LITTLE WOMEN(1869) by Louisa May Alcott PART ONE

LITTLE WOMEN (1869) by Louisa May Alcott

Chapter 1 - 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 vocabulary," 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 dishwashing 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 trapdoor for Banquo. I always wanted to do
the killing part. 'Is that a dagger that I see before me?'" muttered
Jo, rolling her eyes and clutching at the air, as she had seen a
famous tragedian do.
"No, it's the toasting fork, with mother's shoe on it instead of the
bread. Beth's stage-struck!" cried Meg, and the rehearsal ended in a
general burst of laughter.
"Glad to find you so merry, my girls," said a cheery voice at the
door, and actors and audience turned to welcome a tall, motherly lady,
with a "can-I-help-you" look about her which was truly delightful. She
was not elegantly dressed, but a noble-looking woman, and the girls
thought the gray cloak and unfashionable bonnet covered the most
splendid mother in the world.
"Well, dearies, how have you got on 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
downstairs," 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.






Chapter 2 - 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 theater, and not rich
enough to afford any great outlay for private performances, the
girls put their wits to work, and- necessity being the mother of
invention- made whatever they needed. Very clever were some of their
productions- pasteboard guitars, antique lamps made of old-fashioned
butter-boats covered with silver paper, gorgeous robes of old
cotton, glittering with tin spangles from a pickle factory, and
armor covered with the same useful diamond-shaped bits, left in sheets
when the lids of 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 onto the bed which was the
dress-circle, and sat before the blue and yellow chintz curtains in
a most flattering state of expectancy. There was a good deal of
rustling and whispering behind the curtain, a trifle of lamp-smoke,
and an occasional giggle from Amy, who was apt to get hysterical in
the excitement of the moment. Presently a bell sounded, the curtains
flew apart, and the Operatic Tragedy began.
"A gloomy wood," according to the one 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 hothouse 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."






Chapter 3 - 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 a 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 collar, and a white chrysanthemum
or two for her only ornament. Each put on one nice light glove, and
carried one soiled one, and all pronounced the effect "quite easy
and fine." Meg's high-heeled slippers were very tight, and hurt her,
though she would not own it, and Jo's nineteen hairpins all seemed
stuck straight into her head, which was not exactly comfortable;
but, dear me, let us be elegant or die!
"Have a good time, dearies!" said Mrs. March, as the sisters went
daintily down the walk. "Don't eat much supper, and come away at
eleven, when I send Hannah for you." As the gate clashed behind
them, a voice cried from a window-
"Girls, girls! have you 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."
"Shan't I disturb you?"
"Not a bit; I only came here because I don't know many people, and
felt rather strange at first, you know."
"So did I. Don't go away, please, unless you'd rather."
The boy sat down again and looked at his pumps, till Jo said, trying
to be polite and easy-
"I think I've had the pleasure of seeing you before; you live near
us, don't you?"
"Next door"; and he looked up and laughed outright, for Jo's prim
manner was rather funny when he remembered how they had chatted
about cricket when he brought the cat home.
That put Jo at her ease; and she laughed too, as she said, in her
heartiest way, "We did have such a good time over your nice
Christmas present."
"Grandpa sent it."
"But you put it into his head, didn't you, now?"
"How is your cat, Miss March?" asked the boy, trying to look
sober, while his black eyes shone with fun.
"Nicely, thank you, Mr. Laurence; but I am not Miss March, I'm
only Jo," returned the young lady.
"I'm not Mr. Laurence, I'm only Laurie."
"Laurie Laurence- what an odd name!"
"My first name is Theodore, but I don't like it, for the fellows
called me Dora, so I made them say Laurie instead."
"I hate my name, too- so sentimental! I wish every one would say Jo,
instead of Josephine. How did you make the boys stop calling you
Dora?"
"I thrashed 'em."
"I can't thrash Aunt March, so I suppose I shall have to bear it";
and Jo resigned herself with a sigh.
"Don't you like to dance, Miss Jo?" asked Laurie, looking as if he
thought the name suited her.
"I like it well enough if there is plenty of room, and 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 Vevey, 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 anything else at Vevey."
"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 criticized and
chatted, till they felt like old acquaintances. Laurie's bashfulness
soon wore off; for Jo's gentlemanly demeanor amused and set him at his
ease, and Jo was her merry self again, because her dress was
forgotten, and nobody lifted their eyebrows at her. She liked the
"Laurence boy" better than ever, and took several good looks at him,
so that she might describe him to the girls; for they had no brothers,
very few male cousins, and boys were almost unknown creatures to them.
"Curly black hair; brown skin; big, black eyes; handsome nose;
fine teeth; small hands and feet; taller than I am; very polite, for a
boy, and altogether jolly. Wonder how old he is?"
It was on the tip of Jo's tongue to ask; but she checked herself
in time, and, with unusual tact, tried to find out in a 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."
"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 upstairs
to put her things on.
Hannah scolded, Meg cried, and Jo was at her wits' end, till she
decided to take things into her own hands. Slipping out, she ran down,
and, finding a servant, asked if he could get her a carriage. It
happened to be a hired waiter, who knew nothing about the
neighborhood; and Jo was looking round for help, when Laurie, who
had heard what she said, came up, and offered his grandfather's
carriage, which had just come for him, he said.
"It's so early! You can't mean to go yet?" began Jo, looking
relieved, but hesitating to accept the offer.
"I always go early- I do, truly! Please let me take you home? It's
all on my way, you know, and it rains, they say."
That settled it; and, telling him of Meg's mishap, Jo gratefully
accepted, and rushed up to bring down the rest of the party. Hannah
hated rain as much as a cat does; so she made no trouble, and they
rolled away in the luxurious close carriage, feeling very festive
and elegant. Laurie went on the box; so Meg could keep her foot up,
and the girls talked over their party in freedom.
"I had a capital time. Did you?" asked Jo, rumpling up her hair, and
making herself comfortable.
"Yes, till I hurt myself. Sallie's friend, Annie Moffat, took a
fancy to me, and asked me to come and spend a week with her, when
Sallie does. She is going in the spring, when the opera comes; and
it will be perfectly splendid, if mother only lets me go," answered
Meg, cheering up at the thought.
"I saw you dancing with the red-headed man I ran away from. Was he
nice?"
"Oh, very! His hair is auburn, not red; and he was very polite,
and I had a delicious redowa with him."
"He looked like a grasshopper in a fit, when he did the new step.
Laurie and I couldn't help laughing. Did you hear us?"
"No; but it was very rude. What were you about all that time, hidden
away there?"
Jo told her adventures, and, by the time she had finished, they were
at home. With many thanks, they said "Good-night," and crept in,
hoping to disturb no one; but the instant their door creaked, two
little 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.






Chapter 4 - 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 shan't mind her."
This idea tickled Jo's fancy, and put her in good spirits; but Meg
didn't brighten, for her burden, consisting of four 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 veil in which she had shrouded herself like a nun sick of the
world.
"I like good strong words, that mean something," replied Jo,
catching her hat as it took a leap off her head, preparatory to flying
away altogether.
"Call yourself any names you like; but I am neither a rascal nor a
wretch, and I don't choose to be called so."
"You're a blighted being, and decidedly cross 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 theaters, 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 ragbag, 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 Park's mother does. My dear, it's really dreadful; for sometimes
she is so bad, her frock is up to her knees, and she can't come to
school. When I think of this deggerredation, I feel that I can bear
even my flat nose and purple gown, with yellow sky-rockets on it."
Meg was Amy's confidant and monitor, and, by some strange attraction
of opposites, Jo was gentle Beth's. To Jo alone did the shy child tell
her thoughts; and over her big, harum-scarum sister, Beth
unconsciously exercised more influence than 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; shan't I stop now?'
"She caught up her knitting, which had dropped out of her hands,
gave me a sharp look through her specs, and said, in her short way-
"'Finish the chapter, and don't be impertinent, miss.'"
"Did she own she liked it?" asked Meg.
"Oh, bless you, no! but she let old Belsham rest; and, when I ran
back after my gloves this afternoon, there she was, so hard at the
Vicar that she didn't hear me laugh as I danced a jig in the hall,
because of the good time coming. What a pleasant life she might
have, if 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.


