Little Women_ Or_ Meg_ Jo_ Beth_ and Amy Louisa May Alcott 81636 downloads.pdf

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
using this eBook.

Title: Little Women; Or, Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy

Author: Louisa May Alcott

Illustrator: Frank T. Merrill

Release date: August 16, 2011 [eBook #37106]
Most recently updated: September 24, 2025

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/37106

Credits: David Edwards, Ernest Schaal, Robert Homa, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LITTLE
WOMEN; OR, MEG, JO, BETH, AND AMY ***

LITTLE WOMEN.

"They all drew to the fire, mother in the big chair, with Beth at her
feet"
(See page 9) Frontispiece

LITTLE WOMEN

OR
Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy

BY
LOUISA M. ALCOTT
AUTHOR OF "LITTLE MEN," "AN OLD-FASHIONED GIRL"
"SPINNING-WHEEL STORIES," ETC.

With more than 200 illustrations by Frank T. Merrill
and a picture of the Home of the Little Women by
Edmund H. Garrett

BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the years 1868 and 1869, by
LOUISA M. ALCOTT,
In the Clerk's office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.
Copyright, 1880,
By LOUISA M. ALCOTT.
Copyright, 1896,
By JOHN S. P. ALCOTT.

BOSTON
Alfred Mudge & Son Inc. Printers

"Go then, my little Book, and show to all
That entertain and bid thee welcome shall,
What thou dost keep close shut up in thy breast;
And wish what thou dost show them may be blest
To them for good, may make them choose to be
Pilgrims better, by far, than thee or me.
Tell them of Mercy; she is one
Who early hath her pilgrimage begun.
Yea, let young damsels learn of her to prize
The world which is to come, and so be wise;
For little tripping maids may follow God
Along the ways which saintly feet have trod."
Adapted from John Bunyan.

Part First.
Chapter
I. Playing Pilgrims
II. A Merry Christmas
III. The Laurence Boy
IV. Burdens
V. Being Neighborly
VI. Beth finds the Palace Beautiful
VII. Amy's Valley of Humiliation
VIII. Jo meets Apollyon
IX. Meg goes to Vanity Fair

Chapter
X. The P. C. and P. O.
XI. Experiments
XII. Camp Laurence
XIII. Castles in the Air
XIV. Secrets
XV. A Telegram
XVI. Letters
XVII. Little Faithful
XVIII. Dark Days
XIX. Amy's Will
XX. Confidential
XXI. Laurie makes Mischief, and Jo makes Peace
XXII. Pleasant Meadows
XXIII. Aunt March settles the Question
Part Second.
XXIV. Gossip
XXV. The First Wedding
XXVI. Artistic Attempts
XXVII. Literary Lessons
XXVIII. Domestic Experiences
XXIX. Calls
XXX. Consequences
XXXI. Our Foreign Correspondent
XXXII. Tender Troubles
XXXIII. Jo's Journal
XXXIV. A Friend
XXXV. Heartache
XXXVI. Beth's Secret
XXXVII. New Impressions
XXXVIII. On the Shelf
XXXIX. Lazy Laurence

Chapter
XL. The Valley of the Shadow
XLI. Learning to Forget
XLII. All Alone
XLIII. Surprises
XLIV. My Lord and Lady
XLV. Daisy and Demi
XLVI. Under the Umbrella
XLVII. Harvest Time

[The Illustrations, designed by Frank T. Merrill, drawn, engraved,
and printed under the supervision of George T. Andrew.]

They all drew to the fire, mother in the big chair, with Beth at her feet
Preface
Contents
Tail-piece to Contents
List of Illustrations
Tail-piece to Illustrations
Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents
Beth put a pair of slippers down to warm
I used to be so frightened when it was my turn to sit in the big chair
Do it this way, clasp your hands so

It was a cheerful, hopeful letter
How you used to play Pilgrim's Progress
No one but Beth could get much music out of the old piano
At nine they stopped work and sung as usual
Merry Christmas
The procession set out
Out came Meg with gray horse-hair hanging about her face
A little figure in cloudy white
The lovers kneeling to receive Don Pedro's blessing
We talked over the fence
Tail-piece
Eating apples and crying over the "Heir of Redclyffe"
Jo undertook to pinch the papered locks
Mrs. Gardiner greeted them
Face to face with the Laurence boy
They sat down on the stairs
Tell about the party
The kitten stuck like a burr just out of reach
Curling herself up in the big chair
Reading that everlasting Belsham
He took her by the ear! by the ear!
Mr. Laurence hooked up a big fish
Tail-piece
Being neighborly
Laurie opened the window
Poll tweaked off his wig
Putting his finger under her chin
Please give these to your mother
Tail-piece
O sir, they do care very much
Mr. Laurence often opened his study door
She put both arms around his neck and kissed him

The Cyclops
Amy bore without flinching several tingling blows
You do know her
Girls, where are you going?
I burnt it up
Held Amy up by his arms and hockey
Packing the go abroady trunk
Meg's partner appeared
Asked to be introduced
I wouldn't, Meg
Holding a hand of each, Mrs. March said, &c.
Mr. Pickwick
Jo threw open the door of the closet
Jo spent the morning on the river
Amy sat down to draw
O Pip! O Pip!
Miss Crocker made a wry face
We'll work like bees
Beth was post-mistress
Amy capped the climax by putting a clothes-pin on her nose
Mr. Laurence waving his hat
Now, Miss Jo, I'll settle you
A very merry lunch it was
He went prancing down a quiet street
"Oh, rise," she said
A stunning blow from the big Greek lexicon
He sneezed
The Portuguese walked the plank
Will you give me a rose?
Miss Kate put up her glass
Ellen Tree
Tail-piece

Swinging to and fro in his hammock
It was rather a pretty little picture
Waved a brake before her face
I see him bow and smile
Tail-piece
Jo was very busy
Hurrah for Miss March
Jo darted away
Jo laid herself on the sofa and affected to read
November is the most disagreeable month in the year
One of them horrid telegraph things
She came suddenly upon Mr. Brooke
The man clipped
Tail-piece
Letters
She rolled away
I wind the clock
Yours Respectful, Hannah Mullet
Tail-piece
It didn't stir, and I knew it was dead
He sat down beside her
What do you want now?
Beth did have the fever
Gently stroking her head as her mother used to do
Amy's Will
Polish up the spoons and the fat silver teapot
On his back, with all his legs in the air
I should choose this
Gravely promenaded to and fro
Amy's Will
Tail-piece
Mrs. March would not leave Beth's side

Tail-piece
Letters
Jo and her mother were reading the note
Get up and don't be a goose
"Hold your tongue!" cried Jo, covering her ears
He stood at the foot, like a lion in the path
Beth was soon able to lie on the study sofa all day
The Jungfrau
Popping in her head now and then
He sat in the big chair by Beth's sofa
Shall I tell you how?
Bless me, what's all this?
For Mrs. John Brooke
Home of the Little Women
The Dove Cote
A small watchman's rattle
Tail-piece
The First Wedding
Artistic Attempts
Her foot held fast in a panful of plaster
Please don't, it's mine
Tail-piece
Literary Lessons
A check for one hundred dollars
Tail-piece
Domestic Experiences
Both felt desperately uncomfortable
A bargain, I assure you, ma'am
Laurie heroically shut his eyes while something was put into his arms
Calls
She took the saddle to the horse
It might have been worse

The call at Aunt March's
Tail-piece
You shall have another table
Bought up the bouquets
Tail-piece
Flo and I ordered a hansom-cab
Every one was very kind, especially the officers
I've seen the imperial family several times
Trying to sketch the gray-stone lion's head on the wall
She leaned her head upon her hands
Now, this is filling at the price
Up with the Bonnets of Bonnie Dundee
I amused myself by dropping gingerbread nuts over the seat
Thou shalt haf thy Bhaer
He waved his hand, sock and all
Dis is mine effalunt
I sat down upon the floor and read and looked and ate
Tail-piece
In the presence of three gentlemen
A select symposium
He doesn't prink at his glass before coming
Jo stuffed the whole bundle into the stove
He put the sisters into the carriage
He laid his head down on the mossy post
O Jo, can't you?
Tail-piece
With her head in Jo's lap, while the wind blew healthfully over her
Tail-piece
He hurried forward to meet her
Here are your flowers
Demi and Daisy
Mornin' now

My dear man, it's a bonnet
Tail-piece
Sat piping on a stone while his goats skipped
Laurie threw himself down on the turf
A rough sketch of Laurie taming a horse
The Valley of the Shadow
Tail-piece
Sat staring up at the busts
Turning the ring thoughtfully upon his finger
O Laurie, Laurie, I knew you'd come
How well we pull together
Jo and her father
Jo laid her head on a comfortable rag-bag and cried
A substantial lifelike ghost leaning over her
The tall uncle proceeded to toss and tousle the small nephew
O Mr. Bhaer, I am so glad to see you
Mr. Bhaer sang heartily
Mrs. Laurence sitting in her mother's lap
They began to pace up and down
Tail-piece
Me loves evvybody
What makes my legs go, dranpa?
Dranpa, it's a We
Tail-piece
Mr. Bhaer and Jo were enjoying promenades
Looking up she saw Mr. Bhaer
Does this suit you, Mr. Bhaer?
Under the umbrella
Tail-piece
Harvest time
Teddy bore a charmed life
Leaving Mrs. March and her daughters under the festival tree

Tail-piece

I.
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 every one; and she
thinks we ought not to spend money for pleasure, when our men are
suffering so in the army. We can't do much, but we can make our little
sacrifices, and ought to do it gladly. But I am afraid I don't;" and Meg shook
her head, as she thought regretfully of all the pretty things she wanted.
"But I don't think the little we should spend would do any good. We've
each got a dollar, and the army wouldn't be much helped by our giving that.
I agree not to expect anything from mother or you, but I do want to buy
Undine and Sintram for myself; I've wanted it 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 of 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 practise 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 for 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, unlady-like girls!"
"I hate affected, niminy-piminy chits!"
"'Birds in their little nests agree,'" sang Beth, the peace-maker, with such
a funny face that both sharp voices softened to a laugh, and the "pecking"
ended for that time.
"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 boys' games and work and manners! I can't get over my
disappointment in not being a boy; and it's worse than ever now, for I'm
dying to go and fight with papa, and I can only stay at home and knit, like a
poky old woman!" And Jo shook the blue army-sock till the needles rattled
like castanets, and her ball bounded across the room.
"Poor Jo! It's too bad, but it can't be helped; so you must try to be
contented with making your name boyish, and playing brother to us girls,"
said Beth, stroking the rough head at her knee with a hand that all the dish-
washing and dusting in the world could not make ungentle in its touch.
"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 tom-boy 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 old room, though the carpet
was faded and the furniture very plain; for a good picture or two hung on the
walls, books filled the recesses, chrysanthemums and Christmas roses
bloomed in the windows, and a pleasant atmosphere of home-peace
pervaded it.
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 fly-away look
to her clothes, and the uncomfortable appearance of a girl who was rapidly
shooting up into a woman, and didn't like it. Elizabeth—or Beth, as every
one 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 Tranquillity," and the name suited her
excellently; for she seemed to live in a happy world of her own, only
venturing out to meet the few whom she trusted and loved. Amy, though the
youngest, was a most important person,—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 every one brightened to
welcome her. Meg stopped lecturing, and lighted the lamp, Amy got out of
the easy-chair without being asked, and Jo forgot how tired she was as she
sat up to hold the slippers nearer to the blaze.
"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.

Every one thought soberly for a minute; then Meg announced, as if the
idea was suggested by the sight of her own pretty hands, "I shall give her a
nice pair of gloves."
"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 big chair with
the crown on, and see you all come
marching round to give the presents,
with a kiss. I liked the things and the
kisses, but it was dreadful to have you
sit looking at me while I opened the
bundles," said Beth, who was toasting
her face and the bread for tea, at the
same time.
"Let Marmee think we are getting
things for ourselves, and then surprise
her. We must go shopping to-morrow afternoon, Meg; there is so much to do
about the play for Christmas night," said Jo, marching up and down, with
her hands behind her back and her nose in the air.
"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 to-night. 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 any one faint, and I don't choose to make
myself all black and blue, tumbling flat as you do. If I can go down easily,

I'll drop; if I can't, I shall fall into a chair and be graceful; I don't care if
Hugo does come at me with a pistol," returned Amy, who was not gifted
with dramatic power, but was chosen because she was small enough to be
borne out shrieking by the villain of the piece.
"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 laugh, 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 Witch's Curse, an
Operatic Tragedy,' is rather a nice thing; but I'd like to try Macbeth, if we
only had a trap-door for Banquo. I always wanted to do the killing part. 'Is
that a dagger that I see before me?'" muttered Jo, rolling her eyes and
clutching at the air, as she had seen a famous tragedian do.
"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 to-day? There was so much to do,
getting the boxes ready to go to-morrow, that I didn't come home to dinner.
Has any one called, Beth? How is your cold, Meg? Jo, you look tired to
death. Come and kiss me, baby."
While making these maternal inquiries Mrs. March got her wet things off,
her warm slippers on, and sitting down in the easy-chair, drew Amy to her
lap, preparing to enjoy the happiest hour of her busy day. The girls flew
about, trying to make things comfortable, each in her own way. Meg
arranged the tea-table; Jo brought wood and set chairs, dropping,
overturning, and clattering everything she touched; Beth trotted to and fro
between parlor and kitchen, quiet and busy; while Amy gave directions to
every one, as she sat with her hands folded.
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 in 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 a 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
overflow with fatherly love and longing for the little girls at home.
"Give them all my dear love and a kiss. Tell
them I think of them by day, pray for them by
night, and find my best comfort in their
affection at all times. A year seems very long
to wait before I see them, but remind them that
while we wait we may all work, so that these
hard days need not be wasted. I know they will
remember all I said to them, that they will be
loving children to you, will do their duty
faithfully, fight their bosom enemies bravely,
and conquer themselves so beautifully, that
when I come back to them I may be fonder
and prouder than ever of my little women."
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 Pilgrim's Progress
when you were little things? Nothing delighted you more than to have me
tie my piece-bags on your backs for burdens, give you hats and sticks and
rolls of paper, and let you travel through the house from the cellar, which
was the City of Destruction, up, up, to the house-top, where you had all the
lovely things you could collect to make a Celestial City."
"What fun it was, especially going by the lions, fighting Apollyon, and
passing through the Valley where the hobgoblins were!" said Jo.
"I liked the place where the bundles fell off and tumbled down stairs,"
said Meg.
"My favorite part was when we came out on the flat roof where our
flowers and arbors and pretty things were, and all stood and sung for joy up
there in the sunshine," said Beth, smiling, as if that pleasant moment had
come back to her.
"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 to-
night, and mother came and pulled us out as
Help did in the book. We ought to have our roll
of directions, like Christian. What shall we do
about that?" asked Jo, delighted with the fancy
which lent a little romance to the very dull task
of doing her duty.
"Look under your pillows, Christmas
morning, and you will find your guide-book,"
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 to-night no one grumbled. They adopted Jo's plan of dividing
the long seams into four parts, and calling the quarters Europe, Asia, Africa,

and America, and in that way got on capitally, especially when they talked
about the different countries as they stitched their way through them.

At nine they stopped work, and sung, as usual, before they went to bed.
No one but Beth could get much music out of the old piano; but she had a
way of softly touching the yellow keys, and making a pleasant
accompaniment to the simple songs they sung. Meg had a voice like a flute,
and she and her mother led the little choir. Amy chirped like a cricket, and
Jo wandered through the airs at her own sweet will, always coming out at
the wrong place with a croak or a quaver that spoilt the most pensive tune.
They had always done this from the time they could lisp
"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.

II.
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 so crammed with goodies. Then she remembered her mother's promise,
and, slipping her hand under her pillow, drew out a little crimson-covered
book. She knew it very well, for it was that beautiful old story of the best
life ever lived, and Jo felt that it was a true guide-book for any pilgrim
going the long journey. She woke 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 come 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 up one.
"Isn't it right? I thought it was better to do it so, because Meg's initials are
'M. M.,' and I don't want any one to use these but Marmee," said Beth,
looking troubled.
"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 any one 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 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 new-born baby. Six children
are huddled into one bed to keep from freezing, for they have no fire. There
is nothing to eat over there; and the oldest boy came to tell me they were
suffering hunger and cold. My girls, will you give them your breakfast as a
Christmas present?"
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 muffins," added Amy, heroically giving up
the articles 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 dinner-time."
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 bed-clothes, 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 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 theatre, 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 tin preserve-pots were cut out. The furniture was used to
being turned topsy-turvy, and the big chamber was the scene of many
innocent revels.
No gentlemen were admitted; so Jo played male parts to her heart's
content, and took immense satisfaction in a pair of russet-leather boots
given her by a friend, who knew a lady who knew an actor. These boots, an
old foil, and a slashed doublet once used by an artist for some picture, were
Jo's chief treasures, and appeared on all occasions. The smallness of the
company made it necessary for the two principal actors to take several parts
apiece; and they certainly deserved some credit for the hard work they did in
learning three or four different parts, whisking in and out of various
costumes, and managing the stage besides. It was excellent drill for their
memories, a harmless amusement, and employed many hours which
otherwise would have been idle, lonely, or spent in less profitable society.
On Christmas night, a dozen girls piled on to the bed which was the
dress-circle, and sat before the blue and yellow chintz curtains in a most
flattering state of expectancy. There was a good deal of rustling and
whispering behind the curtain, a trifle of lamp-smoke, and an occasional
giggle from Amy, who was apt to get hysterical in the excitement of the
moment. Presently a bell sounded, the curtains flew apart, and the Operatic
Tragedy began.
"A gloomy wood," according to the one play-bill, was represented by a
few shrubs in pots, green baize on the floor, and a cave in the distance. This
cave was made with a clothes-horse for a roof, bureaus for walls; and in it
was a small furnace in full blast, with a black pot on it, and an old witch
bending over it. The stage was dark, and the glow of the furnace had a fine
effect, especially as real steam issued from the kettle when the witch took
off the cover. A moment was allowed for the first thrill to subside; then
Hugo, the villain, stalked in with a clanking sword at his side, a slouched
hat, black beard, mysterious cloak, and the boots. After pacing to and fro in
much agitation, he struck his forehead, and burst out in a wild strain, singing
of his hatred to Roderigo, his love for Zara, and his pleasing resolution to
kill the one and win the other. The gruff tones of Hugo's voice, with an
occasional shout when his feelings overcame him, were very impressive,
and the audience applauded the moment he paused for breath. Bowing with
the air of one accustomed to public praise, he stole to the cavern, and

ordered Hagar to come forth with a commanding "What ho, minion! I need
thee!"
Out came Meg, with gray horse-hair
hanging about her face, a red and black robe, a
staff, and cabalistic signs upon her cloak.
Hugo demanded a potion to make Zara adore
him, and one to destroy Roderigo. Hagar, in a
fine dramatic melody, promised both, and
proceeded to call up the spirit who would
bring the love philter:—

"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 has cursed him, and intends to thwart his
plans, and be revenged on him. Then the
curtain fell, and the audience reposed and ate
candy while discussing the merits of the play.
A good deal of hammering went on before
the curtain rose again; but when it became
evident what a masterpiece of stage-
carpentering had been got up, no one
murmured at the delay. It was truly superb! A
tower rose to the ceiling; half-way up appeared
a window, with a lamp burning at it, and
behind the white curtain appeared Zara in a
lovely blue and silver dress, waiting for Roderigo. He came in gorgeous
array, with plumed cap, red cloak, chestnut love-locks, a guitar, and the
boots, of course. Kneeling at the foot of the tower, he sang 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 of the tower upon him, Roderigo defied the old
gentleman, and refused to stir. This dauntless example fired Zara: she also

defied her sire, and he ordered them both to the deepest dungeons of the
castle. A stout little retainer came in with chains, and led them away,
looking very much frightened, and evidently forgetting the speech he ought
to have made.
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 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 Roderigo is about to bear
away the exhausted Zara, when the timid servant enters with a letter and a
bag from Hagar, who has mysteriously disappeared. The latter informs the
party that she bequeaths untold wealth to the young pair, and an awful doom
to Don Pedro, if he doesn't make them happy. The bag is opened, and
several quarts of tin money shower down upon the stage, till it is quite

glorified with the glitter. This entirely softens the "stern sire": he consents
without a murmur, all join in a joyful chorus, and the curtain falls upon the
lovers kneeling to receive Don Pedro's blessing in attitudes of the most
romantic grace.

