Little Women

PART 1

CHAPTER ONE

PLAYING PILGRIMS

“Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents,” grumbled Jo, lying

on the rug.

“It’s so dreadful to be poor!” sighed Meg, looking down at her old

dress.

“I don’t think it’s fair for some girls to have plenty of pretty

things, and other girls nothing at all,” added little Amy, with an

injured sniff.

“We’ve got Father and Mother, and each other,” said Beth contentedly

from her corner.

The four young faces on which the firelight shone brightened at the

cheerful words, but darkened again as Jo said sadly, “We haven’t got

Father, and shall not have him for a long time.” She didn’t say

“perhaps never,” but each silently added it, thinking of Father far

away, where the fighting was.

Nobody spoke for a minute; then Meg said in an altered tone, “You know

the reason Mother proposed not having any presents this Christmas was

because it is going to be a hard winter for everyone; and she thinks we

ought not to spend money for pleasure, when our men are suffering so in

the army. We can’t do much, but we can make our little sacrifices, and

ought to do it gladly. But I am afraid I don’t,” and Meg shook her

head, as she thought regretfully of all the pretty things she wanted.

“But I don’t think the little we should spend would do any good. We’ve

each got a dollar, and the army wouldn’t be much helped by our giving

that. I agree not to expect anything from Mother or you, but I do want

to buy _Undine and Sintran_ for myself. I’ve wanted it so long,” said

Jo, who was a bookworm.

“I planned to spend mine in new music,” said Beth, with a little sigh,

which no one heard but the hearth brush and kettle-holder.

“I shall get a nice box of Faber’s drawing pencils; I really need

them,” said Amy decidedly.

“Mother didn’t say anything about our money, and she won’t wish us to

give up everything. Let’s each buy what we want, and have a little fun;

I’m sure we work hard enough to earn it,” cried Jo, examining the heels

of her shoes in a gentlemanly manner.

“I know I do—teaching those tiresome children nearly all day, when I’m

longing to enjoy myself at home,” began Meg, in the complaining tone

again.

“You don’t have half such a hard time as I do,” said Jo. “How would you

like to be shut up for hours with a nervous, fussy old lady, who keeps

you trotting, is never satisfied, and worries you till you’re ready to

fly out the window or cry?”

“It’s naughty to fret, but I do think washing dishes and keeping things

tidy is the worst work in the world. It makes me cross, and my hands

get so stiff, I can’t practice well at all.” And Beth looked at her

rough hands with a sigh that any one could hear that time.

“I don’t believe any of you suffer as I do,” cried Amy, “for you don’t

have to go to school with impertinent girls, who plague you if you

don’t know your lessons, and laugh at your dresses, and label your

father if he isn’t rich, and insult you when your nose isn’t nice.”

“If you mean libel, I’d say so, and not talk about labels, as if Papa

was a pickle bottle,” advised Jo, laughing.

“I know what I mean, and you needn’t be statirical about it. It’s

proper to use good words, and improve your vocabilary,” returned Amy,

with dignity.

“Don’t peck at one another, children. Don’t you wish we had the money

Papa lost when we were little, Jo? Dear me! How happy and good we’d be,

if we had no worries!” said Meg, who could remember better times.

“You said the other day you thought we were a deal happier than the

King children, for they were fighting and fretting all the time, in

spite of their money.”

“So I did, Beth. Well, I think we are. For though we do have to work,

we make fun of ourselves, and are a pretty jolly set, as Jo would say.”

“Jo does use such slang words!” observed Amy, with a reproving look at

the long figure stretched on the rug.

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

whistle.

“Don’t, Jo. It’s so boyish!”

“That’s why I do it.”

“I detest rude, unladylike girls!”

“I hate affected, niminy-piminy chits!”

“Birds in their little nests agree,” sang Beth, the peacemaker, with

such a funny face that both sharp voices softened to a laugh, and the

“pecking” ended for that time.

“Really, girls, you are both to be blamed,” said Meg, beginning to

lecture in her elder-sisterly fashion. “You are old enough to leave off

boyish tricks, and to behave better, Josephine. It didn’t matter so

much when you were a little girl, but now you are so tall, and turn up

your hair, you should remember that you are a young lady.”

“I’m not! And if turning up my hair makes me one, I’ll wear it in two

tails till I’m twenty,” cried Jo, pulling off her net, and shaking down

a chestnut mane. “I hate to think I’ve got to grow up, and be Miss

March, and wear long gowns, and look as prim as a China Aster! It’s bad

enough to be a girl, anyway, when I like boy’s games and work and

manners! I can’t get over my disappointment in not being a boy. And

it’s worse than ever now, for I’m dying to go and fight with Papa. And

I can only stay home and knit, like a poky old woman!”

And Jo shook the blue army sock till the needles rattled like

castanets, and her ball bounded across the room.

“Poor Jo! It’s too bad, but it can’t be helped. So you must try to be

contented with making your name boyish, and playing brother to us

girls,” said Beth, stroking the rough head with a hand that all the

dish washing and dusting in the world could not make ungentle in its

touch.

“As for you, Amy,” continued Meg, “you are altogether too particular

and prim. Your airs are funny now, but you’ll grow up an affected

little goose, if you don’t take care. I like your nice manners and

refined ways of speaking, when you don’t try to be elegant. But your

absurd words are as bad as Jo’s slang.”

“If Jo is a tomboy and Amy a goose, what am I, please?” asked Beth,

ready to share the lecture.

“You’re a dear, and nothing else,” answered Meg warmly, and no one

contradicted her, for the ‘Mouse’ was the pet of the family.

As young readers like to know ‘how people look’, we will take this

moment to give them a little sketch of the four sisters, who sat

knitting away in the twilight, while the December snow fell quietly

without, and the fire crackled cheerfully within. It was a comfortable

room, though the carpet was faded and the furniture very plain, for a

good picture or two hung on the walls, books filled the recesses,

chrysanthemums and Christmas roses bloomed in the windows, and a

pleasant atmosphere of home peace pervaded it.

Margaret, the eldest of the four, was sixteen, and very pretty, being

plump and fair, with large eyes, plenty of soft brown hair, a sweet

mouth, and white hands, of which she was rather vain. Fifteen-year-old

Jo was very tall, thin, and brown, and reminded one of a colt, for she

never seemed to know what to do with her long limbs, which were very

much in her way. She had a decided mouth, a comical nose, and sharp,

gray eyes, which appeared to see everything, and were by turns fierce,

funny, or thoughtful. Her long, thick hair was her one beauty, but it

was usually bundled into a net, to be out of her way. Round shoulders

had Jo, big hands and feet, a flyaway look to her clothes, and the

uncomfortable appearance of a girl who was rapidly shooting up into a

woman and didn’t like it. Elizabeth, or Beth, as everyone called her,

was a rosy, smooth-haired, bright-eyed girl of thirteen, with a shy

manner, a timid voice, and a peaceful expression which was seldom

disturbed. Her father called her ‘Little Miss Tranquility’, and the

name suited her excellently, for she seemed to live in a happy world of

her own, only venturing out to meet the few whom she trusted and loved.

Amy, though the youngest, was a most important person, in her own

opinion at least. A regular snow maiden, with blue eyes, and yellow

hair curling on her shoulders, pale and slender, and always carrying

herself like a young lady mindful of her manners. What the characters

of the four sisters were we will leave to be found out.

The clock struck six and, having swept up the hearth, Beth put a pair

of slippers down to warm. Somehow the sight of the old shoes had a good

effect upon the girls, for Mother was coming, and everyone brightened

to welcome her. Meg stopped lecturing, and lighted the lamp, Amy got

out of the easy chair without being asked, and Jo forgot how tired she

was as she sat up to hold the slippers nearer to the blaze.

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

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

“No, I shall!” cried Amy.

“I’m the oldest,” began Meg, but Jo cut in with a decided, “I’m the man

of the family now Papa is away, and I shall provide the slippers, for

he told me to take special care of Mother while he was gone.”

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said Beth, “let’s each get her something

for Christmas, and not get anything for ourselves.”

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

Everyone thought soberly for a minute, then Meg announced, as if the

idea was suggested by the sight of her own pretty hands, “I shall give

her a nice pair of gloves.”

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

“Some handkerchiefs, all hemmed,” said Beth.

“I’ll get a little bottle of cologne. She likes it, and it won’t cost

much, so I’ll have some left to buy my pencils,” added Amy.

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

“Put them on the table, and bring her in and see her open the bundles.

Don’t you remember how we used to do on our birthdays?” answered Jo.

“I used to be so frightened when it was my turn to sit in the chair

with the crown on, and see you all come marching round to give the

presents, with a kiss. I liked the things and the kisses, but it was

dreadful to have you sit looking at me while I opened the bundles,”

said Beth, who was toasting her face and the bread for tea at the same

time.

“Let Marmee think we are getting things for ourselves, and then

surprise her. We must go shopping tomorrow afternoon, Meg. There is so

much to do about the play for Christmas night,” said Jo, marching up

and down, with her hands behind her back, and her nose in the air.

“I don’t mean to act any more after this time. I’m getting too old for

such things,” observed Meg, who was as much a child as ever about

‘dressing-up’ frolics.

“You won’t stop, I know, as long as you can trail round in a white gown

with your hair down, and wear gold-paper jewelry. You are the best

actress we’ve got, and there’ll be an end of everything if you quit the

boards,” said Jo. “We ought to rehearse tonight. Come here, Amy, and do

the fainting scene, for you are as stiff as a poker in that.”

“I can’t help it. I never saw anyone faint, and I don’t choose to make

myself all black and blue, tumbling flat as you do. If I can go down

easily, I’ll drop. If I can’t, I shall fall into a chair and be

graceful. I don’t care if Hugo does come at me with a pistol,” returned

Amy, who was not gifted with dramatic power, but was chosen because she

was small enough to be borne out shrieking by the villain of the piece.

“Do it this way. Clasp your hands so, and stagger across the room,

crying frantically, ‘Roderigo! Save me! Save me!’” and away went Jo,

with a melodramatic scream which was truly thrilling.

Amy followed, but she poked her hands out stiffly before her, and

jerked herself along as if she went by machinery, and her “Ow!” was

more suggestive of pins being run into her than of fear and anguish. Jo

gave a despairing groan, and Meg laughed outright, while Beth let her

bread burn as she watched the fun with interest. “It’s no use! Do the

best you can when the time comes, and if the audience laughs, don’t

blame me. Come on, Meg.”

Then things went smoothly, for Don Pedro defied the world in a speech

of two pages without a single break. Hagar, the witch, chanted an awful

incantation over her kettleful of simmering toads, with weird effect.

Roderigo rent his chains asunder manfully, and Hugo died in agonies of

remorse and arsenic, with a wild, “Ha! Ha!”

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

rubbed his elbows.

“I don’t see how you can write and act such splendid things, Jo. You’re

a regular Shakespeare!” exclaimed Beth, who firmly believed that her

sisters were gifted with wonderful genius in all things.

“Not quite,” replied Jo modestly. “I do think _The Witches Curse, an

Operatic Tragedy_ is rather a nice thing, but I’d like to try

_Macbeth_, if we only had a trapdoor for Banquo. I always wanted to do

the killing part. ‘Is that a dagger that I see before me?” muttered Jo,

rolling her eyes and clutching at the air, as she had seen a famous

tragedian do.

“No, it’s the toasting fork, with Mother’s shoe on it instead of the

bread. Beth’s stage-struck!” cried Meg, and the rehearsal ended in a

general burst of laughter.

“Glad to find you so merry, my girls,” said a cheery voice at the door,

and actors and audience turned to welcome a tall, motherly lady with a

‘can I help you’ look about her which was truly delightful. She was not

elegantly dressed, but a noble-looking woman, and the girls thought the

gray cloak and unfashionable bonnet covered the most splendid mother in

the world.

“Well, dearies, how have you got on today? There was so much to do,

getting the boxes ready to go tomorrow, that I didn’t come home to

dinner. Has anyone called, Beth? How is your cold, Meg? Jo, you look

tired to death. Come and kiss me, baby.”

While making these maternal inquiries Mrs. March got her wet things

off, her warm slippers on, and sitting down in the easy chair, drew Amy

to her lap, preparing to enjoy the happiest hour of her busy day. The

girls flew about, trying to make things comfortable, each in her own

way. Meg arranged the tea table, Jo brought wood and set chairs,

dropping, over-turning, and clattering everything she touched. Beth

trotted to and fro between parlor kitchen, quiet and busy, while Amy

gave directions to everyone, as she sat with her hands folded.

As they gathered about the table, Mrs. March said, with a particularly

happy face, “I’ve got a treat for you after supper.”

A quick, bright smile went round like a streak of sunshine. Beth

clapped her hands, regardless of the biscuit she held, and Jo tossed up

her napkin, crying, “A letter! A letter! Three cheers for Father!”

“Yes, a nice long letter. He is well, and thinks he shall get through

the cold season better than we feared. He sends all sorts of loving

wishes for Christmas, and an especial message to you girls,” said Mrs.

March, patting her pocket as if she had got a treasure there.

“Hurry and get done! Don’t stop to quirk your little finger and simper

over your plate, Amy,” cried Jo, choking on her tea and dropping her

bread, butter side down, on the carpet in her haste to get at the

treat.

Beth ate no more, but crept away to sit in her shadowy corner and brood

over the delight to come, till the others were ready.

“I think it was so splendid in Father to go as chaplain when he was too

old to be drafted, and not strong enough for a soldier,” said Meg

warmly.

“Don’t I wish I could go as a drummer, a vivan—what’s its name? Or a

nurse, so I could be near him and help him,” exclaimed Jo, with a

groan.

“It must be very disagreeable to sleep in a tent, and eat all sorts of

bad-tasting things, and drink out of a tin mug,” sighed Amy.

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

her voice.

“Not for many months, dear, unless he is sick. He will stay and do his

work faithfully as long as he can, and we won’t ask for him back a

minute sooner than he can be spared. Now come and hear the letter.”

They all drew to the fire, Mother in the big chair with Beth at her

feet, Meg and Amy perched on either arm of the chair, and Jo leaning on

the back, where no one would see any sign of emotion if the letter

should happen to be touching. Very few letters were written in those

hard times that were not touching, especially those which fathers sent

home. In this one little was said of the hardships endured, the dangers

faced, or the homesickness conquered. It was a cheerful, hopeful

letter, full of lively descriptions of camp life, marches, and military

news, and only at the end did the writer’s heart over-flow with

fatherly love and longing for the little girls at home.

“Give them all of my dear love and a kiss. Tell them I think of them by

day, pray for them by night, and find my best comfort in their

affection at all times. A year seems very long to wait before I see

them, but remind them that while we wait we may all work, so that these

hard days need not be wasted. I know they will remember all I said to

them, that they will be loving children to you, will do their duty

faithfully, fight their bosom enemies bravely, and conquer themselves

so beautifully that when I come back to them I may be fonder and

prouder than ever of my little women.” Everybody sniffed when they came

to that part. Jo wasn’t ashamed of the great tear that dropped off the

end of her nose, and Amy never minded the rumpling of her curls as she

hid her face on her mother’s shoulder and sobbed out, “I am a selfish

girl! But I’ll truly try to be better, so he mayn’t be disappointed in

me by-and-by.”

“We all will,” cried Meg. “I think too much of my looks and hate to

work, but won’t any more, if I can help it.”

“I’ll try and be what he loves to call me, ‘a little woman’ and not be

rough and wild, but do my duty here instead of wanting to be somewhere

else,” said Jo, thinking that keeping her temper at home was a much

harder task than facing a rebel or two down South.

Beth said nothing, but wiped away her tears with the blue army sock and

began to knit with all her might, losing no time in doing the duty that

lay nearest her, while she resolved in her quiet little soul to be all

that Father hoped to find her when the year brought round the happy

coming home.

Mrs. March broke the silence that followed Jo’s words, by saying in her

cheery voice, “Do you remember how you used to play Pilgrims Progress

when you were little things? Nothing delighted you more than to have me

tie my piece bags on your backs for burdens, give you hats and sticks

and rolls of paper, and let you travel through the house from the

cellar, which was the City of Destruction, up, up, to the housetop,

where you had all the lovely things you could collect to make a

Celestial City.”

“What fun it was, especially going by the lions, fighting Apollyon, and

passing through the valley where the hob-goblins were,” said Jo.

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

said Meg.

“I don’t remember much about it, except that I was afraid of the cellar

and the dark entry, and always liked the cake and milk we had up at the

top. If I wasn’t too old for such things, I’d rather like to play it

over again,” said Amy, who began to talk of renouncing childish things

at the mature age of twelve.

“We never are too old for this, my dear, because it is a play we are

playing all the time in one way or another. Our burdens are here, our

road is before us, and the longing for goodness and happiness is the

guide that leads us through many troubles and mistakes to the peace

which is a true Celestial City. Now, my little pilgrims, suppose you

begin again, not in play, but in earnest, and see how far on you can

get before Father comes home.”

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

literal young lady.

“Each of you told what your burden was just now, except Beth. I rather

think she hasn’t got any,” said her mother.

“Yes, I have. Mine is dishes and dusters, and envying girls with nice

pianos, and being afraid of people.”

Beth’s bundle was such a funny one that everybody wanted to laugh, but

nobody did, for it would have hurt her feelings very much.

“Let us do it,” said Meg thoughtfully. “It is only another name for

trying to be good, and the story may help us, for though we do want to

be good, it’s hard work and we forget, and don’t do our best.”

“We were in the Slough of Despond tonight, and Mother came and pulled

us out as Help did in the book. We ought to have our roll of

directions, like Christian. What shall we do about that?” asked Jo,

delighted with the fancy which lent a little romance to the very dull

task of doing her duty.

“Look under your pillows Christmas morning, and you will find your

guidebook,” replied Mrs. March.

They talked over the new plan while old Hannah cleared the table, then

out came the four little work baskets, and the needles flew as the

girls made sheets for Aunt March. It was uninteresting sewing, but

tonight no one grumbled. They adopted Jo’s plan of dividing the long

seams into four parts, and calling the quarters Europe, Asia, Africa,

and America, and in that way got on capitally, especially when they

talked about the different countries as they stitched their way through

them.

At nine they stopped work, and sang, as usual, before they went to bed.

No one but Beth could get much music out of the old piano, but she had

a way of softly touching the yellow keys and making a pleasant

accompaniment to the simple songs they sang. Meg had a voice like a

flute, and she and her mother led the little choir. Amy chirped like a

cricket, and Jo wandered through the airs at her own sweet will, always

coming out at the wrong place with a croak or a quaver that spoiled the

most pensive tune. They had always done this from the time they could

lisp...

Crinkle, crinkle, ’ittle ’tar,

and it had become a household custom, for the mother was a born singer.

The first sound in the morning was her voice as she went about the

house singing like a lark, and the last sound at night was the same

cheery sound, for the girls never grew too old for that familiar

lullaby.

CHAPTER TWO

A MERRY CHRISTMAS

Jo was the first to wake in the gray dawn of Christmas morning. No

stockings hung at the fireplace, and for a moment she felt as much

disappointed as she did long ago, when her little sock fell down

because it was crammed so full of goodies. Then she remembered her

mother’s promise and, slipping her hand under her pillow, drew out a

little crimson-covered book. She knew it very well, for it was that

beautiful old story of the best life ever lived, and Jo felt that it

was a true guidebook for any pilgrim going on a long journey. She woke

Meg with a “Merry Christmas,” and bade her see what was under her

pillow. A green-covered book appeared, with the same picture inside,

and a few words written by their mother, which made their one present

very precious in their eyes. Presently Beth and Amy woke to rummage and

find their little books also, one dove-colored, the other blue, and all

sat looking at and talking about them, while the east grew rosy with

the coming day.

In spite of her small vanities, Margaret had a sweet and pious nature,

which unconsciously influenced her sisters, especially Jo, who loved

her very tenderly, and obeyed her because her advice was so gently

given.

“Girls,” said Meg seriously, looking from the tumbled head beside her

to the two little night-capped ones in the room beyond, “Mother wants

us to read and love and mind these books, and we must begin at once. We

used to be faithful about it, but since Father went away and all this

war trouble unsettled us, we have neglected many things. You can do as

you please, but I shall keep my book on the table here and read a

little every morning as soon as I wake, for I know it will do me good

and help me through the day.”

Then she opened her new book and began to read. Jo put her arm round

her and, leaning cheek to cheek, read also, with the quiet expression

so seldom seen on her restless face.

“How good Meg is! Come, Amy, let’s do as they do. I’ll help you with

the hard words, and they’ll explain things if we don’t understand,”

whispered Beth, very much impressed by the pretty books and her

sisters’ example.

“I’m glad mine is blue,” said Amy. and then the rooms were very still

while the pages were softly turned, and the winter sunshine crept in to

touch the bright heads and serious faces with a Christmas greeting.

“Where is Mother?” asked Meg, as she and Jo ran down to thank her for

their gifts, half an hour later.

“Goodness only knows. Some poor creeter came a-beggin’, and your ma

went straight off to see what was needed. There never was such a woman

for givin’ away vittles and drink, clothes and firin’,” replied Hannah,

who had lived with the family since Meg was born, and was considered by

them all more as a friend than a servant.

“She will be back soon, I think, so fry your cakes, and have everything

ready,” said Meg, looking over the presents which were collected in a

basket and kept under the sofa, ready to be produced at the proper

time. “Why, where is Amy’s bottle of cologne?” she added, as the little

flask did not appear.

“She took it out a minute ago, and went off with it to put a ribbon on

it, or some such notion,” replied Jo, dancing about the room to take

the first stiffness off the new army slippers.

“How nice my handkerchiefs look, don’t they? Hannah washed and ironed

them for me, and I marked them all myself,” said Beth, looking proudly

at the somewhat uneven letters which had cost her such labor.

“Bless the child! She’s gone and put ‘Mother’ on them instead of ‘M.

March’. How funny!” cried Jo, taking one up.

“Isn’t that right? I thought it was better to do it so, because Meg’s

initials are M.M., and I don’t want anyone to use these but Marmee,”

said Beth, looking troubled.

“It’s all right, dear, and a very pretty idea, quite sensible too, for

no one can ever mistake now. It will please her very much, I know,”

said Meg, with a frown for Jo and a smile for Beth.

“There’s Mother. Hide the basket, quick!” cried Jo, as a door slammed

and steps sounded in the hall.

Amy came in hastily, and looked rather abashed when she saw her sisters

all waiting for her.

“Where have you been, and what are you hiding behind you?” asked Meg,

surprised to see, by her hood and cloak, that lazy Amy had been out so

early.

“Don’t laugh at me, Jo! I didn’t mean anyone should know till the time

came. I only meant to change the little bottle for a big one, and I

gave all my money to get it, and I’m truly trying not to be selfish any

more.”

As she spoke, Amy showed the handsome flask which replaced the cheap

one, and looked so earnest and humble in her little effort to forget

herself that Meg hugged her on the spot, and Jo pronounced her ‘a

trump’, while Beth ran to the window, and picked her finest rose to

ornament the stately bottle.

“You see I felt ashamed of my present, after reading and talking about

being good this morning, so I ran round the corner and changed it the

minute I was up, and I’m so glad, for mine is the handsomest now.”

Another bang of the street door sent the basket under the sofa, and the

girls to the table, eager for breakfast.

“Merry Christmas, Marmee! Many of them! Thank you for our books. We

read some, and mean to every day,” they all cried in chorus.

“Merry Christmas, little daughters! I’m glad you began at once, and

hope you will keep on. But I want to say one word before we sit down.

Not far away from here lies a poor woman with a little newborn baby.

Six children are huddled into one bed to keep from freezing, for they

have no fire. There is nothing to eat over there, and the oldest boy

came to tell me they were suffering hunger and cold. My girls, will you

give them your breakfast as a Christmas present?”

They were all unusually hungry, having waited nearly an hour, and for a

minute no one spoke, only a minute, for Jo exclaimed impetuously, “I’m

so glad you came before we began!”

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

Beth eagerly.

“I shall take the cream and the muffings,” added Amy, heroically giving

up the article she most liked.

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

big plate.

“I thought you’d do it,” said Mrs. March, smiling as if satisfied. “You

shall all go and help me, and when we come back we will have bread and

milk for breakfast, and make it up at dinnertime.”

They were soon ready, and the procession set out. Fortunately it was

early, and they went through back streets, so few people saw them, and

no one laughed at the queer party.

A poor, bare, miserable room it was, with broken windows, no fire,

ragged bedclothes, a sick mother, wailing baby, and a group of pale,

hungry children cuddled under one old quilt, trying to keep warm.

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

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

crying for joy.

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

In a few minutes it really did seem as if kind spirits had been at work

there. Hannah, who had carried wood, made a fire, and stopped up the

broken panes with old hats and her own cloak. Mrs. March gave the

mother tea and gruel, and comforted her with promises of help, while

she dressed the little baby as tenderly as if it had been her own. The

girls meantime spread the table, set the children round the fire, and

fed them like so many hungry birds, laughing, talking, and trying to

understand the funny broken English.

“Das ist gut!” “Die Engel-kinder!” cried the poor things as they ate

and warmed their purple hands at the comfortable blaze. The girls had

never been called angel children before, and thought it very agreeable,

especially Jo, who had been considered a ‘Sancho’ ever since she was

born. That was a very happy breakfast, though they didn’t get any of

it. And when they went away, leaving comfort behind, I think there were

not in all the city four merrier people than the hungry little girls

who gave away their breakfasts and contented themselves with bread and

milk on Christmas morning.

“That’s loving our neighbor better than ourselves, and I like it,” said

Meg, as they set out their presents while their mother was upstairs

collecting clothes for the poor Hummels.

Not a very splendid show, but there was a great deal of love done up in

the few little bundles, and the tall vase of red roses, white

chrysanthemums, and trailing vines, which stood in the middle, gave

quite an elegant air to the table.

“She’s coming! Strike up, Beth! Open the door, Amy! Three cheers for

Marmee!” cried Jo, prancing about while Meg went to conduct Mother to

the seat of honor.

Beth played her gayest march, Amy threw open the door, and Meg enacted

escort with great dignity. Mrs. March was both surprised and touched,

and smiled with her eyes full as she examined her presents and read the

little notes which accompanied them. The slippers went on at once, a

new handkerchief was slipped into her pocket, well scented with Amy’s

cologne, the rose was fastened in her bosom, and the nice gloves were

pronounced a perfect fit.

There was a good deal of laughing and kissing and explaining, in the

simple, loving fashion which makes these home festivals so pleasant at

the time, so sweet to remember long afterward, and then all fell to

work.

The morning charities and ceremonies took so much time that the rest of

the day was devoted to preparations for the evening festivities. Being

still too young to go often to the theater, and not rich enough to

afford any great outlay for private performances, the girls put their

wits to work, and necessity being the mother of invention, made

whatever they needed. Very clever were some of their productions,

pasteboard guitars, antique lamps made of old-fashioned butter boats

covered with silver paper, gorgeous robes of old cotton, glittering

with tin spangles from a pickle factory, and armor covered with the

same useful diamond shaped bits left in sheets when the lids of

preserve pots were cut out. The big chamber was the scene of many

innocent revels.

No gentleman were admitted, so Jo played male parts to her heart’s

content and took immense satisfaction in a pair of russet leather boots

given her by a friend, who knew a lady who knew an actor. These boots,

an old foil, and a slashed doublet once used by an artist for some

picture, were Jo’s chief treasures and appeared on all occasions. The

smallness of the company made it necessary for the two principal actors

to take several parts apiece, and they certainly deserved some credit

for the hard work they did in learning three or four different parts,

whisking in and out of various costumes, and managing the stage

besides. It was excellent drill for their memories, a harmless

amusement, and employed many hours which otherwise would have been

idle, lonely, or spent in less profitable society.

On Christmas night, a dozen girls piled onto the bed which was the

dress circle, and sat before the blue and yellow chintz curtains in a

most flattering state of expectancy. There was a good deal of rustling

and whispering behind the curtain, a trifle of lamp smoke, and an

occasional giggle from Amy, who was apt to get hysterical in the

excitement of the moment. Presently a bell sounded, the curtains flew

apart, and the _operatic tragedy_ began.

“A gloomy wood,” according to the one playbill, was represented by a

few shrubs in pots, green baize on the floor, and a cave in the

distance. This cave was made with a clothes horse for a roof, bureaus

for walls, and in it was a small furnace in full blast, with a black

pot on it and an old witch bending over it. The stage was dark and the

glow of the furnace had a fine effect, especially as real steam issued

from the kettle when the witch took off the cover. A moment was allowed

for the first thrill to subside, then Hugo, the villain, stalked in

with a clanking sword at his side, a slouching hat, black beard,

mysterious cloak, and the boots. After pacing to and fro in much

agitation, he struck his forehead, and burst out in a wild strain,

singing of his hatred for Roderigo, his love for Zara, and his pleasing

resolution to kill the one and win the other. The gruff tones of Hugo’s

voice, with an occasional shout when his feelings overcame him, were

very impressive, and the audience applauded the moment he paused for

breath. Bowing with the air of one accustomed to public praise, he

stole to the cavern and ordered Hagar to come forth with a commanding,

“What ho, minion! I need thee!”

Out came Meg, with gray horsehair hanging about her face, a red and

black robe, a staff, and cabalistic signs upon her cloak. Hugo demanded

a potion to make Zara adore him, and one to destroy Roderigo. Hagar, in

a fine dramatic melody, promised both, and proceeded to call up the

spirit who would bring the love philter.

Hither, hither, from thy home,

Airy sprite, I bid thee come!

Born of roses, fed on dew,

Charms and potions canst thou brew?

Bring me here, with elfin speed,

The fragrant philter which I need.

Make it sweet and swift and strong,

Spirit, answer now my song!

A soft strain of music sounded, and then at the back of the cave

appeared a little figure in cloudy white, with glittering wings, golden

hair, and a garland of roses on its head. Waving a wand, it sang...

Hither I come,

From my airy home,

Afar in the silver moon.

Take the magic spell,

And use it well,

Or its power will vanish soon!

And dropping a small, gilded bottle at the witch’s feet, the spirit

vanished. Another chant from Hagar produced another apparition, not a

lovely one, for with a bang an ugly black imp appeared and, having

croaked a reply, tossed a dark bottle at Hugo and disappeared with a

mocking laugh. Having warbled his thanks and put the potions in his

boots, Hugo departed, and Hagar informed the audience that as he had

killed a few of her friends in times past, she had cursed him, and

intends to thwart his plans, and be revenged on him. Then the curtain

fell, and the audience reposed and ate candy while discussing the

merits of the play.

A good deal of hammering went on before the curtain rose again, but

when it became evident what a masterpiece of stage carpentery had been

got up, no one murmured at the delay. It was truly superb. A tower rose

to the ceiling, halfway up appeared a window with a lamp burning in it,

and behind the white curtain appeared Zara in a lovely blue and silver

dress, waiting for Roderigo. He came in gorgeous array, with plumed

cap, red cloak, chestnut lovelocks, a guitar, and the boots, of course.

Kneeling at the foot of the tower, he sang a serenade in melting tones.

Zara replied and, after a musical dialogue, consented to fly. Then came

the grand effect of the play. Roderigo produced a rope ladder, with

five steps to it, threw up one end, and invited Zara to descend.

Timidly she crept from her lattice, put her hand on Roderigo’s

shoulder, and was about to leap gracefully down when “Alas! Alas for

Zara!” she forgot her train. It caught in the window, the tower

tottered, leaned forward, fell with a crash, and buried the unhappy

lovers in the ruins.

A universal shriek arose as the russet boots waved wildly from the

wreck and a golden head emerged, exclaiming, “I told you so! I told you

so!” With wonderful presence of mind, Don Pedro, the cruel sire, rushed

in, dragged out his daughter, with a hasty aside...

“Don’t laugh! Act as if it was all right!” and, ordering Roderigo up,

banished him from the kingdom with wrath and scorn. Though decidedly

shaken by the fall from the tower upon him, Roderigo defied the old

gentleman and refused to stir. This dauntless example fired Zara. She

also defied her sire, and he ordered them both to the deepest dungeons

of the castle. A stout little retainer came in with chains and led them

away, looking very much frightened and evidently forgetting the speech

he ought to have made.

Act third was the castle hall, and here Hagar appeared, having come to

free the lovers and finish Hugo. She hears him coming and hides, sees

him put the potions into two cups of wine and bid the timid little

servant, “Bear them to the captives in their cells, and tell them I

shall come anon.” The servant takes Hugo aside to tell him something,

and Hagar changes the cups for two others which are harmless.

Ferdinando, the ‘minion’, carries them away, and Hagar puts back the

cup which holds the poison meant for Roderigo. Hugo, getting thirsty

after a long warble, drinks it, loses his wits, and after a good deal

of clutching and stamping, falls flat and dies, while Hagar informs him

what she has done in a song of exquisite power and melody.

This was a truly thrilling scene, though some persons might have

thought that the sudden tumbling down of a quantity of long red hair

rather marred the effect of the villain’s death. He was called before

the curtain, and with great propriety appeared, leading Hagar, whose

singing was considered more wonderful than all the rest of the

performance put together.

Act fourth displayed the despairing Roderigo on the point of stabbing

himself because he has been told that Zara has deserted him. Just as

the dagger is at his heart, a lovely song is sung under his window,

informing him that Zara is true but in danger, and he can save her if

he will. A key is thrown in, which unlocks the door, and in a spasm of

rapture he tears off his chains and rushes away to find and rescue his

lady love.

Act fifth opened with a stormy scene between Zara and Don Pedro. He

wishes her to go into a convent, but she won’t hear of it, and after a

touching appeal, is about to faint when Roderigo dashes in and demands

her hand. Don Pedro refuses, because he is not rich. They shout and

gesticulate tremendously but cannot agree, and Rodrigo is about to bear

away the exhausted Zara, when the timid servant enters with a letter

and a bag from Hagar, who has mysteriously disappeared. The latter

informs the party that she bequeaths untold wealth to the young pair

and an awful doom to Don Pedro, if he doesn’t make them happy. The bag

is opened, and several quarts of tin money shower down upon the stage

till it is quite glorified with the glitter. This entirely softens the

stern sire. He consents without a murmur, all join in a joyful chorus,

and the curtain falls upon the lovers kneeling to receive Don Pedro’s

blessing in attitudes of the most romantic grace.

Tumultuous applause followed but received an unexpected check, for the

cot bed, on which the dress circle was built, suddenly shut up and

extinguished the enthusiastic audience. Roderigo and Don Pedro flew to

the rescue, and all were taken out unhurt, though many were speechless

with laughter. The excitement had hardly subsided when Hannah appeared,

with “Mrs. March’s compliments, and would the ladies walk down to

supper.”

This was a surprise even to the actors, and when they saw the table,

they looked at one another in rapturous amazement. It was like Marmee

to get up a little treat for them, but anything so fine as this was

unheard of since the departed days of plenty. There was ice cream,

actually two dishes of it, pink and white, and cake and fruit and

distracting French bonbons and, in the middle of the table, four great

bouquets of hot house flowers.

It quite took their breath away, and they stared first at the table and

then at their mother, who looked as if she enjoyed it immensely.

“Is it fairies?” asked Amy.

“Santa Claus,” said Beth.

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

beard and white eyebrows.

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

sudden inspiration.

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

“The Laurence boy’s grandfather! What in the world put such a thing

into his head? We don’t know him!” exclaimed Meg.

“Hannah told one of his servants about your breakfast party. He is an

odd old gentleman, but that pleased him. He knew my father years ago,

and he sent me a polite note this afternoon, saying he hoped I would

allow him to express his friendly feeling toward my children by sending

them a few trifles in honor of the day. I could not refuse, and so you

have a little feast at night to make up for the bread-and-milk

breakfast.”

“That boy put it into his head, I know he did! He’s a capital fellow,

and I wish we could get acquainted. He looks as if he’d like to know us

but he’s bashful, and Meg is so prim she won’t let me speak to him when

we pass,” said Jo, as the plates went round, and the ice began to melt

out of sight, with ohs and ahs of satisfaction.

“You mean the people who live in the big house next door, don’t you?”

asked one of the girls. “My mother knows old Mr. Laurence, but says

he’s very proud and doesn’t like to mix with his neighbors. He keeps

his grandson shut up, when he isn’t riding or walking with his tutor,

and makes him study very hard. We invited him to our party, but he

didn’t come. Mother says he’s very nice, though he never speaks to us

girls.”

“Our cat ran away once, and he brought her back, and we talked over the

fence, and were getting on capitally, all about cricket, and so on,

when he saw Meg coming, and walked off. I mean to know him some day,

for he needs fun, I’m sure he does,” said Jo decidedly.

“I like his manners, and he looks like a little gentleman, so I’ve no

objection to your knowing him, if a proper opportunity comes. He

brought the flowers himself, and I should have asked him in, if I had

been sure what was going on upstairs. He looked so wistful as he went

away, hearing the frolic and evidently having none of his own.”

“It’s a mercy you didn’t, Mother!” laughed Jo, looking at her boots.

“But we’ll have another play sometime that he can see. Perhaps he’ll

help act. Wouldn’t that be jolly?”

“I never had such a fine bouquet before! How pretty it is!” And Meg

examined her flowers with great interest.

“They are lovely. But Beth’s roses are sweeter to me,” said Mrs. March,

smelling the half-dead posy in her belt.

Beth nestled up to her, and whispered softly, “I wish I could send my

bunch to Father. I’m afraid he isn’t having such a merry Christmas as

we are.”

CHAPTER THREE

THE LAURENCE BOY

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

“Here!” answered a husky voice from above, and, running up, Meg found

her sister eating apples and crying over the Heir of Redclyffe, wrapped

up in a comforter on an old three-legged sofa by the sunny window. This

was Jo’s favorite refuge, and here she loved to retire with half a

dozen russets and a nice book, to enjoy the quiet and the society of a

pet rat who lived near by and didn’t mind her a particle. As Meg

appeared, Scrabble whisked into his hole. Jo shook the tears off her

cheeks and waited to hear the news.

“Such fun! Only see! A regular note of invitation from Mrs. Gardiner

for tomorrow night!” cried Meg, waving the precious paper and then

proceeding to read it with girlish delight.

“‘Mrs. Gardiner would be happy to see Miss March and Miss Josephine at

a little dance on New Year’s Eve.’ Marmee is willing we should go, now

what shall we wear?”

“What’s the use of asking that, when you know we shall wear our

poplins, because we haven’t got anything else?” answered Jo with her

mouth full.

“If I only had a silk!” sighed Meg. “Mother says I may when I’m

eighteen perhaps, but two years is an everlasting time to wait.”

“I’m sure our pops look like silk, and they are nice enough for us.

Yours is as good as new, but I forgot the burn and the tear in mine.

Whatever shall I do? The burn shows badly, and I can’t take any out.”

“You must sit still all you can and keep your back out of sight. The

front is all right. I shall have a new ribbon for my hair, and Marmee

will lend me her little pearl pin, and my new slippers are lovely, and

my gloves will do, though they aren’t as nice as I’d like.”

“Mine are spoiled with lemonade, and I can’t get any new ones, so I

shall have to go without,” said Jo, who never troubled herself much

about dress.

“You must have gloves, or I won’t go,” cried Meg decidedly. “Gloves are

more important than anything else. You can’t dance without them, and if

you don’t I should be so mortified.”

“Then I’ll stay still. I don’t care much for company dancing. It’s no

fun to go sailing round. I like to fly about and cut capers.”

“You can’t ask Mother for new ones, they are so expensive, and you are

so careless. She said when you spoiled the others that she shouldn’t

get you any more this winter. Can’t you make them do?”