Chapter 5 - 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
pussy-cat, 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 snowballing 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 snowball, and make him look out, and
then say a kind word to him."
Up went a handful of soft snow, and the head turned at once, showing
a face which lost its listless look in a minute, as the big eyes
brightened and the mouth began to smile. Jo nodded and laughed, and
flourished her broom as she called out-
"How do you do? Are you sick?"
Laurie opened the window, and croaked out as hoarsely as a raven-
"Better, thank you. I've had a bad cold, and been shut up a week."
"I'm sorry. What do you amuse yourself with?"
"Nothing; it's 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 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 fairy-like 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'm not sure, but I think it was because his son, Laurie's
father, married an Italian lady, a musician, which displeased the
old man, who is very proud. The lady was good and lovely and
accomplished, but he did not like her, and never saw his son after
he married. They both died when Laurie was a little child, and then
his grandfather took him home. I fancy the boy, who was born in Italy,
is not very strong, and the old man is afraid of losing him, which
makes him so careful. Laurie comes naturally by his love of music, for
he is like his mother, and I dare say his grandfather fears that he
may want to be a musician; at any rate, his skill reminds him of the
woman he did not like, and so he 'glowered,' as Jo said."
"Dear me, how romantic!" exclaimed Meg.
"How silly!" said Jo. "Let him be a musician, if he wants to, and
not plague his life out sending him to college, when he hates to go."
"That's why he has such handsome black eyes and pretty manners, I
suppose. Italians are always nice," said Meg, who was a little
sentimental.
"What do you know about his eyes and his manners? You never spoke to
him hardly," cried Jo, who was not sentimental.
"I saw him at the party, and what you tell shows that he knows how
to behave. That was a nice little speech about the medicine mother
sent him."
"He meant the blanc-mange, I suppose."
"How stupid you are, child! He meant you, of course."
"Did he?" and Jo opened her eyes as if it had never occurred to
her before.
"I never saw such a girl! You don't know a compliment when you get
it," said Meg, with the air of a young lady who knew all about the
matter.
"I think they are great nonsense, and I'll thank you not to be
silly, and spoil my fun. Laurie's a nice boy, and I like him, and I
won't have any sentimental stuff about compliments and such rubbish.
We'll all be good to him, because he hasn't got any mother, and he may
come over and see us, mayn't he, Marmee?"
"Yes, Jo, your little friend is very welcome, and I hope Meg will
remember that children should be children as long as they can."
"I don't call myself a child, and I'm not in my teens yet," observed
Amy. "What do you say, Beth?"
"I was thinking about our 'Pilgrim's Progress,'" answered Beth,
who had not heard a word. "How we got out of the Slough and through
the Wicket Gate by resolving to be good, and up the steep hill by
trying; and that maybe the house over there, full of splendid
things, is going to be our Palace Beautiful."
"We have got to get by the lions, first," said Jo, as if she
rather liked the prospect.






Chapter 6 - 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!"


Chapter 7 - 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, nick-names, and
caricatures, and done all that one man could 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 his 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.






Chapter 8 - Jo meets Apollyon


"Girls, where are you going?" asked Amy, coming into their room
one Saturday afternoon, and finding them getting ready to go out, with
an air of secrecy which excited her curiosity.
"Never mind; little girls shouldn't ask questions," returned Jo
sharply.
Now if there is anything mortifying to our feelings, when we are
young, it is to be told that; and to be bidden to "run away, dear," is
still more trying to us. Amy bridled up at this insult, and determined
to find out the secret, if she teased for an hour. Turning to Meg, who
never refused her anything very long, she said coaxingly, "Do tell me!
I should think you might let me go, too; for Beth is fussing over
her piano, and I haven't got anything to do, and am so lonely."
"I can't, dear, because you aren't invited," began Meg; but Jo broke
in impatiently, "Now, Meg, be quiet, or you will spoil it all. You
can't go, Amy; so don't be a baby, and whine about it."
"You are going somewhere with Laurie, I know you are; you were
whispering and laughing together, on the sofa, last night, and you
stopped when I came in. Aren't you going with him?"
"Yes, we are; now do be still, and stop bothering."
Amy held her tongue, but used her eyes, and saw Meg slip a fan
into her pocket.
"I know! I know! you're going to the theater to see the 'Seven
Castles'!" she cried; adding resolutely, "And I shall go, for mother
said I might see it; and I've got my rag-money, and it was mean not to
tell me in time."
"Just listen to me a minute, and be a good child," said Meg
soothingly. "Mother doesn't wish you to go this week, because your
eyes are not well enough yet to bear the light of this fairy piece.
Next week you can go with Beth and Hannah, and have a nice time."
"I don't like that half as well as going with you and Laurie. Please
let me; I've been sick with this cold so long, and shut up, I'm
dying for some fun. Do, Meg! I'll be ever so good," pleaded Amy,
looking as pathetic as she could.
"Suppose we take her. I don't believe mother would mind, if we
bundle her up well," began Meg.
"If she goes I shan't; and if I don't, Laurie won't like it; and
it will be very rude, after he invited only us, to go and drag in Amy.
I should think she'd hate to poke herself where she isn't wanted,"
said Jo crossly, for she disliked the trouble of overseeing a
fidgety child, when she wanted to enjoy herself.
Her tone and manner angered Amy, who began to put her boots on,
saying, in her most aggravating way, "I shall go; Meg says I may;
and if I pay for myself, Laurie hasn't anything to do with it."
"You can't sit with us, for our seats are reserved, and you
mustn't sit alone; so Laurie will give you his place, and that will
spoil our pleasure; or he'll get another seat for you, and that
isn't proper, when you weren't asked. You shan't stir a step; so you
may just stay where you are," scolded Jo, crosser than ever, having
just pricked her finger in her hurry.
Sitting on the floor, with one boot on, Amy began to cry, and Meg to
reason with her, when Laurie called from below, and the two girls
hurried down, leaving their sister wailing; for now and then she
forgot her grownup 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.