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,
"It's 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, some time, 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."

III.
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
to-morrow 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 spoilt with lemonade, and I can't get any new ones, so I shall
have to go without," said Jo, who never troubled herself much about dress.
"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 spoilt the others, that she shouldn't get you any
more this winter. Can't you make them do?" asked Meg anxiously.
"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 burnt hair pervaded the house. Meg wanted a few
curls about her face, and Jo undertook to pinch the papered locks with a pair
of hot tongs.

"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 burnt 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 hair-dresser laid a row of little
scorched bundles on the bureau before her victim.
"Oh, oh, oh! what have you done? I'm spoilt! I can't go! My hair, oh, my
hair!" wailed Meg, looking with despair at the uneven frizzle on her
forehead.
"Just my luck! you shouldn't have asked me to do it; I always spoil
everything. I'm so sorry, but the tongs were too hot, and so I've made a
mess," groaned poor Jo, regarding the black pancakes with tears of regret.
"It isn't spoilt; just frizzle it, and tie your ribbon so the ends come on your
forehead a bit, and it will look like the last fashion. I've seen many girls do it
so," said Amy consolingly.
"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 family Jo's hair was got up and her dress on. They looked
very well in their simple suits,—Meg in silvery drab, with a blue velvet
snood, lace frills, and the pearl pin; Jo in maroon, with a stiff, gentlemanly
linen collar, and a white chrysanthemum or two for her only ornament. Each
put on one nice light glove, and carried one soiled one, and all pronounced
the effect "quite easy and fine." Meg's high-heeled slippers were very tight,
and hurt her, though she would not own it, and Jo's nineteen hair-pins all
seemed stuck straight into her head, which was not exactly comfortable; but,
dear me, let us be elegant or die!
"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 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 lady-like; I'll lift my eyebrows if anything is wrong,
and nod if you are all right. Now hold your shoulders straight, and take short
steps, and don't shake hands if you are introduced to any one: it isn't the
thing."
"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 near her dwindled away, till she was left
alone. She could not roam about and amuse herself, for the burnt breadth
would show, so she stared at people rather forlornly till the dancing began.
Meg was asked at once, and the tight slippers tripped about so briskly that
none would have guessed the pain their wearer suffered smilingly. Jo saw a
big red-headed youth approaching her corner, and fearing he meant to
engage her, she slipped into a curtained recess, intending to peep and enjoy
herself in peace. Unfortunately, another bashful person had chosen the same
refuge; for, as the curtain fell behind her, she found herself face to face with
the "Laurence boy."

"Dear me, I didn't know any one 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."
"Sha'n'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 every one is lively. In
a place like this I'm sure to upset something, tread on people's toes, or do
something dreadful, so I keep out of mischief, and let Meg sail about. Don't
you dance?"
"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 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 any thing else at Vevay."
"Do say some! I can read it, but can't pronounce."
"Quel nom a cette jeune demoiselle en les pantoufles jolis?" said Laurie
good-naturedly.
"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 criticised and chatted, till
they felt like old acquaintances. Laurie's bashfulness soon wore off; for Jo's
gentlemanly demeanor amused and set him at his ease, and Jo was her
merry self again, because her dress was forgotten, and nobody lifted their
eyebrows at her. She liked the "Laurence boy" better than ever, and took
several good looks at him, so that she might describe him to the girls; for
they had no brothers, very few male cousins, and boys were almost
unknown creatures to them.
"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 roundabout 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?" asked Laurie curiously.
"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 any one. Get me my rubbers, and put these
slippers with our things. I can't dance any more; 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 spilt, 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 some one
shook me; and here I am, in a nice state," answered Jo, glancing dismally
from the stained skirt to the coffee-colored glove.
"Too bad! I was looking for some one 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 instalment of coffee and ice for Jo, and was so
obliging that even particular Meg pronounced him a "nice boy." They had a
merry time over the bonbons and mottoes, and were in the midst of a quiet
game of "Buzz," with two or three other young people who had strayed in,
when Hannah appeared. Meg forgot her foot, and rose so quickly that she
was forced to catch hold of Jo, with an exclamation of pain.
"Hush! Don't say anything," she whispered, adding aloud, "It's nothing. I
turned my foot a little, that's all"; and limped up-stairs to put her things on.
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 night-caps
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 burnt hair, old gowns, one glove apiece, and tight slippers
that sprain our ankles when we are silly enough to wear them." And I think
Jo was quite right.

IV.
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 merry-making did not fit her for going on easily with the task she never
liked.
"I wish it was Christmas or New-Year 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 sha'n'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 spoilt children, seemed heavier
than ever. She hadn't heart enough even to make herself pretty, as usual, by
putting on a blue neck-ribbon, and dressing her hair in the most becoming
way.
"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. Every one seemed rather out of sorts, and inclined to
croak. Beth had a headache, and lay on the sofa, trying to comfort herself
with the cat and three kittens; Amy was fretting because her lessons were
not learned, and she couldn't find her rubbers; Jo 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 spoilt sentence in her letter.
There was a momentary lull, broken by Hannah, who stalked in, laid two
hot turn-overs on the table, and stalked out again. These turn-overs were an
institution; and the girls called them "muffs," for they had no others, and
found the hot pies very comforting to their hands on cold mornings. Hannah
never forgot to make them, no matter how busy or grumpy she might be, for
the walk was long and bleak; the poor things got no other lunch, and were
seldom home before two.
"Cuddle your cats, and get over your headache, Bethy. Good-by, Marmee;
we are a set of rascals this morning, but we'll come home regular angels.
Now then, Meg!" and Jo tramped away, feeling that the pilgrims were not
setting out as they ought to do.
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," said Meg, from the depths of the
vail 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 to-day because you can't sit
in the lap of luxury all the time. Poor dear, just wait till I make my fortune,
and you shall revel in carriages and ice-cream and high-heeled slippers and
posies and red-headed boys to dance with."
"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 turn-over,
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 theatres, concerts, sleighing parties, and merry-
makings of all kinds, and saw money lavished on trifles which would have
been so precious to her. Poor Meg seldom complained, but a sense of
injustice made her feel bitter toward every one sometimes, for she had not
yet learned 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 had marched home, declaring
she couldn't bear it any longer; but Aunt March always cleared up quickly,
and sent for her back again with such urgency that she could not refuse, for
in her heart she rather liked the peppery old lady.
I suspect that the real attraction was a large library of fine books, which
was left to dust and spiders since Uncle March died. Jo remembered the
kind old gentleman, who used to let her build railroads and bridges with his
big dictionaries, tell her stories about the queer pictures in his Latin books,
and buy her cards of gingerbread whenever he met her in the street. The
dim, dusty room, with the busts staring down from the tall book-cases, the
cosy chairs, the globes, and, best of all, the wilderness of books, in which
she could wander where she liked, made the library a region of bliss to her.
The moment Aunt March took her nap, or was busy with company, Jo
hurried to this quiet place, and, curling herself up in the easy-chair,
devoured poetry, romance, history, travels, and pictures, like a regular book-
worm. But, like all happiness, it did not last long; for as sure as she had just
reached the heart of the story, the sweetest verse of the song, or the most
perilous adventure of her traveller, a shrill voice called, "Josy-phine! Josy-
phine!" and she had to leave her 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 any one had known the care lavished on that
dolly, I think it would have touched their hearts, even while they laughed.
She brought it bits of bouquets; she read to it, took it out to breathe the air,
hidden under her coat; she sung it lullabys, and never went to bed without
kissing its dirty face, and whispering tenderly, "I hope you'll have a good
night, my poor dear."
Beth had her troubles as well as the others; and not being an angel, but a
very human little girl, she often "wept a little weep," as Jo said, because she
couldn't take music lessons and have a fine piano. She loved music so
dearly, tried so hard to learn, and practised away so patiently at the jingling
old instrument, that it did seem as if some one (not to hint Aunt March)
ought to help her. Nobody did, however, and nobody saw Beth wipe the
tears off the yellow keys, that wouldn't keep in tune, when she was all alone.
She sang like a little lark about her work, never was too tired to play for
Marmee and the girls, and day after day said hopefully to herself, "I know
I'll get my music some time, if I'm good."
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
accidentally dropped her into the coal-hod, and Amy insisted that the fall
had ruined her nose forever. It was not big, nor red, like poor "Petrea's"; it
was only rather flat, and all the pinching in the world could not give it an
aristocratic point. No one minded it but herself, and it was doing its best to

grow, but Amy felt deeply the want of a Grecian nose, and drew whole
sheets of handsome ones to console herself.
"Little Raphael," as her sisters called her, had a decided talent for
drawing, and was never so happy as when copying flowers, designing
fairies, or illustrating stories with queer specimens of art. Her teachers
complained that, instead of doing her sums, she covered her slate with
animals; the blank pages of her atlas were used to copy maps on; and
caricatures of the most ludicrous description came fluttering out of all her
books at unlucky moments. She got through her lessons as well as she
could, and managed to escape reprimands by being a model of deportment.
She was a great favorite with her mates, being good-tempered, and
possessing the happy art of pleasing without effort. Her little airs and graces
were much admired, so were her accomplishments; for beside her drawing,
she could play twelve tunes, crochet, and read French without
mispronouncing more than two thirds of the words. She had a plaintive way
of saying, "When papa was rich we did so-and-so," which was very
touching; and her long words were considered "perfectly elegant" by the
girls.
Amy was in a fair way to be spoilt; for every one 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 mamma hadn't a particle of taste, and Amy suffered deeply at
having to wear a red instead of a blue bonnet, unbecoming gowns, and fussy
aprons that did not fit. Everything was good, well made, and little worn; but
Amy's artistic eyes were much afflicted, especially this winter, when her
school dress was a dull purple, with yellow dots, and no trimming.
"My only comfort," she said to Meg, with tears in her eyes, "is, that
mother don't take tucks in my dresses whenever I'm naughty, as Maria
Parks' mother does. My dear, it's really dreadful; for sometimes she is so
bad, her frock is up to her knees, and she can't come to school. When I think
of this 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 any one in the family. The two older girls

were a great deal to one another, but each took one of the younger into her
keeping, and watched over her in her own way; "playing mother" they
called it, and put their sisters in the places of discarded dolls, with the
maternal instinct of little women.
"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 to-day, and, as I got the best of it, I'll tell
you about it," began Jo, who dearly loved to tell stories. "I was reading that
everlasting Belsham, and droning away as I always do, for aunt soon drops
off, and then I take out some nice book, and read like fury till she wakes up.
I actually made myself sleepy; and, before she began to nod, I gave such a
gape that she asked me what I meant by opening my mouth wide enough to
take the whole book in at once.

"'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; sha'n'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 she only chose. I don't envy
her much, in spite of her money, for after all rich people have about as many
worries as poor ones, I think," added Jo.
"That reminds me," said Meg, "that I've got something to tell. It isn't
funny, like Jo's story, but I thought about it a good deal as I came home. At
the Kings to-day I found everybody in a flurry, and one of the children said
that her oldest brother had done something dreadful, and papa had sent him
away. I heard Mrs. King crying and Mr. King talking very loud, and Grace
and Ellen turned away their faces when they passed me, so I shouldn't see
how red their eyes were. I didn't ask any questions, of course; but I felt so
sorry for them, and was rather glad I hadn't any wild brothers to do wicked
things and disgrace the family."
"I think being disgraced in school is a great deal tryinger than anything
bad boys can do," said Amy, shaking her head, as if her experience of life
had been a deep one. "Susie Perkins came to school to-day with a lovely red
carnelian ring; I wanted it dreadfully, and wished I was her with all my
might. Well, she drew a picture of Mr. Davis, with a monstrous nose and a
hump, and the words, 'Young ladies, my eye is upon you!' coming out of his
mouth in a balloon thing. We were laughing over it, when all of a sudden his
eye was on us, and he ordered Susie to bring up her slate. She was parrylized
with fright, but she went, and oh, what do you think he did? He took her by
the ear, the ear! just fancy how horrid!—and led her to the recitation
platform, and made her stand there half an hour, holding that slate so every
one could see."

"Didn't the girls laugh at the picture?" asked Jo, who relished the scrape.
"Laugh? Not one! They sat as still as mice; and Susie cried quarts, I know
she did. I didn't envy her then; for I felt that millions of carnelian rings
wouldn't have made me happy, after that. I 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 that I liked this morning, and I meant to tell it at dinner,
but I forgot," said Beth, putting Jo's topsy-turvy basket in order as she talked.
"When I went to get some oysters for Hannah, Mr. Laurence was in the fish-
shop; but he didn't see me, for I kept behind a barrel, and he was busy with
Mr. Cutter, the fish-man. A poor woman came in, with a pail and a mop, and
asked Mr. Cutter if he would let her do some scrubbing for a bit of fish,
because she hadn't any dinner for her children, and had been disappointed of
a day's work. Mr. Cutter was in a hurry, and said 'No,' rather crossly; so she
was going away, looking hungry and sorry, when Mr. Laurence hooked up a
big fish with the crooked end of his cane, and held it out to her. She was so
glad and surprised, she took it right in her arms, and thanked him over and
over. He told her to 'go along and 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 moment's thought, she said soberly,—
"As I sat cutting out blue flannel jackets to-day, at the rooms, I felt very
anxious about father, and thought how lonely and helpless we should be, if
anything happened to him. It was not a wise thing to do; but I kept on
worrying, till an old man came in, with an order for some clothes. He sat
down near me, and I began to talk to him; for he looked poor and tired and
anxious.
"'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 afterwards, 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 we only had this,' or 'If
we could only do that,' quite forgetting how much they already had, and how
many pleasant things they actually could do. So they asked an old woman
what spell they could use to make them happy, and she said, 'When you feel
discontented, think over your blessings, and be grateful.'" (Here Jo looked up
quickly, as if about to speak, but changed her mind, seeing that the story was
not done yet.)
"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 have to go begging for it; and the fourth, that even carnelian rings
were not so valuable as good behavior. So they agreed to stop complaining,
to enjoy the blessings already possessed, and try to deserve them, lest they

should be taken away entirely, instead of increased; and I believe they were
never disappointed, or sorry that they took the old woman's advice."
"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, 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.

V.
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. Laurence 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 snow-ball, 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 as 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 some one come and see
you, then."
"There isn't any one 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 that 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 collar, and
trying to tidy up the room, which, in spite of half a dozen servants, was
anything but neat. Presently there came a loud ring, then a decided voice,

asking for "Mr. Laurie," and a surprised-looking servant came running up to
announce a young lady.
"All right, show her up, it's Miss Jo," said Laurie, going to the door of his
little parlor to meet Jo, who appeared, looking rosy and kind and quite at her
ease, with a covered dish in one hand and Beth's three kittens in the other.
"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 cosy 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 mantel-piece 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 a 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 round the table with your
mother; her face is right opposite, and it looks so sweet behind the flowers, I
can't help watching it. I haven't got any mother, you know;" and Laurie
poked the fire to hide a little twitching of the lips that he could not control.
The solitary, hungry look in his eyes went straight to Jo's warm heart. She
had been so simply taught that there was no nonsense in her head, and at
fifteen she was as innocent and frank as any child. Laurie was sick and
lonely; and, feeling how rich she was in home-love and happiness, she
gladly tried to share it with him. Her face was very friendly and her sharp
voice unusually gentle as she said,—
"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 business man—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 revelled. Laurie enjoyed that immensely;
and when she told about the prim old gentleman who came once to woo
Aunt March, and, in the middle of a fine speech, how Poll had tweaked his
wig off to his great dismay, the boy lay back and laughed till the tears ran
down his cheeks, and a maid popped her head in to see what was the matter.
"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. Grandpa 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
summer-like, Laurie led
the way from room to
room, letting Jo stop to
examine whatever
struck her fancy; and so
at last they came to the
library, where she
clapped her hands, and
pranced, as she always
did when especially
delighted. It was lined
with books, and there
were pictures and
statues, and distracting little cabinets full of coins and curiosities, and
sleepy-hollow chairs, and queer tables, and bronzes; and, best of all, a great
open fireplace, with quaint tiles all round it.
"What richness!" sighed Jo, sinking into the depth of a velvet chair, and
gazing about her with an air of intense satisfaction. "Theodore Laurence, you
ought to be the happiest boy in the world," she added impressively.
"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 rung, 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 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 as 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 gray
eyebrows, were kinder even than the painted ones; and there was a sly
twinkle in them, which lessened her fear a good deal. The gruff voice was
gruffer than ever, as the old gentleman said abruptly, after that dreadful
pause, "So you're not afraid of me, hey?"
"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 down stairs, and brought up with a start
of surprise at the astonishing 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 down stairs. Come to your tea, sir,
and behave like a gentleman;" and having pulled the boy's hair by way of a
caress, Mr. Laurence walked on, while Laurie went through a series of comic
evolutions behind their backs, which nearly produced an explosion of
laughter from Jo.
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 above 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 the rescue. "That
will do, that will do, young lady. Too many sugar-plums are not good for
him. His music isn't bad, but I hope he will do as well in more important
things. Going? Well, I'm much obliged to you, and I hope you'll come again.
My respects to your mother. Good-night, Doctor Jo."
He shook hands kindly, but looked as if something did not please him.
When they got into the hall, Jo asked Laurie if she had said anything amiss.
He shook his head.
"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.

