part in Beth's trouble.

"Yes, I gave up hoping then, but I didn't like to own it. I tried to

think it was a sick fancy, and would not let it trouble any one. But

when I saw you all so well and strong, and full of happy plans, it was

hard to feel that I could never be like you, and then I was miserable,

Jo."

"O Beth, and you didn't tell me, didn't let me comfort and help you! How

could you shut me out, and bear it all alone?"

Jo's voice was full of tender reproach, and her heart ached to think of

the solitary struggle that must have gone on while Beth learned to say

good-by to health, love, and life, and take up her cross so cheerfully.

"Perhaps it was wrong, but I tried to do right; I wasn't sure, no one

said anything, and I hoped I was mistaken. It would have been selfish to

frighten you all when Marmee was so anxious about Meg, and Amy away, and

you so happy with Laurie,--at least, I thought so then."

"And I thought that you loved him, Beth, and I went away because I

couldn't," cried Jo, glad to say all the truth.

Beth looked so amazed at the idea that Jo smiled in spite of her pain,

and added softly,--

"Then you didn't, deary? I was afraid it was so, and imagined your poor

little heart full of love-lornity all that while."

"Why, Jo, how could I, when he was so fond of you?" asked Beth, as

innocently as a child. "I do love him dearly; he is so good to me, how

can I help it? But he never could be anything to me but my brother. I

hope he truly will be, sometime."

"Not through me," said Jo decidedly. "Amy is left for him, and they

would suit excellently; but I have no heart for such things, now. I

don't care what becomes of anybody but you, Beth. You _must_ get well."

"I want to, oh, so much! I try, but every day I lose a little, and feel

more sure that I shall never gain it back. It's like the tide, Jo, when

it turns, it goes slowly, but it can't be stopped."

"It _shall_ be stopped, your tide must not turn so soon, nineteen is too

young. Beth, I can't let you go. I'll work and pray and fight against

it. I'll keep you in spite of everything; there must be ways, it can't

be too late. God won't be so cruel as to take you from me," cried poor

Jo rebelliously, for her spirit was far less piously submissive than

Beth's.

Simple, sincere people seldom speak much of their piety; it shows itself

in acts, rather than in words, and has more influence than homilies or

protestations. Beth could not reason upon or explain the faith that gave

her courage and patience to give up life, and cheerfully wait for death.

Like a confiding child, she asked no questions, but left everything to

God and nature, Father and mother of us all, feeling sure that they, and

they only, could teach and strengthen heart and spirit for this life and

the life to come. She did not rebuke Jo with saintly speeches, only

loved her better for her passionate affection, and clung more closely to

the dear human love, from which our Father never means us to be weaned,

but through which He draws us closer to Himself. She could not say, "I'm

glad to go," for life was very sweet to her; she could only sob out, "I

try to be willing," while she held fast to Jo, as the first bitter wave

of this great sorrow broke over them together.

By and by Beth said, with recovered serenity,--

"You'll tell them this when we go home?"

"I think they will see it without words," sighed Jo; for now it seemed

to her that Beth changed every day.

"Perhaps not; I've heard that the people who love best are often

blindest to such things. If they don't see it, you will tell them for

me. I don't want any secrets, and it's kinder to prepare them. Meg has

John and the babies to comfort her, but you must stand by father and

mother, won't you, Jo?"

"If I can; but, Beth, I don't give up yet; I'm going to believe that it

_is_ a sick fancy, and not let you think it's true," said Jo, trying to

speak cheerfully.

Beth lay a minute thinking, and then said in her quiet way,--

"I don't know how to express myself, and shouldn't try, to any one but

you, because I can't speak out, except to my Jo. I only mean to say

that I have a feeling that it never was intended I should live long. I'm

not like the rest of you; I never made any plans about what I'd do when

I grew up; I never thought of being married, as you all did. I couldn't

seem to imagine myself anything but stupid little Beth, trotting about

at home, of no use anywhere but there. I never wanted to go away, and

the hard part now is the leaving you all. I'm not afraid, but it seems

as if I should be homesick for you even in heaven."

Jo could not speak; and for several minutes there was no sound but the

sigh of the wind and the lapping of the tide. A white-winged gull flew

by, with the flash of sunshine on its silvery breast; Beth watched it

till it vanished, and her eyes were full of sadness. A little

gray-coated sand-bird came tripping over the beach, "peeping" softly to

itself, as if enjoying the sun and sea; it came quite close to Beth,

looked at her with a friendly eye, and sat upon a warm stone, dressing

its wet feathers, quite at home. Beth smiled, and felt comforted, for

the tiny thing seemed to offer its small friendship, and remind her that

a pleasant world was still to be enjoyed.