Chapter 9 - 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 promises 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 nightcaps; would you put
some on mine?" she asked, as Beth brought up a pile of snowy
muslins, fresh from Hannah's hands.
"No, I wouldn't; for the smart caps won't match the plain gowns,
without any trimming on them. Poor folks shouldn't rig," said Jo
decidedly.
"I wonder if I shall ever be happy enough to have real lace on my
clothes, and bows on my caps?" said Meg impatiently.
"You said the other day that you'd be perfectly happy if you could
only go to Annie Moffat's," observed Beth, in her quiet way.
"So I did! Well, I am happy, and I won't fret; but it does seem as
if the more one gets the more one wants, doesn't it? There, now, the
trays are ready, and everything in but my ball-dress, which I shall
leave for mother to pack," said Meg, cheering up, as she glanced
from the half-filled trunk to the many-times pressed and mended
white 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 theaters and operas, or
frolicked at home in the evening; for Annie had many friends, and knew
how to entertain them. Her older sisters were very fine young
ladies, and one was engaged, which was extremely interesting and
romantic, Meg thought. Mr. Moffat was a fat, jolly old gentleman,
who knew her father; and Mrs. Moffat, a fat, jolly old lady, who
took as great a fancy to Meg as her daughter had done. 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, cherie?" asked Miss Belle.
"He's too old."
"My child, what do you mean? What is his age, I beg to know!"
cried Miss Clara.
"Nearly seventy, I believe," answered Meg, counting stitches, to
hide the merriment in her eyes.
"You sly creature! Of course we meant the young man," exclaimed Miss
Belle, laughing.
"There isn't any; Laurie is only a little boy," and Meg laughed also
at the queer look which the sisters exchanged as she thus described
her supposed lover.
"About your age," Nan said.
"Nearer my sister Jo's; I am seventeen in August," returned Meg,
tossing her head.
"It's very nice of him to send you flowers, isn't it?" said Annie,
looking wise about nothing.
"Yes, he often does, to all of us; for their house is full, and we
are so fond of them. My mother and old Mr. Laurence are friends, you
know, so it is quite natural that we children should play together";
and Meg hoped they would say no more.
"It's evident Daisy isn't out yet," said Miss Clara to Belle, with a
nod.
"Quite a pastoral state of innocence all round," returned Miss
Belle, with a shrug.
"I'm going out to get some little matters for my girls; can I do
anything for you, young ladies?" asked Mrs. Moffat, lumbering in, like
an elephant, in silk and lace.
"No, thank you, ma'am," replied Sallie. "I've got my new pink silk
for Thursday, and don't want a thing."
"Nor I-" began Meg, but stopped, because it occurred to her that she
did want several things, and could not have them.
"What shall you wear?" asked Sallie. "My old white one again, if I
can mend it fit to be seen; it got sadly torn last night," said Meg,
trying to speak quite easily, but feeling very uncomfortable.
"Why don't you send home for another?" said Sallie, who was not an
observing young lady.
"I haven't got any other." It cost Meg an effort to say that, but
Sallie did not see it, and exclaimed, in amiable surprise-
"Only that? How funny-" She did not finish her speech, for Belle
shook her head at her, and broke in, saying kindly-
"Not at all; where is the use of having a lot of dresses when she
isn't out? There's no need of sending home, Daisy, even if you had a
dozen, for I've got a sweet blue silk laid away, which I've
outgrown, and you shall wear it, to please me, won't you, dear?"
"You are very kind, but I don't mind my old dress, if you don't;
it does well enough for a little girl like me," said Meg.
"Now do let me please myself by dressing you up in style. I admire
to do it, and you'd be a regular little beauty, with a touch here
and there. I shan't let 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 soupcon of rouge," if Meg had not
rebelled. They laced her into a sky-blue dress, which was so tight she
could hardly breathe, and so low in the neck that modest Meg blushed
at herself in the mirror. A set of silver filagree was added,
bracelets, necklace, brooch, and even earrings; for Hortense tied them
on, with a bit of pink silk, which did not show. A cluster of
tea-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, tres jolie, is she not?" cried Hortense,
clasping her hands in an affected rapture.
"Come and show yourself," said Miss Belle, leading the way to the
room where the others were waiting.
As Meg went rustling after, with her long skirts trailing, her
earrings tinkling, her curls waving, and her heart beating, she felt
as if her "fun" had really begun at last, for the mirror had plainly
told her that she was "a little beauty." Her friends repeated the
pleasing phrase enthusiastically; and, for several minutes, she stood,
like 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 criticized the rest of the party, inquired who
she was, with an air of interest. She heard Mrs. Moffat reply to one
of them-
"Daisy March- father a colonel in the army- one of our first
families, but reverses of fortune, you know; intimate friends of the
Laurences; sweet creature, I assure you; my Ned is quite wild about
her."
"Dear me!" said the old lady, putting up her glass for another
observation of Meg, who tried to look as if she had not heard, and
been rather shocked at Mrs. Moffat's fibs.
The "queer feeling" did not pass away, but she imagined herself
acting the new part of fine lady, and so got on pretty well, though
the tight dress gave her a side-ache, the train kept getting under her
feet, and she was in constant fear lest her 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 a 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 Moffats."
"We are prepared," said Mrs. March, smiling, but looking a little
anxious.
"I told you they dressed me up, but I didn't tell you that they
powdered and squeezed and frizzled, and made me look like a
fashion-plate. Laurie thought I wasn't proper; I know he did, though
he didn't say so, and one man called me 'a doll.' I knew it was silly,
but they flattered me, and said I was a beauty, and quantities of
nonsense, so I let them make a fool of me."
"Is that all?" asked Jo, as Mrs. March looked silently at the
downcast face of her pretty daughter, and could not find it in her
heart to blame her little follies.
"No; I drank champagne and romped and tried to flirt, and was
altogether abominable," said Meg self-reproachfully.
"There is something more, I think"; and Mrs. March smoothed the soft
cheek, which suddenly grew rosy, as Meg answered slowly-
"Yes; it's very silly, but I want to tell it, because I hate to have
people say and think such things about us and Laurie."
Then she told the various bits of gossip she had heard at the
Moffats'; and, as she spoke, Jo saw her mother fold her lips
tightly, as if ill pleased that such ideas should be put into Meg's
innocent mind.
"Well, if that isn't the greatest rubbish I ever heard," cried Jo
indignantly. "Why didn't you pop out and tell them so, on the spot?"
"I couldn't, it was so embarrassing for me. I couldn't help hearing,
at first, and then I was so angry and ashamed, I didn't remember
that I ought to go away."
"Just wait till I see Annie Moffat, and I'll show you how to
settle such ridiculous stuff. The idea of having 'plans,' and being
kind to Laurie, because he's rich, and may marry us by and by! Won't
he shout, when I tell him what those silly things say about us poor
children?" and Jo laughed, as if, on second thoughts, the thing struck
her as a good joke.
"If you tell Laurie, I'll never forgive you! She mustn't, must
she, mother?" said Meg, looking distressed.
"No; never repeat that foolish gossip, and forget it as soon as
you can said Mrs. March gravely. "I was very unwise to let you go
among people of whom I know so little- kind, I dare say, but
worldly, ill-bred, and full of these vulgar ideas about young
people. I am more sorry than I can express for the mischief this visit
may have done you, Meg."
"Don't be sorry, I won't let it hurt me; I'll forget all the bad,
and remember only the good; for I did enjoy a great deal, and thank
you very much for letting me go. I'll not be sentimental or
dissatisfied, mother; I know I'm a silly little girl, and I'll stay
with you till I'm fit to take care of myself. But it is nice to be
praised, and admired, and I can't help saying I like it," said Meg,
looking half ashamed of the confession.
"That is perfectly natural, and quite harmless, if the liking does
not become a passion, and lead one to do foolish or unmaidenly things.
Learn to know and value the praise which is worth having, and to
excite the admiration of excellent people by being modest as well as
pretty, Meg."
Margaret sat thinking a moment, while Jo stood with her hands behind
her, looking both interested and a little perplexed; for it was a
new thing to see Meg blushing and talking about admiration, lovers,
and things of that sort; and Jo felt as if, during that fortnight, her
sister had grown up amazingly, and was drifting away from her into a
world where she could not follow.
"Mother, do you have 'plans,' as Mrs. Moffat said?" asked Meg
bashfully.
"Yes, my dear, I have a great many; all mothers do, but mine
differ somewhat from Mrs. Moffat's, I suspect. I will tell you some of
them, for the time has come when a word may set this romantic little
head and heart of yours right, on a very serious subject. You are
young, Meg, but not too young to understand me; and mothers' lips
are the fittest to speak of such things to girls like you. Jo, your
turn will come in time, perhaps, so listen to my 'plans,' and help
me carry them out, if they are good."
Jo went and sat on one arm of the chair, looking as if she thought
they were about to join in some very solemn affair. Holding a hand
of each, and watching the two young faces wistfully, Mrs. March
said, in her serious yet cheery way-
"I want my daughters to be beautiful, accomplished, and good; to
be admired, loved, and respected; to have a happy youth, to be well
and wisely married, and to lead useful, pleasant lives, with as little
care and sorrow to try them as God sees fit to send. To be loved and
chosen by a good man is the best and sweetest thing which can happen
to a woman; and I sincerely hope my girls may know this beautiful
experience. It is natural to think of it, Meg; right to hope and
wait for it, and wise to prepare for it; so that, when the happy
time comes, you may feel ready for the duties and worthy of the joy.
My dear girls, I am ambitious for you, but not to have you make a dash
in the world- marry rich men merely because they are rich, or have
splendid houses, which are not homes because love is wanting. Money is
a needful and precious thing- and, when well used, a noble thing-
but I never want you to think it is the first or only prize to
strive for. I'd rather see you poor men's wives, if you were happy,
beloved, contented, than queens on thrones, without self-respect and
peace."
"Poor girls don't stand any chance, Belle says, unless they put
themselves forward," sighed Meg.
"Then we'll be old maids," said Jo stoutly.
"Right, Jo; better be happy old maids than unhappy wives, or
unmaidenly girls, running about to find husbands," said Mrs. March
decidedly. "Don't be troubled, Meg; poverty seldom daunts a sincere
lover. Some of the best and most honored women I know were poor girls,
but so love-worthy that they were not allowed to be old maids. Leave
these things to time; make this home happy, so that you may be fit for
homes of your own, if they are offered you, and contented here if they
are not. One thing remember, my girls: mother is always ready to be
your confidant, father to be your friend; and both of us 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.