VI.
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 afterwards," 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 told her mother; and she
ran away, declaring she would never go there any more, not even for the dear
piano. No persuasions or enticements could overcome her fear, till, the fact
coming to Mr. Laurence's ear in some mysterious way, he set about mending
matters. During one of the brief calls he made, he artfully led the
conversation to music, and talked away about great singers whom he had
seen, fine organs he had heard, and told such charming anecdotes that Beth
found it impossible to stay in her distant corner, but crept nearer and nearer,
as if fascinated. At the back of his chair she stopped, and stood listening,
with her great eyes wide open, and her cheeks red with the excitement of this
unusual performance. Taking no more notice of her than if she had been a
fly, Mr. Laurence talked on about Laurie's lessons and teachers; and
presently, as if the idea had just occurred to him, he said to Mrs. March,—
"The boy neglects his music now, and I'm glad of it, for he was getting too
fond of it. But the piano suffers for want of use. Wouldn't some of your girls
like to run over, and practise on it now and then, just to keep it in tune, you
know, ma'am?"
Beth took a step forward, and pressed her hands tightly together to keep
from clapping them, for this was an irresistible temptation; and the thought
of practising on that splendid instrument quite took her breath away. Before
Mrs. March could reply, Mr. Laurence went on with an odd little nod and
smile,—
"They needn't see or speak to any one, but run in at any time; for I'm shut
up in my study at the other end of the house, Laurie is out a great deal, and
the servants are never near the drawing-room after nine o'clock."

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,—
"O 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 big hand a grateful squeeze, because she had
no words to thank him for the precious gift he had given her. The old

gentleman softly stroked the hair off her forehead, and, stooping down, he
kissed her, saying, in a tone few people ever heard,—
"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 at home. How
blithely she sung that evening, and how they all laughed at her, because she
woke Amy in the night by playing the piano on her face in her sleep. Next
day, having seen both the old and young gentleman out of the house, Beth,
after two or three retreats, fairly got in at the side-door, and made her way, as
noiselessly as any mouse, to the drawing-room, where her idol stood. Quite
by accident, of course, some pretty, easy music lay on the piano; and, with
trembling fingers, and frequent stops to listen and look about, Beth at last
touched the great instrument, and straightway forgot her fear, herself, and
everything else but the unspeakable delight which the music gave her, for it
was like the voice of a beloved friend.
She stayed till Hannah came to take her home to dinner; but she had no
appetite, and could only sit and smile upon every one in a general state of
beatitude.
After that, the little brown hood slipped through the hedge nearly every
day, and the great drawing-room was haunted by a tuneful spirit that came
and went unseen. She never knew that Mr. Laurence often opened his study-
door to hear the old-fashioned airs he liked; she never saw Laurie mount
guard in the hall to warn the servants away; she never suspected that the
exercise-books and new songs which she found in the rack were put there for
her especial benefit; and when he talked to her about music at home, she
only thought how kind he was to tell things that helped her so much. So she
enjoyed herself heartily, and found, what isn't always the case, that her
granted wish was all she had hoped. Perhaps it was because she was so
grateful for this blessing that a greater was given her; at any rate, she
deserved both.
"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 needle-
woman, and they were
finished before any one
got tired of them. Then
she wrote a very short,
simple note, and, with
Laurie's help, got them
smuggled on to the
study-table one
morning before the old
gentleman was up.
When this excitement was over, Beth waited to see what would happen.
All that day passed, and a part of the next, before any acknowledgment
arrived, and she was beginning to fear she had offended her crotchety friend.
On the afternoon of the second day, she went out to do an errand, and give
poor Joanna, the invalid doll, her daily exercise. As she came up the street,

on her return, she saw three, yes, four, heads popping in and out of the parlor
windows, and the moment they saw her, several hands were waved, and
several joyful voices screamed,—
"Here's a letter from the old gentleman! Come quick, and read it!"
"O 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 on to 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 some one 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,'" continued Jo. "'Heart's-ease is my
favorite flower, and these will always remind me of the gentle giver.
I like to pay my debts; so I know you will allow "the old gentleman"
to send you something which once belonged to the little
granddaughter he lost. With hearty thanks and best wishes, 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 every one pronounced it the most remarkable piano
ever heard. It had evidently been newly tuned and put in apple-pie order; but,
perfect as it was, I think the real charm of it lay in the happiest of all happy
faces which leaned over it, as Beth lovingly touched the beautiful black and
white keys and pressed the bright pedals.
"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 cosily as if she had known him all her life; for
love casts out fear, and gratitude can conquer pride. When she went home, he
walked with her to her own gate, shook hands cordially, and touched 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 uplifted hands, "Well, I do believe the
world is coming to an end!"

VII.
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 every
one is sucking them in their desks in school-time, and trading them off for
pencils, bead-rings, paper dolls, or something else, at recess. If one girl likes
another, she gives her a lime; if she's mad with her, she eats one before her
face, and don't offer even a suck. They treat by turns; and I've had ever so
many, but haven't returned them; and I ought, for they are debts of honor,
you know."
"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 pretence 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 school-girl, "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 very
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 any one, straight into the ante-room, snatched her things,
and left the place "forever," as she passionately declared to herself. She was
in a sad state when she got home; and when the older girls arrived, some
time later, an indignation meeting was 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 milder
method. You are getting to be rather conceited, my dear, and it is quite time
you set about correcting it. You have a good many little gifts and virtues, but
there is no need of parading them, for conceit spoils the finest genius. There
is not much danger that real talent or goodness will be overlooked long; even
if it is, the 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 any one 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 any one else could,"
answered Laurie, looking at her with such mischievous meaning in his merry
black eyes, that Beth suddenly turned very red, and hid her face in the sofa-
cushion, quite overcome by such an unexpected discovery.

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 sung delightfully, being in a particularly lively humor, for to the
Marches he seldom showed the moody side of his character. When he was
gone, Amy, who had been pensive all the evening, said suddenly, as if busy
over some new idea,—
"Is Laurie an accomplished boy?"
"Yes; he has had an excellent education, and has much talent; he will
make a fine man, if not spoilt by petting," replied her mother.
"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
conversation, 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.

VIII.
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 theatre 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 sha'n't; and if I don't, Laurie won't like it; and it will be very
rude, after he invited only us, to go and drag in Amy. I should think she'd
hate to poke herself where she isn't wanted," said Jo crossly, for she disliked
the trouble of overseeing a fidgety child, when she wanted to enjoy herself.
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

sha'n't stir a step; so you may just stay where you are," scolded Jo, crosser
than ever, having just pricked her finger in her hurry.
Sitting on the floor, with one boot on, Amy began to cry, and Meg to
reason with her, when Laurie called from below, and the two girls hurried
down, leaving their sister wailing; for now and then she forgot her grown-up
ways, and acted like a spoilt child. Just as the party was setting out, Amy
called over the banisters, in a threatening tone, "You'll be sorry for this, Jo
March; see if you ain't."
"Fiddlesticks!" returned Jo, slamming the door.
They had a charming time, for "The Seven Castles of the Diamond Lake"
were as brilliant and wonderful as heart could wish. But, in spite of the
comical red imps, sparkling elves, and gorgeous princes and princesses, Jo's
pleasure had a drop of bitterness in it; the fairy queen's yellow curls
reminded her of Amy; and between the acts she amused herself with
wondering what her sister would do to make her "sorry for it." She and Amy
had had many lively skirmishes in the course of their lives, for both had
quick tempers, and were apt to be violent when fairly roused. Amy teased Jo,
and Jo irritated Amy, and semi-occasional explosions occurred, of which
both were much ashamed afterward. Although the oldest, Jo had the least
self-control, and had hard times trying to curb the fiery spirit which was
continually getting her into trouble; her anger never lasted long, and, having
humbly confessed her fault, she sincerely repented, and tried to do better.
Her sisters used to say that they rather liked to get Jo into a fury, because she
was such an angel afterward. Poor Jo tried desperately to be good, but her
bosom enemy was always ready to flame up and defeat her; and it took years
of patient effort to subdue it.
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 any one 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 burnt 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 burnt 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 rung, 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 sung alone. But, in spite of their efforts to be as
cheery as larks, the flute-like voices did not seem to chord as well as usual,
and all felt out of tune.
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 to-morrow."
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 don'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
turn-over in the gutter, Aunt March had an attack of fidgets, Meg was
pensive, 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 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 cross-patch 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, then take a quiet minute,
and just kiss her, or do some kind thing, and I'm sure she'll be friends again,
with all her heart."
"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 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 just struggling to her feet, and did not catch a
word. Jo glanced over her shoulder, and the little demon she was harboring
said in her ear,—
"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 at her heart; then she resolved to
go on, but something held and turned her round, just in time to see Amy
throw up her hands and go down, with the sudden crash of rotten ice, the
splash of water, and a cry that made Jo's heart stand still with fear. She tried
to call Laurie, but her voice was gone; she tried to rush forward, but her feet
seemed to have no strength in them; and, for a second, she could only stand
motionless, staring, with a terror-stricken face, at the little blue hood above
the black water. Something rushed swiftly by her, and Laurie's voice cried
out,—
"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 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. O 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
harder than ever.
"You don't know, you can't guess how bad it is! It seems as if I could do
anything when I'm in a passion; I get so savage, I could hurt any one, and
enjoy it. I'm afraid I shall do something dreadful some day, and spoil my life,
and make everybody hate me. O 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 a minute, and
give myself a little shake, for being so weak and wicked," answered Mrs.
March, with a sigh and a smile, as she smoothed and fastened up Jo's
dishevelled hair.
"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 any one
else. I had a hard time, Jo, and shed a good many bitter tears over my
failures; for, in spite of my efforts, I never seemed to get on. Then your
father came, and I was so happy that I found it easy to be good. But by and
by, when I had four little daughters round me, and we were poor, then the old
trouble began again; for I am not patient by nature, and it tried me very much
to see my children wanting anything."
"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 practise all the virtues I would have my little girls possess, for I
was their example. It was easier to try for your sakes than for my own; a
startled or surprised look from one of you, when I spoke sharply, rebuked me
more than any words could have done; and the love, respect, and confidence
of my children was the sweetest reward I could receive for my efforts to be
the woman I would have them copy."
"O 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 to-day."

"I will try, mother; I truly will. But you must help me, remind me, and
keep me from flying out. I used to see father sometimes put his finger on his
lips, and look at you with a very kind, but sober face, and you always folded
your lips tight or went away: was he reminding you then?" asked Jo softly.
"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 life-long peace, happiness, and strength. Believe this heartily,
and go to God with all your little cares, and hopes, and sins, and sorrows, as
freely and confidingly as you come to your mother."
Jo's only answer was to hold her mother close, and, in the silence which
followed, the sincerest prayer she had ever prayed left her heart without
words; for in that sad, yet happy hour, she had learned not only the bitterness
of remorse and despair, but the sweetness of self-denial and self-control; and,

led by her mother's hand, she had drawn nearer to the Friend who welcomes
every child with a love stronger than that of any father, tenderer than that of
any mother.
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 to-day, if it
hadn't been for Laurie, it might have been too late! How could I be so
wicked?" said Jo, half aloud, as she leaned over her sister, softly stroking the
wet hair scattered on the pillow.
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.

IX.
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 tarlatan."
"It will look nicely over my new muslin skirt, and the sash will set it off
beautifully. I wish I hadn't smashed my coral bracelet, for you might have
had it," said Jo, who loved to give and lend, but whose possessions were
usually too dilapidated to be of much use.
"There is a lovely old-fashioned pearl set in the treasure-box; but mother
said real flowers were the prettiest ornament for a young girl, and Laurie
promised to send me all I want," replied Meg. "Now, let me see; there's my
new gray walking-suit—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 tarlatan for the big party, and you always
look like an angel in white," said Amy, brooding over the little store of finery
in which her soul delighted.
"It isn't low-necked, and it doesn't sweep enough, but it will have to do.
My blue house-dress looks so well, turned and freshly trimmed, that I feel as
if I'd got a new one. My silk sacque isn't a bit the fashion, and my bonnet
doesn't look like Sallie's; I didn't 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 night-caps; 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 tarlatan, 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 had 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 theatres and operas, or frolicked at home in the
evening; for Annie had many friends, and knew how to entertain them. Her
older sisters were very fine young ladies, and one was engaged, which was
extremely interesting and romantic, Meg thought. Mr. Moffat was a fat, jolly
old gentleman, who knew her father; and Mrs. Moffat, a fat, jolly old lady,
who took as great a fancy to Meg as her daughter had done. Every one petted
her; and "Daisy," as they called her, was in a fair way to have her head
turned.
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; every one was very kind, and she had three compliments. Annie
made her sing, and some one said she had a remarkably fine voice; Major
Lincoln asked who "the fresh little girl, with the beautiful eyes," was; and
Mr. Moffat insisted on dancing with her, because she "didn't dawdle, but had
some spring in her," as he gracefully expressed it. So, altogether, she had a
very nice time, till she overheard a bit of a conversation, which disturbed her
extremely. She was sitting just inside the conservatory, waiting for her
partner to bring her an ice, when she heard a voice ask, on the other side of
the flowery wall,—
"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 mamma, as if she did know, and colored up
when the flowers came, quite prettily. Poor thing! she'd be so nice if she was

only got up in style. Do you think she'd be offended if we offered to lend her
a dress for Thursday?" asked another voice.
"She's proud, but I don't believe she'd mind, for that dowdy tarlatan is all
she has got. She may tear it to-night, and that will be a good excuse for
offering a decent one."
"We'll see. I shall ask young Laurence, as a compliment to her, and we'll
have fun about it afterward."

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 tarlatan," till she was ready to cry, and rush home to tell her troubles
and ask for advice. As that was impossible, she did her best to seem gay;
and, being rather excited, she succeeded so well that no one dreamed what
an effort she was making. She was very glad when it was all over, and she
was quiet in her bed, where she could think and wonder and fume till her
head ached and her hot cheeks were cooled by a few natural tears. Those

foolish, yet well-meant words, had opened a new world to Meg, and much
disturbed the peace of the old one, in which, till now, she had lived as
happily as a child. Her innocent friendship with Laurie was spoilt by the silly
speeches she had overheard; her faith in her mother was a little shaken by the
worldly plans attributed to her by Mrs. Moffat, who judged others by herself;
and the sensible resolution to be contented with the simple wardrobe which
suited a poor man's daughter, was weakened by the unnecessary pity of girls
who thought a shabby dress one of the greatest calamities under heaven.
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, chérie?" 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?
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 sha'n't
let any one see you till you are done, and then we'll burst upon them like
Cinderella and her godmother, going to the ball," said Belle, in her
persuasive tone.
Meg couldn't refuse the offer so kindly made, for a desire to see if she
would be "a little beauty" after touching up, caused her to accept, and forget
all her former uncomfortable feelings towards the Moffats.
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 soupçon of rouge," if Meg had not rebelled. They laced her into a
sky-blue dress, which was so tight she could hardly breathe, and so low in
the neck that modest Meg blushed at herself in the mirror. A set of silver
filagree was added, bracelets, necklace, brooch, and even ear-rings, for
Hortense tied them on, with a bit of pink silk, which did not show. A cluster
of tea-rosebuds at the bosom, and a ruche, reconciled Meg to the display of
her pretty white shoulders, and a pair of high-heeled blue silk boots satisfied
the last wish of her heart. A laced handkerchief, a plumy fan, and a bouquet
in a silver holder finished her off; and Miss Belle surveyed her with the
satisfaction of a little girl with a newly dressed doll.
"Mademoiselle is charmante, très 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 ear-rings
tinkling, her curls waving, and her heart beating, she felt as if her "fun" had
really begun at last, for the mirror had plainly told her that she was "a little
beauty." Her friends repeated the pleasing phrase enthusiastically; and, for
several minutes, she stood, like the jackdaw in the fable, enjoying her
borrowed plumes, while the rest chattered like a party of magpies.
"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.
"I'm afraid to go down, I feel so queer and stiff and half-dressed," said
Meg to Sallie, as the bell rang, and Mrs. Moffat sent to ask the young ladies
to appear at once.
"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 sofas, and criticised the rest of the party, inquired who she was,
with an air of interest. She heard Mrs. Moffat reply to one of them,—
"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 ear-rings should fly off, and get lost or broken. She was flirting
her fan and laughing at the feeble jokes of a young gentleman who tried to
be witty, when she suddenly stopped laughing and looked confused; for, just
opposite, she saw Laurie. He was staring at her with undisguised surprise,
and disapproval also, she thought; for, though he bowed and smiled, yet
something in his honest eyes made her blush, and wish she had her old dress
on. To complete her confusion, she saw Belle nudge Annie, and both glance
from her to Laurie, who, she was happy to see, looked unusually boyish and
shy.
"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 about 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 spoilt her entirely; she's nothing but a doll, to-night."
"Oh, dear!" sighed Meg; "I wish I'd been sensible, and worn my own
things; then I should not have disgusted other people, or felt so
uncomfortable and ashamed myself."
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 don'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 practised at home, they
were well matched, and the blithe young couple were a pleasant sight to see,
as they twirled merrily round and round, feeling more friendly than ever
after their small tiff.
"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 to-night. 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 supper-time, when he saw her drinking
champagne with Ned and his friend Fisher, who were behaving "like a pair
of fools," as Laurie said to himself, for he felt 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 to-morrow, if you drink much of that. I
wouldn't Meg; your mother doesn't like it, you know," he whispered, leaning
over her chair, as Ned turned to refill her glass, and Fisher stooped to pick up
her fan.
"I'm not Meg, to-night; I'm 'a doll,' who does all sorts of crazy things. To-
morrow I shall put away my 'fuss and feathers,' and be desperately good
again," she answered, with an affected little laugh.
"Wish to-morrow 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 à la mort," replied Laurie, with a melodramatic flourish, as he
went away.
This little bit of by-play excited Annie's curiosity; but Meg was too tired
for gossip, and went to bed, feeling as if she had been to a masquerade, and
hadn't enjoyed herself as much as she expected. She was sick all the next
day, and on Saturday went home, quite used up with her fortnight's fun, and
feeling that she had "sat in the lap of luxury" long enough.
"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 children, but I want you to know all the dreadful things I did
at the Moffat's."
"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 trust and hope 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.

X.
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 bird, and catnip for the pussies.
Amy had a bower in hers,—rather small and earwiggy, but very pretty to
look at,—with honeysuckles and morning-glories hanging their colored
horns and bells in graceful wreaths all over it; tall, white lilies, delicate ferns,
and as many brilliant, picturesque plants as would consent to blossom there.
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 revelled in pens and ink, was the
editor. At seven o'clock, the four members ascended to the club-room, tied

On one occasion, Mr. Pickwick put on a pair of spectacles without any
glasses, rapped upon the table, hemmed, and, having stared hard at Mr.
Snodgrass, who was tilting back in his chair, till he arranged himself
properly, began to read:—

"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, to-night.