"Dear little bird! See, Jo, how tame it is. I like peeps better than the

gulls: they are not so wild and handsome, but they seem happy, confiding

little things. I used to call them my birds, last summer; and mother

said they reminded her of me,--busy, quaker-colored creatures, always

near the shore, and always chirping that contented little song of

theirs. You are the gull, Jo, strong and wild, fond of the storm and the

wind, flying far out to sea, and happy all alone. Meg is the

turtle-dove, and Amy is like the lark she writes about, trying to get up

among the clouds, but always dropping down into its nest again. Dear

little girl! she's so ambitious, but her heart is good and tender; and

no matter how high she flies, she never will forget home. I hope I shall

see her again, but she seems _so_ far away."

"She is coming in the spring, and I mean that you shall be all ready to

see and enjoy her. I'm going to have you well and rosy by that time,"

began Jo, feeling that of all the changes in Beth, the talking change

was the greatest, for it seemed to cost no effort now, and she thought

aloud in a way quite unlike bashful Beth.

"Jo, dear, don't hope any more; it won't do any good, I'm sure of that.

We won't be miserable, but enjoy being together while we wait. We'll

have happy times, for I don't suffer much, and I think the tide will go

out easily, if you help me."

Jo leaned down to kiss the tranquil face; and with that silent kiss, she

dedicated herself soul and body to Beth.

She was right: there was no need of any words when they got home, for

father and mother saw plainly, now, what they had prayed to be saved

from seeing. Tired with her short journey, Beth went at once to bed,

saying how glad she was to be at home; and when Jo went down, she found

that she would be spared the hard task of telling Beth's secret. Her

father stood leaning his head on the mantel-piece, and did not turn as

she came in; but her mother stretched out her arms as if for help, and

Jo went to comfort her without a word.

[Illustration: Tail-piece]

[Illustration: He hurried forward to meet her]

XXXVII.

NEW IMPRESSIONS.

At three o'clock in the afternoon, all the fashionable world at Nice may

be seen on the Promenade des Anglais,--a charming place; for the wide

walk, bordered with palms, flowers, and tropical shrubs, is bounded on

one side by the sea, on the other by the grand drive, lined with hotels

and villas, while beyond lie orange-orchards and the hills. Many nations

are represented, many languages spoken, many costumes worn; and, on a

sunny day, the spectacle is as gay and brilliant as a carnival. Haughty

English, lively French, sober Germans, handsome Spaniards, ugly

Russians, meek Jews, free-and-easy Americans, all drive, sit, or saunter

here, chatting over the news, and criticising the latest celebrity who

has arrived,--Ristori or Dickens, Victor Emmanuel or the Queen of the

Sandwich Islands. The equipages are as varied as the company, and

attract as much attention, especially the low basket-barouches in which

ladies drive themselves, with a pair of dashing ponies, gay nets to keep

their voluminous flounces from overflowing the diminutive vehicles, and

little grooms on the perch behind.

Along this walk, on Christmas Day, a tall young man walked slowly, with

his hands behind him, and a somewhat absent expression of countenance.

He looked like an Italian, was dressed like an Englishman, and had the

independent air of an American,--a combination which caused sundry pairs

of feminine eyes to look approvingly after him, and sundry dandies in

black velvet suits, with rose-colored neckties, buff gloves, and

orange-flowers in their button-holes, to shrug their shoulders, and then

envy him his inches. There were plenty of pretty faces to admire, but

the young man took little notice of them, except to glance, now and

then, at some blonde girl, or lady in blue. Presently he strolled out of

the promenade, and stood a moment at the crossing, as if undecided

whether to go and listen to the band in the Jardin Publique, or to

wander along the beach toward Castle Hill. The quick trot of ponies'

feet made him look up, as one of the little carriages, containing a

single lady, came rapidly down the street. The lady was young, blonde,

and dressed in blue. He stared a minute, then his whole face woke up,

and, waving his hat like a boy, he hurried forward to meet her.

"O Laurie, is it really you? I thought you'd never come!" cried Amy,

dropping the reins, and holding out both hands, to the great

scandalization of a French mamma, who hastened her daughter's steps,

lest she should be demoralized by beholding the free manners of these

"mad English."

"I was detained by the way, but I promised to spend Christmas with you,

and here I am."

"How is your grandfather? When did you come? Where are you staying?"

"Very well--last night--at the Chauvain. I called at your hotel, but you

were all out."