“I can hold them crumpled up in my hand, so no one will know how

stained they are. That’s all I can do. No! I’ll tell you how we can

manage, each wear one good one and carry a bad one. Don’t you see?”

“Your hands are bigger than mine, and you will stretch my glove

dreadfully,” began Meg, whose gloves were a tender point with her.

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

up her book.

“You may have it, you may! Only don’t stain it, and do behave nicely.

Don’t put your hands behind you, or stare, or say ‘Christopher

Columbus!’ will you?”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be as prim as I can and not get into any

scrapes, if I can help it. Now go and answer your note, and let me

finish this splendid story.”

So Meg went away to ‘accept with thanks’, look over her dress, and sing

blithely as she did up her one real lace frill, while Jo finished her

story, her four apples, and had a game of romps with Scrabble.

On New Year’s Eve the parlor was deserted, for the two younger girls

played dressing maids and the two elder were absorbed in the

all-important business of ‘getting ready for the party’. Simple as the

toilets were, there was a great deal of running up and down, laughing

and talking, and at one time a strong smell of burned hair pervaded the

house. Meg wanted a few curls about her face, and Jo undertook to pinch

the papered locks with a pair of hot tongs.

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

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

“What a queer smell! It’s like burned feathers,” observed Amy,

smoothing her own pretty curls with a superior air.

“There, now I’ll take off the papers and you’ll see a cloud of little

ringlets,” said Jo, putting down the tongs.

She did take off the papers, but no cloud of ringlets appeared, for the

hair came with the papers, and the horrified hairdresser laid a row of

little scorched bundles on the bureau before her victim.

“Oh, oh, oh! What have you done? I’m spoiled! I can’t go! My hair, oh,

my hair!” wailed Meg, looking with despair at the uneven frizzle on her

forehead.

“Just my luck! You shouldn’t have asked me to do it. I always spoil

everything. I’m so sorry, but the tongs were too hot, and so I’ve made

a mess,” groaned poor Jo, regarding the little black pancakes with

tears of regret.

“It isn’t spoiled. Just frizzle it, and tie your ribbon so the ends

come on your forehead a bit, and it will look like the last fashion.

I’ve seen many girls do it so,” said Amy consolingly.

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

cried Meg petulantly.

“So do I, it was so smooth and pretty. But it will soon grow out

again,” said Beth, coming to kiss and comfort the shorn sheep.

After various lesser mishaps, Meg was finished at last, and by the

united exertions of the entire family Jo’s hair was got up and her

dress on. They looked very well in their simple suits, Meg’s in silvery

drab, with a blue velvet snood, lace frills, and the pearl pin. Jo in

maroon, with a stiff, gentlemanly linen collar, and a white

chrysanthemum or two for her only ornament. Each put on one nice light

glove, and carried one soiled one, and all pronounced the effect “quite

easy and fine”. Meg’s high-heeled slippers were very tight and hurt

her, though she would not own it, and Jo’s nineteen hairpins all seemed

stuck straight into her head, which was not exactly comfortable, but,

dear me, let us be elegant or die.

“Have a good time, dearies!” said Mrs. March, as the sisters went

daintily down the walk. “Don’t eat much supper, and come away at eleven

when I send Hannah for you.” As the gate clashed behind them, a voice

cried from a window...

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

“Yes, yes, spandy nice, and Meg has cologne on hers,” cried Jo, adding

with a laugh as they went on, “I do believe Marmee would ask that if we

were all running away from an earthquake.”

“It is one of her aristocratic tastes, and quite proper, for a real

lady is always known by neat boots, gloves, and handkerchief,” replied

Meg, who had a good many little ‘aristocratic tastes’ of her own.

“Now don’t forget to keep the bad breadth out of sight, Jo. Is my sash

right? And does my hair look very bad?” said Meg, as she turned from

the glass in Mrs. Gardiner’s dressing room after a prolonged prink.

“I know I shall forget. If you see me doing anything wrong, just remind

me by a wink, will you?” returned Jo, giving her collar a twitch and

her head a hasty brush.

“No, winking isn’t ladylike. I’ll lift my eyebrows if any thing is

wrong, and nod if you are all right. Now hold your shoulder straight,

and take short steps, and don’t shake hands if you are introduced to

anyone. It isn’t the thing.”

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

gay?”

Down they went, feeling a trifle timid, for they seldom went to

parties, and informal as this little gathering was, it was an event to

them. Mrs. Gardiner, a stately old lady, greeted them kindly and handed

them over to the eldest of her six daughters. Meg knew Sallie and was

at her ease very soon, but Jo, who didn’t care much for girls or

girlish gossip, stood about, with her back carefully against the wall,

and felt as much out of place as a colt in a flower garden. Half a

dozen jovial lads were talking about skates in another part of the

room, and she longed to go and join them, for skating was one of the

joys of her life. She telegraphed her wish to Meg, but the eyebrows

went up so alarmingly that she dared not stir. No one came to talk to

her, and one by one the group dwindled away till she was left alone.

She could not roam about and amuse herself, for the burned breadth

would show, so she stared at people rather forlornly till the dancing

began. Meg was asked at once, and the tight slippers tripped about so

briskly that none would have guessed the pain their wearer suffered

smilingly. Jo saw a big red headed youth approaching her corner, and

fearing he meant to engage her, she slipped into a curtained recess,

intending to peep and enjoy herself in peace. Unfortunately, another

bashful person had chosen the same refuge, for, as the curtain fell

behind her, she found herself face to face with the ‘Laurence boy’.

“Dear me, I didn’t know anyone was here!” stammered Jo, preparing to

back out as speedily as she had bounced in.

But the boy laughed and said pleasantly, though he looked a little

startled, “Don’t mind me, stay if you like.”

“Shan’t I disturb you?”

“Not a bit. I only came here because I don’t know many people and felt

rather strange at first, you know.”

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

The boy sat down again and looked at his pumps, till Jo said, trying to

be polite and easy, “I think I’ve had the pleasure of seeing you

before. You live near us, don’t you?”

“Next door.” And he looked up and laughed outright, for Jo’s prim

manner was rather funny when he remembered how they had chatted about

cricket when he brought the cat home.

That put Jo at her ease and she laughed too, as she said, in her

heartiest way, “We did have such a good time over your nice Christmas

present.”

“Grandpa sent it.”

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

“How is your cat, Miss March?” asked the boy, trying to look sober

while his black eyes shone with fun.

“Nicely, thank you, Mr. Laurence. But I am not Miss March, I’m only

Jo,” returned the young lady.

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

“Laurie Laurence, what an odd name.”

“My first name is Theodore, but I don’t like it, for the fellows called

me Dora, so I made them say Laurie instead.”

“I hate my name, too, so sentimental! I wish every one would say Jo

instead of Josephine. How did you make the boys stop calling you Dora?”

“I thrashed ’em.”

“I can’t thrash Aunt March, so I suppose I shall have to bear it.” And

Jo resigned herself with a sigh.

“Don’t you like to dance, Miss Jo?” asked Laurie, looking as if he

thought the name suited her.

“I like it well enough if there is plenty of room, and everyone is

lively. In a place like this I’m sure to upset something, tread on

people’s toes, or do something dreadful, so I keep out of mischief and

let Meg sail about. Don’t you dance?”

“Sometimes. You see I’ve been abroad a good many years, and haven’t

been into company enough yet to know how you do things here.”

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

describe their travels.”

Laurie didn’t seem to know where to begin, but Jo’s eager questions

soon set him going, and he told her how he had been at school in Vevay,

where the boys never wore hats and had a fleet of boats on the lake,

and for holiday fun went on walking trips about Switzerland with their

teachers.

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

“We spent last winter there.”

“Can you talk French?”

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

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

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

“How nicely you do it! Let me see ... you said, ‘Who is the young lady

in the pretty slippers’, didn’t you?”

“Oui, mademoiselle.”

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

pretty?”

“Yes, she makes me think of the German girls, she looks so fresh and

quiet, and dances like a lady.”

Jo quite glowed with pleasure at this boyish praise of her sister, and

stored it up to repeat to Meg. Both peeped and criticized and chatted

till they felt like old acquaintances. Laurie’s bashfulness soon wore

off, for Jo’s gentlemanly demeanor amused and set him at his ease, and

Jo was her merry self again, because her dress was forgotten and nobody

lifted their eyebrows at her. She liked the ‘Laurence boy’ better than

ever and took several good looks at him, so that she might describe him

to the girls, for they had no brothers, very few male cousins, and boys

were almost unknown creatures to them.

“Curly black hair, brown skin, big black eyes, handsome nose, fine

teeth, small hands and feet, taller than I am, very polite, for a boy,

and altogether jolly. Wonder how old he is?”

It was on the tip of Jo’s tongue to ask, but she checked herself in

time and, with unusual tact, tried to find out in a round-about way.

“I suppose you are going to college soon? I see you pegging away at

your books, no, I mean studying hard.” And Jo blushed at the dreadful

‘pegging’ which had escaped her.

Laurie smiled but didn’t seem shocked, and answered with a shrug. “Not

for a year or two. I won’t go before seventeen, anyway.”

“Aren’t you but fifteen?” asked Jo, looking at the tall lad, whom she

had imagined seventeen already.

“Sixteen, next month.”

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

“I hate it! Nothing but grinding or skylarking. And I don’t like the

way fellows do either, in this country.”

“What do you like?”

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

Jo wanted very much to ask what his own way was, but his black brows

looked rather threatening as he knit them, so she changed the subject

by saying, as her foot kept time, “That’s a splendid polka! Why don’t

you go and try it?”

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

“I can’t, for I told Meg I wouldn’t, because...” There Jo stopped, and

looked undecided whether to tell or to laugh.

“Because, what?”

“You won’t tell?”

“Never!”

“Well, I have a bad trick of standing before the fire, and so I burn my

frocks, and I scorched this one, and though it’s nicely mended, it

shows, and Meg told me to keep still so no one would see it. You may

laugh, if you want to. It is funny, I know.”

But Laurie didn’t laugh. He only looked down a minute, and the

expression of his face puzzled Jo when he said very gently, “Never mind

that. I’ll tell you how we can manage. There’s a long hall out there,

and we can dance grandly, and no one will see us. Please come.”

Jo thanked him and gladly went, wishing she had two neat gloves when

she saw the nice, pearl-colored ones her partner wore. The hall was

empty, and they had a grand polka, for Laurie danced well, and taught

her the German step, which delighted Jo, being full of swing and

spring. When the music stopped, they sat down on the stairs to get

their breath, and Laurie was in the midst of an account of a students’

festival at Heidelberg when Meg appeared in search of her sister. She

beckoned, and Jo reluctantly followed her into a side room, where she

found her on a sofa, holding her foot, and looking pale.

“I’ve sprained my ankle. That stupid high heel turned and gave me a sad

wrench. It aches so, I can hardly stand, and I don’t know how I’m ever

going to get home,” she said, rocking to and fro in pain.

“I knew you’d hurt your feet with those silly shoes. I’m sorry. But I

don’t see what you can do, except get a carriage, or stay here all

night,” answered Jo, softly rubbing the poor ankle as she spoke.

“I can’t have a carriage without its costing ever so much. I dare say I

can’t get one at all, for most people come in their own, and it’s a

long way to the stable, and no one to send.”

“I’ll go.”

“No, indeed! It’s past nine, and dark as Egypt. I can’t stop here, for

the house is full. Sallie has some girls staying with her. I’ll rest

till Hannah comes, and then do the best I can.”

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

occurred to her.

“Mercy, no! Don’t ask or tell anyone. Get me my rubbers, and put these

slippers with our things. I can’t dance anymore, but as soon as supper

is over, watch for Hannah and tell me the minute she comes.”

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

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

stir.”

So Meg reclined, with rubbers well hidden, and Jo went blundering away

to the dining room, which she found after going into a china closet,

and opening the door of a room where old Mr. Gardiner was taking a

little private refreshment. Making a dart at the table, she secured the

coffee, which she immediately spilled, thereby making the front of her

dress as bad as the back.

“Oh, dear, what a blunderbuss I am!” exclaimed Jo, finishing Meg’s

glove by scrubbing her gown with it.

“Can I help you?” said a friendly voice. And there was Laurie, with a

full cup in one hand and a plate of ice in the other.

“I was trying to get something for Meg, who is very tired, and someone

shook me, and here I am in a nice state,” answered Jo, glancing

dismally from the stained skirt to the coffee-colored glove.

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

your sister?”

“Oh, thank you! I’ll show you where she is. I don’t offer to take it

myself, for I should only get into another scrape if I did.”

Jo led the way, and as if used to waiting on ladies, Laurie drew up a

little table, brought a second installment of coffee and ice for Jo,

and was so obliging that even particular Meg pronounced him a ‘nice

boy’. They had a merry time over the bonbons and mottoes, and were in

the midst of a quiet game of _Buzz_, with two or three other young

people who had strayed in, when Hannah appeared. Meg forgot her foot

and rose so quickly that she was forced to catch hold of Jo, with an

exclamation of pain.

“Hush! Don’t say anything,” she whispered, adding aloud, “It’s nothing.

I turned my foot a little, that’s all,” and limped upstairs to put her

things on.

Hannah scolded, Meg cried, and Jo was at her wits’ end, till she

decided to take things into her own hands. Slipping out, she ran down

and, finding a servant, asked if he could get her a carriage. It

happened to be a hired waiter who knew nothing about the neighborhood

and Jo was looking round for help when Laurie, who had heard what she

said, came up and offered his grandfather’s carriage, which had just

come for him, he said.

“It’s so early! You can’t mean to go yet?” began Jo, looking relieved

but hesitating to accept the offer.

“I always go early, I do, truly! Please let me take you home. It’s all

on my way, you know, and it rains, they say.”

That settled it, and telling him of Meg’s mishap, Jo gratefully

accepted and rushed up to bring down the rest of the party. Hannah

hated rain as much as a cat does so she made no trouble, and they

rolled away in the luxurious close carriage, feeling very festive and

elegant. Laurie went on the box so Meg could keep her foot up, and the

girls talked over their party in freedom.

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

making herself comfortable.

“Yes, till I hurt myself. Sallie’s friend, Annie Moffat, took a fancy

to me, and asked me to come and spend a week with her when Sallie does.

She is going in the spring when the opera comes, and it will be

perfectly splendid, if Mother only lets me go,” answered Meg, cheering

up at the thought.

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

nice?”

“Oh, very! His hair is auburn, not red, and he was very polite, and I

had a delicious redowa with him.”

“He looked like a grasshopper in a fit when he did the new step. Laurie

and I couldn’t help laughing. Did you hear us?”

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

away there?”

Jo told her adventures, and by the time she had finished they were at

home. With many thanks, they said good night and crept in, hoping to

disturb no one, but the instant their door creaked, two little

nightcaps bobbed up, and two sleepy but eager voices cried out...

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

With what Meg called ‘a great want of manners’ Jo had saved some

bonbons for the little girls, and they soon subsided, after hearing the

most thrilling events of the evening.

“I declare, it really seems like being a fine young lady, to come home

from the party in a carriage and sit in my dressing gown with a maid to

wait on me,” said Meg, as Jo bound up her foot with arnica and brushed

her hair.

“I don’t believe fine young ladies enjoy themselves a bit more than we

do, in spite of our burned hair, old gowns, one glove apiece and tight

slippers that sprain our ankles when we are silly enough to wear them.”

And I think Jo was quite right.

CHAPTER FOUR

BURDENS

“Oh, dear, how hard it does seem to take up our packs and go on,”

sighed Meg the morning after the party, for now the holidays were over,

the week of merrymaking did not fit her for going on easily with the

task she never liked.

“I wish it was Christmas or New Year’s all the time. Wouldn’t it be

fun?” answered Jo, yawning dismally.

“We shouldn’t enjoy ourselves half so much as we do now. But it does

seem so nice to have little suppers and bouquets, and go to parties,

and drive home, and read and rest, and not work. It’s like other

people, you know, and I always envy girls who do such things, I’m so

fond of luxury,” said Meg, trying to decide which of two shabby gowns

was the least shabby.

“Well, we can’t have it, so don’t let us grumble but shoulder our

bundles and trudge along as cheerfully as Marmee does. I’m sure Aunt

March is a regular Old Man of the Sea to me, but I suppose when I’ve

learned to carry her without complaining, she will tumble off, or get

so light that I shan’t mind her.”

This idea tickled Jo’s fancy and put her in good spirits, but Meg

didn’t brighten, for her burden, consisting of four spoiled children,

seemed heavier than ever. She had not heart enough even to make herself

pretty as usual by putting on a blue neck ribbon and dressing her hair

in the most becoming way.

“Where’s the use of looking nice, when no one sees me but those cross

midgets, and no one cares whether I’m pretty or not?” she muttered,

shutting her drawer with a jerk. “I shall have to toil and moil all my

days, with only little bits of fun now and then, and get old and ugly

and sour, because I’m poor and can’t enjoy my life as other girls do.

It’s a shame!”

So Meg went down, wearing an injured look, and wasn’t at all agreeable

at breakfast time. Everyone seemed rather out of sorts and inclined to

croak.

Beth had a headache and lay on the sofa, trying to comfort herself with

the cat and three kittens. Amy was fretting because her lessons were

not learned, and she couldn’t find her rubbers. Jo would whistle and

make a great racket getting ready.

Mrs. March was very busy trying to finish a letter, which must go at

once, and Hannah had the grumps, for being up late didn’t suit her.

“There never was such a cross family!” cried Jo, losing her temper when

she had upset an inkstand, broken both boot lacings, and sat down upon

her hat.

“You’re the crossest person in it!” returned Amy, washing out the sum

that was all wrong with the tears that had fallen on her slate.

“Beth, if you don’t keep these horrid cats down cellar I’ll have them

drowned,” exclaimed Meg angrily as she tried to get rid of the kitten

which had scrambled up her back and stuck like a burr just out of

reach.

Jo laughed, Meg scolded, Beth implored, and Amy wailed because she

couldn’t remember how much nine times twelve was.

“Girls, girls, do be quiet one minute! I must get this off by the early

mail, and you drive me distracted with your worry,” cried Mrs. March,

crossing out the third spoiled sentence in her letter.

There was a momentary lull, broken by Hannah, who stalked in, laid two

hot turnovers on the table, and stalked out again. These turnovers were

an institution, and the girls called them ‘muffs’, for they had no

others and found the hot pies very comforting to their hands on cold

mornings.

Hannah never forgot to make them, no matter how busy or grumpy she

might be, for the walk was long and bleak. The poor things got no other

lunch and were seldom home before two.

“Cuddle your cats and get over your headache, Bethy. Goodbye, Marmee.

We are a set of rascals this morning, but we’ll come home regular

angels. Now then, Meg!” And Jo tramped away, feeling that the pilgrims

were not setting out as they ought to do.

They always looked back before turning the corner, for their mother was

always at the window to nod and smile, and wave her hand to them.

Somehow it seemed as if they couldn’t have got through the day without

that, for whatever their mood might be, the last glimpse of that

motherly face was sure to affect them like sunshine.

“If Marmee shook her fist instead of kissing her hand to us, it would

serve us right, for more ungrateful wretches than we are were never

seen,” cried Jo, taking a remorseful satisfaction in the snowy walk and

bitter wind.

“Don’t use such dreadful expressions,” replied Meg from the depths of

the veil in which she had shrouded herself like a nun sick of the

world.

“I like good strong words that mean something,” replied Jo, catching

her hat as it took a leap off her head preparatory to flying away

altogether.

“Call yourself any names you like, but I am neither a rascal nor a

wretch and I don’t choose to be called so.”

“You’re a blighted being, and decidedly cross today because you can’t

sit in the lap of luxury all the time. Poor dear, just wait till I make

my fortune, and you shall revel in carriages and ice cream and

high-heeled slippers, and posies, and red-headed boys to dance with.”

“How ridiculous you are, Jo!” But Meg laughed at the nonsense and felt

better in spite of herself.

“Lucky for you I am, for if I put on crushed airs and tried to be

dismal, as you do, we should be in a nice state. Thank goodness, I can

always find something funny to keep me up. Don’t croak any more, but

come home jolly, there’s a dear.”

Jo gave her sister an encouraging pat on the shoulder as they parted

for the day, each going a different way, each hugging her little warm

turnover, and each trying to be cheerful in spite of wintry weather,

hard work, and the unsatisfied desires of pleasure-loving youth.

When Mr. March lost his property in trying to help an unfortunate

friend, the two oldest girls begged to be allowed to do something

toward their own support, at least. Believing that they could not begin

too early to cultivate energy, industry, and independence, their

parents consented, and both fell to work with the hearty good will

which in spite of all obstacles is sure to succeed at last.

Margaret found a place as nursery governess and felt rich with her

small salary. As she said, she was ‘fond of luxury’, and her chief

trouble was poverty. She found it harder to bear than the others

because she could remember a time when home was beautiful, life full of

ease and pleasure, and want of any kind unknown. She tried not to be

envious or discontented, but it was very natural that the young girl

should long for pretty things, gay friends, accomplishments, and a

happy life. At the Kings’ she daily saw all she wanted, for the

children’s older sisters were just out, and Meg caught frequent

glimpses of dainty ball dresses and bouquets, heard lively gossip about

theaters, concerts, sleighing parties, and merrymakings of all kinds,

and saw money lavished on trifles which would have been so precious to

her. Poor Meg seldom complained, but a sense of injustice made her feel

bitter toward everyone sometimes, for she had not yet learned to know

how rich she was in the blessings which alone can make life happy.

Jo happened to suit Aunt March, who was lame and needed an active

person to wait upon her. The childless old lady had offered to adopt

one of the girls when the troubles came, and was much offended because

her offer was declined. Other friends told the Marches that they had

lost all chance of being remembered in the rich old lady’s will, but

the unworldly Marches only said...

“We can’t give up our girls for a dozen fortunes. Rich or poor, we will

keep together and be happy in one another.”

The old lady wouldn’t speak to them for a time, but happening to meet

Jo at a friend’s, something in her comical face and blunt manners

struck the old lady’s fancy, and she proposed to take her for a

companion. This did not suit Jo at all, but she accepted the place

since nothing better appeared and, to every one’s surprise, got on

remarkably well with her irascible relative. There was an occasional

tempest, and once Jo marched home, declaring she couldn’t bear it

longer, but Aunt March always cleared up quickly, and sent for her to

come back again with such urgency that she could not refuse, for in her

heart she rather liked the peppery old lady.

I suspect that the real attraction was a large library of fine books,

which was left to dust and spiders since Uncle March died. Jo

remembered the kind old gentleman, who used to let her build railroads

and bridges with his big dictionaries, tell her stories about queer

pictures in his Latin books, and buy her cards of gingerbread whenever

he met her in the street. The dim, dusty room, with the busts staring

down from the tall bookcases, the cozy chairs, the globes, and best of

all, the wilderness of books in which she could wander where she liked,

made the library a region of bliss to her.

The moment Aunt March took her nap, or was busy with company, Jo

hurried to this quiet place, and curling herself up in the easy chair,

devoured poetry, romance, history, travels, and pictures like a regular

bookworm. But, like all happiness, it did not last long, for as sure as

she had just reached the heart of the story, the sweetest verse of a

song, or the most perilous adventure of her traveler, a shrill voice

called, “Josy-phine! Josy-phine!” and she had to leave her paradise to

wind yarn, wash the poodle, or read Belsham’s Essays by the hour

together.

Jo’s ambition was to do something very splendid. What it was, she had

no idea as yet, but left it for time to tell her, and meanwhile, found

her greatest affliction in the fact that she couldn’t read, run, and

ride as much as she liked. A quick temper, sharp tongue, and restless

spirit were always getting her into scrapes, and her life was a series

of ups and downs, which were both comic and pathetic. But the training

she received at Aunt March’s was just what she needed, and the thought

that she was doing something to support herself made her happy in spite

of the perpetual “Josy-phine!”

Beth was too bashful to go to school. It had been tried, but she

suffered so much that it was given up, and she did her lessons at home

with her father. Even when he went away, and her mother was called to

devote her skill and energy to Soldiers’ Aid Societies, Beth went

faithfully on by herself and did the best she could. She was a

housewifely little creature, and helped Hannah keep home neat and

comfortable for the workers, never thinking of any reward but to be

loved. Long, quiet days she spent, not lonely nor idle, for her little

world was peopled with imaginary friends, and she was by nature a busy

bee. There were six dolls to be taken up and dressed every morning, for

Beth was a child still and loved her pets as well as ever. Not one

whole or handsome one among them, all were outcasts till Beth took them

in, for when her sisters outgrew these idols, they passed to her

because Amy would have nothing old or ugly. Beth cherished them all the

more tenderly for that very reason, and set up a hospital for infirm

dolls. No pins were ever stuck into their cotton vitals, no harsh words

or blows were ever given them, no neglect ever saddened the heart of

the most repulsive, but all were fed and clothed, nursed and caressed

with an affection which never failed. One forlorn fragment of dollanity

had belonged to Jo and, having led a tempestuous life, was left a wreck

in the rag bag, from which dreary poorhouse it was rescued by Beth and

taken to her refuge. Having no top to its head, she tied on a neat

little cap, and as both arms and legs were gone, she hid these

deficiencies by folding it in a blanket and devoting her best bed to

this chronic invalid. If anyone had known the care lavished on that

dolly, I think it would have touched their hearts, even while they

laughed. She brought it bits of bouquets, she read to it, took it out

to breathe fresh air, hidden under her coat, she sang it lullabies and

never went to bed without kissing its dirty face and whispering

tenderly, “I hope you’ll have a good night, my poor dear.”

Beth had her troubles as well as the others, and not being an angel but

a very human little girl, she often ‘wept a little weep’ as Jo said,

because she couldn’t take music lessons and have a fine piano. She

loved music so dearly, tried so hard to learn, and practiced away so

patiently at the jingling old instrument, that it did seem as if

someone (not to hint Aunt March) ought to help her. Nobody did,

however, and nobody saw Beth wipe the tears off the yellow keys, that

wouldn’t keep in tune, when she was all alone. She sang like a little

lark about her work, never was too tired for Marmee and the girls, and

day after day said hopefully to herself, “I know I’ll get my music some

time, if I’m good.”

There are many Beths in the world, shy and quiet, sitting in corners

till needed, and living for others so cheerfully that no one sees the

sacrifices till the little cricket on the hearth stops chirping, and

the sweet, sunshiny presence vanishes, leaving silence and shadow

behind.

If anybody had asked Amy what the greatest trial of her life was, she

would have answered at once, “My nose.” When she was a baby, Jo had

accidently dropped her into the coal hod, and Amy insisted that the

fall had ruined her nose forever. It was not big nor red, like poor

‘Petrea’s’, it was only rather flat, and all the pinching in the world

could not give it an aristocratic point. No one minded it but herself,

and it was doing its best to grow, but Amy felt deeply the want of a

Grecian nose, and drew whole sheets of handsome ones to console

herself.

“Little Raphael,” as her sisters called her, had a decided talent for

drawing, and was never so happy as when copying flowers, designing

fairies, or illustrating stories with queer specimens of art. Her

teachers complained that instead of doing her sums she covered her

slate with animals, the blank pages of her atlas were used to copy maps

on, and caricatures of the most ludicrous description came fluttering

out of all her books at unlucky moments. She got through her lessons as

well as she could, and managed to escape reprimands by being a model of

deportment. She was a great favorite with her mates, being

good-tempered and possessing the happy art of pleasing without effort.

Her little airs and graces were much admired, so were her

accomplishments, for besides her drawing, she could play twelve tunes,

crochet, and read French without mispronouncing more than two-thirds of

the words. She had a plaintive way of saying, “When Papa was rich we

did so-and-so,” which was very touching, and her long words were

considered ‘perfectly elegant’ by the girls.

Amy was in a fair way to be spoiled, for everyone petted her, and her

small vanities and selfishnesses were growing nicely. One thing,

however, rather quenched the vanities. She had to wear her cousin’s

clothes. Now Florence’s mama hadn’t a particle of taste, and Amy

suffered deeply at having to wear a red instead of a blue bonnet,

unbecoming gowns, and fussy aprons that did not fit. Everything was

good, well made, and little worn, but Amy’s artistic eyes were much

afflicted, especially this winter, when her school dress was a dull

purple with yellow dots and no trimming.

“My only comfort,” she said to Meg, with tears in her eyes, “is that

Mother doesn’t take tucks in my dresses whenever I’m naughty, as Maria

Parks’s mother does. My dear, it’s really dreadful, for sometimes she

is so bad her frock is up to her knees, and she can’t come to school.

When I think of this _deggerredation_, I feel that I can bear even my

flat nose and purple gown with yellow sky-rockets on it.”

Meg was Amy’s confidant and monitor, and by some strange attraction of

opposites Jo was gentle Beth’s. To Jo alone did the shy child tell her

thoughts, and over her big harum-scarum sister Beth unconsciously

exercised more influence than anyone in the family. The two older girls

were a great deal to one another, but each took one of the younger

sisters into her keeping and watched over her in her own way, ‘playing

mother’ they called it, and put their sisters in the places of

discarded dolls with the maternal instinct of little women.

“Has anybody got anything to tell? It’s been such a dismal day I’m

really dying for some amusement,” said Meg, as they sat sewing together

that evening.

“I had a queer time with Aunt today, and, as I got the best of it, I’ll

tell you about it,” began Jo, who dearly loved to tell stories. “I was

reading that everlasting Belsham, and droning away as I always do, for

Aunt soon drops off, and then I take out some nice book, and read like

fury till she wakes up. I actually made myself sleepy, and before she

began to nod, I gave such a gape that she asked me what I meant by

opening my mouth wide enough to take the whole book in at once.”

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

“Then she gave me a long lecture on my sins, and told me to sit and

think them over while she just ‘lost’ herself for a moment. She never

finds herself very soon, so the minute her cap began to bob like a

top-heavy dahlia, I whipped the _Vicar of Wakefield_ out of my pocket,

and read away, with one eye on him and one on Aunt. I’d just got to

where they all tumbled into the water when I forgot and laughed out

loud. Aunt woke up and, being more good-natured after her nap, told me

to read a bit and show what frivolous work I preferred to the worthy

and instructive Belsham. I did my very best, and she liked it, though

she only said...

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

child.’”

“Back I went, and made the Primroses as interesting as ever I could.

Once I was wicked enough to stop in a thrilling place, and say meekly,

‘I’m afraid it tires you, ma’am. Shan’t I stop now?’”

“She caught up her knitting, which had dropped out of her hands, gave

me a sharp look through her specs, and said, in her short way, ‘Finish

the chapter, and don’t be impertinent, miss’.”

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

“Oh, bless you, no! But she let old Belsham rest, and when I ran back

after my gloves this afternoon, there she was, so hard at the Vicar

that she didn’t hear me laugh as I danced a jig in the hall because of

the good time coming. What a pleasant life she might have if only she

chose! I don’t envy her much, in spite of her money, for after all rich

people have about as many worries as poor ones, I think,” added Jo.

“That reminds me,” said Meg, “that I’ve got something to tell. It isn’t

funny, like Jo’s story, but I thought about it a good deal as I came

home. At the Kings’ today I found everybody in a flurry, and one of the

children said that her oldest brother had done something dreadful, and

Papa had sent him away. I heard Mrs. King crying and Mr. King talking

very loud, and Grace and Ellen turned away their faces when they passed

me, so I shouldn’t see how red and swollen their eyes were. I didn’t

ask any questions, of course, but I felt so sorry for them and was

rather glad I hadn’t any wild brothers to do wicked things and disgrace

the family.”

“I think being disgraced in school is a great deal try_inger_ than

anything bad boys can do,” said Amy, shaking her head, as if her

experience of life had been a deep one. “Susie Perkins came to school

today with a lovely red carnelian ring. I wanted it dreadfully, and

wished I was her with all my might. Well, she drew a picture of Mr.

Davis, with a monstrous nose and a hump, and the words, ‘Young ladies,

my eye is upon you!’ coming out of his mouth in a balloon thing. We

were laughing over it when all of a sudden his eye _was_ on us, and he

ordered Susie to bring up her slate. She was _parry_lized with fright,

but she went, and oh, what _do_ you think he did? He took her by the

ear—the ear! Just fancy how horrid!—and led her to the recitation

platform, and made her stand there half an hour, holding the slate so

everyone could see.”

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

scrape.

“Laugh? Not one! They sat still as mice, and Susie cried quarts, I know

she did. I didn’t envy her then, for I felt that millions of carnelian

rings wouldn’t have made me happy after that. I never, never should

have got over such a agonizing mortification.” And Amy went on with her

work, in the proud consciousness of virtue and the successful utterance

of two long words in a breath.

“I saw something I liked this morning, and I meant to tell it at

dinner, but I forgot,” said Beth, putting Jo’s topsy-turvy basket in

order as she talked. “When I went to get some oysters for Hannah, Mr.

Laurence was in the fish shop, but he didn’t see me, for I kept behind

the fish barrel, and he was busy with Mr. Cutter the fish-man. A poor

woman came in with a pail and a mop, and asked Mr. Cutter if he would

let her do some scrubbing for a bit of fish, because she hadn’t any

dinner for her children, and had been disappointed of a day’s work. Mr.

Cutter was in a hurry and said ‘No’, rather crossly, so she was going

away, looking hungry and sorry, when Mr. Laurence hooked up a big fish

with the crooked end of his cane and held it out to her. She was so

glad and surprised she took it right into her arms, and thanked him

over and over. He told her to ‘go along and cook it’, and she hurried

off, so happy! Wasn’t it good of him? Oh, she did look so funny,

hugging the big, slippery fish, and hoping Mr. Laurence’s bed in heaven

would be ‘aisy’.”

When they had laughed at Beth’s story, they asked their mother for one,

and after a moments thought, she said soberly, “As I sat cutting out

blue flannel jackets today at the rooms, I felt very anxious about

Father, and thought how lonely and helpless we should be, if anything

happened to him. It was not a wise thing to do, but I kept on worrying

till an old man came in with an order for some clothes. He sat down

near me, and I began to talk to him, for he looked poor and tired and

anxious.

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

to me.”

“Yes, ma’am. I had four, but two were killed, one is a prisoner, and

I’m going to the other, who is very sick in a Washington hospital.’ he

answered quietly.”

“‘You have done a great deal for your country, sir,’ I said, feeling

respect now, instead of pity.”

“‘Not a mite more than I ought, ma’am. I’d go myself, if I was any use.

As I ain’t, I give my boys, and give ’em free.’”

“He spoke so cheerfully, looked so sincere, and seemed so glad to give

his all, that I was ashamed of myself. I’d given one man and thought it

too much, while he gave four without grudging them. I had all my girls

to comfort me at home, and his last son was waiting, miles away, to say

good-by to him, perhaps! I felt so rich, so happy thinking of my

blessings, that I made him a nice bundle, gave him some money, and

thanked him heartily for the lesson he had taught me.”

“Tell another story, Mother, one with a moral to it, like this. I like

to think about them afterward, if they are real and not too preachy,”

said Jo, after a minute’s silence.

Mrs. March smiled and began at once, for she had told stories to this

little audience for many years, and knew how to please them.

“Once upon a time, there were four girls, who had enough to eat and

drink and wear, a good many comforts and pleasures, kind friends and

parents who loved them dearly, and yet they were not contented.” (Here

the listeners stole sly looks at one another, and began to sew

diligently.) “These girls were anxious to be good and made many

excellent resolutions, but they did not keep them very well, and were

constantly saying, ‘If only we had this,’ or ‘If we could only do

that,’ quite forgetting how much they already had, and how many things

they actually could do. So they asked an old woman what spell they

could use to make them happy, and she said, ‘When you feel

discontented, think over your blessings, and be grateful.’” (Here Jo

looked up quickly, as if about to speak, but changed her mind, seeing

that the story was not done yet.)

“Being sensible girls, they decided to try her advice, and soon were

surprised to see how well off they were. One discovered that money

couldn’t keep shame and sorrow out of rich people’s houses, another

that, though she was poor, she was a great deal happier, with her

youth, health, and good spirits, than a certain fretful, feeble old

lady who couldn’t enjoy her comforts, a third that, disagreeable as it

was to help get dinner, it was harder still to go begging for it and

the fourth, that even carnelian rings were not so valuable as good

behavior. So they agreed to stop complaining, to enjoy the blessings

already possessed, and try to deserve them, lest they should be taken

away entirely, instead of increased, and I believe they were never

disappointed or sorry that they took the old woman’s advice.”

“Now, Marmee, that is very cunning of you to turn our own stories

against us, and give us a sermon instead of a romance!” cried Meg.

“I like that kind of sermon. It’s the sort Father used to tell us,”

said Beth thoughtfully, putting the needles straight on Jo’s cushion.

“I don’t complain near as much as the others do, and I shall be more

careful than ever now, for I’ve had warning from Susie’s downfall,”

said Amy morally.

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

say to us, as old Chloe did in _Uncle Tom_, ‘Tink ob yer marcies,

chillen!’ ‘Tink ob yer marcies!’” added Jo, who could not, for the life

of her, help getting a morsel of fun out of the little sermon, though

she took it to heart as much as any of them.

CHAPTER FIVE

BEING NEIGHBORLY

“What in the world are you going to do now, Jo?” asked Meg one snowy

afternoon, as her sister came tramping through the hall, in rubber

boots, old sack, and hood, with a broom in one hand and a shovel in the

other.

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

eyes.

“I should think two long walks this morning would have been enough!

It’s cold and dull out, and I advise you to stay warm and dry by the

fire, as I do,” said Meg with a shiver.

“Never take advice! Can’t keep still all day, and not being a pussycat,

I don’t like to doze by the fire. I like adventures, and I’m going to

find some.”

Meg went back to toast her feet and read _Ivanhoe_, and Jo began to dig

paths with great energy. The snow was light, and with her broom she

soon swept a path all round the garden, for Beth to walk in when the

sun came out and the invalid dolls needed air. Now, the garden

separated the Marches’ house from that of Mr. Laurence. Both stood in a

suburb of the city, which was still country-like, with groves and

lawns, large gardens, and quiet streets. A low hedge parted the two

estates. On one side was an old, brown house, looking rather bare and

shabby, robbed of the vines that in summer covered its walls and the

flowers, which then surrounded it. On the other side was a stately

stone mansion, plainly betokening every sort of comfort and luxury,

from the big coach house and well-kept grounds to the conservatory and

the glimpses of lovely things one caught between the rich curtains.

Yet it seemed a lonely, lifeless sort of house, for no children

frolicked on the lawn, no motherly face ever smiled at the windows, and

few people went in and out, except the old gentleman and his grandson.

To Jo’s lively fancy, this fine house seemed a kind of enchanted

palace, full of splendors and delights which no one enjoyed. She had

long wanted to behold these hidden glories, and to know the Laurence

boy, who looked as if he would like to be known, if he only knew how to

begin. Since the party, she had been more eager than ever, and had

planned many ways of making friends with him, but he had not been seen

lately, and Jo began to think he had gone away, when she one day spied

a brown face at an upper window, looking wistfully down into their

garden, where Beth and Amy were snow-balling one another.

“That boy is suffering for society and fun,” she said to herself. “His

grandpa does not know what’s good for him, and keeps him shut up all

alone. He needs a party of jolly boys to play with, or somebody young

and lively. I’ve a great mind to go over and tell the old gentleman

so!”

The idea amused Jo, who liked to do daring things and was always

scandalizing Meg by her queer performances. The plan of ‘going over’

was not forgotten. And when the snowy afternoon came, Jo resolved to

try what could be done. She saw Mr. Lawrence drive off, and then

sallied out to dig her way down to the hedge, where she paused and took

a survey. All quiet, curtains down at the lower windows, servants out

of sight, and nothing human visible but a curly black head leaning on a

thin hand at the upper window.