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 de Adelon.
Knights and ladies, elves and pages, monks and flower-girls, all mingled
gayly in the dance. Sweet voices and rich melody filled the air; and so with
mirth and music the masquerade went on.
"Has your Highness seen the Lady Viola to-night?" asked a gallant
troubadour of the fairy queen who floated down the hall upon his arm.
"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 upon the gay throng; and not a sound, but the dash of
fountains or the rustle of orange-groves sleeping in the moonlight, broke the
hush, as Count de Adelon spoke thus:—
"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 low murmur of amazement
went through the throng, for neither bride nor groom removed their masks.
Curiosity and wonder possessed all hearts, but respect restrained all tongues
till the holy rite was over. Then the eager spectators gathered round the count,
demanding an explanation.
"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 grocer-
man bought and put it in his shop. That same morning, a little girl, in a brown
hat and blue dress, with a round face and snub nose, went and bought it for
her mother. She lugged it home, cut it up, and boiled it in the big pot; mashed
some of it, with salt and butter, for dinner; and to the rest she added a pint of
milk, two eggs, four spoons of sugar, nutmeg, 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 vote," said the President. "All in favor of this motion please
to manifest it by saying 'Ay.'"
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 'Ay!'" cried Snodgrass excitedly.
"Ay! ay! ay!" 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 to-night. 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 you mind what she says. I'm the wretch that did it, sir," said the
new member, with a Welleresque nod to Mr. Pickwick. "But on my honor, I
never will do so again, and henceforth dewote 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 every one
came out surprising, for every one did her best; so it was an unusually lively
meeting, and did not adjourn till a late hour, when it broke up with three
shrill cheers for the new member.
No one ever regretted the admittance of Sam Weller, for a more devoted,
well-behaved, and jovial member no club could have. He certainly did add
"spirit" to the meetings, and "a tone" to the paper; for his orations convulsed

his hearers, and his contributions were excellent, being patriotic, classical,
comical, or dramatic, but never sentimental. Jo regarded them as worthy of
Bacon, Milton, or Shakespeare; and remodelled her own works with good
effect, she thought.
The P. O. was a capital little institution, and flourished wonderfully, for
nearly as many queer things passed through it as through the real office.
Tragedies and cravats, poetry and pickles, garden-seeds and long letters,
music and gingerbread, rubbers, invitations, scoldings and puppies. The old
gentleman liked the fun, and amused himself by sending odd bundles,
mysterious messages, and funny telegrams; and his gardener, who was
smitten with Hannah's charms, actually sent a love-letter to Jo's care. How
they laughed when the secret came out, never dreaming how many love-
letters that little post-office would hold in the years to come!

XI.
EXPERIMENTS.
"The first of June! The Kings are off to the seashore to-morrow, 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 to-day, for which, oh, be joyful!" said Jo. "I was
mortally afraid she'd ask me to go with her; if she had, I should have felt as if
I ought to do it; but Plumfield is about as gay as a churchyard, you know, and
I'd rather be excused. We had a flurry getting the old lady off, and I had a

fright every time she spoke to me, for I was in such a hurry to be through that
I was uncommonly helpful and sweet, and feared she'd find it impossible to
part from me. I quaked till she was fairly in the carriage, and had a final
fright, for, as it drove off, she popped out her head, saying, 'Josy-phine, 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 sea-weed; 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
nice, and the room
seemed lonely and
untidy; for Jo had not
filled the vases, Beth
had not dusted, and
Amy's books lay
scattered about. Nothing
was neat and pleasant
but "Marmee's corner,"
which looked as usual;
and there Meg sat, to
"rest and read," which
meant yawn, and
imagine what pretty
summer dresses she
would get with her
salary. Jo spent the
morning on the river,
with Laurie, and the afternoon reading and crying over "The Wide, Wide
World," up in the apple-tree. Beth began by rummaging everything out of the
big closet, where her family resided; but, getting tired before half done, she
left her establishment topsy-turvy, and went to her music, rejoicing that she
had no dishes to wash. Amy arranged her bower, put on her best white frock,
smoothed her curls, and sat down to draw, under the honeysuckles, hoping
some one would see and inquire who the young artist was. As no one

appeared but an inquisitive daddy-long-legs, who examined her work with
interest, she went to walk, got caught in a shower, and came home dripping.
At tea-time they compared notes, and all agreed that it had been a
delightful, though unusually long day. Meg, who went shopping in the
afternoon, and got a "sweet blue muslin," had discovered, after she had cut
the breadths off, that it wouldn't wash, which mishap made her slightly cross.
Jo had burnt the skin off her nose boating, and got a raging headache by
reading too long. Beth was worried by the confusion of her closet, and the
difficulty of learning three or four songs at once; and Amy deeply regretted
the damage done her frock, for Katy Brown's party was to be the next day;
and now, like Flora McFlimsey, she had "nothing to wear." But these were
mere trifles; and they assured their mother that the experiment was working
finely. She smiled, said nothing, and, with Hannah's help, did their neglected
work, keeping home pleasant, and the domestic machinery running smoothly.
It was astonishing what a peculiar and uncomfortable state of things was
produced by the "resting and revelling" process. The days kept getting longer
and longer; the weather was unusually variable, and so were tempers; an
unsettled feeling possessed every one, and Satan found plenty of mischief for
the idle hands to do. As the height of luxury, Meg put out some of her
sewing, and then found time hang so heavily that she fell to snipping and
spoiling her clothes, in her attempts to furbish them up à 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 tranquillity was much disturbed; so much so,
that, on one occasion, she actually shook poor dear Joanna, and told her she
was "a fright." Amy fared worst of all, for her resources were small; and
when her sisters left her to amuse and care for herself, she soon found that
accomplished and important little self a great burden. She didn't like dolls,
fairy-tales were childish, and one couldn't draw all the time; tea-parties didn't
amount to much, neither did picnics, unless very well conducted. "If one
could have a fine house, full of nice girls, or go travelling, the summer would
be 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 so, 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 any one began, and taken up, with the
cook's compliments. The boiled tea was very bitter, the omelette scorched,
and the biscuits speckled with saleratus; but Mrs. March 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 to-day, 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 natural 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 down
stairs. "There's Beth crying; that's a sure sign that something is wrong with
this family. If Amy is bothering, I'll shake her."

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. O Pip! O
Pip! how could I be so cruel to you?" cried Beth, taking the poor thing in her
hands, and trying to restore him.

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 sha'n't be baked, now he's dead. I'll make him a
shroud, and he shall be buried in the garden; and I'll never have another bird,
never, my Pip! for I am too bad to own one," murmured Beth, sitting on the
floor with her pet folded in her hands.
"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 dishevelled 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, criticised 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 burnt black; for the
salad-dressing so aggravated her, that she let everything else go till she had
convinced herself that she could not make it fit to eat. The lobster was a
scarlet mystery to her, but she hammered and poked, till it was unshelled, and
its meagre proportions concealed in a grove of lettuce-leaves. The potatoes
had to be hurried, not to keep the asparagus waiting, and were not done at
last. The blanc-mange was lumpy, and the strawberries not as ripe as they
looked, having been skilfully "deaconed."
"Well, they can eat beef, and bread and butter, if they are hungry; only it's
mortifying to have to spend your whole morning for nothing," thought Jo, as
she rang the bell half an hour later than usual, and stood, hot, tired, and
dispirited, surveying the feast spread for Laurie, accustomed to all sorts of
elegance, and Miss Crocker, whose curious eyes would mark all failures, and
whose tattling tongue would report them far and wide.
Poor Jo would gladly have gone under the table, as one thing after another
was tasted and left; while Amy giggled, Meg looked distressed, Miss Crocker
pursed up her lips, and Laurie talked and laughed with all his might, to give a
cheerful tone to the festive scene. Jo's one strong point was the fruit, for she
had sugared it well, and had a pitcher of rich cream to eat with it. Her hot
cheeks cooled a trifle, and she drew a long breath, as the pretty glass plates
went round, and every one looked graciously at the little rosy islands floating
in a sea of cream. Miss Crocker tasted first, made a wry face, and drank some
water hastily. Jo, who had refused, thinking there might not be enough, for
they dwindled sadly after the picking over, glanced at Laurie, but he was
eating away manfully, though there was a slight pucker about his mouth, and
he kept his eye fixed on his plate. Amy, who was fond of delicate fare, took a
heaping spoonful, choked, hid her face in her napkin, and left the table
precipitately.
"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 every one else, even
"Croaker," as the girls
called the old lady; and
the unfortunate dinner
ended gayly, with bread
and butter, olives and
fun.
"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 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 till the last minute. As twilight
fell, dewy and still, one by one they gathered in the porch where the June
roses were budding beautifully, and each groaned or sighed as she sat down,
as if tired or troubled.
"What a dreadful day this has been!" begun 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 to-morrow, 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 every one thinks only of
herself. Don't you feel that it is pleasanter to help one another, to have daily
duties which make leisure sweet when it comes, and to bear and forbear, that
home may be comfortable and lovely to us all?"
"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 every one; 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 button-holes, 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.

XII.
CAMP LAURENCE.
Beth was post-mistress, for, being most at
home, she could attend to it regularly, and dearly
liked the daily task of unlocking the little door
and distributing the mail. One July day she came
in with her hands full, and went about the house
leaving letters and parcels, like the penny post.
"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 work-table, full of tidy white rolls; so
unconscious of the thought in her mother's mind as she sewed and sung,
while her fingers flew, and her thoughts were busied with girlish fancies as

innocent and fresh as the pansies in her belt, that Mrs. March smiled, and was
satisfied.
"Two letters for Doctor Jo, a book, and a funny old hat, which covered the
whole post-office, stuck outside," said Beth, laughing, as she went into the
study, where Jo sat writing.
"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 guide-book. 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. O
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 to-morrow and I want to
have a jolly time. If it's fine, I'm going to pitch my tent in Longmeadow, and
row up the whole crew to lunch and croquet,—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, Bethy?"
"If you won't let any of the 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
any one; 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 to-night, 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 to-day, so that we can play to-
morrow 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 fête as seemed necessary and proper. Meg had an extra row of little curl-
papers across her forehead, Jo had copiously anointed her afflicted face with
cold cream, Beth had taken Joanna to bed with her to atone for the
approaching separation, and Amy had capped the climax by putting a clothes-
pin on her nose, to uplift the offending feature. It was one of the kind artists
use to hold the paper on their drawing-boards, therefore quite appropriate and
effective for the purpose to which it was now put. This funny spectacle
appeared to amuse the sun, for he burst out with such radiance that Jo woke
up, and roused all 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. Look, 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 straight; it looks
sentimental tipped that way, and will fly off at the first puff. Now, then, come
on!"
"O 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 hat-
brims.
Laurie ran to meet, and present them to his friends, in the most cordial
manner. The lawn was the reception-room, and for several minutes a lively
scene was enacted there. Meg was grateful to see that Miss Kate, though
twenty, was dressed with a simplicity which American girls would do well to
imitate; and she was much flattered by Mr. Ned's assurances that he came
especially to see her. Jo understood why Laurie "primmed up his mouth"
when speaking of Kate, for that young lady had a stand-off-don't-touch-me
air, which contrasted strongly with the free and easy demeanor of the other
girls. Beth took an observation of the new boys, and decided that the lame
one was not "dreadful," but gentle and feeble, and she would be kind to him
on that account. Amy found Grace a well-mannered, merry little person; and

after staring dumbly at one another for a few minutes, they suddenly became
very good friends.
Tents, lunch, and croquet utensils having been sent on beforehand, the
party was soon embarked, and the two boats pushed off together, leaving Mr.
Laurence waving his hat on the shore. Laurie and Jo rowed one boat; Mr.
Brooke and Ned the other; while Fred Vaughn, the riotous twin, did his best
to upset both by paddling about in a wherry like a disturbed water-bug. Jo's
funny hat deserved a vote of thanks, for it was of general utility; it broke the
ice in the beginning, by producing a laugh; it created quite a refreshing
breeze, flapping to and fro, as she rowed, and would make an excellent
umbrella for the whole party, if a shower came up, she said. Kate looked
rather amazed at Jo's proceedings, especially as she exclaimed "Christopher
Columbus!" when she lost her oar; and Laurie said, "My dear fellow, did I
hurt you?" when he tripped over her feet in taking his place. But after putting
up her glass to examine the queer girl several times, Miss Kate decided that
she was "odd, but rather clever," and smiled upon her from afar.

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 encyclopædia 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 piqué
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 mess-room,
and the third is the camp-kitchen. Now, let's have a game before it gets hot,
and then we'll see about dinner."
Frank, Beth, Amy, and Grace sat down to watch the game played by the
other eight. Mr. Brooke chose Meg, Kate, and Fred; Laurie took Sallie, Jo,
and Ned. The Englishers played well; but the Americans played better, and
contested every inch of the ground as strongly as if the spirit of '76 inspired
them. Jo and Fred had several skirmishes, and once narrowly escaped high
words. Jo was through the last wicket, and had missed the stroke, which
failure ruffled her a good deal. Fred was close behind her, and his turn came
before hers; he gave a stroke, his ball hit the wicket, and stopped an inch on
the wrong side. No one was very near; and running up to examine, he gave it
a sly nudge with his toe, which put it just an inch on the right side.
"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! Good-by, 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 a 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 pretence 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 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 coffee-
pot, while the children collected dry sticks, and the boys made a fire, and got
water from a spring near by. Miss Kate sketched, and Frank talked to Beth,
who was making little mats of braided rushes to serve as plates.
The commander-in-chief and his aids soon spread the table-cloth with an
inviting array of eatables and drinkables, prettily decorated with green leaves.
Jo announced that the coffee was ready, and every one settled themselves to a
hearty meal; for youth is seldom dyspeptic, and exercise develops wholesome
appetites. A very merry lunch it was; for everything seemed fresh and funny,
and frequent peals of laughter startled a venerable horse who fed near by.
There was a pleasing inequality in the table, which produced many mishaps
to cups and plates; acorns dropped into the milk, little black ants partook of
the refreshments without being invited, and fuzzy caterpillars swung down
from the tree, to see what was going on. Three white-headed children peeped
over the fence, and an objectionable dog barked at them from the other side
of the river with all his might and main.

"A very merry lunch it was."—Page 156.
"There's salt here, if you prefer it," 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 go, and I'm no end obliged to you. What shall we do
when we can't eat any more?" asked Laurie, feeling that his trump card had
been played when lunch was over.
"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
"Rigmarole."
"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 travelled a long while, nearly
eight-and-twenty years, and had a hard time of it, till he came to the palace of
a good old king, who had offered a reward to any one who would tame and
train a fine but unbroken colt, of which he was very fond. The knight agreed
to try, and got on slowly but surely; for the colt was a gallant fellow, and
soon learned to love his new master, though he was freakish and wild. Every
day, when he gave his lessons to this pet of the king's, the 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 half-way down when the ladder broke, and
he went head first into the moat, sixty feet below. Could swim like a duck,
paddled round the castle till he came to a little door guarded by two stout
fellows; knocked their heads together till they cracked like a couple of nuts,
then, by a trifling exertion of his prodigious strength, he smashed in the door,
went up a pair of stone steps covered with dust a foot thick, toads as big as
your fist, and spiders that would frighten 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 spectre
plucked him back, and
waved threateningly
before him a—"
"Snuff-box," said Jo,
in a sepulchral tone,
which convulsed the
audience. "'Thankee,'
said the knight politely,
as he took a pinch, and
sneezed seven times so
violently that his head
fell off. 'Ha! ha!' laughed the ghost; and having peeped through the key-hole
at the princesses spinning away for dear life, the evil spirit picked up her
victim and put him in a large tin box, where there were eleven other knights
packed together without their heads, like sardines, who all rose and began to
—"
"Dance a hornpipe," cut in Fred, as Jo paused for breath; "and, as they
danced, the rubbishy old castle turned to a man-of-war in full sail. 'Up with
the jib, reef the tops'l halliards, helm hard a lee, and man the guns!' roared the
captain, as a Portuguese pirate hove in sight, with a flag black as ink flying
from her foremast. 'Go in and win, my hearties!' says the captain; and a
tremendous fight begun. Of course the British beat; they always do."
"No, they don't!" cried Jo, aside.
"Having taken the pirate captain prisoner, sailed slap over the schooner,
whose decks were piled with dead, and whose lee-scuppers ran blood, for the
order had been 'Cutlasses, and die hard!' 'Bosen's mate, take a bight of the
flying-jib sheet, and start this villain if he don't confess his sins double quick,'

said the British captain.
The Portuguese held his
tongue like a brick, and
walked the plank, while
the jolly tars cheered
like mad. But the sly
dog dived, came up
under the man-of-war,
scuttled her, and down
she went, with all sail
set, 'To the bottom of
the sea, sea, sea,' where
—"
"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 this box of pearls if you can take it up;' for she
wanted to restore the poor things to life, and couldn't raise the heavy load
herself. So the diver hoisted it up, and was much disappointed, on opening it,
to find no pearls. He left it in a great lonely field, where it was found by a—"
"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 to be married, but one. He was in a great state
of mind at that; and mounting the colt, who stood by him through thick and
thin, rushed to the castle to see which was left. Peeping over the hedge, he
saw the queen of his affections picking flowers in her garden. 'Will you give
me a rose?' said he. 'You must come and get it. I can't come to you; it isn't
proper,' said she, as sweet as honey. He tried to climb over the hedge, but it
seemed to grow higher and higher; then he tried to push through, but it grew
thicker and thicker, and he was in despair. So he patiently broke twig after
twig, till he had made a little hole, through which he peeped, saying
imploringly, 'Let me in! let me in!' But the pretty princess did not seem to
understand, for she picked her roses quietly, and left him to fight his way in.
Whether he did or not, Frank will tell you."
"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 button-hole.
"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'?" asked Sallie, after
they had laughed over their story.
"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
questions 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 harrow up your feelings first, by asking if you don't think
you are something of a flirt," said Laurie, as Jo nodded to Fred, as a sign that
peace was declared.
"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
spoilt 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 wish 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 that 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 side-saddle, and no horse. Out in our garden is an apple-tree, that has a
nice low branch; so Jo put the saddle on it, fixed some reins on the part that
turns up, and we bounce away on Ellen Tree whenever we like."
"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 had asked her to deliver a Latin oration, it would not have seemed a
more impossible task to bashful Beth; but there was no place to run to, no Jo
to hide behind now, and the poor boy looked so wistfully at her, that she
bravely resolved to try.
"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 "fascinating," 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 spoilt 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 short-comings.
"She's not a stricken deer, any way," 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.

XIII.
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
practising half the afternoon, frightened the maid-servants half out of their
wits, by mischievously hinting that one of his dogs was going mad, and, after
high words with the stable-man about some fancied neglect of his horse, he

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 boat-house, he waited for them to
appear: but no one came, and he went up the hill to take an observation. A
grove of pines covered one part of it, and from the heart of this green spot
came a clearer sound than the soft sigh of the pines or the drowsy chirp of the
crickets.
"Here's a landscape!" thought Laurie, peeping through the bushes, and
looking wide-awake and good-natured already.
It was rather a pretty little picture; for the sisters sat together in the shady
nook, with sun and shadow flickering over them, the aromatic wind lifting
their hair and cooling their hot cheeks, and all the little wood-people going
on with their affairs as if these were no strangers, but old friends. Meg sat
upon her cushion, sewing daintily with her white hands, and looking as fresh
and sweet as a rose, in her pink dress, among the green. Beth was sorting the
cones that lay thick under the hemlock near by, for she made pretty things of
them. Amy was sketching a group of ferns, and Jo was knitting as she read
aloud. A shadow passed over the boy's face as he watched them, feeling that
he ought to go away, because uninvited; yet lingering, because home seemed

very lonely, and this quiet party in the woods most attractive to his restless
spirit. He stood so still that a squirrel, busy with its harvesting, ran down a
pine close beside him, saw him suddenly and skipped back, scolding so
shrilly that Beth looked up, espied the wistful face behind the birches, and
beckoned with a reassuring smile.