"I have so much to say, I don't know where to begin! Get in, and we can

talk at our ease; I was going for a drive, and longing for company.

Flo's saving up for to-night."

"What happens then, a ball?"

"A Christmas party at our hotel. There are many Americans there, and

they give it in honor of the day. You'll go with us, of course? Aunt

will be charmed."

"Thank you. Where now?" asked Laurie, leaning back and folding his arms,

a proceeding which suited Amy, who preferred to drive; for her

parasol-whip and blue reins over the white ponies' backs, afforded her

infinite satisfaction.

"I'm going to the banker's first, for letters, and then to Castle Hill;

the view is so lovely, and I like to feed the peacocks. Have you ever

been there?"

"Often, years ago; but I don't mind having a look at it."

"Now tell me all about yourself. The last I heard of you, your

grandfather wrote that he expected you from Berlin."

"Yes, I spent a month there, and then joined him in Paris, where he has

settled for the winter. He has friends there, and finds plenty to amuse

him; so I go and come, and we get on capitally."

"That's a sociable arrangement," said Amy, missing something in Laurie's

manner, though she couldn't tell what.

"Why, you see he hates to travel, and I hate to keep still; so we each

suit ourselves, and there is no trouble. I am often with him, and he

enjoys my adventures, while I like to feel that some one is glad to see

me when I get back from my wanderings. Dirty old hole, isn't it?" he

added, with a look of disgust, as they drove along the boulevard to the

Place Napoleon, in the old city.

"The dirt is picturesque, so I don't mind. The river and the hills are

delicious, and these glimpses of the narrow cross-streets are my

delight. Now we shall have to wait for that procession to pass; it's

going to the Church of St. John."

While Laurie listlessly watched the procession of priests under their

canopies, white-veiled nuns bearing lighted tapers, and some brotherhood

in blue, chanting as they walked, Amy watched him, and felt a new sort

of shyness steal over her; for he was changed, and she could not find

the merry-faced boy she left in the moody-looking man beside her. He was

handsomer than ever, and greatly improved, she thought; but now that the

flush of pleasure at meeting her was over, he looked tired and

spiritless,--not sick, nor exactly unhappy, but older and graver than a

year or two of prosperous life should have made him. She couldn't

understand it, and did not venture to ask questions; so she shook her

head, and touched up her ponies, as the procession wound away across the

arches of the Paglioni bridge, and vanished in the church.

"_Que pensez vous_?" she said, airing her French, which had improved in

quantity, if not in quality, since she came abroad.

"That mademoiselle has made good use of her time, and the result is

charming," replied Laurie, bowing, with his hand on his heart, and an

admiring look.

She blushed with pleasure, but somehow the compliment did not satisfy

her like the blunt praises he used to give her at home, when he

promenaded round her on festival occasions, and told her she was

"altogether jolly," with a hearty smile and an approving pat on the

head. She didn't like the new tone; for, though not _blasé_, it sounded

indifferent in spite of the look.

"If that's the way he's going to grow up, I wish he'd stay a boy," she

thought, with a curious sense of disappointment and discomfort, trying

meantime to seem quite easy and gay.

At Avigdor's she found the precious home-letters, and, giving the reins

to Laurie, read them luxuriously as they wound up the shady road between

green hedges, where tea-roses bloomed as freshly as in June.

"Beth is very poorly, mother says. I often think I ought to go home, but

they all say 'stay;' so I do, for I shall never have another chance like

this," said Amy, looking sober over one page.

"I think you are right, there; you could do nothing at home, and it is a

great comfort to them to know that you are well and happy, and enjoying

so much, my dear."

He drew a little nearer, and looked more like his old self, as he said

that; and the fear that sometimes weighed on Amy's heart was lightened,

for the look, the act, the brotherly "my dear," seemed to assure her

that if any trouble did come, she would not be alone in a strange land.

Presently she laughed, and showed him a small sketch of Jo in her

scribbling-suit, with the bow rampantly erect upon her cap, and issuing

from her mouth the words, "Genius burns!"

Laurie smiled, took it, put it in his vest-pocket, "to keep it from

blowing away," and listened with interest to the lively letter Amy read

him.

"This will be a regularly merry Christmas to me, with presents in the

morning, you and letters in the afternoon, and a party at night," said

Amy, as they alighted among the ruins of the old fort, and a flock of

splendid peacocks came trooping about them, tamely waiting to be fed.