“There he is,” thought Jo, “Poor boy! All alone and sick this dismal

day. It’s a shame! I’ll toss up a snowball and make him look out, and

then say a kind word to him.”

Up went a handful of soft snow, and the head turned at once, showing a

face which lost its listless look in a minute, as the big eyes

brightened and the mouth began to smile. Jo nodded and laughed, and

flourished her broom as she called out...

“How do you do? Are you sick?”

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

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

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

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

“Don’t you read?”

“Not much. They won’t let me.”

“Can’t somebody read to you?”

“Grandpa does sometimes, but my books don’t interest him, and I hate to

ask Brooke all the time.”

“Have someone come and see you then.”

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

is weak.”

“Isn’t there some nice girl who’d read and amuse you? Girls are quiet

and like to play nurse.”

“Don’t know any.”

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

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

“I’m not quiet and nice, but I’ll come, if Mother will let me. I’ll go

ask her. Shut the window, like a good boy, and wait till I come.”

With that, Jo shouldered her broom and marched into the house,

wondering what they would all say to her. Laurie was in a flutter of

excitement at the idea of having company, and flew about to get ready,

for as Mrs. March said, he was ‘a little gentleman’, and did honor to

the coming guest by brushing his curly pate, putting on a fresh color,

and trying to tidy up the room, which in spite of half a dozen

servants, was anything but neat. Presently there came a loud ring, then

a decided voice, asking for ‘Mr. Laurie’, and a surprised-looking

servant came running up to announce a young lady.

“All right, show her up, it’s Miss Jo,” said Laurie, going to the door

of his little parlor to meet Jo, who appeared, looking rosy and quite

at her ease, with a covered dish in one hand and Beth’s three kittens

in the other.

“Here I am, bag and baggage,” she said briskly. “Mother sent her love,

and was glad if I could do anything for you. Meg wanted me to bring

some of her blanc mange, she makes it very nicely, and Beth thought her

cats would be comforting. I knew you’d laugh at them, but I couldn’t

refuse, she was so anxious to do something.”

It so happened that Beth’s funny loan was just the thing, for in

laughing over the kits, Laurie forgot his bashfulness, and grew

sociable at once.

“That looks too pretty to eat,” he said, smiling with pleasure, as Jo

uncovered the dish, and showed the blanc mange, surrounded by a garland

of green leaves, and the scarlet flowers of Amy’s pet geranium.

“It isn’t anything, only they all felt kindly and wanted to show it.

Tell the girl to put it away for your tea. It’s so simple you can eat

it, and being soft, it will slip down without hurting your sore throat.

What a cozy room this is!”

“It might be if it was kept nice, but the maids are lazy, and I don’t

know how to make them mind. It worries me though.”

“I’ll right it up in two minutes, for it only needs to have the hearth

brushed, so—and the things made straight on the mantelpiece, so—and the

books put here, and the bottles there, and your sofa turned from the

light, and the pillows plumped up a bit. Now then, you’re fixed.”

And so he was, for, as she laughed and talked, Jo had whisked things

into place and given quite a different air to the room. Laurie watched

her in respectful silence, and when she beckoned him to his sofa, he

sat down with a sigh of satisfaction, saying gratefully...

“How kind you are! Yes, that’s what it wanted. Now please take the big

chair and let me do something to amuse my company.”

“No, I came to amuse you. Shall I read aloud?” and Jo looked

affectionately toward some inviting books near by.

“Thank you! I’ve read all those, and if you don’t mind, I’d rather

talk,” answered Laurie.

“Not a bit. I’ll talk all day if you’ll only set me going. Beth says I

never know when to stop.”

“Is Beth the rosy one, who stays at home good deal and sometimes goes

out with a little basket?” asked Laurie with interest.

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

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

“How did you find that out?”

Laurie colored up, but answered frankly, “Why, you see I often hear you

calling to one another, and when I’m alone up here, I can’t help

looking over at your house, you always seem to be having such good

times. I beg your pardon for being so rude, but sometimes you forget to

put down the curtain at the window where the flowers are. And when the

lamps are lighted, it’s like looking at a picture to see the fire, and

you all around the table with your mother. Her face is right opposite,

and it looks so sweet behind the flowers, I can’t help watching it. I

haven’t got any mother, you know.” And Laurie poked the fire to hide a

little twitching of the lips that he could not control.

The solitary, hungry look in his eyes went straight to Jo’s warm heart.

She had been so simply taught that there was no nonsense in her head,

and at fifteen she was as innocent and frank as any child. Laurie was

sick and lonely, and feeling how rich she was in home and happiness,

she gladly tried to share it with him. Her face was very friendly and

her sharp voice unusually gentle as she said...

“We’ll never draw that curtain any more, and I give you leave to look

as much as you like. I just wish, though, instead of peeping, you’d

come over and see us. Mother is so splendid, she’d do you heaps of

good, and Beth would sing to you if I begged her to, and Amy would

dance. Meg and I would make you laugh over our funny stage properties,

and we’d have jolly times. Wouldn’t your grandpa let you?”

“I think he would, if your mother asked him. He’s very kind, though he

does not look so, and he lets me do what I like, pretty much, only he’s

afraid I might be a bother to strangers,” began Laurie, brightening

more and more.

“We are not strangers, we are neighbors, and you needn’t think you’d be

a bother. We want to know you, and I’ve been trying to do it this ever

so long. We haven’t been here a great while, you know, but we have got

acquainted with all our neighbors but you.”

“You see, Grandpa lives among his books, and doesn’t mind much what

happens outside. Mr. Brooke, my tutor, doesn’t stay here, you know, and

I have no one to go about with me, so I just stop at home and get on as

I can.”

“That’s bad. You ought to make an effort and go visiting everywhere you

are asked, then you’ll have plenty of friends, and pleasant places to

go to. Never mind being bashful. It won’t last long if you keep going.”

Laurie turned red again, but wasn’t offended at being accused of

bashfulness, for there was so much good will in Jo it was impossible

not to take her blunt speeches as kindly as they were meant.

“Do you like your school?” asked the boy, changing the subject, after a

little pause, during which he stared at the fire and Jo looked about

her, well pleased.

“Don’t go to school, I’m a businessman—girl, I mean. I go to wait on my

great-aunt, and a dear, cross old soul she is, too,” answered Jo.

Laurie opened his mouth to ask another question, but remembering just

in time that it wasn’t manners to make too many inquiries into people’s

affairs, he shut it again, and looked uncomfortable.

Jo liked his good breeding, and didn’t mind having a laugh at Aunt

March, so she gave him a lively description of the fidgety old lady,

her fat poodle, the parrot that talked Spanish, and the library where

she reveled.

Laurie enjoyed that immensely, and when she told about the prim old

gentleman who came once to woo Aunt March, and in the middle of a fine

speech, how Poll had tweaked his wig off to his great dismay, the boy

lay back and laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks, and a maid

popped her head in to see what was the matter.

“Oh! That does me no end of good. Tell on, please,” he said, taking his

face out of the sofa cushion, red and shining with merriment.

Much elated with her success, Jo did ‘tell on’, all about their plays

and plans, their hopes and fears for Father, and the most interesting

events of the little world in which the sisters lived. Then they got to

talking about books, and to Jo’s delight, she found that Laurie loved

them as well as she did, and had read even more than herself.

“If you like them so much, come down and see ours. Grandfather is out,

so you needn’t be afraid,” said Laurie, getting up.

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

“I don’t believe you are!” exclaimed the boy, looking at her with much

admiration, though he privately thought she would have good reason to

be a trifle afraid of the old gentleman, if she met him in some of his

moods.

The atmosphere of the whole house being summerlike, Laurie led the way

from room to room, letting Jo stop to examine whatever struck her

fancy. And so, at last they came to the library, where she clapped her

hands and pranced, as she always did when especially delighted. It was

lined with books, and there were pictures and statues, and distracting

little cabinets full of coins and curiosities, and Sleepy Hollow

chairs, and queer tables, and bronzes, and best of all, a great open

fireplace with quaint tiles all round it.

“What richness!” sighed Jo, sinking into the depth of a velour chair

and gazing about her with an air of intense satisfaction. “Theodore

Laurence, you ought to be the happiest boy in the world,” she added

impressively.

“A fellow can’t live on books,” said Laurie, shaking his head as he

perched on a table opposite.

Before he could say more, a bell rang, and Jo flew up, exclaiming with

alarm, “Mercy me! It’s your grandpa!”

“Well, what if it is? You are not afraid of anything, you know,”

returned the boy, looking wicked.

“I think I am a little bit afraid of him, but I don’t know why I should

be. Marmee said I might come, and I don’t think you’re any the worse

for it,” said Jo, composing herself, though she kept her eyes on the

door.

“I’m a great deal better for it, and ever so much obliged. I’m only

afraid you are very tired of talking to me. It was so pleasant, I

couldn’t bear to stop,” said Laurie gratefully.

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

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

said Laurie.

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

Laurie went away, and his guest amused herself in her own way. She was

standing before a fine portrait of the old gentleman when the door

opened again, and without turning, she said decidedly, “I’m sure now

that I shouldn’t be afraid of him, for he’s got kind eyes, though his

mouth is grim, and he looks as if he had a tremendous will of his own.

He isn’t as handsome as my grandfather, but I like him.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” said a gruff voice behind her, and there, to her

great dismay, stood old Mr. Laurence.

Poor Jo blushed till she couldn’t blush any redder, and her heart began

to beat uncomfortably fast as she thought what she had said. For a

minute a wild desire to run away possessed her, but that was cowardly,

and the girls would laugh at her, so she resolved to stay and get out

of the scrape as she could. A second look showed her that the living

eyes, under the bushy eyebrows, were kinder even than the painted ones,

and there was a sly twinkle in them, which lessened her fear a good

deal. The gruff voice was gruffer than ever, as the old gentleman said

abruptly, after the dreadful pause, “So you’re not afraid of me, hey?”

“Not much, sir.”

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

“Not quite, sir.”

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

“I only said I thought so.”

“But you like me in spite of it?”

“Yes, I do, sir.”

That answer pleased the old gentleman. He gave a short laugh, shook

hands with her, and, putting his finger under her chin, turned up her

face, examined it gravely, and let it go, saying with a nod, “You’ve

got your grandfather’s spirit, if you haven’t his face. He was a fine

man, my dear, but what is better, he was a brave and an honest one, and

I was proud to be his friend.”

“Thank you, sir,” And Jo was quite comfortable after that, for it

suited her exactly.

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

question, sharply put.

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

about.

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

“Yes, sir, he seems a little lonely, and young folks would do him good

perhaps. We are only girls, but we should be glad to help if we could,

for we don’t forget the splendid Christmas present you sent us,” said

Jo eagerly.

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

“Doing nicely, sir.” And off went Jo, talking very fast, as she told

all about the Hummels, in whom her mother had interested richer friends

than they were.

“Just her father’s way of doing good. I shall come and see your mother

some fine day. Tell her so. There’s the tea bell, we have it early on

the boy’s account. Come down and go on being neighborly.”

“If you’d like to have me, sir.”

“Shouldn’t ask you, if I didn’t.” And Mr. Laurence offered her his arm

with old-fashioned courtesy.

“What would Meg say to this?” thought Jo, as she was marched away,

while her eyes danced with fun as she imagined herself telling the

story at home.

“Hey! Why, what the dickens has come to the fellow?” said the old

gentleman, as Laurie came running downstairs and brought up with a

start of surprise at the astounding sight of Jo arm in arm with his

redoubtable grandfather.

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

little glance.

“That’s evident, by the way you racket downstairs. Come to your tea,

sir, and behave like a gentleman.” And having pulled the boy’s hair by

way of a caress, Mr. Laurence walked on, while Laurie went through a

series of comic evolutions behind their backs, which nearly produced an

explosion of laughter from Jo.

The old gentleman did not say much as he drank his four cups of tea,

but he watched the young people, who soon chatted away like old

friends, and the change in his grandson did not escape him. There was

color, light, and life in the boy’s face now, vivacity in his manner,

and genuine merriment in his laugh.

“She’s right, the lad is lonely. I’ll see what these little girls can

do for him,” thought Mr. Laurence, as he looked and listened. He liked

Jo, for her odd, blunt ways suited him, and she seemed to understand

the boy almost as well as if she had been one herself.

If the Laurences had been what Jo called ‘prim and poky’, she would not

have got on at all, for such people always made her shy and awkward.

But finding them free and easy, she was so herself, and made a good

impression. When they rose she proposed to go, but Laurie said he had

something more to show her, and took her away to the conservatory,

which had been lighted for her benefit. It seemed quite fairylike to

Jo, as she went up and down the walks, enjoying the blooming walls on

either side, the soft light, the damp sweet air, and the wonderful

vines and trees that hung about her, while her new friend cut the

finest flowers till his hands were full. Then he tied them up, saying,

with the happy look Jo liked to see, “Please give these to your mother,

and tell her I like the medicine she sent me very much.”

They found Mr. Laurence standing before the fire in the great drawing

room, but Jo’s attention was entirely absorbed by a grand piano, which

stood open.

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

expression.

“Sometimes,” he answered modestly.

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

“Won’t you first?”

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

So Laurie played and Jo listened, with her nose luxuriously buried in

heliotrope and tea roses. Her respect and regard for the ‘Laurence’ boy

increased very much, for he played remarkably well and didn’t put on

any airs. She wished Beth could hear him, but she did not say so, only

praised him till he was quite abashed, and his grandfather came to his

rescue.

“That will do, that will do, young lady. Too many sugarplums are not

good for him. His music isn’t bad, but I hope he will do as well in

more important things. Going? well, I’m much obliged to you, and I hope

you’ll come again. My respects to your mother. Good night, Doctor Jo.”

He shook hands kindly, but looked as if something did not please him.

When they got into the hall, Jo asked Laurie if she had said something

amiss. He shook his head.

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

“Why not?”

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

“No need of that. I am not a young lady, and it’s only a step. Take

care of yourself, won’t you?”

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

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

“I will.”

“Good night, Laurie!”

“Good night, Jo, good night!”

When all the afternoon’s adventures had been told, the family felt

inclined to go visiting in a body, for each found something very

attractive in the big house on the other side of the hedge. Mrs. March

wanted to talk of her father with the old man who had not forgotten

him, Meg longed to walk in the conservatory, Beth sighed for the grand

piano, and Amy was eager to see the fine pictures and statues.

“Mother, why didn’t Mr. Laurence like to have Laurie play?” asked Jo,

who was of an inquiring disposition.

“I am not sure, but I think it was because his son, Laurie’s father,

married an Italian lady, a musician, which displeased the old man, who

is very proud. The lady was good and lovely and accomplished, but he

did not like her, and never saw his son after he married. They both

died when Laurie was a little child, and then his grandfather took him

home. I fancy the boy, who was born in Italy, is not very strong, and

the old man is afraid of losing him, which makes him so careful. Laurie

comes naturally by his love of music, for he is like his mother, and I

dare say his grandfather fears that he may want to be a musician. At

any rate, his skill reminds him of the woman he did not like, and so he

‘glowered’ as Jo said.”

“Dear me, how romantic!” exclaimed Meg.

“How silly!” said Jo. “Let him be a musician if he wants to, and not

plague his life out sending him to college, when he hates to go.”

“That’s why he has such handsome black eyes and pretty manners, I

suppose. Italians are always nice,” said Meg, who was a little

sentimental.

“What do you know about his eyes and his manners? You never spoke to

him, hardly,” cried Jo, who was not sentimental.

“I saw him at the party, and what you tell shows that he knows how to

behave. That was a nice little speech about the medicine Mother sent

him.”

“He meant the blanc mange, I suppose.”

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

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

before.

“I never saw such a girl! You don’t know a compliment when you get it,”

said Meg, with the air of a young lady who knew all about the matter.

“I think they are great nonsense, and I’ll thank you not to be silly

and spoil my fun. Laurie’s a nice boy and I like him, and I won’t have

any sentimental stuff about compliments and such rubbish. We’ll all be

good to him because he hasn’t got any mother, and he may come over and

see us, mayn’t he, Marmee?”

“Yes, Jo, your little friend is very welcome, and I hope Meg will

remember that children should be children as long as they can.”

“I don’t call myself a child, and I’m not in my teens yet,” observed

Amy. “What do you say, Beth?”

“I was thinking about our ‘_Pilgrim’s Progress_’,” answered Beth, who

had not heard a word. “How we got out of the Slough and through the

Wicket Gate by resolving to be good, and up the steep hill by trying,

and that maybe the house over there, full of splendid things, is going

to be our Palace Beautiful.”

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

liked the prospect.

CHAPTER SIX

BETH FINDS THE PALACE BEAUTIFUL

The big house did prove a Palace Beautiful, though it took some time

for all to get in, and Beth found it very hard to pass the lions. Old

Mr. Laurence was the biggest one, but after he had called, said

something funny or kind to each one of the girls, and talked over old

times with their mother, nobody felt much afraid of him, except timid

Beth. The other lion was the fact that they were poor and Laurie rich,

for this made them shy of accepting favors which they could not return.

But, after a while, they found that he considered them the benefactors,

and could not do enough to show how grateful he was for Mrs. March’s

motherly welcome, their cheerful society, and the comfort he took in

that humble home of theirs. So they soon forgot their pride and

interchanged kindnesses without stopping to think which was the

greater.

All sorts of pleasant things happened about that time, for the new

friendship flourished like grass in spring. Every one liked Laurie, and

he privately informed his tutor that “the Marches were regularly

splendid girls.” With the delightful enthusiasm of youth, they took the

solitary boy into their midst and made much of him, and he found

something very charming in the innocent companionship of these

simple-hearted girls. Never having known mother or sisters, he was

quick to feel the influences they brought about him, and their busy,

lively ways made him ashamed of the indolent life he led. He was tired

of books, and found people so interesting now that Mr. Brooke was

obliged to make very unsatisfactory reports, for Laurie was always

playing truant and running over to the Marches’.

“Never mind, let him take a holiday, and make it up afterward,” said

the old gentleman. “The good lady next door says he is studying too

hard and needs young society, amusement, and exercise. I suspect she is

right, and that I’ve been coddling the fellow as if I’d been his

grandmother. Let him do what he likes, as long as he is happy. He can’t

get into mischief in that little nunnery over there, and Mrs. March is

doing more for him than we can.”

What good times they had, to be sure. Such plays and tableaux, such

sleigh rides and skating frolics, such pleasant evenings in the old

parlor, and now and then such gay little parties at the great house.

Meg could walk in the conservatory whenever she liked and revel in

bouquets, Jo browsed over the new library voraciously, and convulsed

the old gentleman with her criticisms, Amy copied pictures and enjoyed

beauty to her heart’s content, and Laurie played ‘lord of the manor’ in

the most delightful style.

But Beth, though yearning for the grand piano, could not pluck up

courage to go to the ‘Mansion of Bliss’, as Meg called it. She went

once with Jo, but the old gentleman, not being aware of her infirmity,

stared at her so hard from under his heavy eyebrows, and said “Hey!” so

loud, that he frightened her so much her ‘feet chattered on the floor’,

she never told her mother, and she ran away, declaring she would never

go there any more, not even for the dear piano. No persuasions or

enticements could overcome her fear, till, the fact coming to Mr.

Laurence’s ear in some mysterious way, he set about mending matters.

During one of the brief calls he made, he artfully led the conversation

to music, and talked away about great singers whom he had seen, fine

organs he had heard, and told such charming anecdotes that Beth found

it impossible to stay in her distant corner, but crept nearer and

nearer, as if fascinated. At the back of his chair she stopped and

stood listening, with her great eyes wide open and her cheeks red with

excitement of this unusual performance. Taking no more notice of her

than if she had been a fly, Mr. Laurence talked on about Laurie’s

lessons and teachers. And presently, as if the idea had just occurred

to him, he said to Mrs. March...

“The boy neglects his music now, and I’m glad of it, for he was getting

too fond of it. But the piano suffers for want of use. Wouldn’t some of

your girls like to run over, and practice on it now and then, just to

keep it in tune, you know, ma’am?”

Beth took a step forward, and pressed her hands tightly together to

keep from clapping them, for this was an irresistible temptation, and

the thought of practicing on that splendid instrument quite took her

breath away. Before Mrs. March could reply, Mr. Laurence went on with

an odd little nod and smile...

“They needn’t see or speak to anyone, but run in at any time. For I’m

shut up in my study at the other end of the house, Laurie is out a

great deal, and the servants are never near the drawing room after nine

o’clock.”

Here he rose, as if going, and Beth made up her mind to speak, for that

last arrangement left nothing to be desired. “Please, tell the young

ladies what I say, and if they don’t care to come, why, never mind.”

Here a little hand slipped into his, and Beth looked up at him with a

face full of gratitude, as she said, in her earnest yet timid way...

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

“Are you the musical girl?” he asked, without any startling “Hey!” as

he looked down at her very kindly.

“I’m Beth. I love it dearly, and I’ll come, if you are quite sure

nobody will hear me, and be disturbed,” she added, fearing to be rude,

and trembling at her own boldness as she spoke.

“Not a soul, my dear. The house is empty half the day, so come and drum

away as much as you like, and I shall be obliged to you.”

“How kind you are, sir!”

Beth blushed like a rose under the friendly look he wore, but she was

not frightened now, and gave the hand a grateful squeeze because she

had no words to thank him for the precious gift he had given her. The

old gentleman softly stroked the hair off her forehead, and, stooping

down, he kissed her, saying, in a tone few people ever heard...

“I had a little girl once, with eyes like these. God bless you, my

dear! Good day, madam.” And away he went, in a great hurry.

Beth had a rapture with her mother, and then rushed up to impart the

glorious news to her family of invalids, as the girls were not home.

How blithely she sang that evening, and how they all laughed at her

because she woke Amy in the night by playing the piano on her face in

her sleep. Next day, having seen both the old and young gentleman out

of the house, Beth, after two or three retreats, fairly got in at the

side door, and made her way as noiselessly as any mouse to the drawing

room where her idol stood. Quite by accident, of course, some pretty,

easy music lay on the piano, and with trembling fingers and frequent

stops to listen and look about, Beth at last touched the great

instrument, and straightway forgot her fear, herself, and everything

else but the unspeakable delight which the music gave her, for it was

like the voice of a beloved friend.

She stayed till Hannah came to take her home to dinner, but she had no

appetite, and could only sit and smile upon everyone in a general state

of beatitude.

After that, the little brown hood slipped through the hedge nearly

every day, and the great drawing room was haunted by a tuneful spirit

that came and went unseen. She never knew that Mr. Laurence opened his

study door to hear the old-fashioned airs he liked. She never saw

Laurie mount guard in the hall to warn the servants away. She never

suspected that the exercise books and new songs which she found in the

rack were put there for her especial benefit, and when he talked to her

about music at home, she only thought how kind he was to tell things

that helped her so much. So she enjoyed herself heartily, and found,

what isn’t always the case, that her granted wish was all she had

hoped. Perhaps it was because she was so grateful for this blessing

that a greater was given her. At any rate she deserved both.

“Mother, I’m going to work Mr. Laurence a pair of slippers. He is so

kind to me, I must thank him, and I don’t know any other way. Can I do

it?” asked Beth, a few weeks after that eventful call of his.

“Yes, dear. It will please him very much, and be a nice way of thanking

him. The girls will help you about them, and I will pay for the making

up,” replied Mrs. March, who took peculiar pleasure in granting Beth’s

requests because she so seldom asked anything for herself.

After many serious discussions with Meg and Jo, the pattern was chosen,

the materials bought, and the slippers begun. A cluster of grave yet

cheerful pansies on a deeper purple ground was pronounced very

appropriate and pretty, and Beth worked away early and late, with

occasional lifts over hard parts. She was a nimble little needlewoman,

and they were finished before anyone got tired of them. Then she wrote

a short, simple note, and with Laurie’s help, got them smuggled onto

the study table one morning before the old gentleman was up.

When this excitement was over, Beth waited to see what would happen.

All day passed and a part of the next before any acknowledgement

arrived, and she was beginning to fear she had offended her crochety

friend. On the afternoon of the second day, she went out to do an

errand, and give poor Joanna, the invalid doll, her daily exercise. As

she came up the street, on her return, she saw three, yes, four heads

popping in and out of the parlor windows, and the moment they saw her,

several hands were waved, and several joyful voices screamed...

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

“Oh, Beth, he’s sent you...” began Amy, gesticulating with unseemly

energy, but she got no further, for Jo quenched her by slamming down

the window.

Beth hurried on in a flutter of suspense. At the door her sisters

seized and bore her to the parlor in a triumphal procession, all

pointing and all saying at once, “Look there! Look there!” Beth did

look, and turned pale with delight and surprise, for there stood a

little cabinet piano, with a letter lying on the glossy lid, directed

like a sign board to “Miss Elizabeth March.”

“For me?” gasped Beth, holding onto Jo and feeling as if she should

tumble down, it was such an overwhelming thing altogether.

“Yes, all for you, my precious! Isn’t it splendid of him? Don’t you

think he’s the dearest old man in the world? Here’s the key in the

letter. We didn’t open it, but we are dying to know what he says,”

cried Jo, hugging her sister and offering the note.

“You read it! I can’t, I feel so queer! Oh, it is too lovely!” and Beth

hid her face in Jo’s apron, quite upset by her present.

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

were...

“Miss March: “Dear Madam—”

“How nice it sounds! I wish someone would write to me so!” said Amy,

who thought the old-fashioned address very elegant.

“‘I have had many pairs of slippers in my life, but I never had any

that suited me so well as yours,’” continues Jo. “‘Heart’s-ease is my

favorite flower, and these will always remind me of the gentle giver. I

like to pay my debts, so I know you will allow ‘the old gentleman’ to

send you something which once belonged to the little grand daughter he

lost. With hearty thanks and best wishes, I remain “‘Your grateful

friend and humble servant, ‘JAMES LAURENCE’.”

“There, Beth, that’s an honor to be proud of, I’m sure! Laurie told me

how fond Mr. Laurence used to be of the child who died, and how he kept

all her little things carefully. Just think, he’s given you her piano.

That comes of having big blue eyes and loving music,” said Jo, trying

to soothe Beth, who trembled and looked more excited than she had ever

been before.

“See the cunning brackets to hold candles, and the nice green silk,

puckered up, with a gold rose in the middle, and the pretty rack and

stool, all complete,” added Meg, opening the instrument and displaying

its beauties.

“‘Your humble servant, James Laurence’. Only think of his writing that

to you. I’ll tell the girls. They’ll think it’s splendid,” said Amy,

much impressed by the note.

“Try it, honey. Let’s hear the sound of the baby pianny,” said Hannah,

who always took a share in the family joys and sorrows.

So Beth tried it, and everyone pronounced it the most remarkable piano

ever heard. It had evidently been newly tuned and put in apple-pie

order, but, perfect as it was, I think the real charm lay in the

happiest of all happy faces which leaned over it, as Beth lovingly

touched the beautiful black and white keys and pressed the bright

pedals.

“You’ll have to go and thank him,” said Jo, by way of a joke, for the

idea of the child’s really going never entered her head.

“Yes, I mean to. I guess I’ll go now, before I get frightened thinking

about it.” And, to the utter amazement of the assembled family, Beth

walked deliberately down the garden, through the hedge, and in at the

Laurences’ door.

“Well, I wish I may die if it ain’t the queerest thing I ever see! The

pianny has turned her head! She’d never have gone in her right mind,”

cried Hannah, staring after her, while the girls were rendered quite

speechless by the miracle.

They would have been still more amazed if they had seen what Beth did

afterward. If you will believe me, she went and knocked at the study

door before she gave herself time to think, and when a gruff voice

called out, “come in!” she did go in, right up to Mr. Laurence, who

looked quite taken aback, and held out her hand, saying, with only a

small quaver in her voice, “I came to thank you, sir, for...” But she

didn’t finish, for he looked so friendly that she forgot her speech

and, only remembering that he had lost the little girl he loved, she

put both arms round his neck and kissed him.

If the roof of the house had suddenly flown off, the old gentleman

wouldn’t have been more astonished. But he liked it. Oh, dear, yes, he

liked it amazingly! And was so touched and pleased by that confiding

little kiss that all his crustiness vanished, and he just set her on

his knee, and laid his wrinkled cheek against her rosy one, feeling as

if he had got his own little granddaughter back again. Beth ceased to

fear him from that moment, and sat there talking to him as cozily as if

she had known him all her life, for love casts out fear, and gratitude

can conquer pride. When she went home, he walked with her to her own

gate, shook hands cordially, and touched his hat as he marched back

again, looking very stately and erect, like a handsome, soldierly old

gentleman, as he was.

When the girls saw that performance, Jo began to dance a jig, by way of

expressing her satisfaction, Amy nearly fell out of the window in her

surprise, and Meg exclaimed, with up-lifted hands, “Well, I do believe

the world is coming to an end.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

AMY’S VALLEY OF HUMILIATION

“That boy is a perfect cyclops, isn’t he?” said Amy one day, as Laurie

clattered by on horseback, with a flourish of his whip as he passed.

“How dare you say so, when he’s got both his eyes? And very handsome

ones they are, too,” cried Jo, who resented any slighting remarks about

her friend.

“I didn’t say anything about his eyes, and I don’t see why you need

fire up when I admire his riding.”

“Oh, my goodness! That little goose means a centaur, and she called him

a Cyclops,” exclaimed Jo, with a burst of laughter.

“You needn’t be so rude, it’s only a ‘lapse of lingy’, as Mr. Davis

says,” retorted Amy, finishing Jo with her Latin. “I just wish I had a

little of the money Laurie spends on that horse,” she added, as if to

herself, yet hoping her sisters would hear.

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

second blunder.

“I need it so much. I’m dreadfully in debt, and it won’t be my turn to

have the rag money for a month.”

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

“Why, I owe at least a dozen pickled limes, and I can’t pay them, you

know, till I have money, for Marmee forbade my having anything charged

at the shop.”

“Tell me all about it. Are limes the fashion now? It used to be

pricking bits of rubber to make balls.” And Meg tried to keep her

countenance, Amy looked so grave and important.

“Why, you see, the girls are always buying them, and unless you want to

be thought mean, you must do it too. It’s nothing but limes now, for

everyone is sucking them in their desks in schooltime, and trading them

off for pencils, bead rings, paper dolls, or something else, at recess.

If one girl likes another, she gives her a lime. If she’s mad with her,

she eats one before her face, and doesn’t offer even a suck. They treat

by turns, and I’ve had ever so many but haven’t returned them, and I

ought for they are debts of honor, you know.”

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

out her purse.

“A quarter would more than do it, and leave a few cents over for a

treat for you. Don’t you like limes?”

“Not much. You may have my share. Here’s the money. Make it last as

long as you can, for it isn’t very plenty, you know.”

“Oh, thank you! It must be so nice to have pocket money! I’ll have a

grand feast, for I haven’t tasted a lime this week. I felt delicate

about taking any, as I couldn’t return them, and I’m actually suffering

for one.”

Next day Amy was rather late at school, but could not resist the

temptation of displaying, with pardonable pride, a moist brown-paper

parcel, before she consigned it to the inmost recesses of her desk.

During the next few minutes the rumor that Amy March had got

twenty-four delicious limes (she ate one on the way) and was going to

treat circulated through her ‘set’, and the attentions of her friends

became quite overwhelming. Katy Brown invited her to her next party on

the spot. Mary Kingsley insisted on lending her her watch till recess,

and Jenny Snow, a satirical young lady, who had basely twitted Amy upon

her limeless state, promptly buried the hatchet and offered to furnish

answers to certain appalling sums. But Amy had not forgotten Miss

Snow’s cutting remarks about ‘some persons whose noses were not too

flat to smell other people’s limes, and stuck-up people who were not

too proud to ask for them’, and she instantly crushed ‘that Snow

girl’s’ hopes by the withering telegram, “You needn’t be so polite all

of a sudden, for you won’t get any.”

A distinguished personage happened to visit the school that morning,

and Amy’s beautifully drawn maps received praise, which honor to her

foe rankled in the soul of Miss Snow, and caused Miss March to assume

the airs of a studious young peacock. But, alas, alas! Pride goes

before a fall, and the revengeful Snow turned the tables with

disastrous success. No sooner had the guest paid the usual stale

compliments and bowed himself out, than Jenny, under pretense of asking

an important question, informed Mr. Davis, the teacher, that Amy March

had pickled limes in her desk.

Now Mr. Davis had declared limes a contraband article, and solemnly

vowed to publicly ferrule the first person who was found breaking the

law. This much-enduring man had succeeded in banishing chewing gum

after a long and stormy war, had made a bonfire of the confiscated

novels and newspapers, had suppressed a private post office, had

forbidden distortions of the face, nicknames, and caricatures, and done

all that one man could do to keep half a hundred rebellious girls in

order. Boys are trying enough to human patience, goodness knows, but

girls are infinitely more so, especially to nervous gentlemen with

tyrannical tempers and no more talent for teaching than Dr. Blimber.

Mr. Davis knew any quantity of Greek, Latin, algebra, and ologies of

all sorts so he was called a fine teacher, and manners, morals,

feelings, and examples were not considered of any particular

importance. It was a most unfortunate moment for denouncing Amy, and

Jenny knew it. Mr. Davis had evidently taken his coffee too strong that

morning, there was an east wind, which always affected his neuralgia,

and his pupils had not done him the credit which he felt he deserved.

Therefore, to use the expressive, if not elegant, language of a

schoolgirl, “He was as nervous as a witch and as cross as a bear”. The

word ‘limes’ was like fire to powder, his yellow face flushed, and he

rapped on his desk with an energy which made Jenny skip to her seat

with unusual rapidity.

“Young ladies, attention, if you please!”

At the stern order the buzz ceased, and fifty pairs of blue, black,

gray, and brown eyes were obediently fixed upon his awful countenance.

“Miss March, come to the desk.”

Amy rose to comply with outward composure, but a secret fear oppressed

her, for the limes weighed upon her conscience.

“Bring with you the limes you have in your desk,” was the unexpected

command which arrested her before she got out of her seat.

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

presence of mind.

Amy hastily shook out half a dozen and laid the rest down before Mr.

Davis, feeling that any man possessing a human heart would relent when

that delicious perfume met his nose. Unfortunately, Mr. Davis

particularly detested the odor of the fashionable pickle, and disgust

added to his wrath.

“Is that all?”

“Not quite,” stammered Amy.

“Bring the rest immediately.”

With a despairing glance at her set, she obeyed.

“You are sure there are no more?”

“I never lie, sir.”

“So I see. Now take these disgusting things two by two, and throw them

out of the window.”

There was a simultaneous sigh, which created quite a little gust, as

the last hope fled, and the treat was ravished from their longing lips.

Scarlet with shame and anger, Amy went to and fro six dreadful times,

and as each doomed couple, looking oh, so plump and juicy, fell from

her reluctant hands, a shout from the street completed the anguish of

the girls, for it told them that their feast was being exulted over by

the little Irish children, who were their sworn foes. This—this was too

much. All flashed indignant or appealing glances at the inexorable

Davis, and one passionate lime lover burst into tears.

As Amy returned from her last trip, Mr. Davis gave a portentous “Hem!”

and said, in his most impressive manner...

“Young ladies, you remember what I said to you a week ago. I am sorry

this has happened, but I never allow my rules to be infringed, and I

never break my word. Miss March, hold out your hand.”

Amy started, and put both hands behind her, turning on him an imploring

look which pleaded for her better than the words she could not utter.

She was rather a favorite with ‘old Davis’, as, of course, he was

called, and it’s my private belief that he would have broken his word

if the indignation of one irrepressible young lady had not found vent

in a hiss. That hiss, faint as it was, irritated the irascible

gentleman, and sealed the culprit’s fate.

“Your hand, Miss March!” was the only answer her mute appeal received,

and too proud to cry or beseech, Amy set her teeth, threw back her head

defiantly, and bore without flinching several tingling blows on her

little palm. They were neither many nor heavy, but that made no

difference to her. For the first time in her life she had been struck,

and the disgrace, in her eyes, was as deep as if he had knocked her

down.

“You will now stand on the platform till recess,” said Mr. Davis,

resolved to do the thing thoroughly, since he had begun.

That was dreadful. It would have been bad enough to go to her seat, and

see the pitying faces of her friends, or the satisfied ones of her few

enemies, but to face the whole school, with that shame fresh upon her,

seemed impossible, and for a second she felt as if she could only drop

down where she stood, and break her heart with crying. A bitter sense

of wrong and the thought of Jenny Snow helped her to bear it, and,

taking the ignominious place, she fixed her eyes on the stove funnel

above what now seemed a sea of faces, and stood there, so motionless

and white that the girls found it hard to study with that pathetic

figure before them.

During the fifteen minutes that followed, the proud and sensitive

little girl suffered a shame and pain which she never forgot. To others

it might seem a ludicrous or trivial affair, but to her it was a hard

experience, for during the twelve years of her life she had been

governed by love alone, and a blow of that sort had never touched her

before. The smart of her hand and the ache of her heart were forgotten

in the sting of the thought, “I shall have to tell at home, and they

will be so disappointed in me!”

The fifteen minutes seemed an hour, but they came to an end at last,

and the word ‘Recess!’ had never seemed so welcome to her before.

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

uncomfortable.

He did not soon forget the reproachful glance Amy gave him, as she

went, without a word to anyone, straight into the anteroom, snatched

her things, and left the place “forever,” as she passionately declared

to herself. She was in a sad state when she got home, and when the

older girls arrived, some time later, an indignation meeting was held

at once. Mrs. March did not say much but looked disturbed, and

comforted her afflicted little daughter in her tenderest manner. Meg

bathed the insulted hand with glycerine and tears, Beth felt that even

her beloved kittens would fail as a balm for griefs like this, Jo

wrathfully proposed that Mr. Davis be arrested without delay, and

Hannah shook her fist at the ‘villain’ and pounded potatoes for dinner

as if she had him under her pestle.

No notice was taken of Amy’s flight, except by her mates, but the

sharp-eyed demoiselles discovered that Mr. Davis was quite benignant in

the afternoon, also unusually nervous. Just before school closed, Jo

appeared, wearing a grim expression as she stalked up to the desk, and

delivered a letter from her mother, then collected Amy’s property, and

departed, carefully scraping the mud from her boots on the door mat, as

if she shook the dust of the place off her feet.

“Yes, you can have a vacation from school, but I want you to study a

little every day with Beth,” said Mrs. March that evening. “I don’t

approve of corporal punishment, especially for girls. I dislike Mr.

Davis’s manner of teaching and don’t think the girls you associate with

are doing you any good, so I shall ask your father’s advice before I

send you anywhere else.”

“That’s good! I wish all the girls would leave, and spoil his old

school. It’s perfectly maddening to think of those lovely limes,”

sighed Amy, with the air of a martyr.

“I am not sorry you lost them, for you broke the rules, and deserved

some punishment for disobedience,” was the severe reply, which rather

disappointed the young lady, who expected nothing but sympathy.

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

cried Amy.

“I should not have chosen that way of mending a fault,” replied her

mother, “but I’m not sure that it won’t do you more good than a bolder

method. You are getting to be rather conceited, my dear, and it is

quite time you set about correcting it. You have a good many little

gifts and virtues, but there is no need of parading them, for conceit

spoils the finest genius. There is not much danger that real talent or

goodness will be overlooked long, even if it is, the consciousness of

possessing and using it well should satisfy one, and the great charm of

all power is modesty.”