"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 liked 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 an 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 across the wide, blue river, the meadows on the other
side, far over the outskirts of the great city, to the green hills that rose to meet
the sky. The sun was low, and the heavens glowed with the splendor of an
autumn sunset. Gold and purple clouds lay on the hill-tops; and rising high
into the ruddy light were silvery white peaks, that shone like the airy spires of
some Celestial City.
"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 some time,—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 sweet 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 travelling 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 every one 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
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 shall 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 any one left to stay with the
old gentleman, I'd do it to-morrow."
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 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 any one, 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."

XIV.
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 down stairs, leaving her friends to
nibble 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 any one had been watching her, he would have thought her movements
decidedly peculiar; for, on alighting, she went off at a great pace till she
reached a certain number in a certain busy street; having found the place with
some difficulty, she went into the door-way, looked up the dirty stairs, and,
after standing stock still a minute, suddenly dived into the street, and walked
away as rapidly as she came. This manœuvre 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 door-way,
saying, with a smile and a shiver,—
"It's like her to come alone, but if she has a bad time she'll need some one
to help her home."
In ten minutes Jo came running down stairs with a very red face, and the
general appearance of a person who had just passed through a trying ordeal

of some sort. When she saw the young gentleman she looked anything but
pleased, and passed him with a nod; but he followed, asking with an air of
sympathy,—
"Did you have a bad time?"
"Not very."
"You got through quickly."
"Yes, thank goodness!"
"Why did you go alone?"
"Didn't want any one 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 or discontented, as you sometimes do; for
you've got such a strong will, if you once get started wrong, I'm afraid it
would be hard to stop you."
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 still 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 are 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 newspaper man, 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 any one 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 sha'n'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 any one; mind that."
"I didn't promise."
"That was understood, and I trusted you."
"Well, I won't for the present, any way; 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 any one 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 hair-pins as she ran. Laurie reached the goal first,
and was quite satisfied with the success of his treatment; for his Atalanta
came panting up, with flying hair, bright eyes, ruddy cheeks, and no signs of
dissatisfaction in her face.
"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 some one
did pass, and who should it be but Meg, looking particularly ladylike in her
state and festival suit, for she had been making calls.

"What in the world
are you doing here?"
she asked, regarding her
dishevelled sister with
well-bred surprise.
"Getting leaves,"
meekly answered Jo,
sorting the rosy handful
she had just swept up.
"And hair-pins,"
added Laurie, throwing
half a dozen into Jo's
lap. "They grow on this
road, Meg; so do combs
and brown straw hats."
"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' any one," observed Meg, walking on with
great dignity, while the others followed, laughing, whispering, skipping
stones, and "behaving like children," as Meg said to herself, though she
might have been tempted to join them if she had not had her best dress on.
For a week or two, Jo behaved so queerly that her sisters were quite
bewildered. She rushed to the door when the postman rang; was rude to Mr.
Brooke whenever they met; would sit looking at Meg with a woe-begone
face, occasionally jumping up to shake, and then to kiss her, in a very
mysterious manner; Laurie and she were always making signs to one another,
and talking about "Spread Eagles," till the girls declared they had both lost
their wits. On the second Saturday after Jo got out of the window, Meg, as
she sat sewing at her window, was scandalized by the sight of Laurie chasing
Jo all over the garden, and finally capturing her in Amy's bower. What went
on there, Meg could not see; but shrieks of laughter were heard, followed by
the murmur of voices and a great flapping of newspapers.
"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 any one
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, which 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! O 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 criticised the artistic parts of the story, and offered hints for a sequel,
which unfortunately couldn't be carried out, as the hero and heroine were dead; how
Beth got excited, and skipped and sung with joy; how Hannah came in to exclaim
"Sakes alive, well I never!" in great astonishment at "that Jo's doin's;" how proud Mrs.
March was when she knew it; how Jo laughed, with tears in her eyes, as she declared
she might as well be a peacock and done with it; and how the "Spread Eagle" might be
said to flap his wings triumphantly over the House of March, as the paper passed from
hand to hand.
"Tell us all 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, any one would pay. So I let him have the two stories, and to-day
this was sent to me, and Laurie caught me with it, and insisted on seeing it, so I let
him; and he said it was good, and I shall write more, and he's going to get the next
paid for, and I 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.

XV.
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 frost-bitten 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 every one 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 now-a-days; men have to work,
and women to 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 frost-bitten garden again; Jo groaned, and leaned
both elbows on the table in a despondent attitude, but Amy spatted away energetically;
and Beth, who sat at the other window, said, smiling, "Two pleasant things are going
to happen right away: Marmee is coming down the street, and Laurie is tramping
through the garden as if he had something nice to tell."
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 work-basket, for she had
agreed with her mother that it was best, for her
at least, not to drive often with the young
gentleman.
"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, handing 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 down stairs 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. O
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
the 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. Every
one scattered like leaves before a gust of wind; and the quiet, happy household was
broken up as suddenly as if the paper had been an evil spell.
Mr. Laurence came hurrying back with Beth, bringing every comfort the kind old
gentleman could think of for the invalid, and friendliest promises of protection for the
girls during the mother's absence, which comforted her very much. There was nothing
he didn't offer, from his own dressing-gown to himself as escort. But that last was
impossible. Mrs. March would not hear of the old gentleman's undertaking the long
journey; yet an expression of relief was visible when he spoke of it, for anxiety ill fits
one for travelling. He saw the look, knit his heavy eyebrows, rubbed his hands, and
marched abruptly away, saying he'd be back directly. No one had time to think of him
again till, as Meg ran through the entry, with a pair of rubbers in 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
make.
"How kind you all are! Mother will accept, I'm sure; and it will be such a relief to
know that she has some one to take care of her. Thank you very, very much!"
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
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 the other errands were done, and Meg and her
mother busy at some necessary needle-work, 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 ever
knew what freak Jo might take into her head. He missed her, however, and she came
walking in with a very queer expression of countenance, for there was a mixture of
fun and fear, satisfaction and regret, in it, which puzzled the family as much as did the
roll of bills she laid before her mother, saying, with a little choke in her voice, "That's
my contribution towards 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!" "O Jo, how could you? Your one beauty." "My
dear girl, there was no need of this." "She doesn't look like my Jo any more, but I love
her dearly for it!"
As every one exclaimed, and Beth hugged the cropped head tenderly, Jo assumed
an indifferent air, which did not deceive any one a particle, and said, rumpling up the
brown bush, and trying to look as if she liked it, "It doesn't affect the fate of the
nation, so don't wail, Beth. It will be good for my vanity; I was getting too proud of
my wig. It will do my brains good to have that mop taken off; my head feels
deliciously light and cool, and the barber said I could soon have a curly crop, which
will be boyish, becoming, and easy to keep in order. I'm satisfied; so please take the
money, and let's have supper."
"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 over me all of a sudden that I had
one thing to make money out of, and without stopping to think, I walked in, asked if
they bought hair, and what they would give for mine."
"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 on my head.
It almost seemed as if I'd an arm or a leg off. The woman saw me look at it, and
picked out a long lock for me to keep. I'll give it to you, Marmee, just to remember
past glories by; for a crop is so comfortable I don't think I shall ever have a mane
again."
Mrs. March folded the wavy, chestnut lock, and laid it away with a short gray one
in her desk. She only said "Thank you, deary," but something in her face made the
girls change the subject, and talk as cheerfully as they could about Mr. Brooke's
kindness, the prospect of a fine day to-morrow, and the happy times they would have
when father came home to be nursed.
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 sound 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 to-morrow, if I could. It's
only the vain, selfish part of me that goes and cries in this silly way. Don't tell any
one, it's all over now. I thought you were asleep, so I just made a little private moan
for my one beauty. How came you to be awake?"
"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 coverlid 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."

XVI.
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 good-by
cheerfully and hopefully, and send their mother on her anxious journey unsaddened by
tears or complaints from them. Everything seemed very strange when they went
down,—so dim and still outside, so full of light and bustle within. Breakfast at that
early hour seemed odd, and even Hannah's familiar face looked unnatural as she flew
about her kitchen with her night-cap on. The big trunk stood ready in the hall,
mother's cloak and bonnet lay on the sofa, and mother herself sat trying to eat, but
looking so pale and worn with sleeplessness and anxiety that the girls found it very
hard to keep their resolution. Meg's eyes kept filling in spite of herself; Jo was obliged
to hide her face in the kitchen roller more than once; and the little girls' wore a grave,
troubled expression, as if sorrow was a new experience to them.
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 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 us all. Beth, comfort
yourself with your music, and be faithful to the little home duties; and you, Amy, help
all you can, be obedient, and keep happy safe at home."
"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 body-guard, old Mr. Laurence, faithful Hannah, and
devoted Laurie.

"How kind every one is to us!" she said, turning to find fresh proof of it in the
respectful sympathy of the young man's face.
"I don't see how they can help it," returned Mr. Brooke, laughing so infectiously
that Mrs. March could not help smiling; and so the long journey began with the good
omens of sunshine, smiles, and cheerful words.
"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 coffee-pot.
"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 turn-overs 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 rosy-faced mandarin.
"That's so like my Beth!" said Jo, waving her hat, with a grateful face. "Good-by,
Meggy; I hope the Kings won't train to-day. Don't fret about father, dear," she added,
as they parted.
"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 à 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 despatches, which grew more and more cheering as the week passed. At
first, every one was eager to write, and plump envelopes were carefully poked into the
letter-box by one or other of the sisters, who felt rather important with their
Washington correspondence. As one of these packets contained characteristic notes
from the party, we will rob an imaginary mail, and read them:—

"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 that her 'moral

fit' wouldn't last long. Beth is as regular about her tasks as a clock, and never
forgets what you told her. She grieves about father, and looks sober except
when she is at her little piano. Amy minds me nicely, and I take great care of
her. She does her own hair, and I am teaching her to make button-holes and
mend her stockings. She tries very hard, and I know you will be pleased with
her improvement when you come. Mr. Laurence watches over us like a
motherly old hen, as Jo says; and Laurie is very kind and neighborly. He and
Jo keep us merry, for we get pretty blue sometimes, and feel like orphans,
with you so far away. Hannah is a perfect saint; she does not scold at all, and
always calls me Miss 'Margaret,' which is quite proper, you know, and treats
me with respect. We are all well and 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 every one is so desperately good, it's like living in a nest of turtle-
doves. You'd laugh to see Meg head the table and try to be motherish. She
gets prettier every day, and I'm in love with her sometimes. The children are
regular archangels, and I—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 the
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. Every one is very
kind, and we are as happy as we can be without you. Amy wants the rest of
the page, so I must stop. I didn't forget to cover the holders, and I wind the
clock and air the rooms every day.
"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 about frettin, wearin her best clothes
and eatin sweet stuff. Mr. Laurie is as full of didoes as usual, and turns the
house upside down frequent; but he heartens up the girls, and so I let em hev
full swing. The old gentleman sends heaps of things, and is rather wearin, but
means wal, and it aint my place to say nothin. My bread is riz, so no more at

this time. I send my duty to Mr. March, and hope he's seen the last of his
Pewmonia.
"Yours Respectful,
"Hannah Mullet."

"Head Nurse of Ward No. 2,—
"All serene on the Rappahannock, troops in fine condition, commissary
department well conducted, the Home Guard under Colonel Teddy always on
duty, Commander-in-chief General Laurence reviews the army daily,
Quartermaster Mullett keeps order in camp, and Major Lion does picket duty
at night. A salute of twenty-four guns was fired on receipt of good news from
Washington, and a dress parade took place at head-quarters. Commander-in-
chief sends best wishes, in which he is heartily joined by
"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."

XVII.
LITTLE FAITHFUL.
For a week the amount of virtue in the old house would have supplied the
neighborhood. It was really amazing, for every one seemed in a heavenly frame of
mind, and self-denial was all the fashion. Relieved of their first anxiety about their
father, the girls insensibly relaxed their praiseworthy efforts a little, and began to fall
back into the old ways. They did not forget their motto, but hoping and keeping busy
seemed to grow easier; and after such tremendous exertions, they felt that Endeavor
deserved a holiday, and gave it a good many.
Jo caught a bad cold through neglect to cover the shorn head enough, and was
ordered to stay at home till she was better, for Aunt March didn't like to hear people
read with colds in their heads. Jo liked this, and after an energetic rummage from
garret to cellar, subsided on the sofa to nurse her cold with arsenicum and books. Amy
found that housework and art did not go well together, and returned to her mud pies.
Meg went daily to her pupils, and sewed, or thought she did, at home, but much time
was spent in writing long letters to her mother, or reading the Washington despatches
over and over. Beth kept on, with only slight relapses into idleness or grieving. All the
little duties were faithfully done each day, and many of her sisters' also, for they were
forgetful, and the house seemed like a clock whose pendulum was gone a-visiting.
When her heart got heavy with longings for mother or fears for father, she went away
into a certain closet, hid her face in the folds of a certain dear old gown, and made her
little moan and prayed her little prayer quietly by herself. Nobody knew what cheered
her up after a sober fit, but every one felt how sweet and helpful Beth was, and fell
into a way of going to her for comfort or advice in their small affairs.
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 to-morrow.
"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 may be some of you would go," said
Beth.
"Amy will be in presently, and she will run down for us," suggested Meg.
"Well, I'll rest a little and wait for her."
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 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 that it was sicker, but
Lottchen said her mother had gone for a doctor, so I took baby and let Lotty rest. It
seemed asleep, but all of a sudden it gave a little cry, and trembled, and then lay very
still. I tried to warm its feet, and Lotty gave it some milk, but it didn't stir, and I knew
it was dead."

"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 got sore throats. 'Scarlet fever,
ma'am. Ought to have called me before,' he said crossly. Mrs. Hummel told him she
was poor, and had tried to cure baby herself, but now it was too late, and she could
only 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. "O 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 Jo
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," said 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 theatre, truly?"
"A dozen theatres, 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 sort of way.
"No sooner do we get out of one trouble than down comes another. There doesn't seem
to be anything to hold on to when mother's gone; so I'm all at sea."
"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 of 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 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, good by, good by!" 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 rattle-pated boy like—"

"Hold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird!" cried Polly, tumbling off the chair
with a bounce, and running to peck the "rattle-pated" boy, who was shaking with
laughter at the last speech.
"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.

XVIII.
DARK DAYS.
Beth did have the fever, and was much sicker than any one but Hannah and the
doctor suspected. The girls knew nothing about illness, and Mr. Laurence was not
allowed to see her, so Hannah had everything all her own way, and busy Dr. Bangs did
his best, but left a good deal to the excellent nurse. Meg stayed at home, lest she
should infect the Kings, and kept house, feeling very anxious and a little guilty when
she wrote letters in which no mention was made of Beth's illness. She could not think
it right to deceive her mother, but she had been bidden to mind Hannah, and Hannah
wouldn't hear of "Mrs. March bein' told, and worried just for sech a trifle." Jo devoted
herself to Beth day and night; not a hard task, for Beth was very patient, and bore her
pain uncomplainingly as long as she could control herself. But there came a time
when during the fever fits she began to talk in a hoarse, broken voice, to play on the
coverlet, as if on her beloved little piano, and try to sing with a throat so swollen that
there was no music left; a time when she did not know the familiar faces round her,
but addressed them by wrong names, and called imploringly for her mother. Then Jo
grew frightened, Meg begged to be allowed to write the truth, and even Hannah said
she "would think of it, though there was no danger yet." A letter from Washington
added to their trouble, for Mr. March had had a relapse, and could not think of coming
home for a long while.
How dark the days seemed now, how sad and lonely the house, and how heavy
were the hearts of the sisters as they worked and waited, while the shadow of death
hovered over the once happy home! Then it was that Margaret, sitting alone with tears
dropping often on her work, felt how rich she had been in things more precious than
any luxuries money could buy,—in love, protection, peace, and health, the real
blessings of life. Then it was that Jo, living in the darkened room, with that suffering
little sister always before her eyes, and that pathetic voice sounding in her ears,
learned to see the beauty and the sweetness of Beth's nature, to feel how deep and
tender a place she filled in all hearts, and to acknowledge the worth of Beth's unselfish
ambition, to live for others, and make home happy by the exercise of those simple
virtues which all may possess, and which all should love and value more than talent,
wealth, or beauty. And Amy, in her exile, longed eagerly to be at home, that she might
work for Beth, feeling now that no service would be hard or irksome, and
remembering, with regretful grief, how many neglected tasks those willing hands had

done for her. Laurie haunted the
house like a restless ghost, and Mr.
Laurence locked the grand piano,
because he could not bear to be
reminded of the young neighbor
who used to make the twilight
pleasant for him. Every one missed
Beth. The milkman, baker, grocer,
and butcher inquired how she did;
poor Mrs. Hummel came to beg
pardon for her thoughtlessness,
and to get a shroud for Minna; the
neighbors sent all sorts of comforts
and good wishes, and even those
who knew her best were surprised
to find how many friends shy little
Beth had made.
Meanwhile she lay on her bed
with old Joanna at her side, for
even in her wanderings she did not
forget her forlorn protégé. She
longed for her cats, but would not
have them brought, lest they
should get sick; and, in her quiet
hours, she was full of anxiety
about Jo. She sent loving messages
to Amy, bade them tell her mother
that she would write soon; and
often begged for pencil and paper
to try to say a word, that father
might not think she had neglected
him. But soon even these intervals
of consciousness ended, and she
lay hour after hour, tossing to and
fro, with incoherent words on her lips, or sank into a heavy sleep which brought her
no refreshment. Dr. Bangs came twice a day, Hannah sat up at night, Meg kept a
telegram in her desk all ready to send off at any minute, and Jo never stirred from
Beth's side.
The first of December was a wintry day indeed to them, for a bitter wind blew,
snow fell fast, and the year seemed getting ready for its death. When Dr. Bangs came
that morning, he looked long at Beth, held the hot hand in both his own a minute, and
laid it gently down, saying, in a low tone, to Hannah,—