Chapter 10 - 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 their badges round their heads, and took their
seats with great solemnity. Meg, as the eldest, was Samuel Pickwick;
Jo, being of a literary turn, Augustus Snodgrass; Beth, because she
was round and rosy, Tracy Tupman; and Amy, who was always trying to do
what she couldn't, was Nathaniel Winkle. Pickwick, the president, read
the paper, which was filled with original tales, poetry, local news,
funny advertisements, and hints, in which they good-naturedly reminded
each other of their faults and short-comings. On one occasion, Mr.
Pickwick put on a pair of spectacles without any 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
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Poet's Corner :
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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.
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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.
"'T is 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.
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Why is the P.C. like the Tower of Babel!
It is full of unruly members.

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The History of a Squash

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

T. Tupman.
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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.]

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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.

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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.


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Advertisements
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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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A new play will appear at the Barnville Theater, 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!!!

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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.

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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 twingling 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!






Chapter 11 - 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,
'Josyphine, won't you-?' I didn't hear any more, for I basely turned
and fled; I did actually run, and whisked round the corner, where I
felt safe."
"Poor old Jo! she came in looking as if bears were after her,"
said Beth, as she cuddled her sister's feet with a motherly air.
"Aunt March is a regular samphire, is she not?" observed Amy,
tasting her mixture critically.
"She means vampire, not 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 furnish them up a la Moffat. Jo read
till her eyes gave out, and she was sick of books; got so fidgety that
even good-natured Laurie had a quarrel with her, and so reduced in
spirits that she desperately wished she had gone with Aunt March. Beth
got on pretty well, for she was constantly forgetting that it was to
be all play, and no work, and fell back into her old ways now and
then; but something in the air affected her, and, more than once,
her 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; 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
with 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
downstairs. "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 shan't be baked, now he's dead. I'll make
him a shroud, and he shall be buried in the garden; and I'll never
have another bird, never, my Pip! for I am too bad to own one,"
murmured Beth, sitting on the floor with her pet folded in her hands.
"The funeral shall be this afternoon, and we will all go. Now, don't
cry, Bethy; it's a pity, but nothing goes right this week, and Pip has
had the worst of the experiment. Make the shroud, and lay him in my
box; and, after the dinner-party, we'll have a nice little funeral,"
said Jo, beginning to feel as if she had undertaken a good deal.
Leaving the others to console Beth, she departed to the kitchen,
which was in a most discouraging state of confusion. Putting on a
big apron, she fell to work, and got the dishes piled up ready for
washing, when she discovered that the fire was out.
"Here's a sweet prospect!" muttered Jo, slamming the stove-door
open, and poking vigorously among the cinders.
Having rekindled the fire, she thought she would go to market
while the water heated. The walk revived her spirits; and,
flattering herself that she had made good bargains, she trudged home
again, after buying a very young lobster, some very old asparagus, and
two boxes of acid strawberries. By the time she got cleared up, the
dinner arrived, and the stove was red-hot. Hannah had left a pan of
bread to rise, Meg had worked it up early, set it on the hearth for
a second rising, and forgotten it. Meg was entertaining Sallie
Gardiner in the parlor, when the door flew open, and a floury, crocky,
flushed, and 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, criticized everything, and told stories of the people
whom she knew.
Language cannot describe the anxieties, experiences, and exertions
which Jo underwent that morning; and the dinner she served up became a
standing joke. Fearing to ask any more advice, she did her best alone,
and discovered that something more than energy and good-will is
necessary to make a cook. She boiled the asparagus for an hour, and
was grieved to find the heads cooked off and the stalks harder than
ever. The bread 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!" began Jo, usually the first
to speak.
"It has seemed shorter than usual, but so uncomfortable," said Meg.
"Not a bit like home," added Amy.
"It can't seem so without Marmee and little Pip," sighed Beth,
glancing, with full eyes, at the empty cage above her head.
"Here's mother, dear, and you shall have another bird 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 buttonholes, and attend
to my parts of speech."
"Very good! then I am quite satisfied with the experiment, and fancy
that we shall not have to repeat it; only don't go to the other
extreme, and delve like slaves. Have regular hours for work and
play; make each day both useful and pleasant, and prove that you
understand the worth of time by employing it well. Then youth will
be delightful, old age will bring few regrets, and life become a
beautiful success, in spite of poverty."
"We'll remember, mother!" and they did.



Chapter 12 - 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
wrist-bands.
"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, Betty?"
"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
tomorrow with free minds," said Jo, preparing to replace her pen
with a broom.
When the sun peeped into the girls' room early next morning, to
promise them a fine day, he saw a comical sight. Each had made such
preparation for the fete as seemed necessary and proper. Meg had an
extra row of little 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 encyclopaedia of
useful knowledge. He never talked to her much; but he looked at her
a good deal, and she felt sure that he did not regard her with
aversion. Ned, being in college, of course put on all the airs which
Freshmen think it their bounden duty to assume; he was not very
wise, but very good-natured, and altogether an excellent person to
carry on a picnic. Sallie Gardiner was absorbed in keeping her white
pique dress clean, and chattering with the ubiquitous Fred, who kept
Beth in constant terror by his pranks.
It was not far to Longmeadow; but the tent was pitched and the
wickets down by the time they arrived. A pleasant green field, with
three wide-spreading oaks in the middle, and a smooth strip of turf
for croquet.
"Welcome to Camp Laurence!" said the young host, as they landed,
with exclamations of delight.
"Brooke is commander-in-chief; I am commissary-general; the other
fellows are staff-officers; and you, ladies, are company. The tent
is for your especial benefit, and that oak is your drawing-room;
this is the messroom, and the third is the camp-kitchen. Now, let's
have a game before it gets hot, and then we'll see about dinner."
Frank, Beth, Amy, and Grace sat down to watch the game played by the
other eight. Mr. Brooke chose Meg, Kate, and Fred; Laurie took Sallie,
Jo, and Ned. The 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,
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.
"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 shamed 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
sister's 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 shortcomings.
"She's not a stricken deer, anyway," said Ned, trying to be witty,
and succeeding as well as very young gentlemen usually do.
On the lawn, where it had gathered, the little party separated
with cordial good-nights and good-byes, for the Vaughns were going
to Canada. As the four sisters went home through the garden, Miss Kate
looked after them, saying, without the patronizing tone in her
voice, "In spite of their demonstrative manners, American girls are
very nice when one knows them."
"I quite agree with you," said Mr. Brooke.






Chapter 13 - 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 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 will be twenty-six, Teddy, Beth twenty-four, and Amy
twenty-two. What a venerable party!" said Jo.
"I hope I shall have done something to be proud of by that time; but
I'm such a lazy dog, I'm afraid I shall 'dawdle,' Jo."
"You need a motive, mother says; and when you get it, she is sure
you'll work splendidly."
"Is she? By Jupiter I will, if I only get the chance!" cried Laurie,
sitting up with sudden energy. "I ought to be satisfied to please
grandfather, and I do try, but it's working against the grain, you
see, and comes hard. He wants me to be an India merchant, as he was,
and I'd rather be shot. I hate tea and silk and spices, and every sort
of rubbish his old ships bring, and I don't care how soon they go to
the bottom when I own them. Going to college ought to satisfy him, for
if I give him four years he ought to let me off from the business; but
he's set, and I've got to do just as he did, unless I break away and
please myself, as my father did. If there was 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."