“So it is!” cried Laurie, who was playing chess in a corner with Jo. “I

knew a girl once, who had a really remarkable talent for music, and she

didn’t know it, never guessed what sweet little things she composed

when she was alone, and wouldn’t have believed it if anyone had told

her.”

“I wish I’d known that nice girl. Maybe she would have helped me, I’m

so stupid,” said Beth, who stood beside him, listening eagerly.

“You do know her, and she helps you better than anyone else could,”

answered Laurie, looking at her with such mischievous meaning in his

merry black eyes that Beth suddenly turned very red, and hid her face

in the sofa cushion, quite overcome by such an unexpected discovery.

Jo let Laurie win the game to pay for that praise of her Beth, who

could not be prevailed upon to play for them after her compliment. So

Laurie did his best, and sang delightfully, being in a particularly

lively humor, for to the Marches he seldom showed the moody side of his

character. When he was gone, Amy, who had been pensive all evening,

said suddenly, as if busy over some new idea, “Is Laurie an

accomplished boy?”

“Yes, he has had an excellent education, and has much talent. He will

make a fine man, if not spoiled by petting,” replied her mother.

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

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

much.”

“I see. It’s nice to have accomplishments and be elegant, but not to

show off or get perked up,” said Amy thoughtfully.

“These things are always seen and felt in a person’s manner and

conversations, if modestly used, but it is not necessary to display

them,” said Mrs. March.

“Any more than it’s proper to wear all your bonnets and gowns and

ribbons at once, that folks may know you’ve got them,” added Jo, and

the lecture ended in a laugh.

CHAPTER EIGHT

JO MEETS APOLLYON

“Girls, where are you going?” asked Amy, coming into their room one

Saturday afternoon, and finding them getting ready to go out with an

air of secrecy which excited her curiosity.

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

sharply.

Now if there is anything mortifying to our feelings when we are young,

it is to be told that, and to be bidden to “run away, dear” is still

more trying to us. Amy bridled up at this insult, and determined to

find out the secret, if she teased for an hour. Turning to Meg, who

never refused her anything very long, she said coaxingly, “Do tell me!

I should think you might let me go, too, for Beth is fussing over her

piano, and I haven’t got anything to do, and am so lonely.”

“I can’t, dear, because you aren’t invited,” began Meg, but Jo broke in

impatiently, “Now, Meg, be quiet or you will spoil it all. You can’t

go, Amy, so don’t be a baby and whine about it.”

“You are going somewhere with Laurie, I know you are. You were

whispering and laughing together on the sofa last night, and you

stopped when I came in. Aren’t you going with him?”

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

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

pocket.

“I know! I know! You’re going to the theater to see the _Seven

Castles!_” she cried, adding resolutely, “and I shall go, for Mother

said I might see it, and I’ve got my rag money, and it was mean not to

tell me in time.”

“Just listen to me a minute, and be a good child,” said Meg soothingly.

“Mother doesn’t wish you to go this week, because your eyes are not

well enough yet to bear the light of this fairy piece. Next week you

can go with Beth and Hannah, and have a nice time.”

“I don’t like that half as well as going with you and Laurie. Please

let me. I’ve been sick with this cold so long, and shut up, I’m dying

for some fun. Do, Meg! I’ll be ever so good,” pleaded Amy, looking as

pathetic as she could.

“Suppose we take her. I don’t believe Mother would mind, if we bundle

her up well,” began Meg.

“If she goes I shan’t, and if I don’t, Laurie won’t like it, and it

will be very rude, after he invited only us, to go and drag in Amy. I

should think she’d hate to poke herself where she isn’t wanted,” said

Jo crossly, for she disliked the trouble of overseeing a fidgety child

when she wanted to enjoy herself.

Her tone and manner angered Amy, who began to put her boots on, saying,

in her most aggravating way, “I shall go. Meg says I may, and if I pay

for myself, Laurie hasn’t anything to do with it.”

“You can’t sit with us, for our seats are reserved, and you mustn’t sit

alone, so Laurie will give you his place, and that will spoil our

pleasure. Or he’ll get another seat for you, and that isn’t proper when

you weren’t asked. You shan’t stir a step, so you may just stay where

you are,” scolded Jo, crosser than ever, having just pricked her finger

in her hurry.

Sitting on the floor with one boot on, Amy began to cry and Meg to

reason with her, when Laurie called from below, and the two girls

hurried down, leaving their sister wailing. For now and then she forgot

her grown-up ways and acted like a spoiled child. Just as the party was

setting out, Amy called over the banisters in a threatening tone,

“You’ll be sorry for this, Jo March, see if you ain’t.”

“Fiddlesticks!” returned Jo, slamming the door.

They had a charming time, for _The Seven Castles Of The Diamond Lake_

was as brilliant and wonderful as heart could wish. But in spite of the

comical red imps, sparkling elves, and the gorgeous princes and

princesses, Jo’s pleasure had a drop of bitterness in it. The fairy

queen’s yellow curls reminded her of Amy, and between the acts she

amused herself with wondering what her sister would do to make her

‘sorry for it’. She and Amy had had many lively skirmishes in the

course of their lives, for both had quick tempers and were apt to be

violent when fairly roused. Amy teased Jo, and Jo irritated Amy, and

semioccasional explosions occurred, of which both were much ashamed

afterward. Although the oldest, Jo had the least self-control, and had

hard times trying to curb the fiery spirit which was continually

getting her into trouble. Her anger never lasted long, and having

humbly confessed her fault, she sincerely repented and tried to do

better. Her sisters used to say that they rather liked to get Jo into a

fury because she was such an angel afterward. Poor Jo tried desperately

to be good, but her bosom enemy was always ready to flame up and defeat

her, and it took years of patient effort to subdue it.

When they got home, they found Amy reading in the parlor. She assumed

an injured air as they came in, never lifted her eyes from her book, or

asked a single question. Perhaps curiosity might have conquered

resentment, if Beth had not been there to inquire and receive a glowing

description of the play. On going up to put away her best hat, Jo’s

first look was toward the bureau, for in their last quarrel Amy had

soothed her feelings by turning Jo’s top drawer upside down on the

floor. Everything was in its place, however, and after a hasty glance

into her various closets, bags, and boxes, Jo decided that Amy had

forgiven and forgotten her wrongs.

There Jo was mistaken, for next day she made a discovery which produced

a tempest. Meg, Beth, and Amy were sitting together, late in the

afternoon, when Jo burst into the room, looking excited and demanding

breathlessly, “Has anyone taken my book?”

Meg and Beth said, “No.” at once, and looked surprised. Amy poked the

fire and said nothing. Jo saw her color rise and was down upon her in a

minute.

“Amy, you’ve got it!”

“No, I haven’t.”

“You know where it is, then!”

“No, I don’t.”

“That’s a fib!” cried Jo, taking her by the shoulders, and looking

fierce enough to frighten a much braver child than Amy.

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

care.”

“You know something about it, and you’d better tell at once, or I’ll

make you.” And Jo gave her a slight shake.

“Scold as much as you like, you’ll never see your silly old book

again,” cried Amy, getting excited in her turn.

“Why not?”

“I burned it up.”

“What! My little book I was so fond of, and worked over, and meant to

finish before Father got home? Have you really burned it?” said Jo,

turning very pale, while her eyes kindled and her hands clutched Amy

nervously.

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

and I have, so...”

Amy got no farther, for Jo’s hot temper mastered her, and she shook Amy

till her teeth chattered in her head, crying in a passion of grief and

anger...

“You wicked, wicked girl! I never can write it again, and I’ll never

forgive you as long as I live.”

Meg flew to rescue Amy, and Beth to pacify Jo, but Jo was quite beside

herself, and with a parting box on her sister’s ear, she rushed out of

the room up to the old sofa in the garret, and finished her fight

alone.

The storm cleared up below, for Mrs. March came home, and, having heard

the story, soon brought Amy to a sense of the wrong she had done her

sister. Jo’s book was the pride of her heart, and was regarded by her

family as a literary sprout of great promise. It was only half a dozen

little fairy tales, but Jo had worked over them patiently, putting her

whole heart into her work, hoping to make something good enough to

print. She had just copied them with great care, and had destroyed the

old manuscript, so that Amy’s bonfire had consumed the loving work of

several years. It seemed a small loss to others, but to Jo it was a

dreadful calamity, and she felt that it never could be made up to her.

Beth mourned as for a departed kitten, and Meg refused to defend her

pet. Mrs. March looked grave and grieved, and Amy felt that no one

would love her till she had asked pardon for the act which she now

regretted more than any of them.

When the tea bell rang, Jo appeared, looking so grim and unapproachable

that it took all Amy’s courage to say meekly...

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

“I never shall forgive you,” was Jo’s stern answer, and from that

moment she ignored Amy entirely.

No one spoke of the great trouble, not even Mrs. March, for all had

learned by experience that when Jo was in that mood words were wasted,

and the wisest course was to wait till some little accident, or her own

generous nature, softened Jo’s resentment and healed the breach. It was

not a happy evening, for though they sewed as usual, while their mother

read aloud from Bremer, Scott, or Edgeworth, something was wanting, and

the sweet home peace was disturbed. They felt this most when singing

time came, for Beth could only play, Jo stood dumb as a stone, and Amy

broke down, so Meg and Mother sang alone. But in spite of their efforts

to be as cheery as larks, the flutelike voices did not seem to chord as

well as usual, and all felt out of tune.

As Jo received her good-night kiss, Mrs. March whispered gently, “My

dear, don’t let the sun go down upon your anger. Forgive each other,

help each other, and begin again tomorrow.”

Jo wanted to lay her head down on that motherly bosom, and cry her

grief and anger all away, but tears were an unmanly weakness, and she

felt so deeply injured that she really couldn’t quite forgive yet. So

she winked hard, shook her head, and said gruffly because Amy was

listening, “It was an abominable thing, and she doesn’t deserve to be

forgiven.”

With that she marched off to bed, and there was no merry or

confidential gossip that night.

Amy was much offended that her overtures of peace had been repulsed,

and began to wish she had not humbled herself, to feel more injured

than ever, and to plume herself on her superior virtue in a way which

was particularly exasperating. Jo still looked like a thunder cloud,

and nothing went well all day. It was bitter cold in the morning, she

dropped her precious turnover in the gutter, Aunt March had an attack

of the fidgets, Meg was sensitive, Beth would look grieved and wistful

when she got home, and Amy kept making remarks about people who were

always talking about being good and yet wouldn’t even try when other

people set them a virtuous example.

“Everybody is so hateful, I’ll ask Laurie to go skating. He is always

kind and jolly, and will put me to rights, I know,” said Jo to herself,

and off she went.

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

exclamation.

“There! She promised I should go next time, for this is the last ice we

shall have. But it’s no use to ask such a crosspatch to take me.”

“Don’t say that. You were very naughty, and it is hard to forgive the

loss of her precious little book, but I think she might do it now, and

I guess she will, if you try her at the right minute,” said Meg. “Go

after them. Don’t say anything till Jo has got good-natured with

Laurie, than take a quiet minute and just kiss her, or do some kind

thing, and I’m sure she’ll be friends again with all her heart.”

“I’ll try,” said Amy, for the advice suited her, and after a flurry to

get ready, she ran after the friends, who were just disappearing over

the hill.

It was not far to the river, but both were ready before Amy reached

them. Jo saw her coming, and turned her back. Laurie did not see, for

he was carefully skating along the shore, sounding the ice, for a warm

spell had preceded the cold snap.

“I’ll go on to the first bend, and see if it’s all right before we

begin to race,” Amy heard him say, as he shot away, looking like a

young Russian in his fur-trimmed coat and cap.

Jo heard Amy panting after her run, stamping her feet and blowing on

her fingers as she tried to put her skates on, but Jo never turned and

went slowly zigzagging down the river, taking a bitter, unhappy sort of

satisfaction in her sister’s troubles. She had cherished her anger till

it grew strong and took possession of her, as evil thoughts and

feelings always do unless cast out at once. As Laurie turned the bend,

he shouted back...

“Keep near the shore. It isn’t safe in the middle.” Jo heard, but Amy

was struggling to her feet and did not catch a word. Jo glanced over

her shoulder, and the little demon she was harboring said in her ear...

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

Laurie had vanished round the bend, Jo was just at the turn, and Amy,

far behind, striking out toward the smoother ice in the middle of the

river. For a minute Jo stood still with a strange feeling in her heart,

then she resolved to go on, but something held and turned her round,

just in time to see Amy throw up her hands and go down, with a sudden

crash of rotten ice, the splash of water, and a cry that made Jo’s

heart stand still with fear. She tried to call Laurie, but her voice

was gone. She tried to rush forward, but her feet seemed to have no

strength in them, and for a second, she could only stand motionless,

staring with a terror-stricken face at the little blue hood above the

black water. Something rushed swiftly by her, and Laurie’s voice cried

out...

“Bring a rail. Quick, quick!”

How she did it, she never knew, but for the next few minutes she worked

as if possessed, blindly obeying Laurie, who was quite self-possessed,

and lying flat, held Amy up by his arm and hockey stick till Jo dragged

a rail from the fence, and together they got the child out, more

frightened than hurt.

“Now then, we must walk her home as fast as we can. Pile our things on

her, while I get off these confounded skates,” cried Laurie, wrapping

his coat round Amy, and tugging away at the straps which never seemed

so intricate before.

Shivering, dripping, and crying, they got Amy home, and after an

exciting time of it, she fell asleep, rolled in blankets before a hot

fire. During the bustle Jo had scarcely spoken but flown about, looking

pale and wild, with her things half off, her dress torn, and her hands

cut and bruised by ice and rails and refractory buckles. When Amy was

comfortably asleep, the house quiet, and Mrs. March sitting by the bed,

she called Jo to her and began to bind up the hurt hands.

“Are you sure she is safe?” whispered Jo, looking remorsefully at the

golden head, which might have been swept away from her sight forever

under the treacherous ice.

“Quite safe, dear. She is not hurt, and won’t even take cold, I think,

you were so sensible in covering and getting her home quickly,” replied

her mother cheerfully.

“Laurie did it all. I only let her go. Mother, if she should die, it

would be my fault.” And Jo dropped down beside the bed in a passion of

penitent tears, telling all that had happened, bitterly condemning her

hardness of heart, and sobbing out her gratitude for being spared the

heavy punishment which might have come upon her.

“It’s my dreadful temper! I try to cure it, I think I have, and then it

breaks out worse than ever. Oh, Mother, what shall I do? What shall I

do?” cried poor Jo, in despair.

“Watch and pray, dear, never get tired of trying, and never think it is

impossible to conquer your fault,” said Mrs. March, drawing the blowzy

head to her shoulder and kissing the wet cheek so tenderly that Jo

cried even harder.

“You don’t know, you can’t guess how bad it is! It seems as if I could

do anything when I’m in a passion. I get so savage, I could hurt anyone

and enjoy it. I’m afraid I shall do something dreadful some day, and

spoil my life, and make everybody hate me. Oh, Mother, help me, do help

me!”

“I will, my child, I will. Don’t cry so bitterly, but remember this

day, and resolve with all your soul that you will never know another

like it. Jo, dear, we all have our temptations, some far greater than

yours, and it often takes us all our lives to conquer them. You think

your temper is the worst in the world, but mine used to be just like

it.”

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

remorse in surprise.

“I’ve been trying to cure it for forty years, and have only succeeded

in controlling it. I am angry nearly every day of my life, Jo, but I

have learned not to show it, and I still hope to learn not to feel it,

though it may take me another forty years to do so.”

The patience and the humility of the face she loved so well was a

better lesson to Jo than the wisest lecture, the sharpest reproof. She

felt comforted at once by the sympathy and confidence given her. The

knowledge that her mother had a fault like hers, and tried to mend it,

made her own easier to bear and strengthened her resolution to cure it,

though forty years seemed rather a long time to watch and pray to a

girl of fifteen.

“Mother, are you angry when you fold your lips tight together and go

out of the room sometimes, when Aunt March scolds or people worry you?”

asked Jo, feeling nearer and dearer to her mother than ever before.

“Yes, I’ve learned to check the hasty words that rise to my lips, and

when I feel that they mean to break out against my will, I just go away

for a minute, and give myself a little shake for being so weak and

wicked,” answered Mrs. March with a sigh and a smile, as she smoothed

and fastened up Jo’s disheveled hair.

“How did you learn to keep still? That is what troubles me, for the

sharp words fly out before I know what I’m about, and the more I say

the worse I get, till it’s a pleasure to hurt people’s feelings and say

dreadful things. Tell me how you do it, Marmee dear.”

“My good mother used to help me...”

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

“But I lost her when I was a little older than you are, and for years

had to struggle on alone, for I was too proud to confess my weakness to

anyone else. I had a hard time, Jo, and shed a good many bitter tears

over my failures, for in spite of my efforts I never seemed to get on.

Then your father came, and I was so happy that I found it easy to be

good. But by-and-by, when I had four little daughters round me and we

were poor, then the old trouble began again, for I am not patient by

nature, and it tried me very much to see my children wanting anything.”

“Poor Mother! What helped you then?”

“Your father, Jo. He never loses patience, never doubts or complains,

but always hopes, and works and waits so cheerfully that one is ashamed

to do otherwise before him. He helped and comforted me, and showed me

that I must try to practice all the virtues I would have my little

girls possess, for I was their example. It was easier to try for your

sakes than for my own. A startled or surprised look from one of you

when I spoke sharply rebuked me more than any words could have done,

and the love, respect, and confidence of my children was the sweetest

reward I could receive for my efforts to be the woman I would have them

copy.”

“Oh, Mother, if I’m ever half as good as you, I shall be satisfied,”

cried Jo, much touched.

“I hope you will be a great deal better, dear, but you must keep watch

over your ‘bosom enemy’, as father calls it, or it may sadden, if not

spoil your life. You have had a warning. Remember it, and try with

heart and soul to master this quick temper, before it brings you

greater sorrow and regret than you have known today.”

“I will try, Mother, I truly will. But you must help me, remind me, and

keep me from flying out. I used to see Father sometimes put his finger

on his lips, and look at you with a very kind but sober face, and you

always folded your lips tight and went away. Was he reminding you

then?” asked Jo softly.

“Yes. I asked him to help me so, and he never forgot it, but saved me

from many a sharp word by that little gesture and kind look.”

Jo saw that her mother’s eyes filled and her lips trembled as she

spoke, and fearing that she had said too much, she whispered anxiously,

“Was it wrong to watch you and to speak of it? I didn’t mean to be

rude, but it’s so comfortable to say all I think to you, and feel so

safe and happy here.”

“My Jo, you may say anything to your mother, for it is my greatest

happiness and pride to feel that my girls confide in me and know how

much I love them.”

“I thought I’d grieved you.”

“No, dear, but speaking of Father reminded me how much I miss him, how

much I owe him, and how faithfully I should watch and work to keep his

little daughters safe and good for him.”

“Yet you told him to go, Mother, and didn’t cry when he went, and never

complain now, or seem as if you needed any help,” said Jo, wondering.

“I gave my best to the country I love, and kept my tears till he was

gone. Why should I complain, when we both have merely done our duty and

will surely be the happier for it in the end? If I don’t seem to need

help, it is because I have a better friend, even than Father, to

comfort and sustain me. My child, the troubles and temptations of your

life are beginning and may be many, but you can overcome and outlive

them all if you learn to feel the strength and tenderness of your

Heavenly Father as you do that of your earthly one. The more you love

and trust Him, the nearer you will feel to Him, and the less you will

depend on human power and wisdom. His love and care never tire or

change, can never be taken from you, but may become the source of

lifelong peace, happiness, and strength. Believe this heartily, and go

to God with all your little cares, and hopes, and sins, and sorrows, as

freely and confidingly as you come to your mother.”

Jo’s only answer was to hold her mother close, and in the silence which

followed the sincerest prayer she had ever prayed left her heart

without words. For in that sad yet happy hour, she had learned not only

the bitterness of remorse and despair, but the sweetness of self-denial

and self-control, and led by her mother’s hand, she had drawn nearer to

the Friend who always welcomes every child with a love stronger than

that of any father, tenderer than that of any mother.

Amy stirred and sighed in her sleep, and as if eager to begin at once

to mend her fault, Jo looked up with an expression on her face which it

had never worn before.

“I let the sun go down on my anger. I wouldn’t forgive her, and today,

if it hadn’t been for Laurie, it might have been too late! How could I

be so wicked?” said Jo, half aloud, as she leaned over her sister

softly stroking the wet hair scattered on the pillow.

As if she heard, Amy opened her eyes, and held out her arms, with a

smile that went straight to Jo’s heart. Neither said a word, but they

hugged one another close, in spite of the blankets, and everything was

forgiven and forgotten in one hearty kiss.

CHAPTER NINE

MEG GOES TO VANITY FAIR

“I do think it was the most fortunate thing in the world that those

children should have the measles just now,” said Meg, one April day, as

she stood packing the ‘go abroady’ trunk in her room, surrounded by her

sisters.

“And so nice of Annie Moffat not to forget her promise. A whole

fortnight of fun will be regularly splendid,” replied Jo, looking like

a windmill as she folded skirts with her long arms.

“And such lovely weather, I’m so glad of that,” added Beth, tidily

sorting neck and hair ribbons in her best box, lent for the great

occasion.

“I wish I was going to have a fine time and wear all these nice

things,” said Amy with her mouth full of pins, as she artistically

replenished her sister’s cushion.

“I wish you were all going, but as you can’t, I shall keep my

adventures to tell you when I come back. I’m sure it’s the least I can

do when you have been so kind, lending me things and helping me get

ready,” said Meg, glancing round the room at the very simple outfit,

which seemed nearly perfect in their eyes.

“What did Mother give you out of the treasure box?” asked Amy, who had

not been present at the opening of a certain cedar chest in which Mrs.

March kept a few relics of past splendor, as gifts for her girls when

the proper time came.

“A pair of silk stockings, that pretty carved fan, and a lovely blue

sash. I wanted the violet silk, but there isn’t time to make it over,

so I must be contented with my old tarlaton.”

“It will look nice over my new muslin skirt, and the sash will set it

off beautifully. I wish I hadn’t smashed my coral bracelet, for you

might have had it,” said Jo, who loved to give and lend, but whose

possessions were usually too dilapidated to be of much use.

“There is a lovely old-fashioned pearl set in the treasure chest, but

Mother said real flowers were the prettiest ornament for a young girl,

and Laurie promised to send me all I want,” replied Meg. “Now, let me

see, there’s my new gray walking suit, just curl up the feather in my

hat, Beth, then my poplin for Sunday and the small party, it looks

heavy for spring, doesn’t it? The violet silk would be so nice. Oh,

dear!”

“Never mind, you’ve got the tarlaton for the big party, and you always

look like an angel in white,” said Amy, brooding over the little store

of finery in which her soul delighted.

“It isn’t low-necked, and it doesn’t sweep enough, but it will have to

do. My blue housedress looks so well, turned and freshly trimmed, that

I feel as if I’d got a new one. My silk sacque isn’t a bit the fashion,

and my bonnet doesn’t look like Sallie’s. I didn’t like to say

anything, but I was sadly disappointed in my umbrella. I told Mother

black with a white handle, but she forgot and bought a green one with a

yellowish handle. It’s strong and neat, so I ought not to complain, but

I know I shall feel ashamed of it beside Annie’s silk one with a gold

top,” sighed Meg, surveying the little umbrella with great disfavor.

“Change it,” advised Jo.

“I won’t be so silly, or hurt Marmee’s feelings, when she took so much

pains to get my things. It’s a nonsensical notion of mine, and I’m not

going to give up to it. My silk stockings and two pairs of new gloves

are my comfort. You are a dear to lend me yours, Jo. I feel so rich and

sort of elegant, with two new pairs, and the old ones cleaned up for

common.” And Meg took a refreshing peep at her glove box.

“Annie Moffat has blue and pink bows on her nightcaps. Would you put

some on mine?” she asked, as Beth brought up a pile of snowy muslins,

fresh from Hannah’s hands.

“No, I wouldn’t, for the smart caps won’t match the plain gowns without

any trimming on them. Poor folks shouldn’t rig,” said Jo decidedly.

“I wonder if I shall ever be happy enough to have real lace on my

clothes and bows on my caps?” said Meg impatiently.

“You said the other day that you’d be perfectly happy if you could only

go to Annie Moffat’s,” observed Beth in her quiet way.

“So I did! Well, I am happy, and I won’t fret, but it does seem as if

the more one gets the more one wants, doesn’t it? There now, the trays

are ready, and everything in but my ball dress, which I shall leave for

Mother to pack,” said Meg, cheering up, as she glanced from the

half-filled trunk to the many times pressed and mended white tarlaton,

which she called her ‘ball dress’ with an important air.

The next day was fine, and Meg departed in style for a fortnight of

novelty and pleasure. Mrs. March had consented to the visit rather

reluctantly, fearing that Margaret would come back more discontented

than she went. But she begged so hard, and Sallie had promised to take

good care of her, and a little pleasure seemed so delightful after a

winter of irksome work that the mother yielded, and the daughter went

to take her first taste of fashionable life.

The Moffats were very fashionable, and simple Meg was rather daunted,

at first, by the splendor of the house and the elegance of its

occupants. But they were kindly people, in spite of the frivolous life

they led, and soon put their guest at her ease. Perhaps Meg felt,

without understanding why, that they were not particularly cultivated

or intelligent people, and that all their gilding could not quite

conceal the ordinary material of which they were made. It certainly was

agreeable to fare sumptuously, drive in a fine carriage, wear her best

frock every day, and do nothing but enjoy herself. It suited her

exactly, and soon she began to imitate the manners and conversation of

those about her, to put on little airs and graces, use French phrases,

crimp her hair, take in her dresses, and talk about the fashions as

well as she could. The more she saw of Annie Moffat’s pretty things,

the more she envied her and sighed to be rich. Home now looked bare and

dismal as she thought of it, work grew harder than ever, and she felt

that she was a very destitute and much-injured girl, in spite of the

new gloves and silk stockings.

She had not much time for repining, however, for the three young girls

were busily employed in ‘having a good time’. They shopped, walked,

rode, and called all day, went to theaters and operas or frolicked at

home in the evening, for Annie had many friends and knew how to

entertain them. Her older sisters were very fine young ladies, and one

was engaged, which was extremely interesting and romantic, Meg thought.

Mr. Moffat was a fat, jolly old gentleman, who knew her father, and

Mrs. Moffat, a fat, jolly old lady, who took as great a fancy to Meg as

her daughter had done. Everyone petted her, and ‘Daisey’, as they

called her, was in a fair way to have her head turned.

When the evening for the small party came, she found that the poplin

wouldn’t do at all, for the other girls were putting on thin dresses

and making themselves very fine indeed. So out came the tarlatan,

looking older, limper, and shabbier than ever beside Sallie’s crisp new

one. Meg saw the girls glance at it and then at one another, and her

cheeks began to burn, for with all her gentleness she was very proud.

No one said a word about it, but Sallie offered to dress her hair, and

Annie to tie her sash, and Belle, the engaged sister, praised her white

arms. But in their kindness Meg saw only pity for her poverty, and her

heart felt very heavy as she stood by herself, while the others

laughed, chattered, and flew about like gauzy butterflies. The hard,

bitter feeling was getting pretty bad, when the maid brought in a box

of flowers. Before she could speak, Annie had the cover off, and all

were exclaiming at the lovely roses, heath, and fern within.

“It’s for Belle, of course, George always sends her some, but these are

altogether ravishing,” cried Annie, with a great sniff.

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

maid, holding it to Meg.

“What fun! Who are they from? Didn’t know you had a lover,” cried the

girls, fluttering about Meg in a high state of curiosity and surprise.

“The note is from Mother, and the flowers from Laurie,” said Meg

simply, yet much gratified that he had not forgotten her.

“Oh, indeed!” said Annie with a funny look, as Meg slipped the note

into her pocket as a sort of talisman against envy, vanity, and false

pride, for the few loving words had done her good, and the flowers

cheered her up by their beauty.

Feeling almost happy again, she laid by a few ferns and roses for

herself, and quickly made up the rest in dainty bouquets for the

breasts, hair, or skirts of her friends, offering them so prettily that

Clara, the elder sister, told her she was ‘the sweetest little thing

she ever saw’, and they looked quite charmed with her small attention.

Somehow the kind act finished her despondency, and when all the rest

went to show themselves to Mrs. Moffat, she saw a happy, bright-eyed

face in the mirror, as she laid her ferns against her rippling hair and

fastened the roses in the dress that didn’t strike her as so very

shabby now.

She enjoyed herself very much that evening, for she danced to her

heart’s content. Everyone was very kind, and she had three compliments.

Annie made her sing, and some one said she had a remarkably fine voice.

Major Lincoln asked who ‘the fresh little girl with the beautiful eyes’

was, and Mr. Moffat insisted on dancing with her because she ‘didn’t

dawdle, but had some spring in her’, as he gracefully expressed it. So

altogether she had a very nice time, till she overheard a bit of

conversation, which disturbed her extremely. She was sitting just

inside the conservatory, waiting for her partner to bring her an ice,

when she heard a voice ask on the other side of the flowery wall...

“How old is he?”

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

“It would be a grand thing for one of those girls, wouldn’t it? Sallie

says they are very intimate now, and the old man quite dotes on them.”

“Mrs. M. has made her plans, I dare say, and will play her cards well,

early as it is. The girl evidently doesn’t think of it yet,” said Mrs.

Moffat.

“She told that fib about her momma, as if she did know, and colored up

when the flowers came quite prettily. Poor thing! She’d be so nice if

she was only got up in style. Do you think she’d be offended if we

offered to lend her a dress for Thursday?” asked another voice.

“She’s proud, but I don’t believe she’d mind, for that dowdy tarlaton

is all she has got. She may tear it tonight, and that will be a good

excuse for offering a decent one.”

Here Meg’s partner appeared, to find her looking much flushed and

rather agitated. She was proud, and her pride was useful just then, for

it helped her hide her mortification, anger, and disgust at what she

had just heard. For, innocent and unsuspicious as she was, she could

not help understanding the gossip of her friends. She tried to forget

it, but could not, and kept repeating to herself, “Mrs. M. has made her

plans,” “that fib about her mamma,” and “dowdy tarlaton,” till she was

ready to cry and rush home to tell her troubles and ask for advice. As

that was impossible, she did her best to seem gay, and being rather

excited, she succeeded so well that no one dreamed what an effort she

was making. She was very glad when it was all over and she was quiet in

her bed, where she could think and wonder and fume till her head ached

and her hot cheeks were cooled by a few natural tears. Those foolish,

yet well meant words, had opened a new world to Meg, and much disturbed

the peace of the old one in which till now she had lived as happily as

a child. Her innocent friendship with Laurie was spoiled by the silly

speeches she had overheard. Her faith in her mother was a little shaken

by the worldly plans attributed to her by Mrs. Moffat, who judged

others by herself, and the sensible resolution to be contented with the

simple wardrobe which suited a poor man’s daughter was weakened by the

unnecessary pity of girls who thought a shabby dress one of the

greatest calamities under heaven.

Poor Meg had a restless night, and got up heavy-eyed, unhappy, half

resentful toward her friends, and half ashamed of herself for not

speaking out frankly and setting everything right. Everybody dawdled

that morning, and it was noon before the girls found energy enough even

to take up their worsted work. Something in the manner of her friends

struck Meg at once. They treated her with more respect, she thought,

took quite a tender interest in what she said, and looked at her with

eyes that plainly betrayed curiosity. All this surprised and flattered

her, though she did not understand it till Miss Belle looked up from

her writing, and said, with a sentimental air...

“Daisy, dear, I’ve sent an invitation to your friend, Mr. Laurence, for

Thursday. We should like to know him, and it’s only a proper compliment

to you.”

Meg colored, but a mischievous fancy to tease the girls made her reply

demurely, “You are very kind, but I’m afraid he won’t come.”

“Why not, Cherie?” asked Miss Belle.

“He’s too old.”

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

Miss Clara.

“Nearly seventy, I believe,” answered Meg, counting stitches to hide

the merriment in her eyes.

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

Belle, laughing.

“There isn’t any, Laurie is only a little boy.” And Meg laughed also at

the queer look which the sisters exchanged as she thus described her

supposed lover.

“About your age,” Nan said.

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

tossing her head.

“It’s very nice of him to send you flowers, isn’t it?” said Annie,

looking wise about nothing.

“Yes, he often does, to all of us, for their house is full, and we are

so fond of them. My mother and old Mr. Laurence are friends, you know,

so it is quite natural that we children should play together,” and Meg

hoped they would say no more.

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

nod.

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

with a shrug.

“I’m going out to get some little matters for my girls. Can I do

anything for you, young ladies?” asked Mrs. Moffat, lumbering in like

an elephant in silk and lace.

“No, thank you, ma’am,” replied Sallie. “I’ve got my new pink silk for

Thursday and don’t want a thing.”

“Nor I...” began Meg, but stopped because it occurred to her that she

did want several things and could not have them.

“What shall you wear?” asked Sallie.

“My old white one again, if I can mend it fit to be seen, it got sadly

torn last night,” said Meg, trying to speak quite easily, but feeling

very uncomfortable.

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

observing young lady.

“I haven’t got any other.” It cost Meg an effort to say that, but

Sallie did not see it and exclaimed in amiable surprise, “Only that?

How funny...” She did not finish her speech, for Belle shook her head

at her and broke in, saying kindly...

“Not at all. Where is the use of having a lot of dresses when she isn’t

out yet? There’s no need of sending home, Daisy, even if you had a

dozen, for I’ve got a sweet blue silk laid away, which I’ve outgrown,

and you shall wear it to please me, won’t you, dear?”

“You are very kind, but I don’t mind my old dress if you don’t, it does

well enough for a little girl like me,” said Meg.

“Now do let me please myself by dressing you up in style. I admire to

do it, and you’d be a regular little beauty with a touch here and

there. I shan’t let anyone see you till you are done, and then we’ll

burst upon them like Cinderella and her godmother going to the ball,”

said Belle in her persuasive tone.

Meg couldn’t refuse the offer so kindly made, for a desire to see if

she would be ‘a little beauty’ after touching up caused her to accept

and forget all her former uncomfortable feelings toward the Moffats.

On the Thursday evening, Belle shut herself up with her maid, and

between them they turned Meg into a fine lady. They crimped and curled

her hair, they polished her neck and arms with some fragrant powder,

touched her lips with coralline salve to make them redder, and Hortense

would have added ‘a soupcon of rouge’, if Meg had not rebelled. They

laced her into a sky-blue dress, which was so tight she could hardly

breathe and so low in the neck that modest Meg blushed at herself in

the mirror. A set of silver filagree was added, bracelets, necklace,

brooch, and even earrings, for Hortense tied them on with a bit of pink

silk which did not show. A cluster of tea-rose buds at the bosom, and a

ruche, reconciled Meg to the display of her pretty, white shoulders,

and a pair of high-heeled silk boots satisfied the last wish of her

heart. A lace handkerchief, a plumy fan, and a bouquet in a shoulder

holder finished her off, and Miss Belle surveyed her with the

satisfaction of a little girl with a newly dressed doll.

“Mademoiselle is charmante, tres jolie, is she not?” cried Hortense,

clasping her hands in an affected rapture.

“Come and show yourself,” said Miss Belle, leading the way to the room

where the others were waiting.

As Meg went rustling after, with her long skirts trailing, her earrings

tinkling, her curls waving, and her heart beating, she felt as if her

fun had really begun at last, for the mirror had plainly told her that

she was ‘a little beauty’. Her friends repeated the pleasing phrase

enthusiastically, and for several minutes she stood, like a jackdaw in

the fable, enjoying her borrowed plumes, while the rest chattered like

a party of magpies.

“While I dress, do you drill her, Nan, in the management of her skirt

and those French heels, or she will trip herself up. Take your silver

butterfly, and catch up that long curl on the left side of her head,

Clara, and don’t any of you disturb the charming work of my hands,”

said Belle, as she hurried away, looking well pleased with her success.

“You don’t look a bit like yourself, but you are very nice. I’m nowhere

beside you, for Belle has heaps of taste, and you’re quite French, I

assure you. Let your flowers hang, don’t be so careful of them, and be

sure you don’t trip,” returned Sallie, trying not to care that Meg was

prettier than herself.

Keeping that warning carefully in mind, Margaret got safely down stairs

and sailed into the drawing rooms where the Moffats and a few early

guests were assembled. She very soon discovered that there is a charm

about fine clothes which attracts a certain class of people and secures

their respect. Several young ladies, who had taken no notice of her

before, were very affectionate all of a sudden. Several young

gentlemen, who had only stared at her at the other party, now not only

stared, but asked to be introduced, and said all manner of foolish but

agreeable things to her, and several old ladies, who sat on the sofas,

and criticized the rest of the party, inquired who she was with an air

of interest. She heard Mrs. Moffat reply to one of them...

“Daisy March—father a colonel in the army—one of our first families,

but reverses of fortune, you know; intimate friends of the Laurences;

sweet creature, I assure you; my Ned is quite wild about her.”

“Dear me!” said the old lady, putting up her glass for another

observation of Meg, who tried to look as if she had not heard and been

rather shocked at Mrs. Moffat’s fibs. The ‘queer feeling’ did not pass

away, but she imagined herself acting the new part of fine lady and so

got on pretty well, though the tight dress gave her a side-ache, the

train kept getting under her feet, and she was in constant fear lest

her earrings should fly off and get lost or broken. She was flirting

her fan and laughing at the feeble jokes of a young gentleman who tried

to be witty, when she suddenly stopped laughing and looked confused,

for just opposite, she saw Laurie. He was staring at her with

undisguised surprise, and disapproval also, she thought, for though he

bowed and smiled, yet something in his honest eyes made her blush and

wish she had her old dress on. To complete her confusion, she saw Belle

nudge Annie, and both glance from her to Laurie, who, she was happy to

see, looked unusually boyish and shy.

“Silly creatures, to put such thoughts into my head. I won’t care for

it, or let it change me a bit,” thought Meg, and rustled across the

room to shake hands with her friend.

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

grown-up air.

“Jo wanted me to come, and tell her how you looked, so I did,” answered

Laurie, without turning his eyes upon her, though he half smiled at her

maternal tone.

“What shall you tell her?” asked Meg, full of curiosity to know his

opinion of her, yet feeling ill at ease with him for the first time.

“I shall say I didn’t know you, for you look so grown-up and unlike

yourself, I’m quite afraid of you,” he said, fumbling at his glove

button.

“How absurd of you! The girls dressed me up for fun, and I rather like

it. Wouldn’t Jo stare if she saw me?” said Meg, bent on making him say

whether he thought her improved or not.

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

“Don’t you like me so?” asked Meg.

“No, I don’t,” was the blunt reply.

“Why not?” in an anxious tone.

He glanced at her frizzled head, bare shoulders, and fantastically

trimmed dress with an expression that abashed her more than his answer,

which had not a particle of his usual politeness in it.

“I don’t like fuss and feathers.”

That was altogether too much from a lad younger than herself, and Meg

walked away, saying petulantly, “You are the rudest boy I ever saw.”

Feeling very much ruffled, she went and stood at a quiet window to cool

her cheeks, for the tight dress gave her an uncomfortably brilliant

color. As she stood there, Major Lincoln passed by, and a minute after

she heard him saying to his mother...

“They are making a fool of that little girl. I wanted you to see her,

but they have spoiled her entirely. She’s nothing but a doll tonight.”

“Oh, dear!” sighed Meg. “I wish I’d been sensible and worn my own

things, then I should not have disgusted other people, or felt so

uncomfortable and ashamed of myself.”