"If Mrs. March can leave her husband, she'd better be sent for."
Hannah nodded without speaking, for her lips twitched nervously; Meg dropped
down into a chair as the strength seemed to go out of her limbs at the sound of those
words; and Jo, after standing with a pale face for a minute, ran to the parlor, snatched
up the telegram, and, throwing on her things, rushed out into the storm. She was soon
back, and, while noiselessly taking off her cloak, Laurie came in with a letter, saying
that Mr. March was mending again. Jo read it thankfully, but the heavy weight did not
seem lifted off her heart, and her face was so full of misery that Laurie asked quickly,
—
"What is it? is Beth worse?"
"I've sent for mother," said Jo, tugging at her rubber boots with a tragical
expression.
"Good for you, Jo! Did you do it on your own responsibility?" asked Laurie, as he
seated her in the hall chair, and took off the rebellious boots, seeing how her hands
shook.
"No, the doctor told us to."
"O Jo, it's not so bad as that?" cried Laurie, with a startled face.
"Yes, it is; she doesn't know us, she doesn't even talk about the flocks of green
doves, as she calls the vine-leaves on the wall; she doesn't look like my Beth, and
there's nobody to help us bear it; mother and father both gone, and God seems so far
away I can't find Him."
As the tears streamed fast down poor Jo's cheeks, she stretched out her hand in a
helpless sort of way, as if groping in the dark, and Laurie took it in his, whispering, as
well as he could, with a lump in his throat,—
"I'm here. Hold on to me, Jo, dear!"
She could not speak, but she did "hold on," and the warm grasp of the friendly
human hand comforted her sore heart, and seemed to lead her nearer to the Divine arm
which alone could uphold her in her trouble. Laurie longed to say something tender
and comfortable, but no fitting words came to him, so he stood silent, gently stroking
her bent head as her mother used to do. It was the best thing he could have done; far
more soothing than the most eloquent words, for Jo felt the unspoken sympathy, and,
in the silence, learned the sweet solace which affection administers to sorrow. Soon
she dried the tears which had relieved her, and looked up with a grateful face.
"Thank you, Teddy, I'm better now; I don't feel so forlorn, and will try to bear it if it
comes."
"Keep hoping for the best; that will help you, Jo. Soon your mother will be here,
and then everything will be right."
"I'm so glad father is better; now she won't feel so bad about leaving him. Oh, me!
it does seem as if all the troubles came in a heap, and I got the heaviest part on my

shoulders," sighed Jo, spreading her
wet handkerchief over her knees to
dry.
"Doesn't Meg pull fair?" asked
Laurie, looking indignant.
"Oh, yes; she tries to, but she can't
love Bethy as I do; and she won't
miss her as I shall. Beth is my
conscience, and I can't give her up. I
can't! I can't!"
Down went Jo's face into the wet
handkerchief, and she cried
despairingly; for she had kept up
bravely till now, and never shed a
tear. Laurie drew his hand across his
eyes, but could not speak till he had
subdued the choky feeling in his
throat and steadied his lips. It might
be unmanly, but he couldn't help it,
and I am glad of it. Presently, as Jo's
sobs quieted, he said hopefully, "I
don't think she will die; she's so good,
and we all love her so much, I don't
believe God will take her away yet."
"The good and dear people always
do die," groaned Jo, but she stopped
crying, for her friend's words cheered
her up, in spite of her own doubts and
fears.
"Poor girl, you're worn out. It isn't
like you to be forlorn. Stop a bit; I'll
hearten you up in a jiffy."
Laurie went off two stairs at a
time, and Jo laid her wearied head down on Beth's little brown hood, which no one
had thought of moving from the table where she left it. It must have possessed some
magic, for the submissive spirit of its gentle owner seemed to enter into Jo; and, when
Laurie came running down with a glass of wine, she took it with a smile, and said
bravely, "I drink—Health to my Beth! You are a good doctor, Teddy, and such a
comfortable friend; how can I ever pay you?" she added, as the wine refreshed her
body, as the kind words had done her troubled mind.

"I'll send in my bill, by and by; and to-night I'll give you something that will warm
the cockles of your heart better than quarts of wine," said Laurie, beaming at her with
a face of suppressed satisfaction at something.
"What is it?" cried Jo, forgetting her woes for a minute, in her wonder.
"I telegraphed to your mother yesterday, and Brooke answered she'd come at once,
and she'll be here to-night, and everything will be all right. Aren't you glad I did it?"
Laurie spoke very fast, and turned red and excited all in a minute, for he had kept
his plot a secret, for fear of disappointing the girls or harming Beth. Jo grew quite
white, flew out of her chair, and the moment he stopped speaking she electrified him
by throwing her arms round his neck, and crying out, with a joyful cry, "O Laurie! O
mother! I am so glad!" She did not weep again, but laughed hysterically, and trembled
and clung to her friend as if she was a little bewildered by the sudden news. Laurie,
though decidedly amazed, behaved with great presence of mind; he patted her back
soothingly, and, finding that she was recovering, followed it up by a bashful kiss or
two, which brought Jo round at once. Holding on to the banisters, she put him gently
away, saying breathlessly, "Oh, don't! I didn't mean to; it was dreadful of me; but you
were such a dear to go and do it in spite of Hannah that I couldn't help flying at you.
Tell me all about it, and don't give me wine again; it makes me act so."
"I don't mind," laughed Laurie, as he settled his tie. "Why, you see I got fidgety, and
so did grandpa. We thought Hannah was overdoing the authority business, and your
mother ought to know. She'd never forgive us if Beth—well, if anything happened,
you know. So I got grandpa to say it was high time we did something, and off I pelted
to the office yesterday, for the doctor looked sober, and Hannah most took my head
off when I proposed a telegram. I never can bear to be 'lorded over;' so that settled my
mind, and I did it. Your mother will come, I know, and the late train is in at two, a.m. I
shall go for her; and you've only got to bottle up your rapture, and keep Beth quiet, till
that blessed lady gets here."
"Laurie, you're an angel! How shall I ever thank you?"
"Fly at me again; I rather like it," said Laurie, looking mischievous,—a thing he had
not done for a fortnight.
"No, thank you. I'll do it by proxy, when your grandpa comes. Don't tease, but go
home and rest, for you'll be up half the night. Bless you, Teddy, bless you!"
Jo had backed into a corner; and, as she finished her speech, she vanished
precipitately into the kitchen, where she sat down upon a dresser, and told the
assembled cats that she was "happy, oh, so happy!" while Laurie departed, feeling that
he had made rather a neat thing of it.
"That's the interferingest chap I ever see; but I forgive him, and do hope Mrs.
March is coming on right away," said Hannah, with an air of relief, when Jo told the
good news.

Meg had a quiet rapture, and then brooded over the letter, while Jo set the sick-
room in order, and Hannah "knocked up a couple of pies in case of company
unexpected." A breath of fresh air seemed to blow through the house, and something
better than sunshine brightened the quiet rooms. Everything appeared to feel the
hopeful change; Beth's bird began to chirp again, and a half-blown rose was
discovered on Amy's bush in the window; the fires seemed to burn with unusual
cheeriness; and every time the girls met, their pale faces broke into smiles as they
hugged one another, whispering encouragingly, "Mother's coming, dear! mother's
coming!" Every one rejoiced but Beth; she lay in that heavy stupor, alike unconscious
of hope and joy, doubt and danger. It was a piteous sight,—the once rosy face so
changed and vacant, the once busy hands so weak and wasted, the once smiling lips
quite dumb, and the once pretty, well-kept hair scattered rough and tangled on the
pillow. All day she lay so, only rousing now and then to mutter, "Water!" with lips so
parched they could hardly shape the word; all day Jo and Meg hovered over her,
watching, waiting, hoping, and trusting in God and mother; and all day the snow fell,
the bitter wind raged, and the hours dragged slowly by. But night came at last; and
every time the clock struck, the sisters, still sitting on either side the bed, looked at
each other with brightening eyes, for each hour brought help nearer. The doctor had
been in to say that some change, for better or worse, would probably take place about
midnight, at which time he would return.
Hannah, quite worn out, lay down on the sofa at the bed's foot, and fell fast asleep;
Mr. Laurence marched to and fro in the parlor, feeling that he would rather face a
rebel battery than Mrs. March's anxious countenance as she entered; Laurie lay on the
rug, pretending to rest, but staring into the fire with the thoughtful look which made
his black eyes beautifully soft and clear.
The girls never forgot that night, for no sleep came to them as they kept their watch,
with that dreadful sense of powerlessness which comes to us in hours like those.
"If God spares Beth I never will complain again," whispered Meg earnestly.
"If God spares Beth I'll try to love and serve Him all my life," answered Jo, with
equal fervor.
"I wish I had no heart, it aches so," sighed Meg, after a pause.
"If life is often as hard as this, I don't see how we ever shall get through it," added
her sister despondently.
Here the clock struck twelve, and both forgot themselves in watching Beth, for they
fancied a change passed over her wan face. The house was still as death, and nothing
but the wailing of the wind broke the deep hush. Weary Hannah slept on, and no one
but the sisters saw the pale shadow which seemed to fall upon the little bed. An hour
went by, and nothing happened except Laurie's quiet departure for the station. Another
hour,—still no one came; and anxious fears of delay in the storm, or accidents by the
way, or, worst of all, a great grief at Washington, haunted the poor girls.

It was past two, when Jo, who stood at the window thinking how dreary the world
looked in its winding-sheet of snow, heard a movement by the bed, and, turning
quickly, saw Meg kneeling before their mother's easy-chair, with her face hidden. A
dreadful fear passed coldly over Jo, as she thought, "Beth is dead, and Meg is afraid to
tell me."
She was back at her post in an instant, and to her excited eyes a great change
seemed to have taken place. The fever flush and the look of pain were gone, and the
beloved little face looked so pale and peaceful in its utter repose, that Jo felt no desire
to weep or to lament. Leaning low over this dearest of her sisters, she kissed the damp
forehead with her heart on her lips, and softly whispered, "Good-by, my Beth; good-
by!"
As if waked by the stir, Hannah started out of her sleep, hurried to the bed, looked
at Beth, felt her hands, listened at her lips, and then, throwing her apron over her head,
sat down to rock to and fro, exclaiming, under her breath, "The fever's turned; she's
sleepin' nat'ral; her skin's damp, and she breathes easy. Praise be given! Oh, my
goodness me!"
Before the girls could believe the happy truth, the doctor came to confirm it. He
was a homely man, but they thought his face quite heavenly when he smiled, and said,
with a fatherly look at them, "Yes, my dears, I think the little girl will pull through this
time. Keep the house quiet; let her sleep, and when she wakes, give her—"
What they were to give, neither heard; for both crept into the dark hall, and, sitting
on the stairs, held each other close, rejoicing with hearts too full for words. When they
went back to be kissed and cuddled by faithful Hannah, they found Beth lying, as she
used to do, with her cheek pillowed on her hand, the dreadful pallor gone, and
breathing quietly, as if just fallen asleep.
"If mother would only come now!" said Jo, as the winter night began to wane.
"See," said Meg, coming up with a white, half-opened rose, "I thought this would
hardly be ready to lay in Beth's hand to-morrow if she—went away from us. But it has
blossomed in the night, and now I mean to put it in my vase here, so that when the
darling wakes, the first thing she sees will be the little rose, and mother's face."
Never had the sun risen so beautifully, and never had the world seemed so lovely, as
it did to the heavy eyes of Meg and Jo, as they looked out in the early morning, when
their long, sad vigil was done.
"It looks like a fairy world," said Meg, smiling to herself, as she stood behind the
curtain, watching the dazzling sight.
"Hark!" cried Jo, starting to her feet.
Yes, there was a sound of bells at the door below, a cry from Hannah, and then
Laurie's voice saying, in a joyful whisper, "Girls, she's come! she's come!"

XIX.
AMY'S WILL.
While these things were happening at home, Amy was having hard times at Aunt
March's. She felt her exile deeply, and, for the first time in her life, realized how much
she was beloved and petted at home. Aunt March never petted any one; she did not
approve of it; but she meant to be kind, for the well-behaved little girl pleased her
very much, and Aunt March had a soft place in her old heart for her nephew's
children, though she didn't think proper to confess it. She really did her best to make
Amy happy, but, dear me, what mistakes she made! Some old people keep young at
heart in spite of wrinkles and gray hairs, can sympathize with children's little cares
and joys, make them feel at home, and can hide wise lessons under pleasant plays,
giving and receiving friendship in the sweetest way. But Aunt March had not this gift,
and she worried Amy very much with her rules and orders, her prim ways, and long,
prosy talks. Finding the child more docile and amiable than her sister, the old lady felt
it her duty to try and counteract, as far as possible, the bad effects of home freedom

and indulgence. So she took Amy in hand, and taught her as she herself had been
taught sixty years ago,—a process which carried dismay to Amy's soul, and made her
feel like a fly in the web of a very strict spider.

She had to wash the cups every morning, and polish up the old-fashioned spoons,
the fat silver teapot, and the glasses, till they shone. Then she must dust the room, and
what a trying job that was! Not a speck escaped Aunt March's eye, and all the
furniture had claw legs, and much carving, which was never dusted to suit. Then Polly
must be fed, the lap-dog combed, and a dozen trips upstairs and down, to get things,
or deliver orders, for the old lady was very lame, and seldom left her big chair. After
these tiresome labors, she must do her lessons, which was a daily trial of every virtue
she possessed. Then she was allowed one hour for exercise or play, and didn't she
enjoy it? Laurie came every day, and wheedled Aunt March, till Amy was allowed to
go out with him, when they walked and rode, and had capital times. After dinner, she
had to read aloud, and sit still while the old lady slept, which she usually did for an
hour, as she dropped off over the first page. Then patchwork or towels appeared, and
Amy sewed with outward meekness and inward rebellion till dusk, when she was
allowed to amuse herself as she liked till tea-time. The evenings were the worst of all,
for Aunt March fell to telling long stories about her youth, which were so unutterably
dull that Amy was always ready to go to bed, intending to cry over her hard fate, but
usually going to sleep before she had squeezed out more than a tear or two.
If it had not been for Laurie, and old Esther, the maid, she felt that she never could
have got through that dreadful time. The parrot alone was enough to drive her
distracted, for he soon felt that she did not admire him, and revenged himself by being

as mischievous as possible. He pulled her hair whenever she came near him, upset his
bread and milk to plague her when she had newly cleaned his cage, made Mop bark
by pecking at him while Madam dozed; called her names before company, and
behaved in all respects like a reprehensible old bird. Then she could not endure the
dog,—a fat, cross beast, who snarled and yelped at her when she made his toilet, and
who lay on his back, with all his legs in the air and a most idiotic expression of
countenance when he wanted something to eat, which was about a dozen times a day.
The cook was bad-tempered, the old coachman deaf, and Esther the only one who
ever took any notice of the young lady.

Esther was a Frenchwoman, who had lived with "Madame," as she called her
mistress, for many years, and who rather tyrannized over the old lady, who could not
get along without her. Her real name was Estelle, but Aunt March ordered her to
change it, and she obeyed, on condition that she was never asked to change her
religion. She took a fancy to Mademoiselle, and amused her very much, with odd
stories of her life in France, when Amy sat with her while she got up Madame's laces.
She also allowed her to roam about the great house, and examine the curious and
pretty things stored away in the big wardrobes and the ancient chests; for Aunt March
hoarded like a magpie. Amy's chief delight was an Indian cabinet, full of queer
drawers, little pigeon-holes, and secret places, in which were kept all sorts of
ornaments, some precious, some merely curious, all more or less antique. To examine
and arrange these things gave Amy great satisfaction, especially the jewel-cases, in
which, on velvet cushions, reposed the ornaments which had adorned a belle forty
years ago. There was the garnet set which Aunt March wore when she came out, the
pearls her father gave her on her wedding-day, her lover's diamonds, the jet mourning
rings and pins, the queer lockets, with portraits of dead friends, and weeping willows
made of hair inside; the baby bracelets her one little daughter had worn; Uncle
March's big watch, with the red seal so many childish hands had played with, and in a

box, all by itself, lay Aunt March's wedding-ring, too small now for her fat finger, but
put carefully away, like the most precious jewel of them all.

"Which would Mademoiselle choose if she had her will?" asked Esther, who always
sat near to watch over and lock up the valuables.
"I like the diamonds best, but there is no necklace among them, and I'm fond of
necklaces, they are so becoming. I should choose this if I might," replied Amy,
looking with great admiration at a string of gold and ebony beads, from which hung a
heavy cross of the same.
"I, too, covet that, but not as a necklace; ah, no! to me it is a rosary, and as such I
should use it like a good Catholic," said Esther, eying the handsome thing wistfully.
"Is it meant to use as you use the string of good-smelling wooden beads hanging
over your glass?" asked Amy.
"Truly, yes, to pray with. It would be pleasing to the saints if one used so fine a
rosary as this, instead of wearing it as a vain bijou."
"You seem to take a great deal of comfort in your prayers, Esther, and always come
down looking quiet and satisfied. I wish I could."
"If Mademoiselle was a Catholic, she would find true comfort; but, as that is not to
be, it would be well if you went apart each day, to meditate and pray, as did the good
mistress whom I served before Madame. She had a little chapel, and in it found
solacement for much trouble."
"Would it be right for me to do so too?" asked Amy, who, in her loneliness, felt the
need of help of some sort, and found that she was apt to forget her little book, now

that Beth was not there to remind her of it.
"It would be excellent and charming; and I shall gladly arrange the little dressing-
room for you if you like it. Say nothing to Madame, but when she sleeps go you and
sit alone a while to think good thoughts, and pray the dear God to preserve your
sister."
Esther was truly pious, and quite sincere in her advice; for she had an affectionate
heart, and felt much for the sisters in their anxiety. Amy liked the idea, and gave her
leave to arrange the light closet next her room, hoping it would do her good.
"I wish I knew where all these pretty things would go when Aunt March dies," she
said, as she slowly replaced the shining rosary, and shut the jewel-cases one by one.
"To you and your sisters. I know it; Madame confides in me; I witnessed her will,
and it is to be so," whispered Esther, smiling.
"How nice! but I wish she'd let us have them now. Pro-cras-ti-nation is not
agreeable," observed Amy, taking a last look at the diamonds.
"It is too soon yet for the young ladies to wear these things. The first one who is
affianced will have the pearls—Madame has said it; and I have a fancy that the little
turquoise ring will be given to you when you go, for Madame approves your good
behavior and charming manners."
"Do you think so? Oh, I'll be a lamb, if I can only have that lovely ring! It's ever so
much prettier than Kitty Bryant's. I do like Aunt March, after all;" and Amy tried on
the blue ring with a delighted face, and a firm resolve to earn it.
From that day she was a model of obedience, and the old lady complacently
admired the success of her training. Esther fitted up the closet with a little table,
placed a footstool before it, and over it a picture taken from one of the shut-up rooms.
She thought it was of no great value, but, being appropriate, she borrowed it, well
knowing that Madame would never know it, nor care if she did. It was, however, a
very valuable copy of one of the famous pictures of the world, and Amy's beauty-
loving eyes were never tired of looking up at the sweet face of the divine mother,
while tender thoughts of her own were busy at her heart. On the table she laid her little
Testament and hymn-book, kept a vase always full of the best flowers Laurie brought
her, and came every day to "sit alone, thinking good thoughts, and praying the dear
God to preserve her sister." Esther had given her a rosary of black beads, with a silver
cross, but Amy hung it up and did not use it, feeling doubtful as to its fitness for
Protestant prayers.
The little girl was very sincere in all this, for, being left alone outside the safe
home-nest, she felt the need of some kind hand to hold by so sorely, that she
instinctively turned to the strong and tender Friend, whose fatherly love most closely
surrounds his little children. She missed her mother's help to understand and rule
herself, but having been taught where to look, she did her best to find the way, and
walk in it confidingly. But Amy was a young pilgrim, and just now her burden seemed

very heavy. She tried to forget herself, to keep cheerful, and be satisfied with doing
right, though no one saw or praised her for it. In her first effort at being very, very
good, she decided to make her will, as Aunt March had done; so that if she did fall ill
and die, her possessions might be justly and generously divided. It cost her a pang
even to think of giving up the little treasures which in her eyes were as precious as the
old lady's jewels.
During one of her play-hours she wrote out the important document as well as she
could, with some help from Esther as to certain legal terms, and, when the good-
natured Frenchwoman had signed her name, Amy felt relieved, and laid it by to show
Laurie, whom she wanted as a second witness. As it was a rainy day, she went upstairs
to amuse herself in one of the large chambers, and took Polly with her for company. In
this room there was a wardrobe full of old-fashioned costumes, with which Esther
allowed her to play, and it was her favorite amusement to array herself in the faded
brocades, and parade up and down before the long mirror, making stately courtesies,
and sweeping her train about, with a rustle which delighted her ears. So busy was she
on this day that she did not hear Laurie's ring, nor see his face peeping in at her, as she
gravely promenaded to and fro, flirting her fan and tossing her head, on which she
wore a great pink turban, contrasting oddly with her blue brocade dress and yellow
quilted petticoat. She was obliged to walk carefully, for she had on high-heeled shoes,
and, as Laurie told Jo afterward, it was a comical sight to see her mince along in her
gay suit, with Polly sidling and bridling just behind her, imitating her as well as he
could, and occasionally stopping to laugh or exclaim, "Ain't we fine? Get along, you
fright! Hold your tongue! Kiss me, dear! Ha! ha!"