While Amy stood laughing on the bank above him as she scattered crumbs

to the brilliant birds, Laurie looked at her as she had looked at him,

with a natural curiosity to see what changes time and absence had

wrought. He found nothing to perplex or disappoint, much to admire and

approve; for, overlooking a few little affectations of speech and

manner, she was as sprightly and graceful as ever, with the addition of

that indescribable something in dress and bearing which we call

elegance. Always mature for her age, she had gained a certain _aplomb_

in both carriage and conversation, which made her seem more of a woman

of the world than she was; but her old petulance now and then showed

itself, her strong will still held its own, and her native frankness was

unspoiled by foreign polish.

Laurie did not read all this while he watched her feed the peacocks, but

he saw enough to satisfy and interest him, and carried away a pretty

little picture of a bright-faced girl standing in the sunshine, which

brought out the soft hue of her dress, the fresh color of her cheeks,

the golden gloss of her hair, and made her a prominent figure in the

pleasant scene.

As they came up on to the stone plateau that crowns the hill, Amy waved

her hand as if welcoming him to her favorite haunt, and said, pointing

here and there,--

"Do you remember the Cathedral and the Corso, the fishermen dragging

their nets in the bay, and the lovely road to Villa Franca, Schubert's

Tower, just below, and, best of all, that speck far out to sea which

they say is Corsica?"

"I remember; it's not much changed," he answered, without enthusiasm.

"What Jo would give for a sight of that famous speck!" said Amy, feeling

in good spirits, and anxious to see him so also.

"Yes," was all he said, but he turned and strained his eyes to see the

island which a greater usurper than even Napoleon now made interesting

in his sight.

"Take a good look at it for her sake, and then come and tell me what you

have been doing with yourself all this while," said Amy, seating

herself, ready for a good talk.

But she did not get it; for, though he joined her, and answered all her

questions freely, she could only learn that he had roved about the

continent and been to Greece. So, after idling away an hour, they drove

home again; and, having paid his respects to Mrs. Carrol, Laurie left

them, promising to return in the evening.

It must be recorded of Amy that she deliberately "prinked" that night.

Time and absence had done its work on both the young people; she had

seen her old friend in a new light, not as "our boy," but as a handsome

and agreeable man, and she was conscious of a very natural desire to

find favor in his sight. Amy knew her good points, and made the most of

them, with the taste and skill which is a fortune to a poor and pretty

woman.

Tarlatan and tulle were cheap at Nice, so she enveloped herself in them

on such occasions, and, following the sensible English fashion of simple

dress for young girls, got up charming little toilettes with fresh

flowers, a few trinkets, and all manner of dainty devices, which were

both inexpensive and effective. It must be confessed that the artist

sometimes got possession of the woman, and indulged in antique

_coiffures_, statuesque attitudes, and classic draperies. But, dear

heart, we all have our little weaknesses, and find it easy to pardon

such in the young, who satisfy our eyes with their comeliness, and keep

our hearts merry with their artless vanities.

"I do want him to think I look well, and tell them so at home," said Amy

to herself, as she put on Flo's old white silk ball-dress, and covered

it with a cloud of fresh illusion, out of which her white shoulders and

golden head emerged with a most artistic effect. Her hair she had the

sense to let alone, after gathering up the thick waves and curls into a

Hebe-like knot at the back of her head.

"It's not the fashion, but it's becoming, and I can't afford to make a

fright of myself," she used to say, when advised to frizzle, puff, or

braid, as the latest style commanded.

Having no ornaments fine enough for this important occasion, Amy looped

her fleecy skirts with rosy clusters of azalea, and framed the white

shoulders in delicate green vines. Remembering the painted boots, she

surveyed her white satin slippers with girlish satisfaction, and

_chasséed_ down the room, admiring her aristocratic feet all by herself.

"My new fan just matches my flowers, my gloves fit to a charm, and the

real lace on aunt's _mouchoir_ gives an air to my whole dress. If I only

had a classical nose and mouth I should be perfectly happy," she said,

surveying herself with a critical eye, and a candle in each hand.

In spite of this affliction, she looked unusually gay and graceful as

she glided away; she seldom ran,--it did not suit her style, she

thought, for, being tall, the stately and Junoesque was more appropriate

than the sportive or piquante. She walked up and down the long saloon

while waiting for Laurie, and once arranged herself under the

chandelier, which had a good effect upon her hair; then she thought

better of it, and went away to the other end of the room, as if ashamed

of the girlish desire to have the first view a propitious one. It so

happened that she could not have done a better thing, for Laurie came in

so quietly she did not hear him; and, as she stood at the distant

window, with her head half turned, and one hand gathering up her dress,

the slender, white figure against the red curtains was as effective as a

well-placed statue.

"Good evening, Diana!" said Laurie, with the look of satisfaction she

liked to see in his eyes when they rested on her.