She leaned her forehead on the cool pane, and stood half hidden by the

curtains, never minding that her favorite waltz had begun, till some

one touched her, and turning, she saw Laurie, looking penitent, as he

said, with his very best bow and his hand out...

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

“I’m afraid it will be too disagreeable to you,” said Meg, trying to

look offended and failing entirely.

“Not a bit of it, I’m dying to do it. Come, I’ll be good. I don’t like

your gown, but I do think you are just splendid.” And he waved his

hands, as if words failed to express his admiration.

Meg smiled and relented, and whispered as they stood waiting to catch

the time, “Take care my skirt doesn’t trip you up. It’s the plague of

my life and I was a goose to wear it.”

“Pin it round your neck, and then it will be useful,” said Laurie,

looking down at the little blue boots, which he evidently approved of.

Away they went fleetly and gracefully, for having practiced at home,

they were well matched, and the blithe young couple were a pleasant

sight to see, as they twirled merrily round and round, feeling more

friendly than ever after their small tiff.

“Laurie, I want you to do me a favor, will you?” said Meg, as he stood

fanning her when her breath gave out, which it did very soon though she

would not own why.

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

“Please don’t tell them at home about my dress tonight. They won’t

understand the joke, and it will worry Mother.”

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

hastily added...

“I shall tell them myself all about it, and ‘fess’ to Mother how silly

I’ve been. But I’d rather do it myself. So you’ll not tell, will you?”

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

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

“I’ll say the first with all my heart, but how about the other? You

don’t look as if you were having a good time. Are you?” And Laurie

looked at her with an expression which made her answer in a whisper...

“No, not just now. Don’t think I’m horrid. I only wanted a little fun,

but this sort doesn’t pay, I find, and I’m getting tired of it.”

“Here comes Ned Moffat. What does he want?” said Laurie, knitting his

black brows as if he did not regard his young host in the light of a

pleasant addition to the party.

“He put his name down for three dances, and I suppose he’s coming for

them. What a bore!” said Meg, assuming a languid air which amused

Laurie immensely.

He did not speak to her again till suppertime, when he saw her drinking

champagne with Ned and his friend Fisher, who were behaving ‘like a

pair of fools’, as Laurie said to himself, for he felt a brotherly sort

of right to watch over the Marches and fight their battles whenever a

defender was needed.

“You’ll have a splitting headache tomorrow, if you drink much of that.

I wouldn’t, Meg, your mother doesn’t like it, you know,” he whispered,

leaning over her chair, as Ned turned to refill her glass and Fisher

stooped to pick up her fan.

“I’m not Meg tonight, I’m ‘a doll’ who does all sorts of crazy things.

Tomorrow I shall put away my ‘fuss and feathers’ and be desperately

good again,” she answered with an affected little laugh.

“Wish tomorrow was here, then,” muttered Laurie, walking off,

ill-pleased at the change he saw in her.

Meg danced and flirted, chattered and giggled, as the other girls did.

After supper she undertook the German, and blundered through it, nearly

upsetting her partner with her long skirt, and romping in a way that

scandalized Laurie, who looked on and meditated a lecture. But he got

no chance to deliver it, for Meg kept away from him till he came to say

good night.

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

already begun.

“Silence a la mort,” replied Laurie, with a melodramatic flourish, as

he went away.

This little bit of byplay excited Annie’s curiosity, but Meg was too

tired for gossip and went to bed, feeling as if she had been to a

masquerade and hadn’t enjoyed herself as much as she expected. She was

sick all the next day, and on Saturday went home, quite used up with

her fortnight’s fun and feeling that she had ‘sat in the lap of luxury’

long enough.

“It does seem pleasant to be quiet, and not have company manners on all

the time. Home is a nice place, though it isn’t splendid,” said Meg,

looking about her with a restful expression, as she sat with her mother

and Jo on the Sunday evening.

“I’m glad to hear you say so, dear, for I was afraid home would seem

dull and poor to you after your fine quarters,” replied her mother, who

had given her many anxious looks that day. For motherly eyes are quick

to see any change in children’s faces.

Meg had told her adventures gayly and said over and over what a

charming time she had had, but something still seemed to weigh upon her

spirits, and when the younger girls were gone to bed, she sat

thoughtfully staring at the fire, saying little and looking worried. As

the clock struck nine and Jo proposed bed, Meg suddenly left her chair

and, taking Beth’s stool, leaned her elbows on her mother’s knee,

saying bravely...

“Marmee, I want to ‘fess’.”

“I thought so. What is it, dear?”

“Shall I go away?” asked Jo discreetly.

“Of course not. Don’t I always tell you everything? I was ashamed to

speak of it before the younger children, but I want you to know all the

dreadful things I did at the Moffats’.”

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

anxious.

“I told you they dressed me up, but I didn’t tell you that they

powdered and squeezed and frizzled, and made me look like a

fashion-plate. Laurie thought I wasn’t proper. I know he did, though he

didn’t say so, and one man called me ‘a doll’. I knew it was silly, but

they flattered me and said I was a beauty, and quantities of nonsense,

so I let them make a fool of me.”

“Is that all?” asked Jo, as Mrs. March looked silently at the downcast

face of her pretty daughter, and could not find it in her heart to

blame her little follies.

“No, I drank champagne and romped and tried to flirt, and was

altogether abominable,” said Meg self-reproachfully.

“There is something more, I think.” And Mrs. March smoothed the soft

cheek, which suddenly grew rosy as Meg answered slowly...

“Yes. It’s very silly, but I want to tell it, because I hate to have

people say and think such things about us and Laurie.”

Then she told the various bits of gossip she had heard at the Moffats’,

and as she spoke, Jo saw her mother fold her lips tightly, as if ill

pleased that such ideas should be put into Meg’s innocent mind.

“Well, if that isn’t the greatest rubbish I ever heard,” cried Jo

indignantly. “Why didn’t you pop out and tell them so on the spot?”

“I couldn’t, it was so embarrassing for me. I couldn’t help hearing at

first, and then I was so angry and ashamed, I didn’t remember that I

ought to go away.”

“Just wait till I see Annie Moffat, and I’ll show you how to settle

such ridiculous stuff. The idea of having ‘plans’ and being kind to

Laurie because he’s rich and may marry us by-and-by! Won’t he shout

when I tell him what those silly things say about us poor children?”

And Jo laughed, as if on second thoughts the thing struck her as a good

joke.

“If you tell Laurie, I’ll never forgive you! She mustn’t, must she,

Mother?” said Meg, looking distressed.

“No, never repeat that foolish gossip, and forget it as soon as you

can,” said Mrs. March gravely. “I was very unwise to let you go among

people of whom I know so little, kind, I dare say, but worldly,

ill-bred, and full of these vulgar ideas about young people. I am more

sorry than I can express for the mischief this visit may have done you,

Meg.”

“Don’t be sorry, I won’t let it hurt me. I’ll forget all the bad and

remember only the good, for I did enjoy a great deal, and thank you

very much for letting me go. I’ll not be sentimental or dissatisfied,

Mother. I know I’m a silly little girl, and I’ll stay with you till I’m

fit to take care of myself. But it is nice to be praised and admired,

and I can’t help saying I like it,” said Meg, looking half ashamed of

the confession.

“That is perfectly natural, and quite harmless, if the liking does not

become a passion and lead one to do foolish or unmaidenly things. Learn

to know and value the praise which is worth having, and to excite the

admiration of excellent people by being modest as well as pretty, Meg.”

Margaret sat thinking a moment, while Jo stood with her hands behind

her, looking both interested and a little perplexed, for it was a new

thing to see Meg blushing and talking about admiration, lovers, and

things of that sort. And Jo felt as if during that fortnight her sister

had grown up amazingly, and was drifting away from her into a world

where she could not follow.

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

bashfully.

“Yes, my dear, I have a great many, all mothers do, but mine differ

somewhat from Mrs. Moffat’s, I suspect. I will tell you some of them,

for the time has come when a word may set this romantic little head and

heart of yours right, on a very serious subject. You are young, Meg,

but not too young to understand me, and mothers’ lips are the fittest

to speak of such things to girls like you. Jo, your turn will come in

time, perhaps, so listen to my ‘plans’ and help me carry them out, if

they are good.”

Jo went and sat on one arm of the chair, looking as if she thought they

were about to join in some very solemn affair. Holding a hand of each,

and watching the two young faces wistfully, Mrs. March said, in her

serious yet cheery way...

“I want my daughters to be beautiful, accomplished, and good. To be

admired, loved, and respected. To have a happy youth, to be well and

wisely married, and to lead useful, pleasant lives, with as little care

and sorrow to try them as God sees fit to send. To be loved and chosen

by a good man is the best and sweetest thing which can happen to a

woman, and I sincerely hope my girls may know this beautiful

experience. It is natural to think of it, Meg, right to hope and wait

for it, and wise to prepare for it, so that when the happy time comes,

you may feel ready for the duties and worthy of the joy. My dear girls,

I am ambitious for you, but not to have you make a dash in the world,

marry rich men merely because they are rich, or have splendid houses,

which are not homes because love is wanting. Money is a needful and

precious thing, and when well used, a noble thing, but I never want you

to think it is the first or only prize to strive for. I’d rather see

you poor men’s wives, if you were happy, beloved, contented, than

queens on thrones, without self-respect and peace.”

“Poor girls don’t stand any chance, Belle says, unless they put

themselves forward,” sighed Meg.

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

“Right, Jo. Better be happy old maids than unhappy wives, or unmaidenly

girls, running about to find husbands,” said Mrs. March decidedly.

“Don’t be troubled, Meg, poverty seldom daunts a sincere lover. Some of

the best and most honored women I know were poor girls, but so

love-worthy that they were not allowed to be old maids. Leave these

things to time. Make this home happy, so that you may be fit for homes

of your own, if they are offered you, and contented here if they are

not. One thing remember, my girls. Mother is always ready to be your

confidant, Father to be your friend, and both of us hope and trust that

our daughters, whether married or single, will be the pride and comfort

of our lives.”

“We will, Marmee, we will!” cried both, with all their hearts, as she

bade them good night.

CHAPTER TEN

THE P.C. AND P.O.

As spring came on, a new set of amusements became the fashion, and the

lengthening days gave long afternoons for work and play of all sorts.

The garden had to be put in order, and each sister had a quarter of the

little plot to do what she liked with. Hannah used to say, “I’d know

which each of them gardings belonged to, ef I see ’em in Chiny,” and so

she might, for the girls’ tastes differed as much as their characters.

Meg’s had roses and heliotrope, myrtle, and a little orange tree in it.

Jo’s bed was never alike two seasons, for she was always trying

experiments. This year it was to be a plantation of sun flowers, the

seeds of which cheerful and aspiring plant were to feed Aunt Cockle-top

and her family of chicks. Beth had old-fashioned fragrant flowers in

her garden, sweet peas and mignonette, larkspur, pinks, pansies, and

southernwood, with chickweed for the birds and catnip for the pussies.

Amy had a bower in hers, rather small and earwiggy, but very pretty to

look at, with honeysuckle and morning-glories hanging their colored

horns and bells in graceful wreaths all over it, tall white lilies,

delicate ferns, and as many brilliant, picturesque plants as would

consent to blossom there.

Gardening, walks, rows on the river, and flower hunts employed the fine

days, and for rainy ones, they had house diversions, some old, some

new, all more or less original. One of these was the ‘P.C.’, for as

secret societies were the fashion, it was thought proper to have one,

and as all of the girls admired Dickens, they called themselves the

Pickwick Club. With a few interruptions, they had kept this up for a

year, and met every Saturday evening in the big garret, on which

occasions the ceremonies were as follows: Three chairs were arranged in

a row before a table on which was a lamp, also four white badges, with

a big ‘P.C.’ in different colors on each, and the weekly newspaper

called, The Pickwick Portfolio, to which all contributed something,

while Jo, who reveled in pens and ink, was the editor. At seven

o’clock, the four members ascended to the clubroom, tied their badges

round their heads, and took their seats with great solemnity. Meg, as

the eldest, was Samuel Pickwick, Jo, being of a literary turn, Augustus

Snodgrass, Beth, because she was round and rosy, Tracy Tupman, and Amy,

who was always trying to do what she couldn’t, was Nathaniel Winkle.

Pickwick, the president, read the paper, which was filled with original

tales, poetry, local news, funny advertisements, and hints, in which

they good-naturedly reminded each other of their faults and short

comings. On one occasion, Mr. Pickwick put on a pair of spectacles

without any glass, rapped upon the table, hemmed, and having stared

hard at Mr. Snodgrass, who was tilting back in his chair, till he

arranged himself properly, began to read:

“THE PICKWICK PORTFOLIO”

MAY 20, 18—

POET’S CORNER

ANNIVERSARY ODE

Again we meet to celebrate

With badge and solemn rite,

Our fifty-second anniversary,

In Pickwick Hall, tonight.

We all are here in perfect health,

None gone from our small band:

Again we see each well-known face,

And press each friendly hand.

Our Pickwick, always at his post,

With reverence we greet,

As, spectacles on nose, he reads

Our well-filled weekly sheet.

Although he suffers from a cold,

We joy to hear him speak,

For words of wisdom from him fall,

In spite of croak or squeak.

Old six-foot Snodgrass looms on high,

With elephantine grace,

And beams upon the company,

With brown and jovial face.

Poetic fire lights up his eye,

He struggles ’gainst his lot.

Behold ambition on his brow,

And on his nose, a blot.

Next our peaceful Tupman comes,

So rosy, plump, and sweet,

Who chokes with laughter at the puns,

And tumbles off his seat.

Prim little Winkle too is here,

With every hair in place,

A model of propriety,

Though he hates to wash his face.

The year is gone, we still unite

To joke and laugh and read,

And tread the path of literature

That doth to glory lead.

Long may our paper prosper well,

Our club unbroken be,

And coming years their blessings pour

On the useful, gay ‘P. C.’.

A. SNODGRASS

THE MASKED MARRIAGE

(A Tale Of Venice)

Gondola after gondola swept up to the marble steps, and left its lovely

load to swell the brilliant throng that filled the stately halls of

Count Adelon. Knights and ladies, elves and pages, monks and flower

girls, all mingled gaily in the dance. Sweet voices and rich melody

filled the air, and so with mirth and music the masquerade went on.

“Has your Highness seen the Lady Viola tonight?” asked a gallant

troubadour of the fairy queen who floated down the hall upon his arm.

“Yes, is she not lovely, though so sad! Her dress is well chosen, too,

for in a week she weds Count Antonio, whom she passionately hates.”

“By my faith, I envy him. Yonder he comes, arrayed like a bridegroom,

except the black mask. When that is off we shall see how he regards the

fair maid whose heart he cannot win, though her stern father bestows

her hand,” returned the troubadour.

“Tis whispered that she loves the young English artist who haunts her

steps, and is spurned by the old Count,” said the lady, as they joined

the dance. The revel was at its height when a priest appeared, and

withdrawing the young pair to an alcove, hung with purple velvet, he

motioned them to kneel. Instant silence fell on the gay throng, and not

a sound, but the dash of fountains or the rustle of orange groves

sleeping in the moonlight, broke the hush, as Count de Adelon spoke

thus:

“My lords and ladies, pardon the ruse by which I have gathered you here

to witness the marriage of my daughter. Father, we wait your services.”

All eyes turned toward the bridal party, and a murmur of amazement went

through the throng, for neither bride nor groom removed their masks.

Curiosity and wonder possessed all hearts, but respect restrained all

tongues till the holy rite was over. Then the eager spectators gathered

round the count, demanding an explanation.

“Gladly would I give it if I could, but I only know that it was the

whim of my timid Viola, and I yielded to it. Now, my children, let the

play end. Unmask and receive my blessing.”

But neither bent the knee, for the young bridegroom replied in a tone

that startled all listeners as the mask fell, disclosing the noble face

of Ferdinand Devereux, the artist lover, and leaning on the breast

where now flashed the star of an English earl was the lovely Viola,

radiant with joy and beauty.

“My lord, you scornfully bade me claim your daughter when I could boast

as high a name and vast a fortune as the Count Antonio. I can do more,

for even your ambitious soul cannot refuse the Earl of Devereux and De

Vere, when he gives his ancient name and boundless wealth in return for

the beloved hand of this fair lady, now my wife.”

The count stood like one changed to stone, and turning to the

bewildered crowd, Ferdinand added, with a gay smile of triumph, “To

you, my gallant friends, I can only wish that your wooing may prosper

as mine has done, and that you may all win as fair a bride as I have by

this masked marriage.”

S. PICKWICK

Why is the P. C. like the Tower of Babel?

It is full of unruly members.

THE HISTORY OF A SQUASH

Once upon a time a farmer planted a little seed in his garden, and

after a while it sprouted and became a vine and bore many squashes. One

day in October, when they were ripe, he picked one and took it to

market. A grocerman bought and put it in his shop. That same morning, a

little girl in a brown hat and blue dress, with a round face and snub

nose, went and bought it for her mother. She lugged it home, cut it up,

and boiled it in the big pot, mashed some of it with salt and butter,

for dinner. And to the rest she added a pint of milk, two eggs, four

spoons of sugar, nutmeg, and some crackers, put it in a deep dish, and

baked it till it was brown and nice, and next day it was eaten by a

family named March.

T. TUPMAN

Mr. Pickwick, _Sir:_—

I address you upon the subject of sin the sinner I mean is a man

named Winkle who makes trouble in his club by laughing and

sometimes won’t write his piece in this fine paper I hope you will

pardon his badness and let him send a French fable because he can’t

write out of his head as he has so many lessons to do and no brains

in future I will try to take time by the fetlock and prepare some

work which will be all _commy la fo_ that means all right I am in

haste as it is nearly school time.

Yours respectably,

N. WINKLE

[The above is a manly and handsome acknowledgment of past misdemeanors.

If our young friend studied punctuation, it would be well.]

A SAD ACCIDENT

On Friday last, we were startled by a violent shock in our basement,

followed by cries of distress. On rushing in a body to the cellar, we

discovered our beloved President prostrate upon the floor, having

tripped and fallen while getting wood for domestic purposes. A perfect

scene of ruin met our eyes, for in his fall Mr. Pickwick had plunged

his head and shoulders into a tub of water, upset a keg of soft soap

upon his manly form, and torn his garments badly. On being removed from

this perilous situation, it was discovered that he had suffered no

injury but several bruises, and we are happy to add, is now doing well.

ED.

THE PUBLIC BEREAVEMENT

It is our painful duty to record the sudden and mysterious

disappearance of our cherished friend, Mrs. Snowball Pat Paw. This

lovely and beloved cat was the pet of a large circle of warm and

admiring friends; for her beauty attracted all eyes, her graces and

virtues endeared her to all hearts, and her loss is deeply felt by the

whole community.

When last seen, she was sitting at the gate, watching the butcher’s

cart, and it is feared that some villain, tempted by her charms,

basely stole her. Weeks have passed, but no trace of her has been

discovered, and we relinquish all hope, tie a black ribbon to her

basket, set aside her dish, and weep for her as one lost to us

forever.

A sympathizing friend sends the following gem:

A LAMENT

FOR S. B. PAT PAW

We mourn the loss of our little pet,

And sigh o’er her hapless fate,

For never more by the fire she’ll sit,

Nor play by the old green gate.

The little grave where her infant sleeps

Is ’neath the chestnut tree.

But o’er _her_ grave we may not weep,

We know not where it may be.

Her empty bed, her idle ball,

Will never see her more;

No gentle tap, no loving purr

Is heard at the parlor door.

Another cat comes after her mice,

A cat with a dirty face,

But she does not hunt as our darling did,

Nor play with her airy grace.

Her stealthy paws tread the very hall

Where Snowball used to play,

But she only spits at the dogs our pet

So gallantly drove away.

She is useful and mild, and does her best,

But she is not fair to see,

And we cannot give her your place dear,

Nor worship her as we worship thee.

A.S.

ADVERTISEMENTS

MISS ORANTHY BLUGGAGE, the accomplished strong-minded lecturer, will

deliver her famous lecture on “WOMAN AND HER POSITION” at Pickwick

Hall, next Saturday Evening, after the usual performances.

A WEEKLY MEETING will be held at Kitchen Place, to teach young ladies

how to cook. Hannah Brown will preside, and all are invited to attend.

THE DUSTPAN SOCIETY will meet on Wednesday next, and parade in the

upper story of the Club House. All members to appear in uniform and

shoulder their brooms at nine precisely.

MRS. BETH BOUNCER will open her new assortment of Doll’s Millinery next

week. The latest Paris fashions have arrived, and orders are

respectfully solicited.

A NEW PLAY will appear at the Barnville Theatre, in the course of a few

weeks, which will surpass anything ever seen on the American stage.

“THE GREEK SLAVE, or Constantine the Avenger,” is the name of this

thrilling drama!!!

HINTS

If S.P. didn’t use so much soap on his hands, he wouldn’t always be

late at breakfast. A.S. is requested not to whistle in the street. T.T.

please don’t forget Amy’s napkin. N.W. must not fret because his dress

has not nine tucks.

WEEKLY REPORT

Meg—Good.

Jo—Bad.

Beth—Very Good.

Amy—Middling.

As the President finished reading the paper (which I beg leave to

assure my readers is a bona fide copy of one written by bona fide girls

once upon a time), a round of applause followed, and then Mr. Snodgrass

rose to make a proposition.

“Mr. President and gentlemen,” he began, assuming a parliamentary

attitude and tone, “I wish to propose the admission of a new member—one

who highly deserves the honor, would be deeply grateful for it, and

would add immensely to the spirit of the club, the literary value of

the paper, and be no end jolly and nice. I propose Mr. Theodore

Laurence as an honorary member of the P. C. Come now, do have him.”

Jo’s sudden change of tone made the girls laugh, but all looked rather

anxious, and no one said a word as Snodgrass took his seat.

“We’ll put it to a vote,” said the President. “All in favor of this

motion please to manifest it by saying, ‘Aye’.”

A loud response from Snodgrass, followed, to everybody’s surprise, by a

timid one from Beth.

“Contrary-minded say, ‘No’.”

Meg and Amy were contrary-minded, and Mr. Winkle rose to say with great

elegance, “We don’t wish any boys, they only joke and bounce about.

This is a ladies’ club, and we wish to be private and proper.”

“I’m afraid he’ll laugh at our paper, and make fun of us afterward,”

observed Pickwick, pulling the little curl on her forehead, as she

always did when doubtful.

Up rose Snodgrass, very much in earnest. “Sir, I give you my word as a

gentleman, Laurie won’t do anything of the sort. He likes to write, and

he’ll give a tone to our contributions and keep us from being

sentimental, don’t you see? We can do so little for him, and he does so

much for us, I think the least we can do is to offer him a place here,

and make him welcome if he comes.”

This artful allusion to benefits conferred brought Tupman to his feet,

looking as if he had quite made up his mind.

“Yes; we ought to do it, even if we are afraid. I say he may come, and

his grandpa, too, if he likes.”

This spirited burst from Beth electrified the club, and Jo left her

seat to shake hands approvingly. “Now then, vote again. Everybody

remember it’s our Laurie, and say, ‘Aye!’” cried Snodgrass excitedly.

“Aye! Aye! Aye!” replied three voices at once.

“Good! Bless you! Now, as there’s nothing like ‘taking time by the

fetlock’, as Winkle characteristically observes, allow me to present

the new member.” And, to the dismay of the rest of the club, Jo threw

open the door of the closet, and displayed Laurie sitting on a rag bag,

flushed and twinkling with suppressed laughter.

“You rogue! You traitor! Jo, how could you?” cried the three girls, as

Snodgrass led her friend triumphantly forth, and producing both a chair

and a badge, installed him in a jiffy.

“The coolness of you two rascals is amazing,” began Mr. Pickwick,

trying to get up an awful frown and only succeeding in producing an

amiable smile. But the new member was equal to the occasion, and

rising, with a grateful salutation to the Chair, said in the most

engaging manner, “Mr. President and ladies—I beg pardon,

gentlemen—allow me to introduce myself as Sam Weller, the very humble

servant of the club.”

“Good! Good!” cried Jo, pounding with the handle of the old warming pan

on which she leaned.

“My faithful friend and noble patron,” continued Laurie with a wave of

the hand, “who has so flatteringly presented me, is not to be blamed

for the base stratagem of tonight. I planned it, and she only gave in

after lots of teasing.”

“Come now, don’t lay it all on yourself. You know I proposed the

cupboard,” broke in Snodgrass, who was enjoying the joke amazingly.

“Never mind what she says. I’m the wretch that did it, sir,” said the

new member, with a Welleresque nod to Mr. Pickwick. “But on my honor, I

never will do so again, and henceforth devote myself to the interest of

this immortal club.”

“Hear! Hear!” cried Jo, clashing the lid of the warming pan like a

cymbal.

“Go on, go on!” added Winkle and Tupman, while the President bowed

benignly.

“I merely wish to say, that as a slight token of my gratitude for the

honor done me, and as a means of promoting friendly relations between

adjoining nations, I have set up a post office in the hedge in the

lower corner of the garden, a fine, spacious building with padlocks on

the doors and every convenience for the mails, also the females, if I

may be allowed the expression. It’s the old martin house, but I’ve

stopped up the door and made the roof open, so it will hold all sorts

of things, and save our valuable time. Letters, manuscripts, books, and

bundles can be passed in there, and as each nation has a key, it will

be uncommonly nice, I fancy. Allow me to present the club key, and with

many thanks for your favor, take my seat.”

Great applause as Mr. Weller deposited a little key on the table and

subsided, the warming pan clashed and waved wildly, and it was some

time before order could be restored. A long discussion followed, and

everyone came out surprising, for everyone did her best. So it was an

unusually lively meeting, and did not adjourn till a late hour, when it

broke up with three shrill cheers for the new member.

No one ever regretted the admittance of Sam Weller, for a more devoted,

well-behaved, and jovial member no club could have. He certainly did

add ‘spirit’ to the meetings, and ‘a tone’ to the paper, for his

orations convulsed his hearers and his contributions were excellent,

being patriotic, classical, comical, or dramatic, but never

sentimental. Jo regarded them as worthy of Bacon, Milton, or

Shakespeare, and remodeled her own works with good effect, she thought.

The P. O. was a capital little institution, and flourished wonderfully,

for nearly as many queer things passed through it as through the real

post office. Tragedies and cravats, poetry and pickles, garden seeds

and long letters, music and gingerbread, rubbers, invitations,

scoldings, and puppies. The old gentleman liked the fun, and amused

himself by sending odd bundles, mysterious messages, and funny

telegrams, and his gardener, who was smitten with Hannah’s charms,

actually sent a love letter to Jo’s care. How they laughed when the

secret came out, never dreaming how many love letters that little post

office would hold in the years to come.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

EXPERIMENTS

“The first of June! The Kings are off to the seashore tomorrow, and I’m

free. Three months’ vacation—how I shall enjoy it!” exclaimed Meg,

coming home one warm day to find Jo laid upon the sofa in an unusual

state of exhaustion, while Beth took off her dusty boots, and Amy made

lemonade for the refreshment of the whole party.

“Aunt March went today, for which, oh, be joyful!” said Jo. “I was

mortally afraid she’d ask me to go with her. If she had, I should have

felt as if I ought to do it, but Plumfield is about as gay as a

churchyard, you know, and I’d rather be excused. We had a flurry

getting the old lady off, and I had a fright every time she spoke to

me, for I was in such a hurry to be through that I was uncommonly

helpful and sweet, and feared she’d find it impossible to part from me.

I quaked till she was fairly in the carriage, and had a final fright,

for as it drove of, she popped out her head, saying, ‘Josyphine, won’t

you—?’ I didn’t hear any more, for I basely turned and fled. I did

actually run, and whisked round the corner where I felt safe.”

“Poor old Jo! She came in looking as if bears were after her,” said

Beth, as she cuddled her sister’s feet with a motherly air.

“Aunt March is a regular samphire, is she not?” observed Amy, tasting

her mixture critically.

“She means vampire, not seaweed, but it doesn’t matter. It’s too warm

to be particular about one’s parts of speech,” murmured Jo.

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

with tact.

“I shall lie abed late, and do nothing,” replied Meg, from the depths

of the rocking chair. “I’ve been routed up early all winter and had to

spend my days working for other people, so now I’m going to rest and

revel to my heart’s content.”

“No,” said Jo, “that dozy way wouldn’t suit me. I’ve laid in a heap of

books, and I’m going to improve my shining hours reading on my perch in

the old apple tree, when I’m not having l——”

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

correction.

“I’ll say ‘nightingales’ then, with Laurie. That’s proper and

appropriate, since he’s a warbler.”

“Don’t let us do any lessons, Beth, for a while, but play all the time

and rest, as the girls mean to,” proposed Amy.

“Well, I will, if Mother doesn’t mind. I want to learn some new songs,

and my children need fitting up for the summer. They are dreadfully out

of order and really suffering for clothes.”

“May we, Mother?” asked Meg, turning to Mrs. March, who sat sewing in

what they called ‘Marmee’s corner’.

“You may try your experiment for a week and see how you like it. I

think by Saturday night you will find that all play and no work is as

bad as all work and no play.”

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

“I now propose a toast, as my ‘friend and pardner, Sairy Gamp’, says.

Fun forever, and no grubbing!” cried Jo, rising, glass in hand, as the

lemonade went round.

They all drank it merrily, and began the experiment by lounging for the

rest of the day. Next morning, Meg did not appear till ten o’clock. Her

solitary breakfast did not taste good, and the room seemed lonely and

untidy, for Jo had not filled the vases, Beth had not dusted, and Amy’s

books lay scattered about. Nothing was neat and pleasant but ‘Marmee’s

corner’, which looked as usual. And there Meg sat, to ‘rest and read’,

which meant to yawn and imagine what pretty summer dresses she would

get with her salary. Jo spent the morning on the river with Laurie and

the afternoon reading and crying over _The Wide, Wide World_, up in the

apple tree. Beth began by rummaging everything out of the big closet

where her family resided, but getting tired before half done, she left

her establishment topsy-turvy and went to her music, rejoicing that she

had no dishes to wash. Amy arranged her bower, put on her best white

frock, smoothed her curls, and sat down to draw under the honeysuckle,

hoping someone would see and inquire who the young artist was. As no

one appeared but an inquisitive daddy-longlegs, who examined her work

with interest, she went to walk, got caught in a shower, and came home

dripping.

At teatime they compared notes, and all agreed that it had been a

delightful, though unusually long day. Meg, who went shopping in the

afternoon and got a ‘sweet blue muslin’, had discovered, after she had

cut the breadths off, that it wouldn’t wash, which mishap made her

slightly cross. Jo had burned the skin off her nose boating, and got a

raging headache by reading too long. Beth was worried by the confusion

of her closet and the difficulty of learning three or four songs at

once, and Amy deeply regretted the damage done her frock, for Katy

Brown’s party was to be the next day and now like Flora McFlimsey, she

had ‘nothing to wear’. But these were mere trifles, and they assured

their mother that the experiment was working finely. She smiled, said

nothing, and with Hannah’s help did their neglected work, keeping home

pleasant and the domestic machinery running smoothly. It was

astonishing what a peculiar and uncomfortable state of things was

produced by the ‘resting and reveling’ process. The days kept getting

longer and longer, the weather was unusually variable and so were

tempers; an unsettled feeling possessed everyone, and Satan found

plenty of mischief for the idle hands to do. As the height of luxury,

Meg put out some of her sewing, and then found time hang so heavily,

that she fell to snipping and spoiling her clothes in her attempts to

furbish them up a la Moffat. Jo read till her eyes gave out and she was

sick of books, got so fidgety that even good-natured Laurie had a

quarrel with her, and so reduced in spirits that she desperately wished

she had gone with Aunt March. Beth got on pretty well, for she was

constantly forgetting that it was to be all play and no work, and fell

back into her old ways now and then. But something in the air affected

her, and more than once her tranquility was much disturbed, so much so

that on one occasion she actually shook poor dear Joanna and told her

she was ‘a fright’. Amy fared worst of all, for her resources were

small, and when her sisters left her to amuse herself, she soon found

that accomplished and important little self a great burden. She didn’t

like dolls, fairy tales were childish, and one couldn’t draw all the

time. Tea parties didn’t amount to much, neither did picnics, unless

very well conducted. “If one could have a fine house, full of nice

girls, or go traveling, the summer would be delightful, but to stay at

home with three selfish sisters and a grown-up boy was enough to try

the patience of a Boaz,” complained Miss Malaprop, after several days

devoted to pleasure, fretting, and ennui.

No one would own that they were tired of the experiment, but by Friday

night each acknowledged to herself that she was glad the week was

nearly done. Hoping to impress the lesson more deeply, Mrs. March, who

had a good deal of humor, resolved to finish off the trial in an

appropriate manner, so she gave Hannah a holiday and let the girls

enjoy the full effect of the play system.

When they got up on Saturday morning, there was no fire in the kitchen,

no breakfast in the dining room, and no mother anywhere to be seen.

“Mercy on us! What has happened?” cried Jo, staring about her in

dismay.

Meg ran upstairs and soon came back again, looking relieved but rather

bewildered, and a little ashamed.

“Mother isn’t sick, only very tired, and she says she is going to stay

quietly in her room all day and let us do the best we can. It’s a very

queer thing for her to do, she doesn’t act a bit like herself. But she

says it has been a hard week for her, so we mustn’t grumble but take

care of ourselves.”

“That’s easy enough, and I like the idea, I’m aching for something to

do, that is, some new amusement, you know,” added Jo quickly.

In fact it was an immense relief to them all to have a little work, and

they took hold with a will, but soon realized the truth of Hannah’s

saying, “Housekeeping ain’t no joke.” There was plenty of food in the

larder, and while Beth and Amy set the table, Meg and Jo got breakfast,

wondering as they did why servants ever talked about hard work.

“I shall take some up to Mother, though she said we were not to think

of her, for she’d take care of herself,” said Meg, who presided and

felt quite matronly behind the teapot.

So a tray was fitted out before anyone began, and taken up with the

cook’s compliments. The boiled tea was very bitter, the omelet

scorched, and the biscuits speckled with saleratus, but Mrs. March

received her repast with thanks and laughed heartily over it after Jo

was gone.

“Poor little souls, they will have a hard time, I’m afraid, but they

won’t suffer, and it will do them good,” she said, producing the more

palatable viands with which she had provided herself, and disposing of

the bad breakfast, so that their feelings might not be hurt, a motherly

little deception for which they were grateful.

Many were the complaints below, and great the chagrin of the head cook

at her failures. “Never mind, I’ll get the dinner and be servant, you

be mistress, keep your hands nice, see company, and give orders,” said

Jo, who knew still less than Meg about culinary affairs.

This obliging offer was gladly accepted, and Margaret retired to the

parlor, which she hastily put in order by whisking the litter under the

sofa and shutting the blinds to save the trouble of dusting. Jo, with

perfect faith in her own powers and a friendly desire to make up the

quarrel, immediately put a note in the office, inviting Laurie to

dinner.

“You’d better see what you have got before you think of having

company,” said Meg, when informed of the hospitable but rash act.

“Oh, there’s corned beef and plenty of potatoes, and I shall get some

asparagus and a lobster, ‘for a relish’, as Hannah says. We’ll have

lettuce and make a salad. I don’t know how, but the book tells. I’ll

have blanc mange and strawberries for dessert, and coffee too, if you

want to be elegant.”

“Don’t try too many messes, Jo, for you can’t make anything but

gingerbread and molasses candy fit to eat. I wash my hands of the

dinner party, and since you have asked Laurie on your own

responsibility, you may just take care of him.”

“I don’t want you to do anything but be civil to him and help to the

pudding. You’ll give me your advice if I get in a muddle, won’t you?”

asked Jo, rather hurt.

“Yes, but I don’t know much, except about bread and a few trifles. You

had better ask Mother’s leave before you order anything,” returned Meg

prudently.

“Of course I shall. I’m not a fool.” And Jo went off in a huff at the

doubts expressed of her powers.

“Get what you like, and don’t disturb me. I’m going out to dinner and

can’t worry about things at home,” said Mrs. March, when Jo spoke to

her. “I never enjoyed housekeeping, and I’m going to take a vacation

today, and read, write, go visiting, and amuse myself.”

The unusual spectacle of her busy mother rocking comfortably and

reading early in the morning made Jo feel as if some unnatural

phenomenon had occurred, for an eclipse, an earthquake, or a volcanic

eruption would hardly have seemed stranger.

“Everything is out of sorts, somehow,” she said to herself, going

downstairs. “There’s Beth crying, that’s a sure sign that something is

wrong in this family. If Amy is bothering, I’ll shake her.”

Feeling very much out of sorts herself, Jo hurried into the parlor to

find Beth sobbing over Pip, the canary, who lay dead in the cage with

his little claws pathetically extended, as if imploring the food for

want of which he had died.

“It’s all my fault, I forgot him, there isn’t a seed or a drop left.

Oh, Pip! Oh, Pip! How could I be so cruel to you?” cried Beth, taking

the poor thing in her hands and trying to restore him.

Jo peeped into his half-open eye, felt his little heart, and finding

him stiff and cold, shook her head, and offered her domino box for a

coffin.

“Put him in the oven, and maybe he will get warm and revive,” said Amy

hopefully.

“He’s been starved, and he shan’t be baked now he’s dead. I’ll make him

a shroud, and he shall be buried in the garden, and I’ll never have

another bird, never, my Pip! for I am too bad to own one,” murmured

Beth, sitting on the floor with her pet folded in her hands.

“The funeral shall be this afternoon, and we will all go. Now, don’t

cry, Bethy. It’s a pity, but nothing goes right this week, and Pip has

had the worst of the experiment. Make the shroud, and lay him in my

box, and after the dinner party, we’ll have a nice little funeral,”

said Jo, beginning to feel as if she had undertaken a good deal.

Leaving the others to console Beth, she departed to the kitchen, which

was in a most discouraging state of confusion. Putting on a big apron,

she fell to work and got the dishes piled up ready for washing, when

she discovered that the fire was out.

“Here’s a sweet prospect!” muttered Jo, slamming the stove door open,

and poking vigorously among the cinders.

Having rekindled the fire, she thought she would go to market while the

water heated. The walk revived her spirits, and flattering herself that

she had made good bargains, she trudged home again, after buying a very

young lobster, some very old asparagus, and two boxes of acid

strawberries. By the time she got cleared up, the dinner arrived and

the stove was red-hot. Hannah had left a pan of bread to rise, Meg had

worked it up early, set it on the hearth for a second rising, and

forgotten it. Meg was entertaining Sallie Gardiner in the parlor, when

the door flew open and a floury, crocky, flushed, and disheveled figure

appeared, demanding tartly...

“I say, isn’t bread ‘riz’ enough when it runs over the pans?”

Sallie began to laugh, but Meg nodded and lifted her eyebrows as high

as they would go, which caused the apparition to vanish and put the

sour bread into the oven without further delay. Mrs. March went out,

after peeping here and there to see how matters went, also saying a

word of comfort to Beth, who sat making a winding sheet, while the dear

departed lay in state in the domino box. A strange sense of

helplessness fell upon the girls as the gray bonnet vanished round the

corner, and despair seized them when a few minutes later Miss Crocker

appeared, and said she’d come to dinner. Now this lady was a thin,

yellow spinster, with a sharp nose and inquisitive eyes, who saw

everything and gossiped about all she saw. They disliked her, but had

been taught to be kind to her, simply because she was old and poor and

had few friends. So Meg gave her the easy chair and tried to entertain

her, while she asked questions, criticized everything, and told stories

of the people whom she knew.