Having with difficulty restrained an explosion of merriment, lest it should offend
her majesty, Laurie tapped, and was graciously received.
"Sit down and rest while I put these things away; then I want to consult you about a
very serious matter," said Amy, when she had shown her splendor, and driven Polly
into a corner. "That bird is the trial of my life," she continued, removing the pink
mountain from her head, while Laurie seated himself astride of a chair. "Yesterday,
when aunt was asleep, and I was trying to be as still as a mouse, Polly began to squall
and flap about in his cage; so I went to let him out, and found a big spider there. I
poked it out, and it ran under the bookcase; Polly marched straight after it, stooped
down and peeped under the bookcase, saying, in his funny way, with a cock of his
eye, 'Come out and take a walk, my dear.' I couldn't help laughing, which made Poll
swear, and aunt woke up and scolded us both."
"Did the spider accept the old fellow's invitation?" asked Laurie, yawning.
"Yes; out it came, and away ran Polly, frightened to death, and scrambled up on
aunt's chair, calling out, 'Catch her! catch her! catch her!' as I chased the spider.
"That's a lie! Oh lor!" cried the parrot, pecking at Laurie's toes.
"I'd wring your neck if you were mine, you old torment," cried Laurie, shaking his
fist at the bird, who put his head on one side, and gravely croaked, "Allyluyer! bless
your buttons, dear!"

"Now I'm ready," said Amy, shutting the wardrobe, and taking a paper out of her
pocket. "I want you to read that, please, and tell me if it is legal and right. I felt that I
ought to do it, for life is uncertain and I don't want any ill-feeling over my tomb."

Laurie bit his lips, and turning a little from the pensive speaker, read the following
document, with praiseworthy gravity, considering the spelling:—

"MY LAST WILL AND TESTIMENT.
"I, Amy Curtis March, being in my sane mind, do give and bequeethe all
my earthly property—viz. to wit:—namely
"To my father, my best pictures, sketches, maps, and works of art,
including frames. Also my $100, to do what he likes with.
"To my mother, all my clothes, except the blue apron with pockets,—also
my likeness, and my medal, with much love.
"To my dear sister Margaret, I give my turkquoise ring (if I get it), also my
green box with the doves on it, also my piece of real lace for her neck, and
my sketch of her as a memorial of her 'little girl.'
"To Jo I leave my breast-pin, the one mended with sealing wax, also my
bronze inkstand—she lost the cover—and my most precious plaster rabbit,

because I am sorry I burnt up her story.
"To Beth (if she lives after me) I give my dolls and the little bureau, my
fan, my linen collars and my new slippers if she can wear them being thin
when she gets well. And I herewith also leave her my regret that I ever made
fun of old Joanna.
"To my friend and neighbor Theodore Laurence I bequeethe my paper
marshay portfolio, my clay model of a horse though he did say it hadn't any
neck. Also in return for his great kindness in the hour of affliction any one of
my artistic works he likes, Noter Dame is the best.
"To our venerable benefactor Mr. Laurence I leave my purple box with a
looking glass in the cover which will be nice for his pens and remind him of
the departed girl who thanks him for his favors to her family, specially Beth.
"I wish my favorite playmate Kitty Bryant to have the blue silk apron and
my gold-bead ring with a kiss.
"To Hannah I give the bandbox she wanted and all the patch work I leave
hoping she 'will remember me, when it you see.'
"And now having disposed of my most valuable property I hope all will be
satisfied and not blame the dead. I forgive every one, and trust we may all
meet when the trump shall sound. Amen.
"To this will and testiment I set my hand and seal on this 20th day of Nov.
Anni Domino 1861.
"Amy Curtis March.

"Witnesses:
{ ET stelle Valnor,
heodore Laurence."

The last name was written in pencil, and Amy explained that he was to rewrite it in
ink, and seal it up for her properly.
"What put it into your head? Did any one tell you about Beth's giving away her
things?" asked Laurie soberly, as Amy laid a bit of red tape, with sealing-wax, a taper,
and a standish before him.
She explained; and then asked anxiously, "What about Beth?"
"I'm sorry I spoke; but as I did, I'll tell you. She felt so ill one day that she told Jo
she wanted to give her piano to Meg, her cats to you, and the poor old doll to Jo, who
would love it for her sake. She was sorry she had so little to give, and left locks of hair
to the rest of us, and her best love to grandpa. She never thought of a will."
Laurie was signing and sealing as he spoke, and did not look up till a great tear
dropped on the paper. Amy's face was full of trouble; but she only said, "Don't people
put sort of postscripts to their wills, sometimes?"
"Yes; 'codicils,' they call them."

"Put one in mine then—that I wish all my curls cut off, and given round to my
friends. I forgot it; but I want it done, though it will spoil my looks."
Laurie added it, smiling at Amy's last and greatest sacrifice. Then he amused her for
an hour, and was much interested in all her trials. But when he came to go, Amy held
him back to whisper, with trembling lips, "Is there really any danger about Beth?"
"I'm afraid there is; but we must hope for the best, so don't cry, dear;" and Laurie
put his arm about her with a brotherly gesture which was very comforting.
When he had gone, she went to her little chapel, and, sitting in the twilight, prayed
for Beth, with streaming tears and an aching heart, feeling that a million turquoise
rings would not console her for the loss of her gentle little sister.

XX.
CONFIDENTIAL.
I don't think I have any words in which to tell the meeting of the mother and
daughters; such hours are beautiful to live, but very hard to describe, so I will leave it
to the imagination of my readers, merely saying that the house was full of genuine
happiness, and that Meg's tender hope was realized; for when Beth woke from that
long, healing sleep, the first objects on which her eyes fell were the little rose and
mother's face. Too weak to wonder at anything, she only smiled, and nestled close into
the loving arms about her, feeling that the hungry longing was satisfied at last. Then
she slept again, and the girls waited upon their mother, for she would not unclasp the
thin hand which clung to hers even in sleep. Hannah had "dished up" an astonishing
breakfast for the traveller, finding it impossible to vent her excitement in any other
way; and Meg and Jo fed their mother like dutiful young storks, while they listened to
her whispered account of father's state, Mr. Brooke's promise to stay and nurse him,
the delays which the storm occasioned on the homeward journey, and the unspeakable

comfort Laurie's hopeful face had given her when she arrived, worn out with fatigue,
anxiety, and cold.
What a strange, yet pleasant day that was! so brilliant and gay without, for all the
world seemed abroad to welcome the first snow; so quiet and reposeful within, for
every one slept, spent with watching, and a Sabbath stillness reigned through the
house, while nodding Hannah mounted guard at the door. With a blissful sense of
burdens lifted off, Meg and Jo closed their weary eyes, and lay at rest, like storm-
beaten boats, safe at anchor in a quiet harbor. Mrs. March would not leave Beth's side,
but rested in the big chair, waking often to look at, touch, and brood over her child,
like a miser over some recovered treasure.
Laurie, meanwhile, posted off to comfort Amy, and told his story so well that Aunt
March actually "sniffed" herself, and never once said, "I told you so." Amy came out
so strong on this occasion that I think the good thoughts in the little chapel really
began to bear fruit. She dried her tears quickly, restrained her impatience to see her
mother, and never even thought of the turquoise ring, when the old lady heartily
agreed in Laurie's opinion, that she behaved "like a capital little woman." Even Polly
seemed impressed, for he called her "good girl," blessed her buttons, and begged her
to "come and take a walk, dear," in his most affable tone. She would very gladly have
gone out to enjoy the bright wintry weather; but, discovering that Laurie was dropping
with sleep in spite of manful efforts to conceal the fact, she persuaded him to rest on
the sofa, while she wrote a note to her mother. She was a long time about it; and,
when she returned, he was stretched out, with both arms under his head, sound asleep,
while Aunt March had pulled down the curtains, and sat doing nothing in an unusual
fit of benignity.
After a while, they began to think he was not going to wake till night, and I'm not
sure that he would, had he not been effectually roused by Amy's cry of joy at sight of
her mother. There probably were a good many happy little girls in and about the city
that day, but it is my private opinion that Amy was the happiest of all, when she sat in
her mother's lap and told her trials, receiving consolation and compensation in the
shape of approving smiles and fond caresses. They were alone together in the chapel,
to which her mother did not object when its purpose was explained to her.
"On the contrary, I like it very much, dear," looking from the dusty rosary to the
well-worn little book, and the lovely picture with its garland of evergreen. "It is an
excellent plan to have some place where we can go to be quiet, when things vex or
grieve us. There are a good many hard times in this life of ours, but we can always
bear them if we ask help in the right way. I think my little girl is learning this?"
"Yes, mother; and when I go home I mean to have a corner in the big closet to put
my books, and the copy of that picture which I've tried to make. The woman's face is
not good,—it's too beautiful for me to draw,—but the baby is done better, and I love it
very much. I like to think He was a little child once, for then I don't seem so far away,
and that helps me."

As Amy pointed to the smiling Christ-child on his mother's knee, Mrs. March saw
something on the lifted hand that made her smile. She said nothing, but Amy
understood the look, and, after a minute's pause, she added gravely,—
"I wanted to speak to you about this, but I forgot it. Aunt gave me the ring to-day;
she called me to her and kissed me, and put it on my finger, and said I was a credit to
her, and she'd like to keep me always. She gave that funny guard to keep the turquoise
on, as it's too big. I'd like to wear them, mother; can I?"
"They are very pretty, but I think you're rather too young for such ornaments, Amy,"
said Mrs. March, looking at the plump little hand, with the band of sky-blue stones on
the forefinger, and the quaint guard, formed of two tiny, golden hands clasped
together.
"I'll try not to be vain," said Amy. "I don't think I like it only because it's so pretty;
but I want to wear it as the girl in the story wore her bracelet, to remind me of
something."
"Do you mean Aunt March?" asked her mother, laughing.
"No, to remind me not to be selfish." Amy looked so earnest and sincere about it,
that her mother stopped laughing, and listened respectfully to the little plan.
"I've thought a great deal lately about my 'bundle of naughties,' and being selfish is
the largest one in it; so I'm going to try hard to cure it, if I can. Beth isn't selfish, and
that's the reason every one loves her and feels so bad at the thoughts of losing her.
People wouldn't feel half so bad about me if I was sick, and I don't deserve to have
them; but I'd like to be loved and missed by a great many friends, so I'm going to try
and be like Beth all I can. I'm apt to forget my resolutions; but if I had something
always about me to remind me, I guess I should do better. May I try this way?"
"Yes; but I have more faith in the corner of the big closet. Wear your ring, dear, and
do your best; I think you will prosper, for the sincere wish to be good is half the battle.
Now I must go back to Beth. Keep up your heart, little daughter, and we will soon
have you home again."
That evening, while Meg was writing to her father, to report the traveller's safe
arrival, Jo slipped up stairs into Beth's room, and, finding her mother in her usual
place, stood a minute twisting her fingers in her hair, with a worried gesture and an
undecided look.
"What is it, deary?" asked Mrs. March, holding out her hand, with a face which
invited confidence.
"I want to tell you something, mother."
"About Meg?"
"How quickly you guessed! Yes, it's about her, and though it's a little thing, it
fidgets me."

"Beth is asleep; speak low, and tell me all about it. That Moffat hasn't been here, I
hope?" asked Mrs. March rather sharply.
"No, I should have shut the door in his face if he had," said Jo, settling herself on
the floor at her mother's feet. "Last summer Meg left a pair of gloves over at the
Laurences', and only one was returned. We forgot all about it, till Teddy told me that
Mr. Brooke had it. He kept it in his waistcoat pocket, and once it fell out, and Teddy
joked him about it, and Mr. Brooke owned that he liked Meg, but didn't dare say so,
she was so young and he so poor. Now, isn't it a dreadful state of things?"
"Do you think Meg cares for him?" asked Mrs. March, with an anxious look.
"Mercy me! I don't know anything about love and such nonsense!" cried Jo, with a
funny mixture of interest and contempt. "In novels, the girls show it by starting and
blushing, fainting away, growing thin, and acting like fools. Now Meg does not do
anything of the sort: she eats and drinks and sleeps, like a sensible creature: she looks
straight in my face when I talk about that man, and only blushes a little bit when
Teddy jokes about lovers. I forbid him to do it, but he doesn't mind me as he ought."
"Then you fancy that Meg is not interested in John?"
"Who?" cried Jo, staring.
"Mr. Brooke. I call him 'John' now; we fell into the way of doing so at the hospital,
and he likes it."
"Oh, dear! I know you'll take his part: he's been good to father, and you won't send
him away, but let Meg marry him, if she wants to. Mean thing! to go petting papa and
helping you, just to wheedle you into liking him;" and Jo pulled her hair again with a
wrathful tweak.
"My dear, don't get angry about it, and I will tell you how it happened. John went
with me at Mr. Laurence's request, and was so devoted to poor father that we couldn't
help getting fond of him. He was perfectly open and honorable about Meg, for he told
us he loved her, but would earn a comfortable home before he asked her to marry him.
He only wanted our leave to love her and work for her, and the right to make her love
him if he could. He is a truly excellent young man, and we could not refuse to listen to
him; but I will not consent to Meg's engaging herself so young."
"Of course not; it would be idiotic! I knew there was mischief brewing; I felt it; and
now it's worse than I imagined. I just wish I could marry Meg myself, and keep her
safe in the family."
This odd arrangement made Mrs. March smile; but she said gravely, "Jo, I confide
in you, and don't wish you to say anything to Meg yet. When John comes back, and I
see them together, I can judge better of her feelings toward him."
"She'll see his in those handsome eyes that she talks about, and then it will be all up
with her. She's got such a soft heart, it will melt like butter in the sun if any one looks
sentimentally at her. She read the short reports he sent more than she did your letters,
and pinched me when I spoke of it, and likes brown eyes, and doesn't think John an

ugly name, and she'll go and fall in love, and there's an end of peace and fun, and cosy
times together. I see it all! they'll go lovering around the house, and we shall have to
dodge; Meg will be absorbed, and no good to me any more; Brooke will scratch up a
fortune somehow, carry her off, and make a hole in the family; and I shall break my
heart, and everything will be abominably uncomfortable. Oh, dear me! why weren't
we all boys, then there wouldn't be any bother."
Jo leaned her chin on her knees, in a disconsolate attitude, and shook her fist at the
reprehensible John. Mrs. March sighed, and Jo looked up with an air of relief.
"You don't like it, mother? I'm glad of it. Let's send him about his business, and not
tell Meg a word of it, but all be happy together as we always have been."
"I did wrong to sigh, Jo. It is natural and right you should all go to homes of your
own, in time; but I do want to keep my girls as long as I can; and I am sorry that this
happened so soon, for Meg is only seventeen, and it will be some years before John
can make a home for her. Your father and I have agreed that she shall not bind herself
in any way, nor be married, before twenty. If she and John love one another, they can
wait, and test the love by doing so. She is conscientious, and I have no fear of her
treating him unkindly. My pretty, tender-hearted girl! I hope things will go happily
with her."
"Hadn't you rather have her marry a rich man?" asked Jo, as her mother's voice
faltered a little over the last words.
"Money is a good and useful thing, Jo; and I hope my girls will never feel the need
of it too bitterly, nor be tempted by too much. I should like to know that John was
firmly established in some good business, which gave him an income large enough to
keep free from debt and make Meg comfortable. I'm not ambitious for a splendid
fortune, a fashionable position, or a great name for my girls. If rank and money come
with love and virtue, also, I should accept them gratefully, and enjoy your good
fortune; but I know, by experience, how much genuine happiness can be had in a plain
little house, where the daily bread is earned, and some privations give sweetness to the
few pleasures. I am content to see Meg begin humbly, for, if I am not mistaken, she
will be rich in the possession of a good man's heart, and that is better than a fortune."
"I understand, mother, and quite agree; but I'm disappointed about Meg, for I'd
planned to have her marry Teddy by and by, and sit in the lap of luxury all her days.
Wouldn't it be nice?" asked Jo, looking up, with a brighter face.
"He is younger than she, you know," began Mrs. March; but Jo broke in,—
"Only a little; he's old for his age, and tall; and can be quite grown-up in his
manners if he likes. Then he's rich and generous and good, and loves us all; and I say
it's a pity my plan is spoilt."
"I'm afraid Laurie is hardly grown up enough for Meg, and altogether too much of a
weathercock, just now, for any one to depend on. Don't make plans, Jo; but let time
and their own hearts mate your friends. We can't meddle safely in such matters, and

had better not get 'romantic rubbish,' as you call it, into our heads, lest it spoil our
friendship."
"Well, I won't; but I hate to see things going all criss-cross and getting snarled up,
when a pull here and a snip there would straighten it out. I wish wearing flat-irons on
our heads would keep us from growing up. But buds will be roses, and kittens, cats,—
more's the pity!"
"What's that about flat-irons and cats?" asked Meg, as she crept into the room, with
the finished letter in her hand.
"Only one of my stupid speeches. I'm going to bed; come, Peggy," said Jo,
unfolding herself, like an animated puzzle.
"Quite right, and beautifully written. Please add that I send my love to John," said
Mrs. March, as she glanced over the letter, and gave it back.
"Do you call him 'John'?" asked Meg, smiling, with her innocent eyes looking down
into her mother's.
"Yes; he has been like a son to us, and we are very fond of him," replied Mrs.
March, returning the look with a keen one.
"I'm glad of that, he is so lonely. Good-night, mother, dear. It is so inexpressibly
comfortable to have you here," was Meg's quiet answer.
The kiss her mother gave her was a very tender one; and, as she went away, Mrs.
March said, with a mixture of satisfaction and regret, "She does not love John yet, but
will soon learn to."