Chapter 14 - 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
doorway, looked up the dirty stairs, and, after standing stock still a
minute suddenly dived into the street, and walked away as rapidly as
she came. This manoeuvre she repeated several times, to the great
amusement of a black-eyed young gentleman lounging in the window of
a building opposite. On returning for the third time, Jo gave
herself a shake, pulled her hat over her eyes, and walked up the
stairs, looking as if she were going to have all her teeth out.
There was a dentist's sign, among others, which adorned the
entrance, and, after staring a moment at the pair of artificial jaws
which slowly opened and shut to draw attention to a fine set of teeth,
the young gentleman put on his coat, took his hat, and went down to
post himself in the opposite doorway, saying, with a smile and a
shiver-
"It's like her to come alone, but if she has a bad time she'll
need 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 shan't we feel proud of our
authoress?"
Jo's eyes sparkled, for it is always pleasant to be believed in; and
a friend's praise is always sweeter than a dozen newspaper puffs.
"Where's your secret? Play fair, Teddy, or I'll never believe you
again," she said, trying to extinguish the brilliant hopes that blazed
up at a word of encouragement.
"I may get into a scrape for telling; but I didn't promise not to,
so I will, for I never feel easy in my mind till I've told you any
plummy bit of news I get. I know where Meg's glove is."
"Is that all?" said Jo, looking disappointed, as Laurie nodded and
twinkled, with a face full of mysterious intelligence.
"It's quite enough for the present, as you'll agree when I tell
you where it is."
"Tell, then."
Laurie bent, and whispered three words in Jo's ear, which produced a
comical change. She stood and stared at him for a minute, looking both
surprised and displeased, then walked on, saying sharply, "How do
you know?"
"Saw it."
"Where?"
"Pocket."
"All this time?"
"Yes; isn't that romantic?"
"No, it's horrid."
"Don't you like it?"
"Of course I don't. It's ridiculous; it won't be allowed. My
patience! what would Meg say?"
"You are not to tell 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!" murmured 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
woebegone 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 criticized the artistic parts
of the story, and offered hints for a sequel, which unfortunately
couldn't be carried out, as the hero and heroine were dead; how Beth
got excited, and skipped and 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.


Chapter 15 - A Telegram


"November is the most disagreeable mouth 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 needlework, while Beth
and Amy got tea, and Hannah finished her ironing with what she
called a "slap and a bang," but still Jo did not come. They began to
get anxious; and Laurie went off to find her, for no one 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 tomorrow, and the happy times they would have when
father came home to be nursed.
No one wanted to go to bed, when, at ten o'clock, Mrs. March put
by the last finished job, and said, "Come, girls." Beth went to the
piano and played the father's favorite hymn; all began bravely, but
broke down one by one, till Beth was left alone, singing with all
her heart, for to her music was always a sweet consoler.
"Go to bed and don't talk, for we must be up early, and shall need
all the sleep we can get. Good-night, my darlings," said Mrs. March,
as the hymn ended, for no one cared to try another.
They kissed her quietly, and went to bed as silently as if the
dear invalid lay in the next room. Beth and Amy soon fell asleep in
spite of the great trouble, but Meg lay awake, thinking the most
serious thoughts she had ever known in her short life. Jo lay
motionless, and her sister fancied that she was asleep, till a stifled
sob made her exclaim, as she touched a wet cheek-
"Jo, dear, what is it? Are you crying about father?"
"No, not now."
"What then?"
"My- my hair!" burst out poor Jo, trying vainly to smother her
emotion in the pillow.
It did not 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."






Chapter 16 - 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 turnovers made Jo sober again; and when the two
went out to their daily tasks, they looked sorrowfully back at the
window where they were accustomed to see their mother's face. It was
gone; but Beth had remembered the little household ceremony, and there
she was, nodding away at them like a 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 a la Laurie, away
went Jo, feeling like a shorn sheep on a wintry day.
News from their father comforted the girls very much; for, though
dangerously ill, the presence of the best and tenderest of nurses
had already done him good. Mr. Brooke sent a bulletin every day,
and, as the head of the family, Meg insisted on reading the
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 hack. 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 Mullet keeps order in camp, and Major
Lion does picket duty at night. A salute of twenty-four guns was fired
on receipt of good news from Washington, and a dress parade took place
at 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.






Chapter 17 - 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 maybe 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 theater, truly?"
"A dozen theaters, if we may."
"Well- I guess- I will," said Amy slowly.
"Good girl! Call Meg, and tell her you'll give in," said Laurie,
with an approving pat, which annoyed Amy more than the "giving in."
Meg and Jo came running down to behold the miracle which had been
wrought; and Amy, feeling very precious and self-sacrificing, promised
to go, if the doctor said Beth was going to be ill.
"How is the little dear?" asked Laurie; for Beth was his especial
pet, and he felt more anxious about her than he liked to show.
"She is lying down on mother's bed, and feels better. The baby's
death troubled her, but I dare say she has only got cold. Hannah
says she thinks so; but she looks worried, and that makes me fidgety,"
answered Meg.
"What a trying world it is!" said Jo, rumpling up her hair in a
fretful 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.






Chapter 18 - 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 protege. She longed
for her cats, but would not have them brought, lest they should get
sick; and, in her quiet hours, she was full of anxiety about Jo. She
sent loving messages to Amy, bade them tell her mother that she
would write soon; and often begged for pencil and paper to try to
say a word, that father might not think she had neglected him. But
soon even these intervals of consciousness ended, and she lay hour
after hour, tossing to and fro, with incoherent words on her lips,
or sank into a heavy sleep which brought her no refreshment. Dr. Bangs
came twice a day, Hannah sat up at night, Meg kept a telegram in her
desk all ready to send off at any minute, and Jo never stirred from
Beth's side.
The first of December was a wintry day indeed to them, for a
bitter wind blew, snow fell fast, and the year seemed getting ready
for its death. When Dr. Bangs came that morning, he looked long at
Beth, held the hot hand in both his own 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 vineleaves 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!"






Chapter 19 - 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 ideal 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 bequeath 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 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: Estelle Valnor, Theodore Laurence.


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


Chapter 20 - 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 upstairs into Beth's room, and,
finding her mother in her usual place, stood a minute twisting her
fingers in her hair, with a worried gesture and an undecided look.
"What is it, deary?" asked Mrs. March, holding out her hand, with
a face which invited confidence.
"I want to tell you something, mother."
"About Meg?"
"How quickly you guessed! Yes, it's about her, and though it's a
little thing, it fidgets me."
"Beth is asleep; speak low, and tell me all about it. That Moffat
hasn't been here, I hope?" asked Mrs. March rather sharply.
"No, I should have shut the door in his face if he had," said Jo,
settling herself on the floor at her mother's feet. "Last summer Meg
left a pair of gloves over at the Laurences', and only one was
returned. We forgot 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 know 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."