Language cannot describe the anxieties, experiences, and exertions

which Jo underwent that morning, and the dinner she served up became a

standing joke. Fearing to ask any more advice, she did her best alone,

and discovered that something more than energy and good will is

necessary to make a cook. She boiled the asparagus for an hour and was

grieved to find the heads cooked off and the stalks harder than ever.

The bread burned black; for the salad dressing so aggravated her that

she could not make it fit to eat. The lobster was a scarlet mystery to

her, but she hammered and poked till it was unshelled and its meager

proportions concealed in a grove of lettuce leaves. The potatoes had to

be hurried, not to keep the asparagus waiting, and were not done at the

last. The blanc mange was lumpy, and the strawberries not as ripe as

they looked, having been skilfully ‘deaconed’.

“Well, they can eat beef and bread and butter, if they are hungry, only

it’s mortifying to have to spend your whole morning for nothing,”

thought Jo, as she rang the bell half an hour later than usual, and

stood, hot, tired, and dispirited, surveying the feast spread before

Laurie, accustomed to all sorts of elegance, and Miss Crocker, whose

tattling tongue would report them far and wide.

Poor Jo would gladly have gone under the table, as one thing after

another was tasted and left, while Amy giggled, Meg looked distressed,

Miss Crocker pursed her lips, and Laurie talked and laughed with all

his might to give a cheerful tone to the festive scene. Jo’s one strong

point was the fruit, for she had sugared it well, and had a pitcher of

rich cream to eat with it. Her hot cheeks cooled a trifle, and she drew

a long breath as the pretty glass plates went round, and everyone

looked graciously at the little rosy islands floating in a sea of

cream. Miss Crocker tasted first, made a wry face, and drank some water

hastily. Jo, who refused, thinking there might not be enough, for they

dwindled sadly after the picking over, glanced at Laurie, but he was

eating away manfully, though there was a slight pucker about his mouth

and he kept his eye fixed on his plate. Amy, who was fond of delicate

fare, took a heaping spoonful, choked, hid her face in her napkin, and

left the table precipitately.

“Oh, what is it?” exclaimed Jo, trembling.

“Salt instead of sugar, and the cream is sour,” replied Meg with a

tragic gesture.

Jo uttered a groan and fell back in her chair, remembering that she had

given a last hasty powdering to the berries out of one of the two boxes

on the kitchen table, and had neglected to put the milk in the

refrigerator. She turned scarlet and was on the verge of crying, when

she met Laurie’s eyes, which would look merry in spite of his heroic

efforts. The comical side of the affair suddenly struck her, and she

laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. So did everyone else, even

‘Croaker’ as the girls called the old lady, and the unfortunate dinner

ended gaily, with bread and butter, olives and fun.

“I haven’t strength of mind enough to clear up now, so we will sober

ourselves with a funeral,” said Jo, as they rose, and Miss Crocker made

ready to go, being eager to tell the new story at another friend’s

dinner table.

They did sober themselves for Beth’s sake. Laurie dug a grave under the

ferns in the grove, little Pip was laid in, with many tears by his

tender-hearted mistress, and covered with moss, while a wreath of

violets and chickweed was hung on the stone which bore his epitaph,

composed by Jo while she struggled with the dinner.

Here lies Pip March,

Who died the 7th of June;

Loved and lamented sore,

And not forgotten soon.

At the conclusion of the ceremonies, Beth retired to her room, overcome

with emotion and lobster, but there was no place of repose, for the

beds were not made, and she found her grief much assuaged by beating up

the pillows and putting things in order. Meg helped Jo clear away the

remains of the feast, which took half the afternoon and left them so

tired that they agreed to be contented with tea and toast for supper.

Laurie took Amy to drive, which was a deed of charity, for the sour

cream seemed to have had a bad effect upon her temper. Mrs. March came

home to find the three older girls hard at work in the middle of the

afternoon, and a glance at the closet gave her an idea of the success

of one part of the experiment.

Before the housewives could rest, several people called, and there was

a scramble to get ready to see them. Then tea must be got, errands

done, and one or two necessary bits of sewing neglected until the last

minute. As twilight fell, dewy and still, one by one they gathered on

the porch where the June roses were budding beautifully, and each

groaned or sighed as she sat down, as if tired or troubled.

“What a dreadful day this has been!” began Jo, usually the first to

speak.

“It has seemed shorter than usual, but so uncomfortable,” said Meg.

“Not a bit like home,” added Amy.

“It can’t seem so without Marmee and little Pip,” sighed Beth, glancing

with full eyes at the empty cage above her head.

“Here’s Mother, dear, and you shall have another bird tomorrow, if you

want it.”

As she spoke, Mrs. March came and took her place among them, looking as

if her holiday had not been much pleasanter than theirs.

“Are you satisfied with your experiment, girls, or do you want another

week of it?” she asked, as Beth nestled up to her and the rest turned

toward her with brightening faces, as flowers turn toward the sun.

“I don’t!” cried Jo decidedly.

“Nor I,” echoed the others.

“You think then, that it is better to have a few duties and live a

little for others, do you?”

“Lounging and larking doesn’t pay,” observed Jo, shaking her head. “I’m

tired of it and mean to go to work at something right off.”

“Suppose you learn plain cooking. That’s a useful accomplishment, which

no woman should be without,” said Mrs. March, laughing inaudibly at the

recollection of Jo’s dinner party, for she had met Miss Crocker and

heard her account of it.

“Mother, did you go away and let everything be, just to see how we’d

get on?” cried Meg, who had had suspicions all day.

“Yes, I wanted you to see how the comfort of all depends on each doing

her share faithfully. While Hannah and I did your work, you got on

pretty well, though I don’t think you were very happy or amiable. So I

thought, as a little lesson, I would show you what happens when

everyone thinks only of herself. Don’t you feel that it is pleasanter

to help one another, to have daily duties which make leisure sweet when

it comes, and to bear and forbear, that home may be comfortable and

lovely to us all?”

“We do, Mother, we do!” cried the girls.

“Then let me advise you to take up your little burdens again, for

though they seem heavy sometimes, they are good for us, and lighten as

we learn to carry them. Work is wholesome, and there is plenty for

everyone. It keeps us from ennui and mischief, is good for health and

spirits, and gives us a sense of power and independence better than

money or fashion.”

“We’ll work like bees, and love it too, see if we don’t,” said Jo.

“I’ll learn plain cooking for my holiday task, and the next dinner

party I have shall be a success.”

“I’ll make the set of shirts for father, instead of letting you do it,

Marmee. I can and I will, though I’m not fond of sewing. That will be

better than fussing over my own things, which are plenty nice enough as

they are.” said Meg.

“I’ll do my lessons every day, and not spend so much time with my music

and dolls. I am a stupid thing, and ought to be studying, not playing,”

was Beth’s resolution, while Amy followed their example by heroically

declaring, “I shall learn to make buttonholes, and attend to my parts

of speech.”

“Very good! Then I am quite satisfied with the experiment, and fancy

that we shall not have to repeat it, only don’t go to the other extreme

and delve like slaves. Have regular hours for work and play, make each

day both useful and pleasant, and prove that you understand the worth

of time by employing it well. Then youth will be delightful, old age

will bring few regrets, and life become a beautiful success, in spite

of poverty.”

“We’ll remember, Mother!” and they did.

CHAPTER TWELVE

CAMP LAURENCE

Beth was postmistress, for, being most at home, she could attend to it

regularly, and dearly liked the daily task of unlocking the little door

and distributing the mail. One July day she came in with her hands

full, and went about the house leaving letters and parcels like the

penny post.

“Here’s your posy, Mother! Laurie never forgets that,” she said,

putting the fresh nosegay in the vase that stood in ‘Marmee’s corner’,

and was kept supplied by the affectionate boy.

“Miss Meg March, one letter and a glove,” continued Beth, delivering

the articles to her sister, who sat near her mother, stitching

wristbands.

“Why, I left a pair over there, and here is only one,” said Meg,

looking at the gray cotton glove. “Didn’t you drop the other in the

garden?”

“No, I’m sure I didn’t, for there was only one in the office.”

“I hate to have odd gloves! Never mind, the other may be found. My

letter is only a translation of the German song I wanted. I think Mr.

Brooke did it, for this isn’t Laurie’s writing.”

Mrs. March glanced at Meg, who was looking very pretty in her gingham

morning gown, with the little curls blowing about her forehead, and

very womanly, as she sat sewing at her little worktable, full of tidy

white rolls, so unconscious of the thought in her mother’s mind as she

sewed and sang, while her fingers flew and her thoughts were busied

with girlish fancies as innocent and fresh as the pansies in her belt,

that Mrs. March smiled and was satisfied.

“Two letters for Doctor Jo, a book, and a funny old hat, which covered

the whole post office and stuck outside,” said Beth, laughing as she

went into the study where Jo sat writing.

“What a sly fellow Laurie is! I said I wished bigger hats were the

fashion, because I burn my face every hot day. He said, ‘Why mind the

fashion? Wear a big hat, and be comfortable!’ I said I would if I had

one, and he has sent me this, to try me. I’ll wear it for fun, and show

him I don’t care for the fashion.” And hanging the antique broad-brim

on a bust of Plato, Jo read her letters.

One from her mother made her cheeks glow and her eyes fill, for it said

to her...

My Dear:

I write a little word to tell you with how much satisfaction I watch

your efforts to control your temper. You say nothing about your trials,

failures, or successes, and think, perhaps, that no one sees them but

the Friend whose help you daily ask, if I may trust the well-worn cover

of your guidebook. I, too, have seen them all, and heartily believe in

the sincerity of your resolution, since it begins to bear fruit. Go on,

dear, patiently and bravely, and always believe that no one sympathizes

more tenderly with you than your loving...

Mother

“That does me good! That’s worth millions of money and pecks of praise.

Oh, Marmee, I do try! I will keep on trying, and not get tired, since I

have you to help me.”

Laying her head on her arms, Jo wet her little romance with a few happy

tears, for she had thought that no one saw and appreciated her efforts

to be good, and this assurance was doubly precious, doubly encouraging,

because unexpected and from the person whose commendation she most

valued. Feeling stronger than ever to meet and subdue her Apollyon, she

pinned the note inside her frock, as a shield and a reminder, lest she

be taken unaware, and proceeded to open her other letter, quite ready

for either good or bad news. In a big, dashing hand, Laurie wrote...

Dear Jo, What ho!

Some English girls and boys are coming to see me tomorrow and I want to

have a jolly time. If it’s fine, I’m going to pitch my tent in

Longmeadow, and row up the whole crew to lunch and croquet—have a fire,

make messes, gypsy fashion, and all sorts of larks. They are nice

people, and like such things. Brooke will go to keep us boys steady,

and Kate Vaughn will play propriety for the girls. I want you all to

come, can’t let Beth off at any price, and nobody shall worry her.

Don’t bother about rations, I’ll see to that and everything else, only

do come, there’s a good fellow!

In a tearing hurry, Yours ever, Laurie.

“Here’s richness!” cried Jo, flying in to tell the news to Meg.

“Of course we can go, Mother? It will be such a help to Laurie, for I

can row, and Meg see to the lunch, and the children be useful in some

way.”

“I hope the Vaughns are not fine grown-up people. Do you know anything

about them, Jo?” asked Meg.

“Only that there are four of them. Kate is older than you, Fred and

Frank (twins) about my age, and a little girl (Grace), who is nine or

ten. Laurie knew them abroad, and liked the boys. I fancied, from the

way he primmed up his mouth in speaking of her, that he didn’t admire

Kate much.”

“I’m so glad my French print is clean, it’s just the thing and so

becoming!” observed Meg complacently. “Have you anything decent, Jo?”

“Scarlet and gray boating suit, good enough for me. I shall row and

tramp about, so I don’t want any starch to think of. You’ll come,

Betty?”

“If you won’t let any boys talk to me.”

“Not a boy!”

“I like to please Laurie, and I’m not afraid of Mr. Brooke, he is so

kind. But I don’t want to play, or sing, or say anything. I’ll work

hard and not trouble anyone, and you’ll take care of me, Jo, so I’ll

go.”

“That’s my good girl. You do try to fight off your shyness, and I love

you for it. Fighting faults isn’t easy, as I know, and a cheery word

kind of gives a lift. Thank you, Mother,” And Jo gave the thin cheek a

grateful kiss, more precious to Mrs. March than if it had given back

the rosy roundness of her youth.

“I had a box of chocolate drops, and the picture I wanted to copy,”

said Amy, showing her mail.

“And I got a note from Mr. Laurence, asking me to come over and play to

him tonight, before the lamps are lighted, and I shall go,” added Beth,

whose friendship with the old gentleman prospered finely.

“Now let’s fly round, and do double duty today, so that we can play

tomorrow with free minds,” said Jo, preparing to replace her pen with a

broom.

When the sun peeped into the girls’ room early next morning to promise

them a fine day, he saw a comical sight. Each had made such preparation

for the fete as seemed necessary and proper. Meg had an extra row of

little curlpapers across her forehead, Jo had copiously anointed her

afflicted face with cold cream, Beth had taken Joanna to bed with her

to atone for the approaching separation, and Amy had capped the climax

by putting a clothespin on her nose to uplift the offending feature. It

was one of the kind artists use to hold the paper on their drawing

boards, therefore quite appropriate and effective for the purpose it

was now being put. This funny spectacle appeared to amuse the sun, for

he burst out with such radiance that Jo woke up and roused her sisters

by a hearty laugh at Amy’s ornament.

Sunshine and laughter were good omens for a pleasure party, and soon a

lively bustle began in both houses. Beth, who was ready first, kept

reporting what went on next door, and enlivened her sisters’ toilets by

frequent telegrams from the window.

“There goes the man with the tent! I see Mrs. Barker doing up the lunch

in a hamper and a great basket. Now Mr. Laurence is looking up at the

sky and the weathercock. I wish he would go too. There’s Laurie,

looking like a sailor, nice boy! Oh, mercy me! Here’s a carriage full

of people, a tall lady, a little girl, and two dreadful boys. One is

lame, poor thing, he’s got a crutch. Laurie didn’t tell us that. Be

quick, girls! It’s getting late. Why, there is Ned Moffat, I do

declare. Meg, isn’t that the man who bowed to you one day when we were

shopping?”

“So it is. How queer that he should come. I thought he was at the

mountains. There is Sallie. I’m glad she got back in time. Am I all

right, Jo?” cried Meg in a flutter.

“A regular daisy. Hold up your dress and put your hat on straight, it

looks sentimental tipped that way and will fly off at the first puff.

Now then, come on!”

“Oh, Jo, you are not going to wear that awful hat? It’s too absurd! You

shall not make a guy of yourself,” remonstrated Meg, as Jo tied down

with a red ribbon the broad-brimmed, old-fashioned leghorn Laurie had

sent for a joke.

“I just will, though, for it’s capital, so shady, light, and big. It

will make fun, and I don’t mind being a guy if I’m comfortable.” With

that Jo marched straight away and the rest followed, a bright little

band of sisters, all looking their best in summer suits, with happy

faces under the jaunty hatbrims.

Laurie ran to meet and present them to his friends in the most cordial

manner. The lawn was the reception room, and for several minutes a

lively scene was enacted there. Meg was grateful to see that Miss Kate,

though twenty, was dressed with a simplicity which American girls would

do well to imitate, and who was much flattered by Mr. Ned’s assurances

that he came especially to see her. Jo understood why Laurie ‘primmed

up his mouth’ when speaking of Kate, for that young lady had a

standoff-don’t-touch-me air, which contrasted strongly with the free

and easy demeanor of the other girls. Beth took an observation of the

new boys and decided that the lame one was not ‘dreadful’, but gentle

and feeble, and she would be kind to him on that account. Amy found

Grace a well-mannered, merry, little person, and after staring dumbly

at one another for a few minutes, they suddenly became very good

friends.

Tents, lunch, and croquet utensils having been sent on beforehand, the

party was soon embarked, and the two boats pushed off together, leaving

Mr. Laurence waving his hat on the shore. Laurie and Jo rowed one boat,

Mr. Brooke and Ned the other, while Fred Vaughn, the riotous twin, did

his best to upset both by paddling about in a wherry like a disturbed

water bug. Jo’s funny hat deserved a vote of thanks, for it was of

general utility. It broke the ice in the beginning by producing a

laugh, it created quite a refreshing breeze, flapping to and fro as she

rowed, and would make an excellent umbrella for the whole party, if a

shower came up, she said. Miss Kate decided that she was ‘odd’, but

rather clever, and smiled upon her from afar.

Meg, in the other boat, was delightfully situated, face to face with

the rowers, who both admired the prospect and feathered their oars with

uncommon ‘skill and dexterity’. Mr. Brooke was a grave, silent young

man, with handsome brown eyes and a pleasant voice. Meg liked his quiet

manners and considered him a walking encyclopedia of useful knowledge.

He never talked to her much, but he looked at her a good deal, and she

felt sure that he did not regard her with aversion. Ned, being in

college, of course put on all the airs which freshmen think it their

bounden duty to assume. He was not very wise, but very good-natured,

and altogether an excellent person to carry on a picnic. Sallie

Gardiner was absorbed in keeping her white pique dress clean and

chattering with the ubiquitous Fred, who kept Beth in constant terror

by his pranks.

It was not far to Longmeadow, but the tent was pitched and the wickets

down by the time they arrived. A pleasant green field, with three

wide-spreading oaks in the middle and a smooth strip of turf for

croquet.

“Welcome to Camp Laurence!” said the young host, as they landed with

exclamations of delight.

“Brooke is commander in chief, I am commissary general, the other

fellows are staff officers, and you, ladies, are company. The tent is

for your especial benefit and that oak is your drawing room, this is

the messroom and the third is the camp kitchen. Now, let’s have a game

before it gets hot, and then we’ll see about dinner.”

Frank, Beth, Amy, and Grace sat down to watch the game played by the

other eight. Mr. Brooke chose Meg, Kate, and Fred. Laurie took Sallie,

Jo, and Ned. The English played well, but the Americans played better,

and contested every inch of the ground as strongly as if the spirit of

’76 inspired them. Jo and Fred had several skirmishes and once narrowly

escaped high words. Jo was through the last wicket and had missed the

stroke, which failure ruffled her a good deal. Fred was close behind

her and his turn came before hers. He gave a stroke, his ball hit the

wicket, and stopped an inch on the wrong side. No one was very near,

and running up to examine, he gave it a sly nudge with his toe, which

put it just an inch on the right side.

“I’m through! Now, Miss Jo, I’ll settle you, and get in first,” cried

the young gentleman, swinging his mallet for another blow.

“You pushed it. I saw you. It’s my turn now,” said Jo sharply.

“Upon my word, I didn’t move it. It rolled a bit, perhaps, but that is

allowed. So, stand off please, and let me have a go at the stake.”

“We don’t cheat in America, but you can, if you choose,” said Jo

angrily.

“Yankees are a deal the most tricky, everybody knows. There you go!”

returned Fred, croqueting her ball far away.

Jo opened her lips to say something rude, but checked herself in time,

colored up to her forehead and stood a minute, hammering down a wicket

with all her might, while Fred hit the stake and declared himself out

with much exultation. She went off to get her ball, and was a long time

finding it among the bushes, but she came back, looking cool and quiet,

and waited her turn patiently. It took several strokes to regain the

place she had lost, and when she got there, the other side had nearly

won, for Kate’s ball was the last but one and lay near the stake.

“By George, it’s all up with us! Goodbye, Kate. Miss Jo owes me one, so

you are finished,” cried Fred excitedly, as they all drew near to see

the finish.

“Yankees have a trick of being generous to their enemies,” said Jo,

with a look that made the lad redden, “especially when they beat them,”

she added, as, leaving Kate’s ball untouched, she won the game by a

clever stroke.

Laurie threw up his hat, then remembered that it wouldn’t do to exult

over the defeat of his guests, and stopped in the middle of the cheer

to whisper to his friend, “Good for you, Jo! He did cheat, I saw him.

We can’t tell him so, but he won’t do it again, take my word for it.”

Meg drew her aside, under pretense of pinning up a loose braid, and

said approvingly, “It was dreadfully provoking, but you kept your

temper, and I’m so glad, Jo.”

“Don’t praise me, Meg, for I could box his ears this minute. I should

certainly have boiled over if I hadn’t stayed among the nettles till I

got my rage under control enough to hold my tongue. It’s simmering now,

so I hope he’ll keep out of my way,” returned Jo, biting her lips as

she glowered at Fred from under her big hat.

“Time for lunch,” said Mr. Brooke, looking at his watch. “Commissary

general, will you make the fire and get water, while Miss March, Miss

Sallie, and I spread the table? Who can make good coffee?”

“Jo can,” said Meg, glad to recommend her sister. So Jo, feeling that

her late lessons in cookery were to do her honor, went to preside over

the coffeepot, while the children collected dry sticks, and the boys

made a fire and got water from a spring near by. Miss Kate sketched and

Frank talked to Beth, who was making little mats of braided rushes to

serve as plates.

The commander in chief and his aides soon spread the tablecloth with an

inviting array of eatables and drinkables, prettily decorated with

green leaves. Jo announced that the coffee was ready, and everyone

settled themselves to a hearty meal, for youth is seldom dyspeptic, and

exercise develops wholesome appetites. A very merry lunch it was, for

everything seemed fresh and funny, and frequent peals of laughter

startled a venerable horse who fed near by. There was a pleasing

inequality in the table, which produced many mishaps to cups and

plates, acorns dropped in the milk, little black ants partook of the

refreshments without being invited, and fuzzy caterpillars swung down

from the tree to see what was going on. Three white-headed children

peeped over the fence, and an objectionable dog barked at them from the

other side of the river with all his might and main.

“There’s salt here,” said Laurie, as he handed Jo a saucer of berries.

“Thank you, I prefer spiders,” she replied, fishing up two unwary

little ones who had gone to a creamy death. “How dare you remind me of

that horrid dinner party, when yours is so nice in every way?” added

Jo, as they both laughed and ate out of one plate, the china having run

short.

“I had an uncommonly good time that day, and haven’t got over it yet.

This is no credit to me, you know, I don’t do anything. It’s you and

Meg and Brooke who make it all go, and I’m no end obliged to you. What

shall we do when we can’t eat anymore?” asked Laurie, feeling that his

trump card had been played when lunch was over.

“Have games till it’s cooler. I brought Authors, and I dare say Miss

Kate knows something new and nice. Go and ask her. She’s company, and

you ought to stay with her more.”

“Aren’t you company too? I thought she’d suit Brooke, but he keeps

talking to Meg, and Kate just stares at them through that ridiculous

glass of hers. I’m going, so you needn’t try to preach propriety, for

you can’t do it, Jo.”

Miss Kate did know several new games, and as the girls would not, and

the boys could not, eat any more, they all adjourned to the drawing

room to play Rig-marole.

“One person begins a story, any nonsense you like, and tells as long as

he pleases, only taking care to stop short at some exciting point, when

the next takes it up and does the same. It’s very funny when well done,

and makes a perfect jumble of tragical comical stuff to laugh over.

Please start it, Mr. Brooke,” said Kate, with a commanding air, which

surprised Meg, who treated the tutor with as much respect as any other

gentleman.

Lying on the grass at the feet of the two young ladies, Mr. Brooke

obediently began the story, with the handsome brown eyes steadily fixed

upon the sunshiny river.

“Once on a time, a knight went out into the world to seek his fortune,

for he had nothing but his sword and his shield. He traveled a long

while, nearly eight-and-twenty years, and had a hard time of it, till

he came to the palace of a good old king, who had offered a reward to

anyone who could tame and train a fine but unbroken colt, of which he

was very fond. The knight agreed to try, and got on slowly but surely,

for the colt was a gallant fellow, and soon learned to love his new

master, though he was freakish and wild. Every day, when he gave his

lessons to this pet of the king’s, the knight rode him through the

city, and as he rode, he looked everywhere for a certain beautiful

face, which he had seen many times in his dreams, but never found. One

day, as he went prancing down a quiet street, he saw at the window of a

ruinous castle the lovely face. He was delighted, inquired who lived in

this old castle, and was told that several captive princesses were kept

there by a spell, and spun all day to lay up money to buy their

liberty. The knight wished intensely that he could free them, but he

was poor and could only go by each day, watching for the sweet face and

longing to see it out in the sunshine. At last he resolved to get into

the castle and ask how he could help them. He went and knocked. The

great door flew open, and he beheld...”

“A ravishingly lovely lady, who exclaimed, with a cry of rapture, ‘At

last! At last!’” continued Kate, who had read French novels, and

admired the style. “’Tis she!’ cried Count Gustave, and fell at her

feet in an ecstasy of joy. ‘Oh, rise!’ she said, extending a hand of

marble fairness. ‘Never! Till you tell me how I may rescue you,’ swore

the knight, still kneeling. ‘Alas, my cruel fate condemns me to remain

here till my tyrant is destroyed.’ ‘Where is the villain?’ ‘In the

mauve salon. Go, brave heart, and save me from despair.’ ‘I obey, and

return victorious or dead!’ With these thrilling words he rushed away,

and flinging open the door of the mauve salon, was about to enter, when

he received...”

“A stunning blow from the big Greek lexicon, which an old fellow in a

black gown fired at him,” said Ned. “Instantly, Sir What’s-his-name

recovered himself, pitched the tyrant out of the window, and turned to

join the lady, victorious, but with a bump on his brow, found the door

locked, tore up the curtains, made a rope ladder, got halfway down when

the ladder broke, and he went headfirst into the moat, sixty feet

below. Could swim like a duck, paddled round the castle till he came to

a little door guarded by two stout fellows, knocked their heads

together till they cracked like a couple of nuts, then, by a trifling

exertion of his prodigious strength, he smashed in the door, went up a

pair of stone steps covered with dust a foot thick, toads as big as

your fist, and spiders that would frighten you into hysterics, Miss

March. At the top of these steps he came plump upon a sight that took

his breath away and chilled his blood...”

“A tall figure, all in white with a veil over its face and a lamp in

its wasted hand,” went on Meg. “It beckoned, gliding noiselessly before

him down a corridor as dark and cold as any tomb. Shadowy effigies in

armor stood on either side, a dead silence reigned, the lamp burned

blue, and the ghostly figure ever and anon turned its face toward him,

showing the glitter of awful eyes through its white veil. They reached

a curtained door, behind which sounded lovely music. He sprang forward

to enter, but the specter plucked him back, and waved threateningly

before him a...”

“Snuffbox,” said Jo, in a sepulchral tone, which convulsed the

audience. “‘Thankee,’ said the knight politely, as he took a pinch and

sneezed seven times so violently that his head fell off. ‘Ha! Ha!’

laughed the ghost, and having peeped through the keyhole at the

princesses spinning away for dear life, the evil spirit picked up her

victim and put him in a large tin box, where there were eleven other

knights packed together without their heads, like sardines, who all

rose and began to...”

“Dance a hornpipe,” cut in Fred, as Jo paused for breath, “and, as they

danced, the rubbishy old castle turned to a man-of-war in full sail.

‘Up with the jib, reef the tops’l halliards, helm hard alee, and man

the guns!’ roared the captain, as a Portuguese pirate hove in sight,

with a flag black as ink flying from her foremast. ‘Go in and win, my

hearties!’ says the captain, and a tremendous fight began. Of course

the British beat—they always do.”

“No, they don’t!” cried Jo, aside.

“Having taken the pirate captain prisoner, sailed slap over the

schooner, whose decks were piled high with dead and whose lee scuppers

ran blood, for the order had been ‘Cutlasses, and die hard!’ ‘Bosun’s

mate, take a bight of the flying-jib sheet, and start this villain if

he doesn’t confess his sins double quick,’ said the British captain.

The Portuguese held his tongue like a brick, and walked the plank,

while the jolly tars cheered like mad. But the sly dog dived, came up

under the man-of-war, scuttled her, and down she went, with all sail

set, ‘To the bottom of the sea, sea, sea’ where...”

“Oh, gracious! What shall I say?” cried Sallie, as Fred ended his

rigmarole, in which he had jumbled together pell-mell nautical phrases

and facts out of one of his favorite books. “Well, they went to the

bottom, and a nice mermaid welcomed them, but was much grieved on

finding the box of headless knights, and kindly pickled them in brine,

hoping to discover the mystery about them, for being a woman, she was

curious. By-and-by a diver came down, and the mermaid said, ‘I’ll give

you a box of pearls if you can take it up,’ for she wanted to restore

the poor things to life, and couldn’t raise the heavy load herself. So

the diver hoisted it up, and was much disappointed on opening it to

find no pearls. He left it in a great lonely field, where it was found

by a...”

“Little goose girl, who kept a hundred fat geese in the field,” said

Amy, when Sallie’s invention gave out. “The little girl was sorry for

them, and asked an old woman what she should do to help them. ‘Your

geese will tell you, they know everything.’ said the old woman. So she

asked what she should use for new heads, since the old ones were lost,

and all the geese opened their hundred mouths and screamed...”

“‘Cabbages!’” continued Laurie promptly. “‘Just the thing,’ said the

girl, and ran to get twelve fine ones from her garden. She put them on,

the knights revived at once, thanked her, and went on their way

rejoicing, never knowing the difference, for there were so many other

heads like them in the world that no one thought anything of it. The

knight in whom I’m interested went back to find the pretty face, and

learned that the princesses had spun themselves free and all gone and

married, but one. He was in a great state of mind at that, and mounting

the colt, who stood by him through thick and thin, rushed to the castle

to see which was left. Peeping over the hedge, he saw the queen of his

affections picking flowers in her garden. ‘Will you give me a rose?’

said he. ‘You must come and get it. I can’t come to you, it isn’t

proper,’ said she, as sweet as honey. He tried to climb over the hedge,

but it seemed to grow higher and higher. Then he tried to push through,

but it grew thicker and thicker, and he was in despair. So he patiently

broke twig after twig till he had made a little hole through which he

peeped, saying imploringly, ‘Let me in! Let me in!’ But the pretty

princess did not seem to understand, for she picked her roses quietly,

and left him to fight his way in. Whether he did or not, Frank will

tell you.”

“I can’t. I’m not playing, I never do,” said Frank, dismayed at the

sentimental predicament out of which he was to rescue the absurd

couple. Beth had disappeared behind Jo, and Grace was asleep.

“So the poor knight is to be left sticking in the hedge, is he?” asked

Mr. Brooke, still watching the river, and playing with the wild rose in

his buttonhole.

“I guess the princess gave him a posy, and opened the gate after a

while,” said Laurie, smiling to himself, as he threw acorns at his

tutor.

“What a piece of nonsense we have made! With practice we might do

something quite clever. Do you know Truth?”

“I hope so,” said Meg soberly.

“The game, I mean?”

“What is it?” said Fred.

“Why, you pile up your hands, choose a number, and draw out in turn,

and the person who draws at the number has to answer truly any question

put by the rest. It’s great fun.”

“Let’s try it,” said Jo, who liked new experiments.

Miss Kate and Mr. Brooke, Meg, and Ned declined, but Fred, Sallie, Jo,

and Laurie piled and drew, and the lot fell to Laurie.

“Who are your heroes?” asked Jo.

“Grandfather and Napoleon.”

“Which lady here do you think prettiest?” said Sallie.

“Margaret.”

“Which do you like best?” from Fred.

“Jo, of course.”

“What silly questions you ask!” And Jo gave a disdainful shrug as the

rest laughed at Laurie’s matter-of-fact tone.

“Try again. Truth isn’t a bad game,” said Fred.

“It’s a very good one for you,” retorted Jo in a low voice. Her turn

came next.

“What is your greatest fault?” asked Fred, by way of testing in her the

virtue he lacked himself.

“A quick temper.”

“What do you most wish for?” said Laurie.

“A pair of boot lacings,” returned Jo, guessing and defeating his

purpose.

“Not a true answer. You must say what you really do want most.”

“Genius. Don’t you wish you could give it to me, Laurie?” And she slyly

smiled in his disappointed face.

“What virtues do you most admire in a man?” asked Sallie.

“Courage and honesty.”

“Now my turn,” said Fred, as his hand came last.

“Let’s give it to him,” whispered Laurie to Jo, who nodded and asked at

once...

“Didn’t you cheat at croquet?”

“Well, yes, a little bit.”

“Good! Didn’t you take your story out of _The Sea Lion?_” said Laurie.

“Rather.”

“Don’t you think the English nation perfect in every respect?” asked

Sallie.

“I should be ashamed of myself if I didn’t.”

“He’s a true John Bull. Now, Miss Sallie, you shall have a chance

without waiting to draw. I’ll harrrow up your feelings first by asking

if you don’t think you are something of a flirt,” said Laurie, as Jo

nodded to Fred as a sign that peace was declared.

“You impertinent boy! Of course I’m not,” exclaimed Sallie, with an air

that proved the contrary.

“What do you hate most?” asked Fred.

“Spiders and rice pudding.”

“What do you like best?” asked Jo.

“Dancing and French gloves.”

“Well, I think Truth is a very silly play. Let’s have a sensible game

of Authors to refresh our minds,” proposed Jo.

Ned, Frank, and the little girls joined in this, and while it went on,

the three elders sat apart, talking. Miss Kate took out her sketch

again, and Margaret watched her, while Mr. Brooke lay on the grass with

a book, which he did not read.

“How beautifully you do it! I wish I could draw,” said Meg, with

mingled admiration and regret in her voice.

“Why don’t you learn? I should think you had taste and talent for it,”

replied Miss Kate graciously.

“I haven’t time.”

“Your mamma prefers other accomplishments, I fancy. So did mine, but I

proved to her that I had talent by taking a few lessons privately, and

then she was quite willing I should go on. Can’t you do the same with

your governess?”

“I have none.”

“I forgot young ladies in America go to school more than with us. Very

fine schools they are, too, Papa says. You go to a private one, I

suppose?”

“I don’t go at all. I am a governess myself.”

“Oh, indeed!” said Miss Kate, but she might as well have said, “Dear

me, how dreadful!” for her tone implied it, and something in her face

made Meg color, and wish she had not been so frank.

Mr. Brooke looked up and said quickly, “Young ladies in America love

independence as much as their ancestors did, and are admired and

respected for supporting themselves.”

“Oh, yes, of course it’s very nice and proper in them to do so. We have

many most respectable and worthy young women who do the same and are

employed by the nobility, because, being the daughters of gentlemen,

they are both well bred and accomplished, you know,” said Miss Kate in

a patronizing tone that hurt Meg’s pride, and made her work seem not

only more distasteful, but degrading.

“Did the German song suit, Miss March?” inquired Mr. Brooke, breaking

an awkward pause.

“Oh, yes! It was very sweet, and I’m much obliged to whoever translated

it for me.” And Meg’s downcast face brightened as she spoke.

“Don’t you read German?” asked Miss Kate with a look of surprise.

“Not very well. My father, who taught me, is away, and I don’t get on

very fast alone, for I’ve no one to correct my pronunciation.”

“Try a little now. Here is Schiller’s Mary Stuart and a tutor who loves

to teach.” And Mr. Brooke laid his book on her lap with an inviting

smile.

“It’s so hard I’m afraid to try,” said Meg, grateful, but bashful in

the presence of the accomplished young lady beside her.

“I’ll read a bit to encourage you.” And Miss Kate read one of the most

beautiful passages in a perfectly correct but perfectly expressionless

manner.

Mr. Brooke made no comment as she returned the book to Meg, who said

innocently, “I thought it was poetry.”

“Some of it is. Try this passage.”

There was a queer smile about Mr. Brooke’s mouth as he opened at poor

Mary’s lament.

Meg obediently following the long grass-blade which her new tutor used

to point with, read slowly and timidly, unconsciously making poetry of

the hard words by the soft intonation of her musical voice. Down the

page went the green guide, and presently, forgetting her listener in

the beauty of the sad scene, Meg read as if alone, giving a little

touch of tragedy to the words of the unhappy queen. If she had seen the

brown eyes then, she would have stopped short, but she never looked up,

and the lesson was not spoiled for her.

“Very well indeed!” said Mr. Brooke, as she paused, quite ignoring her

many mistakes, and looking as if he did indeed love to teach.

Miss Kate put up her glass, and, having taken a survey of the little

tableau before her, shut her sketch book, saying with condescension,

“You’ve a nice accent and in time will be a clever reader. I advise you

to learn, for German is a valuable accomplishment to teachers. I must

look after Grace, she is romping.” And Miss Kate strolled away, adding

to herself with a shrug, “I didn’t come to chaperone a governess,

though she is young and pretty. What odd people these Yankees are. I’m

afraid Laurie will be quite spoiled among them.”

“I forgot that English people rather turn up their noses at governesses

and don’t treat them as we do,” said Meg, looking after the retreating

figure with an annoyed expression.

“Tutors also have rather a hard time of it there, as I know to my

sorrow. There’s no place like America for us workers, Miss Margaret.”

And Mr. Brooke looked so contented and cheerful that Meg was ashamed to

lament her hard lot.

“I’m glad I live in it then. I don’t like my work, but I get a good

deal of satisfaction out of it after all, so I won’t complain. I only

wished I liked teaching as you do.”

“I think you would if you had Laurie for a pupil. I shall be very sorry

to lose him next year,” said Mr. Brooke, busily punching holes in the

turf.

“Going to college, I suppose?” Meg’s lips asked the question, but her

eyes added, “And what becomes of you?”

“Yes, it’s high time he went, for he is ready, and as soon as he is

off, I shall turn soldier. I am needed.”

“I am glad of that!” exclaimed Meg. “I should think every young man

would want to go, though it is hard for the mothers and sisters who

stay at home,” she added sorrowfully.

“I have neither, and very few friends to care whether I live or die,”

said Mr. Brooke rather bitterly as he absently put the dead rose in the

hole he had made and covered it up, like a little grave.

“Laurie and his grandfather would care a great deal, and we should all

be very sorry to have any harm happen to you,” said Meg heartily.

“Thank you, that sounds pleasant,” began Mr. Brooke, looking cheerful

again, but before he could finish his speech, Ned, mounted on the old

horse, came lumbering up to display his equestrian skill before the

young ladies, and there was no more quiet that day.

“Don’t you love to ride?” asked Grace of Amy, as they stood resting

after a race round the field with the others, led by Ned.

“I dote upon it. My sister, Meg, used to ride when Papa was rich, but

we don’t keep any horses now, except Ellen Tree,” added Amy, laughing.

“Tell me about Ellen Tree. Is it a donkey?” asked Grace curiously.

“Why, you see, Jo is crazy about horses and so am I, but we’ve only got

an old sidesaddle and no horse. Out in our garden is an apple tree that

has a nice low branch, so Jo put the saddle on it, fixed some reins on

the part that turns up, and we bounce away on Ellen Tree whenever we

like.”

“How funny!” laughed Grace. “I have a pony at home, and ride nearly

every day in the park with Fred and Kate. It’s very nice, for my

friends go too, and the Row is full of ladies and gentlemen.”

“Dear, how charming! I hope I shall go abroad some day, but I’d rather

go to Rome than the Row,” said Amy, who had not the remotest idea what

the Row was and wouldn’t have asked for the world.

Frank, sitting just behind the little girls, heard what they were

saying, and pushed his crutch away from him with an impatient gesture

as he watched the active lads going through all sorts of comical

gymnastics. Beth, who was collecting the scattered Author cards, looked

up and said, in her shy yet friendly way, “I’m afraid you are tired.

Can I do anything for you?”

“Talk to me, please. It’s dull, sitting by myself,” answered Frank, who

had evidently been used to being made much of at home.

If he asked her to deliver a Latin oration, it would not have seemed a

more impossible task to bashful Beth, but there was no place to run to,

no Jo to hide behind now, and the poor boy looked so wistfully at her

that she bravely resolved to try.