XXI.
LAURIE MAKES MISCHIEF, AND JO MAKES
PEACE.
Jo's face was a study next day, for the secret rather weighed upon her, and she found
it hard not to look mysterious and important. Meg observed it, but did not trouble
herself to make inquiries, for she had learned that the best way to manage Jo was by
the law of contraries, so she felt sure of being told everything if she did not ask. She
was rather surprised, therefore, when the silence remained unbroken, and Jo assumed
a patronizing air, which decidedly aggravated Meg, who in her turn assumed an air of
dignified reserve, and devoted herself to her mother. This left Jo to her own devices;
for Mrs. March had taken her place as nurse, and bade her rest, exercise, and amuse
herself after her long confinement. Amy being gone, Laurie was her only refuge; and,
much as she enjoyed his society, she rather dreaded him just then, for he was an
incorrigible tease, and she feared he would coax her secret from her.

She was quite right, for the mischief-loving lad no sooner suspected a mystery than
he set himself to find it out, and led Jo a trying life of it. He wheedled, bribed,
ridiculed, threatened, and scolded; affected indifference, that he might surprise the
truth from her; declared he knew, then that he didn't care; and, at last, by dint of
perseverance, he satisfied himself that it concerned Meg and Mr. Brooke. Feeling
indignant that he was not taken into his tutor's confidence, he set his wits to work to
devise some proper retaliation for the slight.
Meg meanwhile had apparently forgotten the matter, and was absorbed in
preparations for her father's return; but all of a sudden a change seemed to come over
her, and, for a day or two, she was quite unlike herself. She started when spoken to,
blushed when looked at, was very quiet, and sat over her sewing, with a timid,
troubled look on her face. To her mother's inquiries she answered that she was quite
well, and Jo's she silenced by begging to be let alone.
"She feels it in the air—love, I mean—and she's going very fast. She's got most of
the symptoms,—is twittery and cross, doesn't eat, lies awake, and mopes in corners. I
caught her singing that song he gave her, and once she said 'John,' as you do, and then
turned as red as a poppy. Whatever shall we do?" said Jo, looking ready for any
measures, however violent.
"Nothing but wait. Let her alone, be kind and patient, and father's coming will settle
everything," replied her mother.
"Here's a note to you, Meg, all sealed up. How odd! Teddy never seals mine," said
Jo, next day, as she distributed the contents of the little post-office.
Mrs. March and Jo were deep in their own affairs, when a sound from Meg made
them look up to see her staring at her note, with a frightened face.
"My child, what is it?" cried her mother, running to her, while Jo tried to take the
paper which had done the mischief.
"It's all a mistake—he didn't send it. O Jo, how could you do it?" and Meg hid her
face in her hands, crying as if her heart was quite broken.
"Me! I've done nothing! What's she talking about?" cried Jo, bewildered.
Meg's mild eyes kindled with anger as she pulled a crumpled note from her pocket,
and threw it at Jo, saying reproachfully,—
"You wrote it, and that bad boy helped you. How could you be so rude, so mean,
and cruel to us both?"
Jo hardly heard her, for she and her mother were reading the note, which was
written in a peculiar hand.

"My Dearest Margaret,—
"I can no longer restrain my passion, and must know my fate before I
return. I dare not tell your parents yet, but I think they would consent if they
knew that we adored one another. Mr. Laurence will help me to some good
place, and then, my sweet girl, you will make me happy. I implore you to say
nothing to your family yet, but to send one word of hope through Laurie to
"Your devoted John."

"Oh, the little villain! that's the way he meant to pay me for keeping my word to
mother. I'll give him a hearty scolding, and bring him over to beg pardon," cried Jo,
burning to execute immediate justice. But her mother held her back, saying, with a
look she seldom wore,—
"Stop, Jo, you must clear yourself first. You have played so many pranks, that I am
afraid you have had a hand in this."
"On my word, mother, I haven't! I never saw that note before, and don't know
anything about it, as true as I live!" said Jo, so earnestly that they believed her. "If I
had taken a part in it I'd have done it better than this, and have written a sensible note.
I should think you'd have known Mr. Brooke wouldn't write such stuff as that," she
added, scornfully tossing down the paper.

"It's like his writing," faltered Meg, comparing it with the note in her hand.
"O Meg, you didn't answer it?" cried Mrs. March quickly.
"Yes, I did!" and Meg hid her face again, overcome with shame.
"Here's a scrape! Do let me bring that wicked boy over to explain, and be lectured. I
can't rest till I get hold of him;" and Jo made for the door again.
"Hush! let me manage this, for it is worse than I thought. Margaret, tell me the
whole story," commanded Mrs. March, sitting down by Meg, yet keeping hold of Jo,
lest she should fly off.
"I received the first letter from Laurie, who didn't look as if he knew anything about
it," began Meg, without looking up. "I was worried at first, and meant to tell you; then
I remembered how you liked Mr. Brooke, so I thought you wouldn't mind if I kept my
little secret for a few days. I'm so silly that I liked to think no one knew; and, while I
was deciding what to say, I felt like the girls in books, who have such things to do.
Forgive me, mother, I'm paid for my silliness now; I never can look him in the face
again."
"What did you say to him?" asked Mrs. March.
"I only said I was too young to do anything about it yet; that I didn't wish to have
secrets from you, and he must speak to father. I was very grateful for his kindness, and
would be his friend, but nothing more, for a long while."
Mrs. March smiled, as if well pleased, and Jo clapped her hands, exclaiming, with a
laugh,—
"You are almost equal to Caroline Percy, who was a pattern of prudence! Tell on,
Meg. What did he say to that?"
"He writes in a different way entirely, telling me that he never sent any love-letter at
all, and is very sorry that my roguish sister, Jo, should take such liberties with our
names. It's very kind and respectful, but think how dreadful for me!"
Meg leaned against her mother, looking the image of despair, and Jo tramped about
the room, calling Laurie names. All of a sudden she stopped, caught up the two notes,
and, after looking at them closely, said decidedly, "I don't believe Brooke ever saw
either of these letters. Teddy wrote both, and keeps yours to crow over me with,
because I wouldn't tell him my secret."
"Don't have any secrets, Jo; tell it to mother, and keep out of trouble, as I should
have done," said Meg warningly.
"Bless you, child! Mother told me."
"That will do, Jo. I'll comfort Meg while you go and get Laurie. I shall sift the
matter to the bottom, and put a stop to such pranks at once."
Away ran Jo, and Mrs. March gently told Meg Mr. Brooke's real feelings. "Now,
dear, what are your own? Do you love him enough to wait till he can make a home for
you, or will you keep yourself quite free for the present?"

"I've been so scared and worried, I don't want to have anything to do with lovers for
a long while,—perhaps never," answered Meg petulantly. "If John doesn't know
anything about this nonsense, don't tell him, and make Jo and Laurie hold their
tongues. I won't be deceived and plagued and made a fool of,—it's a shame!"
Seeing that Meg's usually gentle temper was roused and her pride hurt by this
mischievous joke, Mrs. March soothed her by promises of entire silence, and great
discretion for the future. The instant Laurie's step was heard in the hall, Meg fled into
the study, and Mrs. March received the culprit alone. Jo had not told him why he was
wanted, fearing he wouldn't come; but he knew the minute he saw Mrs. March's face,
and stood twirling his hat, with a guilty air which convicted him at once. Jo was
dismissed, but chose to march up and down the hall like a sentinel, having some fear
that the prisoner might bolt. The sound of voices in the parlor rose and fell for half an
hour; but what happened during that interview the girls never knew.
When they were called in, Laurie was standing by their mother, with such a penitent
face that Jo forgave him on the spot, but did not think it wise to betray the fact. Meg
received his humble apology, and was much comforted by the assurance that Brooke
knew nothing of the joke.
"I'll never tell him to my dying day,—wild horses sha'n't drag it out of me; so you'll
forgive me, Meg, and I'll do anything to show how out-and-out sorry I am," he added,
looking very much ashamed of himself.
"I'll try; but it was a very ungentlemanly thing to do. I didn't think you could be so
sly and malicious, Laurie," replied Meg, trying to hide her maidenly confusion under a
gravely reproachful air.
"It was altogether abominable, and I don't deserve to be spoken to for a month; but
you will, though, won't you?" and Laurie folded his hands together with such an
imploring gesture, as he spoke in his irresistibly persuasive tone, that it was
impossible to frown upon him, in spite of his scandalous behavior. Meg pardoned him,
and Mrs. March's grave face relaxed, in spite of her efforts to keep sober, when she
heard him declare that he would atone for his sins by all sorts of penances, and abase
himself like a worm before the injured damsel.
Jo stood aloof, meanwhile, trying to harden her heart against him, and succeeding
only in primming up her face into an expression of entire disapprobation. Laurie
looked at her once or twice, but, as she showed no sign of relenting, he felt injured,
and turned his back on her till the others were done with him, when he made her a low
bow, and walked off without a word.
As soon as he had gone, she wished she had been more forgiving; and when Meg
and her mother went upstairs, she felt lonely, and longed for Teddy. After resisting for
some time, she yielded to the impulse, and, armed with a book to return, went over to
the big house.
"Is Mr. Laurence in?" asked Jo, of a housemaid, who was coming down stairs.

"Yes, miss; but I don't believe he's seeable just yet."
"Why not? is he ill?"
"La, no, miss, but he's had a scene with Mr. Laurie, who is in one of his tantrums
about something, which vexes the old gentleman, so I dursn't go nigh him."
"Where is Laurie?"
"Shut up in his room, and he won't answer, though I've been a-tapping. I don't know
what's to become of the dinner, for it's ready, and there's no one to eat it."
"I'll go and see what the matter is. I'm not afraid of either of them."
Up went Jo, and knocked smartly on the door of Laurie's little study.
"Stop that, or I'll open the door and make you!" called out the young gentleman, in
a threatening tone.
Jo immediately knocked again; the door flew open, and in she bounced, before
Laurie could recover from his surprise. Seeing that he really was out of temper, Jo,
who knew how to manage him, assumed a contrite expression, and going artistically
down upon her knees, said meekly, "Please forgive me for being so cross. I came to
make it up, and can't go away till I have."
"It's all right. Get up, and don't be a goose, Jo," was the cavalier reply to her
petition.

"Thank you; I will. Could I ask what's the matter? You don't look exactly easy in
your mind."
"I've been shaken, and I won't bear it!" growled Laurie indignantly.
"Who did it?" demanded Jo.
"Grandfather; if it had been any one else I'd have—" and the injured youth finished
his sentence by an energetic gesture of the right arm.
"That's nothing; I often shake you, and you don't mind," said Jo soothingly.
"Pooh! you're a girl, and it's fun; but I'll allow no man to shake me."
"I don't think any one would care to try it, if you looked as much like a thunder-
cloud as you do now. Why were you treated so?"
"Just because I wouldn't say what your mother wanted me for. I'd promised not to
tell, and of course I wasn't going to break my word."
"Couldn't you satisfy your grandpa in any other way?"
"No; he would have the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I'd have
told my part of the scrape, if I could without bringing Meg in. As I couldn't, I held my
tongue, and bore the scolding till the old gentleman collared me. Then I got angry, and
bolted, for fear I should forget myself."
"It wasn't nice, but he's sorry, I know; so go down and make up. I'll help you."
"Hanged if I do! I'm not going to be lectured and pummelled by every one, just for
a bit of a frolic. I was sorry about Meg, and begged pardon like a man; but I won't do
it again, when I wasn't in the wrong."
"He didn't know that."
"He ought to trust me, and not act as if I was a baby. It's no use, Jo; he's got to learn
that I'm able to take care of myself, and don't need any one's apron-string to hold on
by."
"What pepper-pots you are!" sighed Jo. "How do you mean to settle this affair?"
"Well, he ought to beg pardon, and believe me when I say I can't tell him what the
fuss's about."
"Bless you! he won't do that."
"I won't go down till he does."
"Now, Teddy, be sensible; let it pass, and I'll explain what I can. You can't stay here,
so what's the use of being melodramatic?"
"I don't intend to stay here long, any way. I'll slip off and take a journey
somewhere, and when grandpa misses me he'll come round fast enough."
"I dare say; but you ought not to go and worry him."
"Don't preach. I'll go to Washington and see Brooke; it's gay there, and I'll enjoy
myself after the troubles."

"What fun you'd have! I wish I could run off too," said Jo, forgetting her part of
Mentor in lively visions of martial life at the capital.
"Come on, then! Why not? You go and surprise your father, and I'll stir up old
Brooke. It would be a glorious joke; let's do it, Jo. We'll leave a letter saying we are all
right, and trot off at once. I've got money enough; it will do you good, and be no
harm, as you go to your father."
For a moment Jo looked as if she would agree; for, wild as the plan was, it just
suited her. She was tired of care and confinement, longed for change, and thoughts of
her father blended temptingly with the novel charms of camps and hospitals, liberty
and fun. Her eyes kindled as they turned wistfully toward the window, but they fell on
the old house opposite, and she shook her head with sorrowful decision.
"If I was a boy, we'd run away together, and have a capital time; but as I'm a
miserable girl, I must be proper, and stop at home. Don't tempt me, Teddy, it's a crazy
plan."
"That's the fun of it," began Laurie, who had got a wilful fit on him, and was
possessed to break out of bounds in some way.
"Hold your tongue!" cried Jo, covering her ears. "'Prunes and prisms' are my doom,
and I may as well make up my mind to it. I came here to moralize, not to hear about
things that make me skip to think of."

"I know Meg would wet-blanket such a proposal, but I thought you had more
spirit," began Laurie insinuatingly.

"Bad boy, be quiet! Sit down and think of your own sins, don't go making me add to
mine. If I get your grandpa to apologize for the shaking, will you give up running
away?" asked Jo seriously.
"Yes, but you won't do it," answered Laurie, who wished "to make up," but felt that
his outraged dignity must be appeased first.
"If I can manage the young one I can the old one," muttered Jo, as she walked away,
leaving Laurie bent over a railroad map, with his head propped up on both hands.
"Come in!" and Mr. Laurence's gruff voice sounded gruffer than ever, as Jo tapped
at his door.
"It's only me, sir, come to return a book," she said blandly, as she entered.
"Want any more?" asked the old gentleman, looking grim and vexed, but trying not
to show it.
"Yes, please. I like old Sam so well, I think I'll try the second volume," returned Jo,
hoping to propitiate him by accepting a second dose of Boswell's "Johnson," as he had
recommended that lively work.
The shaggy eyebrows unbent a little, as he rolled the steps toward the shelf where
the Johnsonian literature was placed. Jo skipped up, and, sitting on the top step,
affected to be searching for her book, but was really wondering how best to introduce
the dangerous object of her visit. Mr. Laurence seemed to suspect that something was
brewing in her mind; for, after taking several brisk turns about the room, he faced
round on her, speaking so abruptly that "Rasselas" tumbled face downward on the
floor.
"What has that boy been about? Don't try to shield him. I know he has been in
mischief by the way he acted when he came home. I can't get a word from him; and
when I threatened to shake the truth out of him he bolted upstairs, and locked himself
into his room."
"He did do wrong, but we forgave him, and all promised not to say a word to any
one," began Jo reluctantly.
"That won't do; he shall not shelter himself behind a promise from you soft-hearted
girls. If he's done anything amiss, he shall confess, beg pardon, and be punished. Out
with it, Jo, I won't be kept in the dark."
Mr. Laurence looked so alarming and spoke so sharply that Jo would have gladly
run away, if she could, but she was perched aloft on the steps, and he stood at the foot,
a lion in the path, so she had to stay and brave it out.

"Indeed, sir, I cannot tell; mother forbade it. Laurie has confessed, asked pardon,
and been punished quite enough. We don't keep silence to shield him, but some one
else, and it will make more trouble if you interfere. Please don't; it was partly my
fault, but it's all right now; so let's forget it, and talk about the 'Rambler,' or something
pleasant."
"Hang the 'Rambler!' come down and give me your word that this harum-scarum
boy of mine hasn't done anything ungrateful or impertinent. If he has, after all your
kindness to him, I'll thrash him with my own hands."
The threat sounded awful, but did not alarm Jo, for she knew the irascible old
gentleman would never lift a finger against his grandson, whatever he might say to the
contrary. She obediently descended, and made as light of the prank as she could
without betraying Meg or forgetting the truth.
"Hum—ha—well, if the boy held his tongue because he promised, and not from
obstinacy, I'll forgive him. He's a stubborn fellow, and hard to manage," said Mr.
Laurence, rubbing up his hair till it looked as if he had been out in a gale, and
smoothing the frown from his brow with an air of relief.

"So am I; but a kind word will govern me when all the king's horses and all the
king's men couldn't," said Jo, trying to say a kind word for her friend, who seemed to
get out of one scrape only to fall into another.
"You think I'm not kind to him, hey?" was the sharp answer.
"Oh, dear, no, sir; you are rather too kind sometimes, and then just a trifle hasty
when he tries your patience. Don't you think you are?"
Jo was determined to have it out now, and tried to look quite placid, though she
quaked a little after her bold speech. To her great relief and surprise, the old
gentleman only threw his spectacles on to the table with a rattle, and exclaimed
frankly,—
"You're right, girl, I am! I love the boy, but he tries my patience past bearing, and I
don't know how it will end, if we go on so."
"I'll tell you, he'll run away." Jo was sorry for that speech the minute it was made;
she meant to warn him that Laurie would not bear much restraint, and hoped he would
be more forbearing with the lad.
Mr. Laurence's ruddy face changed suddenly, and he sat down, with a troubled
glance at the picture of a handsome man, which hung over his table. It was Laurie's
father, who had run away in his youth, and married against the imperious old man's
will. Jo fancied he remembered and regretted the past, and she wished she had held
her tongue.
"He won't do it unless he is very much worried, and only threatens it sometimes,
when he gets tired of studying. I often think I should like to, especially since my hair
was cut; so, if you ever miss us, you may advertise for two boys, and look among the
ships bound for India."
She laughed as she spoke, and Mr. Laurence looked relieved, evidently taking the
whole as a joke.
"You hussy, how dare you talk in that way? Where's your respect for me, and your
proper bringing up? Bless the boys and girls! What torments they are; yet we can't do
without them," he said, pinching her cheeks good-humoredly. "Go and bring that boy
down to his dinner, tell him it's all right, and advise him not to put on tragedy airs with
his grandfather. I won't bear it."
"He won't come, sir; he feels badly because you didn't believe him when he said he
couldn't tell. I think the shaking hurt his feelings very much."
Jo tried to look pathetic, but must have failed, for Mr. Laurence began to laugh, and
she knew the day was won.
"I'm sorry for that, and ought to thank him for not shaking me, I suppose. What the
dickens does the fellow expect?" and the old gentleman looked a trifle ashamed of his
own testiness.