Chapter 21 - 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 flew into the study, and Mrs.
March received the culprit alone. Jo had not told him why he was
wanted, fearing he wouldn't come; but he knew the minute he saw Mrs.
March's face, and stood twirling his hat, with a guilty air which
convicted him at once. Jo was dismissed, but chose to march up and
down the hall like a sentinel, having some fear that the prisoner
might bolt. The sound of voices in the parlor rose and fell for half
an hour; but what happened during that interview the girls never knew.
When they were called in, Laurie was standing by their mother,
with such a penitent face that Jo forgave him on the spot, but did not
think it wise to betray the fact. Meg received his humble apology, and
was much comforted by the assurance that Brooke knew nothing of the
joke.
"I'll never tell him to my dying day- wild horses shan't drag it out
of me; so you'll forgive me, Meg, and I'll do anything to show how
out-and-out sorry I am," he added, looking very much ashamed of
himself.
"I'll try; but it was a very ungentlemanly thing to do. I didn't
think you could be so sly and malicious, Laurie," replied Meg,
trying to hide her maidenly confusion under a gravely reproachful air.
"It was altogether abominable, and I don't deserve to be spoken to
for a month; but you will, though, won't you?" and Laurie folded his
hands together with such 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
downstairs.
"Yes, miss; but I don't believe he's seeable just yet."
"Why not? is he ill?"
"La, no, miss, but he's had a scene with Mr. Laurie, who is in one
of his tantrums about something, which vexes the old gentleman, so I
dursn't go nigh him."
"Where is Laurie?"
"Shut up in his room, and he won't answer, though I've been
a-tapping. I don't know what's to become of the dinner, for it's
ready, and there's no one to eat it."
"I'll go and see what the matter is. I'm not afraid of either of
them."
Up went Jo, and knocked smartly on the door of Laurie's little
study.
"Stop that, or I'll open the door and make you!" called out the
young gentleman, in a threatening tone.
Jo immediately knocked again; the door flew open, and in she
bounced, before Laurie could recover from his surprise. Seeing that he
really was out of temper, Jo, who knew how to manage him, assumed a
contrite expression, and going artistically down upon her knees,
said meekly, "Please forgive me for being so cross. I came to make
it up, and can't go away till I have."
"It's all right. Get up, and don't be a goose, Jo," was the cavalier
reply to her petition.
"Thank you; I will. Could I ask what's the matter? You don't look
exactly easy in your mind."
"I've been shaken, and I won't bear it!" growled Laurie indignantly.
"Who did it?" demanded Jo.
"Grandfather; if it had been 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, 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.
"If I were you, I'd write him an apology, sir. He says he won't come
down till he has one, and talks about Washington, and goes on in an
absurd way. A formal apology will make him see how foolish he is,
and bring him down quite amiable. Try it; he likes fun, and this way
is better than talking. I'll carry it up, and teach him his duty."
Mr. Laurence gave her a sharp look, and put on his spectacles,
saying slowly, "You're a sly puss, but I don't mind being managed by
you and Beth. Here, give me a bit of paper, and let us have done
with this nonsense."
The note was written in the terms which one gentleman would use to
another after offering some deep insult. Jo dropped a kiss on the
top of Mr. Laurence's bald head, and ran up to slip the apology
under Laurie's door, advising him, through the key-hole, to be
submissive, decorous, and a few other agreeable impossibilities.
Finding the door locked again, she left the note to do its work, and
was going quietly away, when the young gentleman slid down the
banisters, and waited for her at the bottom, saying, with his most
virtuous expression of countenance, "What a good fellow you are, Jo!
Did you get blown up?" he added, laughing.
"No; he was pretty mild, on the whole."
"Ah! I got it all round; even you cast me off over there, and I felt
just ready to go to the deuce," he began apologetically.
"Don't talk in that way; turn over a new leaf and begin again,
Teddy, my son."
"I keep turning over new leaves, and spoiling them, as I used to
spoil my copy-books; and I make so many beginnings there never will be
an end," he said dolefully.
"Go and eat your dinner; you'll feel better after it. Men always
croak when they are hungry," and Jo whisked out at the front door
after that.
"That's a 'label' on my 'sect,'" answered Laurie, quoting Amy, as he
went to partake of humble-pie dutifully with his grandfather, who
was quite saintly in temper and overwhelmingly respectful in manner
all the rest of the day.
Every one thought the matter ended and the little cloud blown
over; but the mischief was done, for, though others forgot it, Meg
remembered. She never alluded to a certain person, but she thought
of him a good deal, dreamed dreams more than ever; and once Jo,
rummaging her sister's desk for stamps, found a bit of paper scribbled
over with the words, "Mrs. John Brooke"; whereat she groaned
tragically, and cast it into the fire, feeling that Laurie's prank had
hastened the evil day for her.