“What do you like to talk about?” she asked, fumbling over the cards

and dropping half as she tried to tie them up.

“Well, I like to hear about cricket and boating and hunting,” said

Frank, who had not yet learned to suit his amusements to his strength.

My heart! What shall I do? I don’t know anything about them, thought

Beth, and forgetting the boy’s misfortune in her flurry, she said,

hoping to make him talk, “I never saw any hunting, but I suppose you

know all about it.”

“I did once, but I can never hunt again, for I got hurt leaping a

confounded five-barred gate, so there are no more horses and hounds for

me,” said Frank with a sigh that made Beth hate herself for her

innocent blunder.

“Your deer are much prettier than our ugly buffaloes,” she said,

turning to the prairies for help and feeling glad that she had read one

of the boys’ books in which Jo delighted.

Buffaloes proved soothing and satisfactory, and in her eagerness to

amuse another, Beth forgot herself, and was quite unconscious of her

sisters’ surprise and delight at the unusual spectacle of Beth talking

away to one of the dreadful boys, against whom she had begged

protection.

“Bless her heart! She pities him, so she is good to him,” said Jo,

beaming at her from the croquet ground.

“I always said she was a little saint,” added Meg, as if there could be

no further doubt of it.

“I haven’t heard Frank laugh so much for ever so long,” said Grace to

Amy, as they sat discussing dolls and making tea sets out of the acorn

cups.

“My sister Beth is a very fastidious girl, when she likes to be,” said

Amy, well pleased at Beth’s success. She meant ‘facinating’, but as

Grace didn’t know the exact meaning of either word, fastidious sounded

well and made a good impression.

An impromptu circus, fox and geese, and an amicable game of croquet

finished the afternoon. At sunset the tent was struck, hampers packed,

wickets pulled up, boats loaded, and the whole party floated down the

river, singing at the tops of their voices. Ned, getting sentimental,

warbled a serenade with the pensive refrain...

Alone, alone, ah! Woe, alone,

and at the lines...

We each are young, we each have a heart,

Oh, why should we stand thus coldly apart?

he looked at Meg with such a lackadaisical expression that she laughed

outright and spoiled his song.

“How can you be so cruel to me?” he whispered, under cover of a lively

chorus. “You’ve kept close to that starched-up Englishwoman all day,

and now you snub me.”

“I didn’t mean to, but you looked so funny I really couldn’t help it,”

replied Meg, passing over the first part of his reproach, for it was

quite true that she had shunned him, remembering the Moffat party and

the talk after it.

Ned was offended and turned to Sallie for consolation, saying to her

rather pettishly, “There isn’t a bit of flirt in that girl, is there?”

“Not a particle, but she’s a dear,” returned Sallie, defending her

friend even while confessing her shortcomings.

“She’s not a stricken deer anyway,” said Ned, trying to be witty, and

succeeding as well as very young gentlemen usually do.

On the lawn where it had gathered, the little party separated with

cordial good nights and good-byes, for the Vaughns were going to

Canada. As the four sisters went home through the garden, Miss Kate

looked after them, saying, without the patronizing tone in her voice,

“In spite of their demonstrative manners, American girls are very nice

when one knows them.”

“I quite agree with you,” said Mr. Brooke.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CASTLES IN THE AIR

Laurie lay luxuriously swinging to and fro in his hammock one warm

September afternoon, wondering what his neighbors were about, but too

lazy to go and find out. He was in one of his moods, for the day had

been both unprofitable and unsatisfactory, and he was wishing he could

live it over again. The hot weather made him indolent, and he had

shirked his studies, tried Mr. Brooke’s patience to the utmost,

displeased his grandfather by practicing half the afternoon, frightened

the maidservants half out of their wits by mischievously hinting that

one of his dogs was going mad, and, after high words with the stableman

about some fancied neglect of his horse, he had flung himself into his

hammock to fume over the stupidity of the world in general, till the

peace of the lovely day quieted him in spite of himself. Staring up

into the green gloom of the horse-chestnut trees above him, he dreamed

dreams of all sorts, and was just imagining himself tossing on the

ocean in a voyage round the world, when the sound of voices brought him

ashore in a flash. Peeping through the meshes of the hammock, he saw

the Marches coming out, as if bound on some expedition.

“What in the world are those girls about now?” thought Laurie, opening

his sleepy eyes to take a good look, for there was something rather

peculiar in the appearance of his neighbors. Each wore a large,

flapping hat, a brown linen pouch slung over one shoulder, and carried

a long staff. Meg had a cushion, Jo a book, Beth a basket, and Amy a

portfolio. All walked quietly through the garden, out at the little

back gate, and began to climb the hill that lay between the house and

river.

“Well, that’s cool,” said Laurie to himself, “to have a picnic and

never ask me! They can’t be going in the boat, for they haven’t got the

key. Perhaps they forgot it. I’ll take it to them, and see what’s going

on.”

Though possessed of half a dozen hats, it took him some time to find

one, then there was a hunt for the key, which was at last discovered in

his pocket, so that the girls were quite out of sight when he leaped

the fence and ran after them. Taking the shortest way to the boathouse,

he waited for them to appear, but no one came, and he went up the hill

to take an observation. A grove of pines covered one part of it, and

from the heart of this green spot came a clearer sound than the soft

sigh of the pines or the drowsy chirp of the crickets.

“Here’s a landscape!” thought Laurie, peeping through the bushes, and

looking wide-awake and good-natured already.

It was a rather pretty little picture, for the sisters sat together in

the shady nook, with sun and shadow flickering over them, the aromatic

wind lifting their hair and cooling their hot cheeks, and all the

little wood people going on with their affairs as if these were no

strangers but old friends. Meg sat upon her cushion, sewing daintily

with her white hands, and looking as fresh and sweet as a rose in her

pink dress among the green. Beth was sorting the cones that lay thick

under the hemlock near by, for she made pretty things with them. Amy

was sketching a group of ferns, and Jo was knitting as she read aloud.

A shadow passed over the boy’s face as he watched them, feeling that he

ought to go away because uninvited; yet lingering because home seemed

very lonely and this quiet party in the woods most attractive to his

restless spirit. He stood so still that a squirrel, busy with its

harvesting, ran down a pine close beside him, saw him suddenly and

skipped back, scolding so shrilly that Beth looked up, espied the

wistful face behind the birches, and beckoned with a reassuring smile.

“May I come in, please? Or shall I be a bother?” he asked, advancing

slowly.

Meg lifted her eyebrows, but Jo scowled at her defiantly and said at

once, “Of course you may. We should have asked you before, only we

thought you wouldn’t care for such a girl’s game as this.”

“I always like your games, but if Meg doesn’t want me, I’ll go away.”

“I’ve no objection, if you do something. It’s against the rules to be

idle here,” replied Meg gravely but graciously.

“Much obliged. I’ll do anything if you’ll let me stop a bit, for it’s

as dull as the Desert of Sahara down there. Shall I sew, read, cone,

draw, or do all at once? Bring on your bears. I’m ready.” And Laurie

sat down with a submissive expression delightful to behold.

“Finish this story while I set my heel,” said Jo, handing him the book.

“Yes’m.” was the meek answer, as he began, doing his best to prove his

gratitude for the favor of admission into the ‘Busy Bee Society’.

The story was not a long one, and when it was finished, he ventured to

ask a few questions as a reward of merit.

“Please, ma’am, could I inquire if this highly instructive and charming

institution is a new one?”

“Would you tell him?” asked Meg of her sisters.

“He’ll laugh,” said Amy warningly.

“Who cares?” said Jo.

“I guess he’ll like it,” added Beth.

“Of course I shall! I give you my word I won’t laugh. Tell away, Jo,

and don’t be afraid.”

“The idea of being afraid of you! Well, you see we used to play

Pilgrim’s Progress, and we have been going on with it in earnest, all

winter and summer.”

“Yes, I know,” said Laurie, nodding wisely.

“Who told you?” demanded Jo.

“Spirits.”

“No, I did. I wanted to amuse him one night when you were all away, and

he was rather dismal. He did like it, so don’t scold, Jo,” said Beth

meekly.

“You can’t keep a secret. Never mind, it saves trouble now.”

“Go on, please,” said Laurie, as Jo became absorbed in her work,

looking a trifle displeased.

“Oh, didn’t she tell you about this new plan of ours? Well, we have

tried not to waste our holiday, but each has had a task and worked at

it with a will. The vacation is nearly over, the stints are all done,

and we are ever so glad that we didn’t dawdle.”

“Yes, I should think so,” and Laurie thought regretfully of his own

idle days.

“Mother likes to have us out-of-doors as much as possible, so we bring

our work here and have nice times. For the fun of it we bring our

things in these bags, wear the old hats, use poles to climb the hill,

and play pilgrims, as we used to do years ago. We call this hill the

Delectable Mountain, for we can look far away and see the country where

we hope to live some time.”

Jo pointed, and Laurie sat up to examine, for through an opening in the

wood one could look cross the wide, blue river, the meadows on the

other side, far over the outskirts of the great city, to the green

hills that rose to meet the sky. The sun was low, and the heavens

glowed with the splendor of an autumn sunset. Gold and purple clouds

lay on the hilltops, and rising high into the ruddy light were silvery

white peaks that shone like the airy spires of some Celestial City.

“How beautiful that is!” said Laurie softly, for he was quick to see

and feel beauty of any kind.

“It’s often so, and we like to watch it, for it is never the same, but

always splendid,” replied Amy, wishing she could paint it.

“Jo talks about the country where we hope to live sometime—the real

country, she means, with pigs and chickens and haymaking. It would be

nice, but I wish the beautiful country up there was real, and we could

ever go to it,” said Beth musingly.

“There is a lovelier country even than that, where we shall go,

by-and-by, when we are good enough,” answered Meg with her sweetest

voice.

“It seems so long to wait, so hard to do. I want to fly away at once,

as those swallows fly, and go in at that splendid gate.”

“You’ll get there, Beth, sooner or later, no fear of that,” said Jo.

“I’m the one that will have to fight and work, and climb and wait, and

maybe never get in after all.”

“You’ll have me for company, if that’s any comfort. I shall have to do

a deal of traveling before I come in sight of your Celestial City. If I

arrive late, you’ll say a good word for me, won’t you, Beth?”

Something in the boy’s face troubled his little friend, but she said

cheerfully, with her quiet eyes on the changing clouds, “If people

really want to go, and really try all their lives, I think they will

get in, for I don’t believe there are any locks on that door or any

guards at the gate. I always imagine it is as it is in the picture,

where the shining ones stretch out their hands to welcome poor

Christian as he comes up from the river.”

“Wouldn’t it be fun if all the castles in the air which we make could

come true, and we could live in them?” said Jo, after a little pause.

“I’ve made such quantities it would be hard to choose which I’d have,”

said Laurie, lying flat and throwing cones at the squirrel who had

betrayed him.

“You’d have to take your favorite one. What is it?” asked Meg.

“If I tell mine, will you tell yours?”

“Yes, if the girls will too.”

“We will. Now, Laurie.”

“After I’d seen as much of the world as I want to, I’d like to settle

in Germany and have just as much music as I choose. I’m to be a famous

musician myself, and all creation is to rush to hear me. And I’m never

to be bothered about money or business, but just enjoy myself and live

for what I like. That’s my favorite castle. What’s yours, Meg?”

Margaret seemed to find it a little hard to tell hers, and waved a

brake before her face, as if to disperse imaginary gnats, while she

said slowly, “I should like a lovely house, full of all sorts of

luxurious things—nice food, pretty clothes, handsome furniture,

pleasant people, and heaps of money. I am to be mistress of it, and

manage it as I like, with plenty of servants, so I never need work a

bit. How I should enjoy it! For I wouldn’t be idle, but do good, and

make everyone love me dearly.”

“Wouldn’t you have a master for your castle in the air?” asked Laurie

slyly.

“I said ‘pleasant people’, you know,” and Meg carefully tied up her

shoe as she spoke, so that no one saw her face.

“Why don’t you say you’d have a splendid, wise, good husband and some

angelic little children? You know your castle wouldn’t be perfect

without,” said blunt Jo, who had no tender fancies yet, and rather

scorned romance, except in books.

“You’d have nothing but horses, inkstands, and novels in yours,”

answered Meg petulantly.

“Wouldn’t I though? I’d have a stable full of Arabian steeds, rooms

piled high with books, and I’d write out of a magic inkstand, so that

my works should be as famous as Laurie’s music. I want to do something

splendid before I go into my castle, something heroic or wonderful that

won’t be forgotten after I’m dead. I don’t know what, but I’m on the

watch for it, and mean to astonish you all some day. I think I shall

write books, and get rich and famous, that would suit me, so that is my

favorite dream.”

“Mine is to stay at home safe with Father and Mother, and help take

care of the family,” said Beth contentedly.

“Don’t you wish for anything else?” asked Laurie.

“Since I had my little piano, I am perfectly satisfied. I only wish we

may all keep well and be together, nothing else.”

“I have ever so many wishes, but the pet one is to be an artist, and go

to Rome, and do fine pictures, and be the best artist in the whole

world,” was Amy’s modest desire.

“We’re an ambitious set, aren’t we? Every one of us, but Beth, wants to

be rich and famous, and gorgeous in every respect. I do wonder if any

of us will ever get our wishes,” said Laurie, chewing grass like a

meditative calf.

“I’ve got the key to my castle in the air, but whether I can unlock the

door remains to be seen,” observed Jo mysteriously.

“I’ve got the key to mine, but I’m not allowed to try it. Hang

college!” muttered Laurie with an impatient sigh.

“Here’s mine!” and Amy waved her pencil.

“I haven’t got any,” said Meg forlornly.

“Yes, you have,” said Laurie at once.

“Where?”

“In your face.”

“Nonsense, that’s of no use.”

“Wait and see if it doesn’t bring you something worth having,” replied

the boy, laughing at the thought of a charming little secret which he

fancied he knew.

Meg colored behind the brake, but asked no questions and looked across

the river with the same expectant expression which Mr. Brooke had worn

when he told the story of the knight.

“If we are all alive ten years hence, let’s meet, and see how many of

us have got our wishes, or how much nearer we are then than now,” said

Jo, always ready with a plan.

“Bless me! How old I shall be, twenty-seven!” exclaimed Meg, who felt

grown up already, having just reached seventeen.

“You and I will be twenty-six, Teddy, Beth twenty-four, and Amy

twenty-two. What a venerable party!” said Jo.

“I hope I shall have done something to be proud of by that time, but

I’m such a lazy dog, I’m afraid I shall dawdle, Jo.”

“You need a motive, Mother says, and when you get it, she is sure

you’ll work splendidly.”

“Is she? By Jupiter, I will, if I only get the chance!” cried Laurie,

sitting up with sudden energy. “I ought to be satisfied to please

Grandfather, and I do try, but it’s working against the grain, you see,

and comes hard. He wants me to be an India merchant, as he was, and I’d

rather be shot. I hate tea and silk and spices, and every sort of

rubbish his old ships bring, and I don’t care how soon they go to the

bottom when I own them. Going to college ought to satisfy him, for if I

give him four years he ought to let me off from the business. But he’s

set, and I’ve got to do just as he did, unless I break away and please

myself, as my father did. If there was anyone left to stay with the old

gentleman, I’d do it tomorrow.”

Laurie spoke excitedly, and looked ready to carry his threat into

execution on the slightest provocation, for he was growing up very fast

and, in spite of his indolent ways, had a young man’s hatred of

subjection, a young man’s restless longing to try the world for

himself.

“I advise you to sail away in one of your ships, and never come home

again till you have tried your own way,” said Jo, whose imagination was

fired by the thought of such a daring exploit, and whose sympathy was

excited by what she called ‘Teddy’s Wrongs’.

“That’s not right, Jo. You mustn’t talk in that way, and Laurie mustn’t

take your bad advice. You should do just what your grandfather wishes,

my dear boy,” said Meg in her most maternal tone. “Do your best at

college, and when he sees that you try to please him, I’m sure he won’t

be hard on you or unjust to you. As you say, there is no one else to

stay with and love him, and you’d never forgive yourself if you left

him without his permission. Don’t be dismal or fret, but do your duty

and you’ll get your reward, as good Mr. Brooke has, by being respected

and loved.”

“What do you know about him?” asked Laurie, grateful for the good

advice, but objecting to the lecture, and glad to turn the conversation

from himself after his unusual outbreak.

“Only what your grandpa told us about him, how he took good care of his

own mother till she died, and wouldn’t go abroad as tutor to some nice

person because he wouldn’t leave her. And how he provides now for an

old woman who nursed his mother, and never tells anyone, but is just as

generous and patient and good as he can be.”

“So he is, dear old fellow!” said Laurie heartily, as Meg paused,

looking flushed and earnest with her story. “It’s like Grandpa to find

out all about him without letting him know, and to tell all his

goodness to others, so that they might like him. Brooke couldn’t

understand why your mother was so kind to him, asking him over with me

and treating him in her beautiful friendly way. He thought she was just

perfect, and talked about it for days and days, and went on about you

all in flaming style. If ever I do get my wish, you see what I’ll do

for Brooke.”

“Begin to do something now by not plaguing his life out,” said Meg

sharply.

“How do you know I do, Miss?”

“I can always tell by his face when he goes away. If you have been

good, he looks satisfied and walks briskly. If you have plagued him,

he’s sober and walks slowly, as if he wanted to go back and do his work

better.”

“Well, I like that? So you keep an account of my good and bad marks in

Brooke’s face, do you? I see him bow and smile as he passes your

window, but I didn’t know you’d got up a telegraph.”

“We haven’t. Don’t be angry, and oh, don’t tell him I said anything! It

was only to show that I cared how you get on, and what is said here is

said in confidence, you know,” cried Meg, much alarmed at the thought

of what might follow from her careless speech.

“I don’t tell tales,” replied Laurie, with his ‘high and mighty’ air,

as Jo called a certain expression which he occasionally wore. “Only if

Brooke is going to be a thermometer, I must mind and have fair weather

for him to report.”

“Please don’t be offended. I didn’t mean to preach or tell tales or be

silly. I only thought Jo was encouraging you in a feeling which you’d

be sorry for by-and-by. You are so kind to us, we feel as if you were

our brother and say just what we think. Forgive me, I meant it kindly.”

And Meg offered her hand with a gesture both affectionate and timid.

Ashamed of his momentary pique, Laurie squeezed the kind little hand,

and said frankly, “I’m the one to be forgiven. I’m cross and have been

out of sorts all day. I like to have you tell me my faults and be

sisterly, so don’t mind if I am grumpy sometimes. I thank you all the

same.”

Bent on showing that he was not offended, he made himself as agreeable

as possible, wound cotton for Meg, recited poetry to please Jo, shook

down cones for Beth, and helped Amy with her ferns, proving himself a

fit person to belong to the ‘Busy Bee Society’. In the midst of an

animated discussion on the domestic habits of turtles (one of those

amiable creatures having strolled up from the river), the faint sound

of a bell warned them that Hannah had put the tea ‘to draw’, and they

would just have time to get home to supper.

“May I come again?” asked Laurie.

“Yes, if you are good, and love your book, as the boys in the primer

are told to do,” said Meg, smiling.

“I’ll try.”

“Then you may come, and I’ll teach you to knit as the Scotchmen do.

There’s a demand for socks just now,” added Jo, waving hers like a big

blue worsted banner as they parted at the gate.

That night, when Beth played to Mr. Laurence in the twilight, Laurie,

standing in the shadow of the curtain, listened to the little David,

whose simple music always quieted his moody spirit, and watched the old

man, who sat with his gray head on his hand, thinking tender thoughts

of the dead child he had loved so much. Remembering the conversation of

the afternoon, the boy said to himself, with the resolve to make the

sacrifice cheerfully, “I’ll let my castle go, and stay with the dear

old gentleman while he needs me, for I am all he has.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

SECRETS

Jo was very busy in the garret, for the October days began to grow

chilly, and the afternoons were short. For two or three hours the sun

lay warmly in the high window, showing Jo seated on the old sofa,

writing busily, with her papers spread out upon a trunk before her,

while Scrabble, the pet rat, promenaded the beams overhead, accompanied

by his oldest son, a fine young fellow, who was evidently very proud of

his whiskers. Quite absorbed in her work, Jo scribbled away till the

last page was filled, when she signed her name with a flourish and

threw down her pen, exclaiming...

“There, I’ve done my best! If this won’t suit I shall have to wait till

I can do better.”

Lying back on the sofa, she read the manuscript carefully through,

making dashes here and there, and putting in many exclamation points,

which looked like little balloons. Then she tied it up with a smart red

ribbon, and sat a minute looking at it with a sober, wistful

expression, which plainly showed how earnest her work had been. Jo’s

desk up here was an old tin kitchen which hung against the wall. In it

she kept her papers, and a few books, safely shut away from Scrabble,

who, being likewise of a literary turn, was fond of making a

circulating library of such books as were left in his way by eating the

leaves. From this tin receptacle Jo produced another manuscript, and

putting both in her pocket, crept quietly downstairs, leaving her

friends to nibble on her pens and taste her ink.

She put on her hat and jacket as noiselessly as possible, and going to

the back entry window, got out upon the roof of a low porch, swung

herself down to the grassy bank, and took a roundabout way to the road.

Once there, she composed herself, hailed a passing omnibus, and rolled

away to town, looking very merry and mysterious.

If anyone had been watching her, he would have thought her movements

decidedly peculiar, for on alighting, she went off at a great pace till

she reached a certain number in a certain busy street. Having found the

place with some difficulty, she went into the doorway, looked up the

dirty stairs, and after standing stock still a minute, suddenly dived

into the street and walked away as rapidly as she came. This maneuver

she repeated several times, to the great amusement of a black-eyed

young gentleman lounging in the window of a building opposite. On

returning for the third time, Jo gave herself a shake, pulled her hat

over her eyes, and walked up the stairs, looking as if she were going

to have all her teeth out.

There was a dentist’s sign, among others, which adorned the entrance,

and after staring a moment at the pair of artificial jaws which slowly

opened and shut to draw attention to a fine set of teeth, the young

gentleman put on his coat, took his hat, and went down to post himself

in the opposite doorway, saying with a smile and a shiver, “It’s like

her to come alone, but if she has a bad time she’ll need someone to

help her home.”

In ten minutes Jo came running downstairs with a very red face and the

general appearance of a person who had just passed through a trying

ordeal of some sort. When she saw the young gentleman she looked

anything but pleased, and passed him with a nod. But he followed,

asking with an air of sympathy, “Did you have a bad time?”

“Not very.”

“You got through quickly.”

“Yes, thank goodness!”

“Why did you go alone?”

“Didn’t want anyone to know.”

“You’re the oddest fellow I ever saw. How many did you have out?”

Jo looked at her friend as if she did not understand him, then began to

laugh as if mightily amused at something.

“There are two which I want to have come out, but I must wait a week.”

“What are you laughing at? You are up to some mischief, Jo,” said

Laurie, looking mystified.

“So are you. What were you doing, sir, up in that billiard saloon?”

“Begging your pardon, ma’am, it wasn’t a billiard saloon, but a

gymnasium, and I was taking a lesson in fencing.”

“I’m glad of that.”

“Why?”

“You can teach me, and then when we play _Hamlet_, you can be Laertes,

and we’ll make a fine thing of the fencing scene.”

Laurie burst out with a hearty boy’s laugh, which made several

passers-by smile in spite of themselves.

“I’ll teach you whether we play _Hamlet_ or not. It’s grand fun and

will straighten you up capitally. But I don’t believe that was your

only reason for saying ‘I’m glad’ in that decided way, was it now?”

“No, I was glad that you were not in the saloon, because I hope you

never go to such places. Do you?”

“Not often.”

“I wish you wouldn’t.”

“It’s no harm, Jo. I have billiards at home, but it’s no fun unless you

have good players, so, as I’m fond of it, I come sometimes and have a

game with Ned Moffat or some of the other fellows.”

“Oh, dear, I’m so sorry, for you’ll get to liking it better and better,

and will waste time and money, and grow like those dreadful boys. I did

hope you’d stay respectable and be a satisfaction to your friends,”

said Jo, shaking her head.

“Can’t a fellow take a little innocent amusement now and then without

losing his respectability?” asked Laurie, looking nettled.

“That depends upon how and where he takes it. I don’t like Ned and his

set, and wish you’d keep out of it. Mother won’t let us have him at our

house, though he wants to come. And if you grow like him she won’t be

willing to have us frolic together as we do now.”

“Won’t she?” asked Laurie anxiously.

“No, she can’t bear fashionable young men, and she’d shut us all up in

bandboxes rather than have us associate with them.”

“Well, she needn’t get out her bandboxes yet. I’m not a fashionable

party and don’t mean to be, but I do like harmless larks now and then,

don’t you?”

“Yes, nobody minds them, so lark away, but don’t get wild, will you? Or

there will be an end of all our good times.”

“I’ll be a double distilled saint.”

“I can’t bear saints. Just be a simple, honest, respectable boy, and

we’ll never desert you. I don’t know what I should do if you acted like

Mr. King’s son. He had plenty of money, but didn’t know how to spend

it, and got tipsy and gambled, and ran away, and forged his father’s

name, I believe, and was altogether horrid.”

“You think I’m likely to do the same? Much obliged.”

“No, I don’t—oh, dear, no!—but I hear people talking about money being

such a temptation, and I sometimes wish you were poor. I shouldn’t

worry then.”

“Do you worry about me, Jo?”

“A little, when you look moody and discontented, as you sometimes do,

for you’ve got such a strong will, if you once get started wrong, I’m

afraid it would be hard to stop you.”

Laurie walked in silence a few minutes, and Jo watched him, wishing she

had held her tongue, for his eyes looked angry, though his lips smiled

as if at her warnings.

“Are you going to deliver lectures all the way home?” he asked

presently.

“Of course not. Why?”

“Because if you are, I’ll take a bus. If you’re not, I’d like to walk

with you and tell you something very interesting.”

“I won’t preach any more, and I’d like to hear the news immensely.”

“Very well, then, come on. It’s a secret, and if I tell you, you must

tell me yours.”

“I haven’t got any,” began Jo, but stopped suddenly, remembering that

she had.

“You know you have—you can’t hide anything, so up and ’fess, or I won’t

tell,” cried Laurie.

“Is your secret a nice one?”

“Oh, isn’t it! All about people you know, and such fun! You ought to

hear it, and I’ve been aching to tell it this long time. Come, you

begin.”

“You’ll not say anything about it at home, will you?”

“Not a word.”

“And you won’t tease me in private?”

“I never tease.”

“Yes, you do. You get everything you want out of people. I don’t know

how you do it, but you are a born wheedler.”

“Thank you. Fire away.”

“Well, I’ve left two stories with a newspaperman, and he’s to give his

answer next week,” whispered Jo, in her confidant’s ear.

“Hurrah for Miss March, the celebrated American authoress!” cried

Laurie, throwing up his hat and catching it again, to the great delight

of two ducks, four cats, five hens, and half a dozen Irish children,

for they were out of the city now.

“Hush! It won’t come to anything, I dare say, but I couldn’t rest till

I had tried, and I said nothing about it because I didn’t want anyone

else to be disappointed.”

“It won’t fail. Why, Jo, your stories are works of Shakespeare compared

to half the rubbish that is published every day. Won’t it be fun to see

them in print, and shan’t we feel proud of our authoress?”

Jo’s eyes sparkled, for it is always pleasant to be believed in, and a

friend’s praise is always sweeter than a dozen newspaper puffs.

“Where’s your secret? Play fair, Teddy, or I’ll never believe you

again,” she said, trying to extinguish the brilliant hopes that blazed

up at a word of encouragement.

“I may get into a scrape for telling, but I didn’t promise not to, so I

will, for I never feel easy in my mind till I’ve told you any plummy

bit of news I get. I know where Meg’s glove is.”

“Is that all?” said Jo, looking disappointed, as Laurie nodded and

twinkled with a face full of mysterious intelligence.

“It’s quite enough for the present, as you’ll agree when I tell you

where it is.”

“Tell, then.”

Laurie bent, and whispered three words in Jo’s ear, which produced a

comical change. She stood and stared at him for a minute, looking both

surprised and displeased, then walked on, saying sharply, “How do you

know?”

“Saw it.”

“Where?”

“Pocket.”

“All this time?”

“Yes, isn’t that romantic?”

“No, it’s horrid.”

“Don’t you like it?”

“Of course I don’t. It’s ridiculous, it won’t be allowed. My patience!

What would Meg say?”

“You are not to tell anyone. Mind that.”

“I didn’t promise.”

“That was understood, and I trusted you.”

“Well, I won’t for the present, anyway, but I’m disgusted, and wish you

hadn’t told me.”

“I thought you’d be pleased.”

“At the idea of anybody coming to take Meg away? No, thank you.”

“You’ll feel better about it when somebody comes to take you away.”

“I’d like to see anyone try it,” cried Jo fiercely.

“So should I!” and Laurie chuckled at the idea.

“I don’t think secrets agree with me, I feel rumpled up in my mind

since you told me that,” said Jo rather ungratefully.

“Race down this hill with me, and you’ll be all right,” suggested

Laurie.

No one was in sight, the smooth road sloped invitingly before her, and

finding the temptation irresistible, Jo darted away, soon leaving hat

and comb behind her and scattering hairpins as she ran. Laurie reached

the goal first and was quite satisfied with the success of his

treatment, for his Atlanta came panting up with flying hair, bright

eyes, ruddy cheeks, and no signs of dissatisfaction in her face.

“I wish I was a horse, then I could run for miles in this splendid air,

and not lose my breath. It was capital, but see what a guy it’s made

me. Go, pick up my things, like a cherub, as you are,” said Jo,

dropping down under a maple tree, which was carpeting the bank with

crimson leaves.

Laurie leisurely departed to recover the lost property, and Jo bundled

up her braids, hoping no one would pass by till she was tidy again. But

someone did pass, and who should it be but Meg, looking particularly

ladylike in her state and festival suit, for she had been making calls.

“What in the world are you doing here?” she asked, regarding her

disheveled sister with well-bred surprise.

“Getting leaves,” meekly answered Jo, sorting the rosy handful she had

just swept up.

“And hairpins,” added Laurie, throwing half a dozen into Jo’s lap.

“They grow on this road, Meg, so do combs and brown straw hats.”

“You have been running, Jo. How could you? When will you stop such

romping ways?” said Meg reprovingly, as she settled her cuffs and

smoothed her hair, with which the wind had taken liberties.

“Never till I’m stiff and old and have to use a crutch. Don’t try to

make me grow up before my time, Meg. It’s hard enough to have you

change all of a sudden. Let me be a little girl as long as I can.”

As she spoke, Jo bent over the leaves to hide the trembling of her

lips, for lately she had felt that Margaret was fast getting to be a

woman, and Laurie’s secret made her dread the separation which must

surely come some time and now seemed very near. He saw the trouble in

her face and drew Meg’s attention from it by asking quickly, “Where

have you been calling, all so fine?”

“At the Gardiners’, and Sallie has been telling me all about Belle

Moffat’s wedding. It was very splendid, and they have gone to spend the

winter in Paris. Just think how delightful that must be!”

“Do you envy her, Meg?” said Laurie.

“I’m afraid I do.”

“I’m glad of it!” muttered Jo, tying on her hat with a jerk.

“Why?” asked Meg, looking surprised.

“Because if you care much about riches, you will never go and marry a

poor man,” said Jo, frowning at Laurie, who was mutely warning her to

mind what she said.

“I shall never ‘_go_ and marry’ anyone,” observed Meg, walking on with

great dignity while the others followed, laughing, whispering, skipping

stones, and ‘behaving like children’, as Meg said to herself, though

she might have been tempted to join them if she had not had her best

dress on.

For a week or two, Jo behaved so queerly that her sisters were quite

bewildered. She rushed to the door when the postman rang, was rude to

Mr. Brooke whenever they met, would sit looking at Meg with a

woe-begone face, occasionally jumping up to shake and then kiss her in

a very mysterious manner. Laurie and she were always making signs to

one another, and talking about ‘Spread Eagles’ till the girls declared

they had both lost their wits. On the second Saturday after Jo got out

of the window, Meg, as she sat sewing at her window, was scandalized by

the sight of Laurie chasing Jo all over the garden and finally

capturing her in Amy’s bower. What went on there, Meg could not see,

but shrieks of laughter were heard, followed by the murmur of voices

and a great flapping of newspapers.

“What shall we do with that girl? She never _will_ behave like a young

lady,” sighed Meg, as she watched the race with a disapproving face.

“I hope she won’t. She is so funny and dear as she is,” said Beth, who

had never betrayed that she was a little hurt at Jo’s having secrets

with anyone but her.

“It’s very trying, but we never can make her _commy la fo_,” added Amy,

who sat making some new frills for herself, with her curls tied up in a

very becoming way, two agreeable things that made her feel unusually

elegant and ladylike.

In a few minutes Jo bounced in, laid herself on the sofa, and affected

to read.

“Have you anything interesting there?” asked Meg, with condescension.

“Nothing but a story, won’t amount to much, I guess,” returned Jo,

carefully keeping the name of the paper out of sight.

“You’d better read it aloud. That will amuse us and keep you out of

mischief,” said Amy in her most grown-up tone.

“What’s the name?” asked Beth, wondering why Jo kept her face behind

the sheet.

“The Rival Painters.”

“That sounds well. Read it,” said Meg.

With a loud “Hem!” and a long breath, Jo began to read very fast. The

girls listened with interest, for the tale was romantic, and somewhat

pathetic, as most of the characters died in the end. “I like that about

the splendid picture,” was Amy’s approving remark, as Jo paused.

“I prefer the lovering part. Viola and Angelo are two of our favorite

names, isn’t that queer?” said Meg, wiping her eyes, for the lovering

part was tragical.

“Who wrote it?” asked Beth, who had caught a glimpse of Jo’s face.

The reader suddenly sat up, cast away the paper, displaying a flushed

countenance, and with a funny mixture of solemnity and excitement

replied in a loud voice, “Your sister.”

“You?” cried Meg, dropping her work.

“It’s very good,” said Amy critically.

“I knew it! I knew it! Oh, my Jo, I am so proud!” and Beth ran to hug

her sister and exult over this splendid success.

Dear me, how delighted they all were, to be sure! How Meg wouldn’t

believe it till she saw the words. “Miss Josephine March,” actually

printed in the paper. How graciously Amy criticized the artistic parts

of the story, and offered hints for a sequel, which unfortunately

couldn’t be carried out, as the hero and heroine were dead. How Beth

got excited, and skipped and sang with joy. How Hannah came in to

exclaim, “Sakes alive, well I never!” in great astonishment at ‘that

Jo’s doin’s’. How proud Mrs. March was when she knew it. How Jo

laughed, with tears in her eyes, as she declared she might as well be a

peacock and done with it, and how the ‘Spread Eagle’ might be said to

flap his wings triumphantly over the House of March, as the paper

passed from hand to hand.

“Tell us about it.” “When did it come?” “How much did you get for it?”

“What will Father say?” “Won’t Laurie laugh?” cried the family, all in

one breath as they clustered about Jo, for these foolish, affectionate

people made a jubilee of every little household joy.

“Stop jabbering, girls, and I’ll tell you everything,” said Jo,

wondering if Miss Burney felt any grander over her Evelina than she did

over her ‘Rival Painters’. Having told how she disposed of her tales,

Jo added, “And when I went to get my answer, the man said he liked them

both, but didn’t pay beginners, only let them print in his paper, and

noticed the stories. It was good practice, he said, and when the

beginners improved, anyone would pay. So I let him have the two

stories, and today this was sent to me, and Laurie caught me with it

and insisted on seeing it, so I let him. And he said it was good, and I

shall write more, and he’s going to get the next paid for, and I am so

happy, for in time I may be able to support myself and help the girls.”

Jo’s breath gave out here, and wrapping her head in the paper, she

bedewed her little story with a few natural tears, for to be

independent and earn the praise of those she loved were the dearest

wishes of her heart, and this seemed to be the first step toward that

happy end.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A TELEGRAM

“November is the most disagreeable month in the whole year,” said

Margaret, standing at the window one dull afternoon, looking out at the

frostbitten garden.

“That’s the reason I was born in it,” observed Jo pensively, quite

unconscious of the blot on her nose.

“If something very pleasant should happen now, we should think it a

delightful month,” said Beth, who took a hopeful view of everything,

even November.

“I dare say, but nothing pleasant ever does happen in this family,”

said Meg, who was out of sorts. “We go grubbing along day after day,

without a bit of change, and very little fun. We might as well be in a

treadmill.”

“My patience, how blue we are!” cried Jo. “I don’t much wonder, poor

dear, for you see other girls having splendid times, while you grind,

grind, year in and year out. Oh, don’t I wish I could manage things for

you as I do for my heroines! You’re pretty enough and good enough

already, so I’d have some rich relation leave you a fortune

unexpectedly. Then you’d dash out as an heiress, scorn everyone who has

slighted you, go abroad, and come home my Lady Something in a blaze of

splendor and elegance.”

“People don’t have fortunes left them in that style nowadays, men have

to work and women marry for money. It’s a dreadfully unjust world,”

said Meg bitterly.

“Jo and I are going to make fortunes for you all. Just wait ten years,

and see if we don’t,” said Amy, who sat in a corner making mud pies, as

Hannah called her little clay models of birds, fruit, and faces.

“Can’t wait, and I’m afraid I haven’t much faith in ink and dirt,

though I’m grateful for your good intentions.”

Meg sighed, and turned to the frostbitten garden again. Jo groaned and

leaned both elbows on the table in a despondent attitude, but Amy

spatted away energetically, and Beth, who sat at the other window,

said, smiling, “Two pleasant things are going to happen right away.

Marmee is coming down the street, and Laurie is tramping through the

garden as if he had something nice to tell.”

In they both came, Mrs. March with her usual question, “Any letter from

Father, girls?” and Laurie to say in his persuasive way, “Won’t some of

you come for a drive? I’ve been working away at mathematics till my

head is in a muddle, and I’m going to freshen my wits by a brisk turn.

It’s a dull day, but the air isn’t bad, and I’m going to take Brooke

home, so it will be gay inside, if it isn’t out. Come, Jo, you and Beth

will go, won’t you?”

“Of course we will.”

“Much obliged, but I’m busy.” And Meg whisked out her workbasket, for

she had agreed with her mother that it was best, for her at least, not

to drive too often with the young gentleman.

“We three will be ready in a minute,” cried Amy, running away to wash

her hands.

“Can I do anything for you, Madam Mother?” asked Laurie, leaning over

Mrs. March’s chair with the affectionate look and tone he always gave

her.

“No, thank you, except call at the office, if you’ll be so kind, dear.

It’s our day for a letter, and the postman hasn’t been. Father is as

regular as the sun, but there’s some delay on the way, perhaps.”

A sharp ring interrupted her, and a minute after Hannah came in with a

letter.

“It’s one of them horrid telegraph things, mum,” she said, handling it

as if she was afraid it would explode and do some damage.

At the word ‘telegraph’, Mrs. March snatched it, read the two lines it

contained, and dropped back into her chair as white as if the little

paper had sent a bullet to her heart. Laurie dashed downstairs for

water, while Meg and Hannah supported her, and Jo read aloud, in a

frightened voice...

Mrs. March:

Your husband is very ill. Come at once.

S. HALE

Blank Hospital, Washington.

How still the room was as they listened breathlessly, how strangely the

day darkened outside, and how suddenly the whole world seemed to

change, as the girls gathered about their mother, feeling as if all the

happiness and support of their lives was about to be taken from them.

