teddy out of
countenance.

"Not  half  so  good as yours, Mother. Here it is, and we never can thank you enough for the patient sowing and reaping you have done," cried Jo,
with the loving impetuosity which she never would outgrow.

"I hope there will be more wheat and fewer tares every year," said Amy softly.

"A large sheaf, but I know there's room in your heart for it, Marmee dear," added Meg's tender voice.

Touched  to  the heart, Mrs. March could only stretch out her arms, as if to gather children and grandchildren to herself, and say, with face and
voice full of motherly love, gratitude, and humility . . .

"Oh, my girls, however long you may live, I never can wish you a greater happiness than this!"

THE END

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