Chapter 23 - Aunt March Settles the Question


Like bees swarming after their queen, mother and daughters hovered
about Mr. March the next day, neglecting everything to look at, wait
upon, and listen to the new invalid, who was in a fair way to be
killed by kindness. As he sat propped up in a big chair by Beth's
sofa, with the other three close by, and Hannah popping in her head
now and then, "to peek at the dear man," nothing seemed needed to
complete their happiness. But something was needed, and the elder ones
felt it, though none confessed the fact. Mr. and Mrs. March looked
at one another with an anxious expression, as their eyes followed Meg.
Jo had sudden fits of sobriety, and was seen to shake her fist at
Mr. Brooke's umbrella, which had been left in the hall; Meg was
absent-minded, shy, and silent, started when the bell rang, and
colored when John's name was mentioned; Amy said "Every one seemed
waiting for something, and couldn't settle down, which was queer,
since father was safe at home," and Beth innocently wondered why their
neighbors didn't run over as usual.
Laurie went by in the afternoon, and, seeing Meg at the window,
seemed suddenly possessed with a melodramatic fit, for he fell down
upon one knee in the snow, beat his breast, tore his hair, and clasped
his hands imploringly, as if begging some boon; and when Meg told
him to behave himself and go away, he wrung imaginary tears out of his
handkerchief, and staggered round the corner as if in utter despair.
"What does the goose mean?" said Meg, laughing, and trying to look
unconscious.
"He's showing you how your John will go on by and by. Touching,
isn't it?" answered Jo scornfully.
"Don't say my John, it isn't proper or true"; but Meg's voice
lingered over the words as if they sounded pleasant to her. "Please
don't plague me, Jo; I've told you I don't care much about him, and
there isn't to be anything said, but we are all to be friendly, and go
on as before."
"We can't, for something has been said, and Laurie's mischief has
spoilt you for me. I see it, and so does mother; you are not like your
old self a bit, and seem ever so far away from me. I don't mean to
plague you, and will bear it like a man, but I do wish it was all
settled. I hate to wait; so if you mean ever to do it, make haste
and have it over quickly," said Jo pettishly.
"I can't say or do anything till he speaks, and he won't, because
father said I was too young," began Meg, bending over her work, with a
queer little smile, which suggested that she did not quite agree
with her father on that point.
"If he did speak, you wouldn't know what to say, but would cry or
blush, or let him have his own way, instead of giving a good, decided,
No."
"I'm not so silly and weak as you think. I know just what I should
say, for I've planned it all, so I needn't be taken unawares;
there's no knowing what may happen, and I wished to be prepared."
Jo couldn't help smiling at the important air which Meg had
unconsciously assumed, and which was as becoming as the pretty color
varying in her cheeks.
"Would you mind telling me what you'd say?" asked Jo more
respectfully.
"Not at all; you are sixteen now, quite old enough to be my
confidant, and my experience will be useful to you by and by, perhaps,
in your own affairs of this sort."
"Don't mean to have any; it's fun to watch other people philander,
but I should feel like a fool doing it myself," said Jo, looking
alarmed at the thought.
"I think not, if you liked any one very much, and he liked you." Meg
spoke as if to herself, and glanced out at the lane, where she had
often seen lovers walking together in the summer twilight.
"I thought you were going to tell your speech to that man," said Jo,
rudely shortening her sister's little reverie.
"Oh, I should merely say, quite calmly and decidedly, 'Thank you,
Mr. Brooke, you are very kind, but I agree with father that I am too
young to enter into any engagement at present; so please say no
more, but let us be friends as we were.'"
"Hum! that's stiff and cool enough. I don't believe you'll ever
say it, and I know he won't be satisfied if you do. If he goes on like
the rejected lovers in books, you'll give in, rather than hurt his
feelings."
"No, I won't. I shall tell him I've made up my mind, and shall
walk out of the room with dignity."
Meg rose as she spoke, and was just going to rehearse the
dignified exit, when a step in the hall made her fly into her seat,
and begin to sew as if her life depended on finishing that
particular seam in a given time. Jo smothered a laugh at the sudden
change, and, when some one gave a modest tap, opened the door with a
grim aspect, which was anything but hospitable.
"Good afternoon. I came to get my umbrella- that is, to see how your
father finds himself to-day," said Mr. Brooke, getting a trifle
confused as his eye went from one tell-tale face to the other.
"It's very well, he's in the rack, I'll get him, and tell it you are
here," and having jumbled her father and the umbrella well together in
her reply, Jo slipped out of the room to give Meg a chance to make her
speech and air her dignity. But the instant she vanished, Meg began to
sidle towards the door, murmuring-
"Mother will like to see you. Pray sit down, I'll call her."
"Don't go; are you afraid of me, Margaret?" and Mr. Brooke looked so
hurt that Meg thought she must have done something very rude. She
blushed up to the little curls on her forehead, for he had never
called her Margaret before, and she was surprised to find how
natural and sweet it seemed to hear him say it. Anxious to appear
friendly and at her ease, she put out her hand with a confiding
gesture, and said gratefully-
"How can I be afraid when you have been so kind to father? I only
wish I could thank you for it."
"Shall I tell you how?" asked Mr. Brooke, holding the small hand
fast in both his own, and looking down at Meg with so much love in the
brown eyes, that her heart began to flutter, and she both longed to
run away and to stop and listen.
"Oh no, please don't- I'd rather not," she said, trying to
withdraw her hand, and looking frightened in spite of her denial.
"I won't trouble you, I only want to know if you care for me a
little, Meg. I love you so much, dear," added Mr. Brooke tenderly.
This was the moment for the calm, proper speech, but Meg didn't make
it; she forgot every word of it, hung her head, and answered, "I don't
know," so softly, that John had to stoop down to catch the foolish
little reply.
He seemed to think it was worth the trouble, for he smiled to
himself as if quite satisfied, pressed the plump hand gratefully,
and said, in his most persuasive tone, "Will you try and find out? I
want to know so much; for I can't go to work with any heart until I
learn whether I am to have my reward in the end or not."
"I'm too young," faltered Meg, wondering why she was so fluttered,
yet rather enjoying it.
"I'll wait; and in the meantime, you could be learning to like me.
Would it be a very hard lesson, dear?"
"Not if I chose to learn it, but-"
"Please choose to learn, Meg. I love to teach, and this is easier
than German," broke in John, getting possession of the other hand,
so that she had no way of hiding her face, as he bent to look into it.
His tone was properly beseeching; but, stealing a shy look at him,
Meg saw that his eyes were merry as well as tender, and that he wore
the satisfied smile of one who had no doubt of his success. This
nettled her; Annie Moffat's foolish lessons in coquetry came into
her mind, and the love of power, which sleeps in the bosoms of the
best of little women, woke up all of a sudden and took possession of
her. She felt excited and strange, and, not knowing what else to do,
followed a capricious impulse, and, withdrawing her hands, said
petulantly, "I don't choose. Please go away and let me be!"
Poor Mr. Brooke looked as if his lovely castle in the air was
tumbling about his ears, for he had never seen Meg in such a mood
before, and it rather bewildered him.
"Do you really mean that?" he asked anxiously, following her as
she walked away.
"Yes, I do; I don't want to be worried about such things. Father
says I needn't; it's too soon and I'd rather not."
"Mayn't I hope you'll change your mind by and by? I'll wait, and say
nothing till you have had more time. Don't play with me, Meg. I didn't
think that of you."
"Don't think of me at all. I'd rather you wouldn't," said Meg,
taking a naughty satisfaction in trying her lover's patience and her
own power.
He was grave and pale now, and looked decidedly more like the
novel heroes whom she admired; but he neither slapped his forehead nor
tramped about the room, as they did; he just stood looking at her so
wistfully, so tenderly, that she found her heart relenting in spite of
her. What would have happened next I cannot say, if Aunt March had not
come hobbling in at this interesting minute.
The old lady couldn't resist her longing to see her nephew, for
she had met Laurie as she took her airing, and, hearing of Mr. March's
arrival, drove straight out to see him. The family were all busy in
the back part of the house, and she had made her way quietly in,
hoping to surprise them. She did surprise two of them so much that Meg
started as if she had seen a ghost, and Mr. Brooke vanished into the
study.
"Bless me, what's all this?" cried the old lady, with a rap of her
cane, as she glanced from the pale young gentleman to the scarlet
young lady.
"It's father's friend. I'm so surprised to see you!" stammered
Meg, feeling that she was in for a lecture now.
"That's evident," returned Aunt March, sitting down. "But what is
father's friend saying to make you look like a peony? There's mischief
going on, and I insist upon knowing what it is," with another rap.
"We were merely talking. Mr. Brooke came for his umbrella," began
Meg, wishing that Mr. Brooke and the umbrella were safely out of the
house.
"Brooke? That boy's tutor? Ah! I understand now. I know all about
it. Jo blundered into a wrong message in one of your father's letters,
and I made her tell me. You haven't gone and accepted him, child?"
cried Aunt March, looking scandalized.
"Hush! he'll hear. Shan't I call mother?" said Meg, much troubled.
"Not yet. I've something to say to you, and I must free my mind at
once. Tell me, do you mean to marry this Cook? If you do, not one
penny of my money ever goes to you. Remember that, and be a sensible
girl," said the old lady impressively.
Now Aunt March possessed in perfection the art of rousing the spirit
of opposition in the gentlest people, and enjoyed doing it. The best
of us have a spice of perversity in us, especially when we are young
and in love. If Aunt March had begged Meg to accept John Brooke, she
would probably have declared she couldn't think of it; but as she
was peremptorily ordered not to like him, she immediately made up
her mind that she would. Inclination as well as perversity made the
decision easy, and, being already much excited, Meg opposed the old
lady with unusual spirit.
"I shall marry whom I please, Aunt March, and you can leave your
money to any one you like," she said, nodding her head with a resolute
air.
"Highty tighty! Is that the way you take my advice, miss? You'll
be sorry for it, by and by, when you've tried love in a cottage, and
found it a failure."
"It can't be a worse one than some people find in big houses,"
retorted Meg.
Aunt March put on her glasses and took a look at the girl, for she