Mrs. March was herself again directly, read the message over, and

stretched out her arms to her daughters, saying, in a tone they never

forgot, “I shall go at once, but it may be too late. Oh, children,

children, help me to bear it!”

For several minutes there was nothing but the sound of sobbing in the

room, mingled with broken words of comfort, tender assurances of help,

and hopeful whispers that died away in tears. Poor Hannah was the first

to recover, and with unconscious wisdom she set all the rest a good

example, for with her, work was panacea for most afflictions.

“The Lord keep the dear man! I won’t waste no time a-cryin’, but git

your things ready right away, mum,” she said heartily, as she wiped her

face on her apron, gave her mistress a warm shake of the hand with her

own hard one, and went away to work like three women in one.

“She’s right, there’s no time for tears now. Be calm, girls, and let me

think.”

They tried to be calm, poor things, as their mother sat up, looking

pale but steady, and put away her grief to think and plan for them.

“Where’s Laurie?” she asked presently, when she had collected her

thoughts and decided on the first duties to be done.

“Here, ma’am. Oh, let me do something!” cried the boy, hurrying from

the next room whither he had withdrawn, feeling that their first sorrow

was too sacred for even his friendly eyes to see.

“Send a telegram saying I will come at once. The next train goes early

in the morning. I’ll take that.”

“What else? The horses are ready. I can go anywhere, do anything,” he

said, looking ready to fly to the ends of the earth.

“Leave a note at Aunt March’s. Jo, give me that pen and paper.”

Tearing off the blank side of one of her newly copied pages, Jo drew

the table before her mother, well knowing that money for the long, sad

journey must be borrowed, and feeling as if she could do anything to

add a little to the sum for her father.

“Now go, dear, but don’t kill yourself driving at a desperate pace.

There is no need of that.”

Mrs. March’s warning was evidently thrown away, for five minutes later

Laurie tore by the window on his own fleet horse, riding as if for his

life.

“Jo, run to the rooms, and tell Mrs. King that I can’t come. On the way

get these things. I’ll put them down, they’ll be needed and I must go

prepared for nursing. Hospital stores are not always good. Beth, go and

ask Mr. Laurence for a couple of bottles of old wine. I’m not too proud

to beg for Father. He shall have the best of everything. Amy, tell

Hannah to get down the black trunk, and Meg, come and help me find my

things, for I’m half bewildered.”

Writing, thinking, and directing all at once might well bewilder the

poor lady, and Meg begged her to sit quietly in her room for a little

while, and let them work. Everyone scattered like leaves before a gust

of wind, and the quiet, happy household was broken up as suddenly as if

the paper had been an evil spell.

Mr. Laurence came hurrying back with Beth, bringing every comfort the

kind old gentleman could think of for the invalid, and friendliest

promises of protection for the girls during the mother’s absence, which

comforted her very much. There was nothing he didn’t offer, from his

own dressing gown to himself as escort. But the last was impossible.

Mrs. March would not hear of the old gentleman’s undertaking the long

journey, yet an expression of relief was visible when he spoke of it,

for anxiety ill fits one for traveling. He saw the look, knit his heavy

eyebrows, rubbed his hands, and marched abruptly away, saying he’d be

back directly. No one had time to think of him again till, as Meg ran

through the entry, with a pair of rubbers in one hand and a cup of tea

in the other, she came suddenly upon Mr. Brooke.

“I’m very sorry to hear of this, Miss March,” he said, in the kind,

quiet tone which sounded very pleasantly to her perturbed spirit. “I

came to offer myself as escort to your mother. Mr. Laurence has

commissions for me in Washington, and it will give me real satisfaction

to be of service to her there.”

Down dropped the rubbers, and the tea was very near following, as Meg

put out her hand, with a face so full of gratitude that Mr. Brooke

would have felt repaid for a much greater sacrifice than the trifling

one of time and comfort which he was about to take.

“How kind you all are! Mother will accept, I’m sure, and it will be

such a relief to know that she has someone to take care of her. Thank

you very, very much!”

Meg spoke earnestly, and forgot herself entirely till something in the

brown eyes looking down at her made her remember the cooling tea, and

lead the way into the parlor, saying she would call her mother.

Everything was arranged by the time Laurie returned with a note from

Aunt March, enclosing the desired sum, and a few lines repeating what

she had often said before, that she had always told them it was absurd

for March to go into the army, always predicted that no good would come

of it, and she hoped they would take her advice the next time. Mrs.

March put the note in the fire, the money in her purse, and went on

with her preparations, with her lips folded tightly in a way which Jo

would have understood if she had been there.

The short afternoon wore away. All other errands were done, and Meg and

her mother busy at some necessary needlework, while Beth and Amy got

tea, and Hannah finished her ironing with what she called a ‘slap and a

bang’, but still Jo did not come. They began to get anxious, and Laurie

went off to find her, for no one knew what freak Jo might take into her

head. He missed her, however, and she came walking in with a very queer

expression of countenance, for there was a mixture of fun and fear,

satisfaction and regret in it, which puzzled the family as much as did

the roll of bills she laid before her mother, saying with a little

choke in her voice, “That’s my contribution toward making Father

comfortable and bringing him home!”

“My dear, where did you get it? Twenty-five dollars! Jo, I hope you

haven’t done anything rash?”

“No, it’s mine honestly. I didn’t beg, borrow, or steal it. I earned

it, and I don’t think you’ll blame me, for I only sold what was my

own.”

As she spoke, Jo took off her bonnet, and a general outcry arose, for

all her abundant hair was cut short.

“Your hair! Your beautiful hair!” “Oh, Jo, how could you? Your one

beauty.” “My dear girl, there was no need of this.” “She doesn’t look

like my Jo any more, but I love her dearly for it!”

As everyone exclaimed, and Beth hugged the cropped head tenderly, Jo

assumed an indifferent air, which did not deceive anyone a particle,

and said, rumpling up the brown bush and trying to look as if she liked

it, “It doesn’t affect the fate of the nation, so don’t wail, Beth. It

will be good for my vanity, I was getting too proud of my wig. It will

do my brains good to have that mop taken off. My head feels deliciously

light and cool, and the barber said I could soon have a curly crop,

which will be boyish, becoming, and easy to keep in order. I’m

satisfied, so please take the money and let’s have supper.”

“Tell me all about it, Jo. I am not quite satisfied, but I can’t blame

you, for I know how willingly you sacrificed your vanity, as you call

it, to your love. But, my dear, it was not necessary, and I’m afraid

you will regret it one of these days,” said Mrs. March.

“No, I won’t!” returned Jo stoutly, feeling much relieved that her

prank was not entirely condemned.

“What made you do it?” asked Amy, who would as soon have thought of

cutting off her head as her pretty hair.

“Well, I was wild to do something for Father,” replied Jo, as they

gathered about the table, for healthy young people can eat even in the

midst of trouble. “I hate to borrow as much as Mother does, and I knew

Aunt March would croak, she always does, if you ask for a ninepence.

Meg gave all her quarterly salary toward the rent, and I only got some

clothes with mine, so I felt wicked, and was bound to have some money,

if I sold the nose off my face to get it.”

“You needn’t feel wicked, my child! You had no winter things and got

the simplest with your own hard earnings,” said Mrs. March with a look

that warmed Jo’s heart.

“I hadn’t the least idea of selling my hair at first, but as I went

along I kept thinking what I could do, and feeling as if I’d like to

dive into some of the rich stores and help myself. In a barber’s window

I saw tails of hair with the prices marked, and one black tail, not so

thick as mine, was forty dollars. It came to me all of a sudden that I

had one thing to make money out of, and without stopping to think, I

walked in, asked if they bought hair, and what they would give for

mine.”

“I don’t see how you dared to do it,” said Beth in a tone of awe.

“Oh, he was a little man who looked as if he merely lived to oil his

hair. He rather stared at first, as if he wasn’t used to having girls

bounce into his shop and ask him to buy their hair. He said he didn’t

care about mine, it wasn’t the fashionable color, and he never paid

much for it in the first place. The work put into it made it dear, and

so on. It was getting late, and I was afraid if it wasn’t done right

away that I shouldn’t have it done at all, and you know when I start to

do a thing, I hate to give it up. So I begged him to take it, and told

him why I was in such a hurry. It was silly, I dare say, but it changed

his mind, for I got rather excited, and told the story in my

topsy-turvy way, and his wife heard, and said so kindly, ‘Take it,

Thomas, and oblige the young lady. I’d do as much for our Jimmy any day

if I had a spire of hair worth selling.”

“Who was Jimmy?” asked Amy, who liked to have things explained as they

went along.

“Her son, she said, who was in the army. How friendly such things make

strangers feel, don’t they? She talked away all the time the man

clipped, and diverted my mind nicely.”

“Didn’t you feel dreadfully when the first cut came?” asked Meg, with a

shiver.

“I took a last look at my hair while the man got his things, and that

was the end of it. I never snivel over trifles like that. I will

confess, though, I felt queer when I saw the dear old hair laid out on

the table, and felt only the short rough ends of my head. It almost

seemed as if I’d an arm or leg off. The woman saw me look at it, and

picked out a long lock for me to keep. I’ll give it to you, Marmee,

just to remember past glories by, for a crop is so comfortable I don’t

think I shall ever have a mane again.”

Mrs. March folded the wavy chestnut lock, and laid it away with a short

gray one in her desk. She only said, “Thank you, deary,” but something

in her face made the girls change the subject, and talk as cheerfully

as they could about Mr. Brooke’s kindness, the prospect of a fine day

tomorrow, and the happy times they would have when Father came home to

be nursed.

No one wanted to go to bed when at ten o’clock Mrs. March put by the

last finished job, and said, “Come girls.” Beth went to the piano and

played the father’s favorite hymn. All began bravely, but broke down

one by one till Beth was left alone, singing with all her heart, for to

her music was always a sweet consoler.

“Go to bed and don’t talk, for we must be up early and shall need all

the sleep we can get. Good night, my darlings,” said Mrs. March, as the

hymn ended, for no one cared to try another.

They kissed her quietly, and went to bed as silently as if the dear

invalid lay in the next room. Beth and Amy soon fell asleep in spite of

the great trouble, but Meg lay awake, thinking the most serious

thoughts she had ever known in her short life. Jo lay motionless, and

her sister fancied that she was asleep, till a stifled sob made her

exclaim, as she touched a wet cheek...

“Jo, dear, what is it? Are you crying about father?”

“No, not now.”

“What then?”

“My... My hair!” burst out poor Jo, trying vainly to smother her

emotion in the pillow.

It did not seem at all comical to Meg, who kissed and caressed the

afflicted heroine in the tenderest manner.

“I’m not sorry,” protested Jo, with a choke. “I’d do it again tomorrow,

if I could. It’s only the vain part of me that goes and cries in this

silly way. Don’t tell anyone, it’s all over now. I thought you were

asleep, so I just made a little private moan for my one beauty. How

came you to be awake?”

“I can’t sleep, I’m so anxious,” said Meg.

“Think about something pleasant, and you’ll soon drop off.”

“I tried it, but felt wider awake than ever.”

“What did you think of?”

“Handsome faces—eyes particularly,” answered Meg, smiling to herself in

the dark.

“What color do you like best?”

“Brown, that is, sometimes. Blue are lovely.”

Jo laughed, and Meg sharply ordered her not to talk, then amiably

promised to make her hair curl, and fell asleep to dream of living in

her castle in the air.

The clocks were striking midnight and the rooms were very still as a

figure glided quietly from bed to bed, smoothing a coverlet here,

settling a pillow there, and pausing to look long and tenderly at each

unconscious face, to kiss each with lips that mutely blessed, and to

pray the fervent prayers which only mothers utter. As she lifted the

curtain to look out into the dreary night, the moon broke suddenly from

behind the clouds and shone upon her like a bright, benignant face,

which seemed to whisper in the silence, “Be comforted, dear soul! There

is always light behind the clouds.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

LETTERS

In the cold gray dawn the sisters lit their lamp and read their chapter

with an earnestness never felt before. For now the shadow of a real

trouble had come, the little books were full of help and comfort, and

as they dressed, they agreed to say goodbye cheerfully and hopefully,

and send their mother on her anxious journey unsaddened by tears or

complaints from them. Everything seemed very strange when they went

down, so dim and still outside, so full of light and bustle within.

Breakfast at that early hour seemed odd, and even Hannah’s familiar

face looked unnatural as she flew about her kitchen with her nightcap

on. The big trunk stood ready in the hall, Mother’s cloak and bonnet

lay on the sofa, and Mother herself sat trying to eat, but looking so

pale and worn with sleeplessness and anxiety that the girls found it

very hard to keep their resolution. Meg’s eyes kept filling in spite of

herself, Jo was obliged to hide her face in the kitchen roller more

than once, and the little girls wore a grave, troubled expression, as

if sorrow was a new experience to them.

Nobody talked much, but as the time drew very near and they sat waiting

for the carriage, Mrs. March said to the girls, who were all busied

about her, one folding her shawl, another smoothing out the strings of

her bonnet, a third putting on her overshoes, and a fourth fastening up

her travelling bag...

“Children, I leave you to Hannah’s care and Mr. Laurence’s protection.

Hannah is faithfulness itself, and our good neighbor will guard you as

if you were his own. I have no fears for you, yet I am anxious that you

should take this trouble rightly. Don’t grieve and fret when I am gone,

or think that you can be idle and comfort yourselves by being idle and

trying to forget. Go on with your work as usual, for work is a blessed

solace. Hope and keep busy, and whatever happens, remember that you

never can be fatherless.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Meg, dear, be prudent, watch over your sisters, consult Hannah, and in

any perplexity, go to Mr. Laurence. Be patient, Jo, don’t get

despondent or do rash things, write to me often, and be my brave girl,

ready to help and cheer all. Beth, comfort yourself with your music,

and be faithful to the little home duties, and you, Amy, help all you

can, be obedient, and keep happy safe at home.”

“We will, Mother! We will!”

The rattle of an approaching carriage made them all start and listen.

That was the hard minute, but the girls stood it well. No one cried, no

one ran away or uttered a lamentation, though their hearts were very

heavy as they sent loving messages to Father, remembering, as they

spoke that it might be too late to deliver them. They kissed their

mother quietly, clung about her tenderly, and tried to wave their hands

cheerfully when she drove away.

Laurie and his grandfather came over to see her off, and Mr. Brooke

looked so strong and sensible and kind that the girls christened him

‘Mr. Greatheart’ on the spot.

“Good-by, my darlings! God bless and keep us all!” whispered Mrs.

March, as she kissed one dear little face after the other, and hurried

into the carriage.

As she rolled away, the sun came out, and looking back, she saw it

shining on the group at the gate like a good omen. They saw it also,

and smiled and waved their hands, and the last thing she beheld as she

turned the corner was the four bright faces, and behind them like a

bodyguard, old Mr. Laurence, faithful Hannah, and devoted Laurie.

“How kind everyone is to us!” she said, turning to find fresh proof of

it in the respectful sympathy of the young man’s face.

“I don’t see how they can help it,” returned Mr. Brooke, laughing so

infectiously that Mrs. March could not help smiling. And so the journey

began with the good omens of sunshine, smiles, and cheerful words.

“I feel as if there had been an earthquake,” said Jo, as their

neighbors went home to breakfast, leaving them to rest and refresh

themselves.

“It seems as if half the house was gone,” added Meg forlornly.

Beth opened her lips to say something, but could only point to the pile

of nicely mended hose which lay on Mother’s table, showing that even in

her last hurried moments she had thought and worked for them. It was a

little thing, but it went straight to their hearts, and in spite of

their brave resolutions, they all broke down and cried bitterly.

Hannah wisely allowed them to relieve their feelings, and when the

shower showed signs of clearing up, she came to the rescue, armed with

a coffeepot.

“Now, my dear young ladies, remember what your ma said, and don’t fret.

Come and have a cup of coffee all round, and then let’s fall to work

and be a credit to the family.”

Coffee was a treat, and Hannah showed great tact in making it that

morning. No one could resist her persuasive nods, or the fragrant

invitation issuing from the nose of the coffee pot. They drew up to the

table, exchanged their handkerchiefs for napkins, and in ten minutes

were all right again.

“‘Hope and keep busy’, that’s the motto for us, so let’s see who will

remember it best. I shall go to Aunt March, as usual. Oh, won’t she

lecture though!” said Jo, as she sipped with returning spirit.

“I shall go to my Kings, though I’d much rather stay at home and attend

to things here,” said Meg, wishing she hadn’t made her eyes so red.

“No need of that. Beth and I can keep house perfectly well,” put in

Amy, with an important air.

“Hannah will tell us what to do, and we’ll have everything nice when

you come home,” added Beth, getting out her mop and dish tub without

delay.

“I think anxiety is very interesting,” observed Amy, eating sugar

pensively.

The girls couldn’t help laughing, and felt better for it, though Meg

shook her head at the young lady who could find consolation in a sugar

bowl.

The sight of the turnovers made Jo sober again; and when the two went

out to their daily tasks, they looked sorrowfully back at the window

where they were accustomed to see their mother’s face. It was gone, but

Beth had remembered the little household ceremony, and there she was,

nodding away at them like a rosyfaced mandarin.

“That’s so like my Beth!” said Jo, waving her hat, with a grateful

face. “Goodbye, Meggy, I hope the Kings won’t strain today. Don’t fret

about Father, dear,” she added, as they parted.

“And I hope Aunt March won’t croak. Your hair is becoming, and it looks

very boyish and nice,” returned Meg, trying not to smile at the curly

head, which looked comically small on her tall sister’s shoulders.

“That’s my only comfort.” And, touching her hat a la Laurie, away went

Jo, feeling like a shorn sheep on a wintry day.

News from their father comforted the girls very much, for though

dangerously ill, the presence of the best and tenderest of nurses had

already done him good. Mr. Brooke sent a bulletin every day, and as the

head of the family, Meg insisted on reading the dispatches, which grew

more cheerful as the week passed. At first, everyone was eager to

write, and plump envelopes were carefully poked into the letter box by

one or other of the sisters, who felt rather important with their

Washington correspondence. As one of these packets contained

characteristic notes from the party, we will rob an imaginary mail, and

read them.

My dearest Mother:

It is impossible to tell you how happy your last letter made us, for

the news was so good we couldn’t help laughing and crying over it. How

very kind Mr. Brooke is, and how fortunate that Mr. Laurence’s business

detains him near you so long, since he is so useful to you and Father.

The girls are all as good as gold. Jo helps me with the sewing, and

insists on doing all sorts of hard jobs. I should be afraid she might

overdo, if I didn’t know her ‘moral fit’ wouldn’t last long. Beth is as

regular about her tasks as a clock, and never forgets what you told

her. She grieves about Father, and looks sober except when she is at

her little piano. Amy minds me nicely, and I take great care of her.

She does her own hair, and I am teaching her to make buttonholes and

mend her stockings. She tries very hard, and I know you will be pleased

with her improvement when you come. Mr. Laurence watches over us like a

motherly old hen, as Jo says, and Laurie is very kind and neighborly.

He and Jo keep us merry, for we get pretty blue sometimes, and feel

like orphans, with you so far away. Hannah is a perfect saint. She does

not scold at all, and always calls me Miss Margaret, which is quite

proper, you know, and treats me with respect. We are all well and busy,

but we long, day and night, to have you back. Give my dearest love to

Father, and believe me, ever your own...

MEG

This note, prettily written on scented paper, was a great contrast to

the next, which was scribbled on a big sheet of thin foreign paper,

ornamented with blots and all manner of flourishes and curly-tailed

letters.

My precious Marmee:

Three cheers for dear Father! Brooke was a trump to telegraph right

off, and let us know the minute he was better. I rushed up garret when

the letter came, and tried to thank God for being so good to us, but I

could only cry, and say, “I’m glad! I’m glad!” Didn’t that do as well

as a regular prayer? For I felt a great many in my heart. We have such

funny times, and now I can enjoy them, for everyone is so desperately

good, it’s like living in a nest of turtledoves. You’d laugh to see Meg

head the table and try to be motherish. She gets prettier every day,

and I’m in love with her sometimes. The children are regular

archangels, and I—well, I’m Jo, and never shall be anything else. Oh, I

must tell you that I came near having a quarrel with Laurie. I freed my

mind about a silly little thing, and he was offended. I was right, but

didn’t speak as I ought, and he marched home, saying he wouldn’t come

again till I begged pardon. I declared I wouldn’t and got mad. It

lasted all day. I felt bad and wanted you very much. Laurie and I are

both so proud, it’s hard to beg pardon. But I thought he’d come to it,

for I was in the right. He didn’t come, and just at night I remembered

what you said when Amy fell into the river. I read my little book, felt

better, resolved not to let the sun set on my anger, and ran over to

tell Laurie I was sorry. I met him at the gate, coming for the same

thing. We both laughed, begged each other’s pardon, and felt all good

and comfortable again.

I made a ‘pome’ yesterday, when I was helping Hannah wash, and as

Father likes my silly little things, I put it in to amuse him. Give him

my lovingest hug that ever was, and kiss yourself a dozen times for

your...

TOPSY-TURVY JO

A SONG FROM THE SUDS

Queen of my tub, I merrily sing,

While the white foam rises high,

And sturdily wash and rinse and wring,

And fasten the clothes to dry.

Then out in the free fresh air they swing,

Under the sunny sky.

I wish we could wash from our hearts and souls

The stains of the week away,

And let water and air by their magic make

Ourselves as pure as they.

Then on the earth there would be indeed,

A glorious washing day!

Along the path of a useful life,

Will heart’s-ease ever bloom.

The busy mind has no time to think

Of sorrow or care or gloom.

And anxious thoughts may be swept away,

As we bravely wield a broom.

I am glad a task to me is given,

To labor at day by day,

For it brings me health and strength and hope,

And I cheerfully learn to say,

“Head, you may think, Heart, you may feel,

But, Hand, you shall work alway!”

Dear Mother,

There is only room for me to send my love, and some pressed pansies

from the root I have been keeping safe in the house for Father to see.

I read every morning, try to be good all day, and sing myself to sleep

with Father’s tune. I can’t sing ‘LAND OF THE LEAL’ now, it makes me

cry. Everyone is very kind, and we are as happy as we can be without

you. Amy wants the rest of the page, so I must stop. I didn’t forget to

cover the holders, and I wind the clock and air the rooms every day.

Kiss dear Father on the cheek he calls mine. Oh, do come soon to your

loving...

LITTLE BETH

Ma Chere Mamma,

We are all well I do my lessons always and never corroberate the

girls—Meg says I mean contradick so I put in both words and you can

take the properest. Meg is a great comfort to me and lets me have jelly

every night at tea its so good for me Jo says because it keeps me sweet

tempered. Laurie is not as respeckful as he ought to be now I am almost

in my teens, he calls me Chick and hurts my feelings by talking French

to me very fast when I say Merci or Bon jour as Hattie King does. The

sleeves of my blue dress were all worn out, and Meg put in new ones,

but the full front came wrong and they are more blue than the dress. I

felt bad but did not fret I bear my troubles well but I do wish Hannah

would put more starch in my aprons and have buckwheats every day. Can’t

she? Didn’t I make that interrigation point nice? Meg says my

punchtuation and spelling are disgraceful and I am mortyfied but dear

me I have so many things to do, I can’t stop. Adieu, I send heaps of

love to Papa. Your affectionate daughter...

AMY CURTIS MARCH

Dear Mis March,

I jes drop a line to say we git on fust rate. The girls is clever and

fly round right smart. Miss Meg is going to make a proper good

housekeeper. She hes the liking for it, and gits the hang of things

surprisin quick. Jo doos beat all for goin ahead, but she don’t stop to

cal’k’late fust, and you never know where she’s like to bring up. She

done out a tub of clothes on Monday, but she starched ’em afore they

was wrenched, and blued a pink calico dress till I thought I should a

died a laughin. Beth is the best of little creeters, and a sight of

help to me, bein so forehanded and dependable. She tries to learn

everything, and really goes to market beyond her years, likewise keeps

accounts, with my help, quite wonderful. We have got on very economical

so fur. I don’t let the girls hev coffee only once a week, accordin to

your wish, and keep em on plain wholesome vittles. Amy does well

without frettin, wearin her best clothes and eatin sweet stuff. Mr.

Laurie is as full of didoes as usual, and turns the house upside down

frequent, but he heartens the girls, so I let em hev full swing. The

old gentleman sends heaps of things, and is rather wearin, but means

wal, and it aint my place to say nothin. My bread is riz, so no more at

this time. I send my duty to Mr. March, and hope he’s seen the last of

his Pewmonia.

Yours respectful,

Hannah Mullet

Head Nurse of Ward No. 2,

All serene on the Rappahannock, troops in fine condition, commisary

department well conducted, the Home Guard under Colonel Teddy always on

duty, Commander in Chief General Laurence reviews the army daily,

Quartermaster Mullet keeps order in camp, and Major Lion does picket

duty at night. A salute of twenty-four guns was fired on receipt of

good news from Washington, and a dress parade took place at

headquarters. Commander in chief sends best wishes, in which he is

heartily joined by...

COLONEL TEDDY

Dear Madam:

The little girls are all well. Beth and my boy report daily. Hannah is

a model servant, and guards pretty Meg like a dragon. Glad the fine

weather holds. Pray make Brooke useful, and draw on me for funds if

expenses exceed your estimate. Don’t let your husband want anything.

Thank God he is mending.

Your sincere friend and servant, JAMES LAURENCE

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

LITTLE FAITHFUL

For a week the amount of virtue in the old house would have supplied

the neighborhood. It was really amazing, for everyone seemed in a

heavenly frame of mind, and self-denial was all the fashion. Relieved

of their first anxiety about their father, the girls insensibly relaxed

their praiseworthy efforts a little, and began to fall back into old

ways. They did not forget their motto, but hoping and keeping busy

seemed to grow easier, and after such tremendous exertions, they felt

that Endeavor deserved a holiday, and gave it a good many.

Jo caught a bad cold through neglect to cover the shorn head enough,

and was ordered to stay at home till she was better, for Aunt March

didn’t like to hear people read with colds in their heads. Jo liked

this, and after an energetic rummage from garret to cellar, subsided on

the sofa to nurse her cold with arsenicum and books. Amy found that

housework and art did not go well together, and returned to her mud

pies. Meg went daily to her pupils, and sewed, or thought she did, at

home, but much time was spent in writing long letters to her mother, or

reading the Washington dispatches over and over. Beth kept on, with

only slight relapses into idleness or grieving.

All the little duties were faithfully done each day, and many of her

sisters’ also, for they were forgetful, and the house seemed like a

clock whose pendulum was gone a-visiting. When her heart got heavy with

longings for Mother or fears for Father, she went away into a certain

closet, hid her face in the folds of a dear old gown, and made her

little moan and prayed her little prayer quietly by herself. Nobody

knew what cheered her up after a sober fit, but everyone felt how sweet

and helpful Beth was, and fell into a way of going to her for comfort

or advice in their small affairs.

All were unconscious that this experience was a test of character, and

when the first excitement was over, felt that they had done well and

deserved praise. So they did, but their mistake was in ceasing to do

well, and they learned this lesson through much anxiety and regret.

“Meg, I wish you’d go and see the Hummels. You know Mother told us not

to forget them.” said Beth, ten days after Mrs. March’s departure.

“I’m too tired to go this afternoon,” replied Meg, rocking comfortably

as she sewed.

“Can’t you, Jo?” asked Beth.

“Too stormy for me with my cold.”

“I thought it was almost well.”

“It’s well enough for me to go out with Laurie, but not well enough to

go to the Hummels’,” said Jo, laughing, but looking a little ashamed of

her inconsistency.

“Why don’t you go yourself?” asked Meg.

“I have been every day, but the baby is sick, and I don’t know what to

do for it. Mrs. Hummel goes away to work, and Lottchen takes care of

it. But it gets sicker and sicker, and I think you or Hannah ought to

go.”

Beth spoke earnestly, and Meg promised she would go tomorrow.

“Ask Hannah for some nice little mess, and take it round, Beth, the air

will do you good,” said Jo, adding apologetically, “I’d go but I want

to finish my writing.”

“My head aches and I’m tired, so I thought maybe some of you would go,”

said Beth.

“Amy will be in presently, and she will run down for us,” suggested

Meg.

So Beth lay down on the sofa, the others returned to their work, and

the Hummels were forgotten. An hour passed. Amy did not come, Meg went

to her room to try on a new dress, Jo was absorbed in her story, and

Hannah was sound asleep before the kitchen fire, when Beth quietly put

on her hood, filled her basket with odds and ends for the poor

children, and went out into the chilly air with a heavy head and a

grieved look in her patient eyes. It was late when she came back, and

no one saw her creep upstairs and shut herself into her mother’s room.

Half an hour after, Jo went to ‘Mother’s closet’ for something, and

there found little Beth sitting on the medicine chest, looking very

grave, with red eyes and a camphor bottle in her hand.

“Christopher Columbus! What’s the matter?” cried Jo, as Beth put out

her hand as if to warn her off, and asked quickly. . .

“You’ve had the scarlet fever, haven’t you?”

“Years ago, when Meg did. Why?”

“Then I’ll tell you. Oh, Jo, the baby’s dead!”

“What baby?”

“Mrs. Hummel’s. It died in my lap before she got home,” cried Beth with

a sob.

“My poor dear, how dreadful for you! I ought to have gone,” said Jo,

taking her sister in her arms as she sat down in her mother’s big

chair, with a remorseful face.

“It wasn’t dreadful, Jo, only so sad! I saw in a minute it was sicker,

but Lottchen said her mother had gone for a doctor, so I took Baby and

let Lotty rest. It seemed asleep, but all of a sudden if gave a little

cry and trembled, and then lay very still. I tried to warm its feet,

and Lotty gave it some milk, but it didn’t stir, and I knew it was

dead.”

“Don’t cry, dear! What did you do?”

“I just sat and held it softly till Mrs. Hummel came with the doctor.

He said it was dead, and looked at Heinrich and Minna, who have sore

throats. ‘Scarlet fever, ma’am. Ought to have called me before,’ he

said crossly. Mrs. Hummel told him she was poor, and had tried to cure

baby herself, but now it was too late, and she could only ask him to

help the others and trust to charity for his pay. He smiled then, and

was kinder, but it was very sad, and I cried with them till he turned

round all of a sudden, and told me to go home and take belladonna right

away, or I’d have the fever.”

“No, you won’t!” cried Jo, hugging her close, with a frightened look.

“Oh, Beth, if you should be sick I never could forgive myself! What

shall we do?”

“Don’t be frightened, I guess I shan’t have it badly. I looked in

Mother’s book, and saw that it begins with headache, sore throat, and

queer feelings like mine, so I did take some belladonna, and I feel

better,” said Beth, laying her cold hands on her hot forehead and

trying to look well.

“If Mother was only at home!” exclaimed Jo, seizing the book, and

feeling that Washington was an immense way off. She read a page, looked

at Beth, felt her head, peeped into her throat, and then said gravely,

“You’ve been over the baby every day for more than a week, and among

the others who are going to have it, so I’m afraid you are going to

have it, Beth. I’ll call Hannah, she knows all about sickness.”

“Don’t let Amy come. She never had it, and I should hate to give it to

her. Can’t you and Meg have it over again?” asked Beth, anxiously.

“I guess not. Don’t care if I do. Serve me right, selfish pig, to let

you go, and stay writing rubbish myself!” muttered Jo, as she went to

consult Hannah.

The good soul was wide awake in a minute, and took the lead at once,

assuring that there was no need to worry; every one had scarlet fever,

and if rightly treated, nobody died, all of which Jo believed, and felt

much relieved as they went up to call Meg.

“Now I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said Hannah, when she had examined

and questioned Beth, “we will have Dr. Bangs, just to take a look at

you, dear, and see that we start right. Then we’ll send Amy off to Aunt

March’s for a spell, to keep her out of harm’s way, and one of you

girls can stay at home and amuse Beth for a day or two.”

“I shall stay, of course, I’m oldest,” began Meg, looking anxious and

self-reproachful.

“I shall, because it’s my fault she is sick. I told Mother I’d do the

errands, and I haven’t,” said Jo decidedly.

“Which will you have, Beth? There ain’t no need of but one,” aid

Hannah.

“Jo, please.” And Beth leaned her head against her sister with a

contented look, which effectually settled that point.

“I’ll go and tell Amy,” said Meg, feeling a little hurt, yet rather

relieved on the whole, for she did not like nursing, and Jo did.

Amy rebelled outright, and passionately declared that she had rather

have the fever than go to Aunt March. Meg reasoned, pleaded, and

commanded, all in vain. Amy protested that she would not go, and Meg

left her in despair to ask Hannah what should be done. Before she came

back, Laurie walked into the parlor to find Amy sobbing, with her head

in the sofa cushions. She told her story, expecting to be consoled, but

Laurie only put his hands in his pockets and walked about the room,

whistling softly, as he knit his brows in deep thought. Presently he

sat down beside her, and said, in his most wheedlesome tone, “Now be a

sensible little woman, and do as they say. No, don’t cry, but hear what

a jolly plan I’ve got. You go to Aunt March’s, and I’ll come and take

you out every day, driving or walking, and we’ll have capital times.

Won’t that be better than moping here?”

“I don’t wish to be sent off as if I was in the way,” began Amy, in an

injured voice.

“Bless your heart, child, it’s to keep you well. You don’t want to be

sick, do you?”

“No, I’m sure I don’t, but I dare say I shall be, for I’ve been with

Beth all the time.”

“That’s the very reason you ought to go away at once, so that you may

escape it. Change of air and care will keep you well, I dare say, or if

it does not entirely, you will have the fever more lightly. I advise

you to be off as soon as you can, for scarlet fever is no joke, miss.”

“But it’s dull at Aunt March’s, and she is so cross,” said Amy, looking

rather frightened.

“It won’t be dull with me popping in every day to tell you how Beth is,

and take you out gallivanting. The old lady likes me, and I’ll be as

sweet as possible to her, so she won’t peck at us, whatever we do.”

“Will you take me out in the trotting wagon with Puck?”

“On my honor as a gentleman.”

“And come every single day?”

“See if I don’t!”

“And bring me back the minute Beth is well?”

“The identical minute.”

“And go to the theater, truly?”

“A dozen theaters, if we may.”

“Well—I guess I will,” said Amy slowly.

“Good girl! Call Meg, and tell her you’ll give in,” said Laurie, with

an approving pat, which annoyed Amy more than the ‘giving in’.

Meg and Jo came running down to behold the miracle which had been

wrought, and Amy, feeling very precious and self-sacrificing, promised

to go, if the doctor said Beth was going to be ill.

“How is the little dear?” asked Laurie, for Beth was his especial pet,

and he felt more anxious about her than he liked to show.

“She is lying down on Mother’s bed, and feels better. The baby’s death

troubled her, but I dare say she has only got cold. Hannah says she

thinks so, but she looks worried, and that makes me fidgety,” answered

Meg.

“What a trying world it is!” said Jo, rumpling up her hair in a fretful

way. “No sooner do we get out of one trouble than down comes another.

There doesn’t seem to be anything to hold on to when Mother’s gone, so

I’m all at sea.”

“Well, don’t make a porcupine of yourself, it isn’t becoming. Settle

your wig, Jo, and tell me if I shall telegraph to your mother, or do

anything?” asked Laurie, who never had been reconciled to the loss of

his friend’s one beauty.

“That is what troubles me,” said Meg. “I think we ought to tell her if

Beth is really ill, but Hannah says we mustn’t, for Mother can’t leave

Father, and it will only make them anxious. Beth won’t be sick long,

and Hannah knows just what to do, and Mother said we were to mind her,

so I suppose we must, but it doesn’t seem quite right to me.”

“Hum, well, I can’t say. Suppose you ask Grandfather after the doctor

has been.”

“We will. Jo, go and get Dr. Bangs at once,” commanded Meg. “We can’t

decide anything till he has been.”

“Stay where you are, Jo. I’m errand boy to this establishment,” said

Laurie, taking up his cap.

“I’m afraid you are busy,” began Meg.

“No, I’ve done my lessons for the day.”

“Do you study in vacation time?” asked Jo.

“I follow the good example my neighbors set me,” was Laurie’s answer,

as he swung himself out of the room.

“I have great hopes for my boy,” observed Jo, watching him fly over the

fence with an approving smile.

“He does very well, for a boy,” was Meg’s somewhat ungracious answer,

for the subject did not interest her.

Dr. Bangs came, said Beth had symptoms of the fever, but he thought she

would have it lightly, though he looked sober over the Hummel story.

Amy was ordered off at once, and provided with something to ward off

danger, she departed in great state, with Jo and Laurie as escort.

Aunt March received them with her usual hospitality.

“What do you want now?” she asked, looking sharply over her spectacles,

while the parrot, sitting on the back of her chair, called out...

“Go away. No boys allowed here.”

Laurie retired to the window, and Jo told her story.

“No more than I expected, if you are allowed to go poking about among

poor folks. Amy can stay and make herself useful if she isn’t sick,

which I’ve no doubt she will be, looks like it now. Don’t cry, child,

it worries me to hear people sniff.”

Amy was on the point of crying, but Laurie slyly pulled the parrot’s

tail, which caused Polly to utter an astonished croak and call out,

“Bless my boots!” in such a funny way, that she laughed instead.

“What do you hear from your mother?” asked the old lady gruffly.

“Father is much better,” replied Jo, trying to keep sober.

“Oh, is he? Well, that won’t last long, I fancy. March never had any

stamina,” was the cheerful reply.

“Ha, ha! Never say die, take a pinch of snuff, goodbye, goodbye!”

squalled Polly, dancing on her perch, and clawing at the old lady’s cap

as Laurie tweaked him in the rear.

“Hold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird! And, Jo, you’d better go

at once. It isn’t proper to be gadding about so late with a rattlepated

boy like...”

“Hold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird!” cried Polly, tumbling

off the chair with a bounce, and running to peck the ‘rattlepated’ boy,

who was shaking with laughter at the last speech.

“I don’t think I can bear it, but I’ll try,” thought Amy, as she was

left alone with Aunt March.

“Get along, you fright!” screamed Polly, and at that rude speech Amy

could not restrain a sniff.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

DARK DAYS

Beth did have the fever, and was much sicker than anyone but Hannah and

the doctor suspected. The girls knew nothing about illness, and Mr.

Laurence was not allowed to see her, so Hannah had everything her own

way, and busy Dr. Bangs did his best, but left a good deal to the

excellent nurse. Meg stayed at home, lest she should infect the Kings,

and kept house, feeling very anxious and a little guilty when she wrote

letters in which no mention was made of Beth’s illness. She could not

think it right to deceive her mother, but she had been bidden to mind

Hannah, and Hannah wouldn’t hear of ‘Mrs. March bein’ told, and worried

just for sech a trifle.’

Jo devoted herself to Beth day and night, not a hard task, for Beth was

very patient, and bore her pain uncomplainingly as long as she could

control herself. But there came a time when during the fever fits she

began to talk in a hoarse, broken voice, to play on the coverlet as if

on her beloved little piano, and try to sing with a throat so swollen

that there was no music left, a time when she did not know the familiar

faces around her, but addressed them by wrong names, and called

imploringly for her mother. Then Jo grew frightened, Meg begged to be

allowed to write the truth, and even Hannah said she ‘would think of

it, though there was no danger yet’. A letter from Washington added to

their trouble, for Mr. March had had a relapse, and could not think of

coming home for a long while.

How dark the days seemed now, how sad and lonely the house, and how

heavy were the hearts of the sisters as they worked and waited, while