did not know her in this new mood. Meg hardly knew herself, she felt
so brave and independent- so glad to defend John, and assert her right
to love him, if she liked. Aunt March saw that she had begun wrong,
and, after a little pause, made a fresh start, saying, as mildly as
she could, "Now, Meg, my dear, be reasonable, and take my advice. I
mean it kindly, and don't want you to spoil your whole life by
making a mistake at the beginning. You ought to marry well, and help
your family; it's your duty to make a rich match, and it ought to be
impressed upon you."
"Father and mother don't think so; they like John, though he is
poor."
"Your parents, my dear, have no more worldly wisdom than two
babies."
"I'm glad of it," cried Meg stoutly.
Aunt March took no notice, but went on with her lecture. "This
Rook is poor, and hasn't got any rich relations, has he?"
"No; but he has many warm friends."
"You can't live on friends; try it, and see how cool they'll grow.
He hasn't any business, has he?"
"Not yet; Mr. Laurence is going to help him."
"That won't last long. James Laurence is a crochety old fellow,
and not to be depended on. So you intend to marry a man without money,
position, or business, and go on working harder than you do now,
when you might be comfortable all your days by minding me and doing
better? I thought you had more sense, Meg."
"I couldn't do better if I waited half my life! John is good and
wise; he's got heaps of talent; he's willing to work, and sure to
get on, he's so energetic and brave. Every one likes and respects him,
and I'm proud to think he cares for me, though I'm so poor and young
and silly," said Meg, looking prettier than ever in her earnestness.
"He knows you have got rich relations, child; that's the secret of
his liking, I suspect."
"Aunt March, how dare you say such a thing? John is above such
meanness, and I won't listen to you a minute if you talk so," cried
Meg indignantly, forgetting everything but the injustice of the old
lady's suspicions. "My John wouldn't marry for money, any more than
I would. We are willing to work, and we mean to wait. I'm not afraid
of being poor, for I've been happy so far, and I know I shall be
with him, because he loves me, and I-"
Meg stopped there, remembering all of a sudden that she hadn't
made up her mind; that she had told "her John" to go away, and that he
might be overhearing her inconsistent remarks.
Aunt March was very angry, for she had set her heart on having her
pretty niece make a fine match, and something in the girl's happy
young face made the lonely old woman feel both sad and sour.
"Well, I wash my hands of the whole affair! You are a wilful
child, and you've lost more than you know by this piece of folly.
No, I won't stop; I'm disappointed in you, and haven't spirits to
see your father now. Don't expect anything from me when you are
married: your Mr. Book's friends must take care of you. I'm done
with you forever."
And, slamming the door in Meg's face, Aunt March drove off in high
dudgeon. She seemed to take all the girl's courage with her; for, when
left alone, Meg stood a moment, undecided whether to laugh or cry.
Before she could make up her mind, she was taken possession of by
Mr. Brooke, who said, all in one breath, "I couldn't help hearing,
Meg. Thank you for defending me, and Aunt March for proving that you
do care for me a little bit."
"I didn't know how much, till she abused you," began Meg.
"And I needn't go away, but may stay and be happy, may I, dear?"
Here was another fine chance to make the crushing speech and the
stately exit, but Meg never thought of doing either, and disgraced
herself forever in Jo's eyes by meekly whispering, "Yes, John," and
hiding her face on Mr. Brooke's waistcoat.
Fifteen minutes after Aunt March's departure, Jo came softly
downstairs, paused an instant at the parlor door, and, hearing no
sound within, nodded and smiled, with a satisfied expression, saying
to herself, "She has sent him away as we planned, and that affair is
settled. I'll go and hear the fun, and have a good laugh over it."
But poor Jo never got her laugh, for she was transfixed upon the
threshold by a spectacle which held her there, staring with her
mouth nearly as wide open as her eyes. Going in to exult over a fallen
enemy, and to praise a strong-minded sister for the banishment of an
objectionable lover, it certainly was a shock to behold the
aforesaid enemy serenely sitting on the sofa, with the strong-minded
sister enthroned upon his knee, and wearing an expression of the
most abject submission. Jo gave a sort of gasp, as if a cold
shower-bath had suddenly fallen upon her- for such an unexpected
turning of the tables actually took her breath away. At the odd sound,
the lovers turned and saw her. Meg jumped up, looking both proud and
shy; but "that man," as Jo called him, actually laughed, and said
coolly, as he kissed the astonished new-comer, "Sister Jo,
congratulate us!"
That was adding insult to injury- it was altogether too much- and,
making some wild demonstration with her hands, Jo vanished without a
word. Rushing upstairs, she startled the invalids by exclaiming
tragically, as she burst into the room, "Oh, do somebody go down
quick; John Brooke is acting dreadfully, and Meg likes it!"
Mr. and Mrs. March left the room with speed; and, casting herself
upon the bed, Jo cried and scolded tempestuously as she told the awful
news to Beth and Amy. The little girls, however, considered it a
most agreeable and interesting event, and Jo got little comfort from
them; so she went up to her refuge in the garret, and confided her
troubles to the rats.
Nobody ever knew what went on in the parlor that afternoon; but a
great deal of talking was done, and quiet Mr. Brooke astonished his
friends by the eloquence and spirit with which he pleaded his suit,
told his plans, and persuaded them to arrange everything just as he
wanted it.
The tea-bell rang before he had finished describing the paradise
which he meant to earn for Meg, and he proudly took her in to
supper, both looking so happy that Jo hadn't the heart to be jealous
or dismal. Amy was very much impressed by John's devotion and Meg's
dignity, Beth beamed at them from a distance, while Mr. and Mrs. March
surveyed the young couple with such tender satisfaction that it was
perfectly evident Aunt March was right in calling them as "unworldly
as a pair of babies." No one ate much, but every one looked very
happy, and the old room seemed to brighten up amazingly when the first
romance of the family began there.
"You can't say nothing pleasant ever happens now, can you, Meg?"
said Amy, trying to decide how she would group the lovers in the
sketch she was planning to take.
"No, I'm sure I can't. How much has happened since I said that! It
seems a year ago," answered Meg, who was in a blissful dream, lifted
far above such common things as bread and butter.
"The joys come close upon the sorrows this time, and I rather
think the changes have begun," said Mrs. March. "In most families
there comes, now and then, a year full of events; this has been such
an one, but it ends well, after all."
"Hope the next will end better," muttered Jo, who found it very hard
to see Meg absorbed in a stranger before her face; for Jo loved a
few persons very dearly, and dreaded to have their affection lost or
lessened in any way.
"I hope the third year from this will end better; I mean it shall,
if I live to work out my plans," said Mr. Brooke, smiling at Meg, as
if everything had become possible to him now.
"Doesn't it seem very long to wait?" asked Amy, who was in a hurry
for the wedding.
"I've got so much to learn before I shall be ready, it seems a short
time to me," answered Meg, with a sweet gravity in her face, never
seen there before.
"You have only to wait; I am to do the work," said John, beginning
his labors by picking up Meg's napkin, with an expression which caused
Jo to shake her head, and then say to herself, with an air of
relief, as the front door banged, "Here comes Laurie. Now we shall
have a little sensible conversation."
But Jo was mistaken; for Laurie came prancing in, overflowing with
spirits, bearing a great bridal-looking bouquet for "Mrs. John
Brooke," and evidently laboring under the delusion that the whole
affair had been brought about by his excellent management.
"I knew Brooke would have it all his own way, he always does; for
when he makes up his mind to accomplish anything, it's done, though
the sky falls," said Laurie, when he had presented his offering and
his congratulations.
"Much obliged for that recommendation. I take it as a good omen
for the future, and invite you to my wedding on the spot," answered
Mr. Brooke, who felt at peace with all mankind, even his mischievous
pupil.
"I'll come if I'm at the ends of the earth; for the sight of Jo's
face alone, on that occasion, would be worth a long journey. You don't
look festive, ma'am; what's the matter?" asked Laurie, following her
into a corner of the parlor, whither all had adjourned to greet Mr.
Laurence.
"I don't approve of the match, but I've made up my mind to bear
it, and shall not say a word against it," said Jo solemnly. "You can't
know how hard it is for me to give up Meg," she continued, with a
little quiver in her voice.
"You don't give her up. You only go halves," said Laurie
consolingly.
"It never can be the same again. I've lost my dearest friend,"
sighed Jo.
"You've got me, anyhow. I'm not good for much, I know; but I'll
stand by you, Jo, all the days of my life; upon my word I will!" and
Laurie meant what he said.
"I know you will, and I'm ever so much obliged; you are always a
great comfort to me, Teddy," returned Jo, gratefully shaking hands.
"Well, now, don't be dismal, there's a good fellow. It's all
right, you see. Meg is happy; Brooke will fly round and get settled
immediately; grandpa will attend to him, and it will be very jolly
to see Meg in her own little house. We'll have capital times after she
is gone, for I shall be through college before long, and then we'll go
abroad, or some nice trip or other. Wouldn't that console you?"
"I rather think it would; but there's no knowing what may happen
in three years," said Jo thoughtfully.
"That's true. Don't you wish you could take a look forward, and
see where we shall all be then? I do," returned Laurie.
"I think not, for I might see something sad; and every one looks
so happy now, I don't believe they could be much improved"; and Jo's
eyes went slowly round the room, brightening as they looked, for the
prospect was a pleasant one.
Father and mother sat together, quietly re-living the first
chapter of the romance which for them began some twenty years ago. Amy
was drawing the lovers, who sat apart in a beautiful world of their
own, the light of which touched their faces with a grace the little
artist could not copy. Beth lay on her sofa, talking cheerily with her
old friend, who held her little hand as if he felt that it possessed
the power to lead him along the peaceful way she walked. Jo lounged in
her favorite low seat, with the grave, quiet look which best became
her; and Laurie, leaning on the back of her chair, his chin on a level
with her curly head, smiled with his friendliest aspect, and nodded at
her in the long glass which reflected them both.

So grouped, the curtain falls upon Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy. Whether
it ever rises again, depends upon the reception given to the first act
of the domestic drama called "Little Women."

Second Part