"Good evening, Apollo!" she answered, smiling back at him, for he, too,

looked unusually _debonnaire_, and the thought of entering the ball-room

on the arm of such a personable man caused Amy to pity the four plain

Misses Davis from the bottom of her heart.

"Here are your flowers; I arranged them myself, remembering that you

didn't like what Hannah calls a 'sot-bookay,'" said Laurie, handing her

a delicate nosegay, in a holder that she had long coveted as she daily

passed it in Cardiglia's window.

[Illustration: Here are your flowers]

"How kind you are!" she exclaimed gratefully. "If I'd known you were

coming I'd have had something ready for you to-day, though not as pretty

as this, I'm afraid."

"Thank you; it isn't what it should be, but you have improved it," he

added, as she snapped the silver bracelet on her wrist.

"Please don't."

"I thought you liked that sort of thing?"

"Not from you; it doesn't sound natural, and I like your old bluntness

better."

"I'm glad of it," he answered, with a look of relief; then buttoned her

gloves for her, and asked if his tie was straight, just as he used to do

when they went to parties together, at home.

The company assembled in the long _salle à manger_, that evening, was

such as one sees nowhere but on the Continent. The hospitable Americans

had invited every acquaintance they had in Nice, and, having no

prejudice against titles, secured a few to add lustre to their Christmas

ball.

A Russian prince condescended to sit in a corner for an hour, and talk

with a massive lady, dressed like Hamlet's mother, in black velvet, with

a pearl bridle under her chin. A Polish count, aged eighteen, devoted

himself to the ladies, who pronounced him "a fascinating dear," and a

German Serene Something, having come for the supper alone, roamed

vaguely about, seeking what he might devour. Baron Rothschild's private

secretary, a large-nosed Jew, in tight boots, affably beamed upon the

world, as if his master's name crowned him with a golden halo; a stout

Frenchman, who knew the Emperor, came to indulge his mania for dancing,

and Lady de Jones, a British matron, adorned the scene with her little

family of eight. Of course, there were many light-footed, shrill-voiced

American girls, handsome, lifeless-looking English ditto, and a few

plain but piquante French demoiselles; likewise the usual set of

travelling young gentlemen, who disported themselves gayly, while mammas

of all nations lined the walls, and smiled upon them benignly when they

danced with their daughters.

Any young girl can imagine Amy's state of mind when she "took the stage"

that night, leaning on Laurie's arm. She knew she looked well, she loved

to dance, she felt that her foot was on her native heath in a ball-room,

and enjoyed the delightful sense of power which comes when young girls

first discover the new and lovely kingdom they are born to rule by

virtue of beauty, youth, and womanhood. She did pity the Davis girls,

who were awkward, plain, and destitute of escort, except a grim papa and

three grimmer maiden aunts, and she bowed to them in her friendliest

manner as she passed; which was good of her, as it permitted them to see

her dress, and burn with curiosity to know who her distinguished-looking

friend might be. With the first burst of the band, Amy's color rose, her

eyes began to sparkle, and her feet to tap the floor impatiently; for

she danced well, and wanted Laurie to know it: therefore the shock she

received can better be imagined than described, when he said, in a

perfectly tranquil tone,--

"Do you care to dance?"

"One usually does at a ball."

Her amazed look and quick answer caused Laurie to repair his error as

fast as possible.

"I meant the first dance. May I have the honor?"

"I can give you one if I put off the Count. He dances divinely; but he

will excuse me, as you are an old friend," said Amy, hoping that the

name would have a good effect, and show Laurie that she was not to be

trifled with.

"Nice little boy, but rather a short Pole to support

"'A daughter of the gods,

Divinely tall, and most divinely fair,'"

was all the satisfaction she got, however.

The set in which they found themselves was composed of English, and Amy

was compelled to walk decorously through a cotillon, feeling all the

while as if she could dance the Tarantula with a relish. Laurie resigned

her to the "nice little boy," and went to do his duty to Flo, without

securing Amy for the joys to come, which reprehensible want of

forethought was properly punished, for she immediately engaged herself

till supper, meaning to relent if he then gave any signs of penitence.

She showed him her ball-book with demure satisfaction when he strolled,

instead of rushing, up to claim her for the next, a glorious

polka-redowa; but his polite regrets didn't impose upon her, and when

she gallopaded away with the Count, she saw Laurie sit down by her aunt

with an actual expression of relief.

That was unpardonable; and Amy took no more notice of him for a long

while, except a word now and then, when she came to her chaperon,

between the dances, for a necessary pin or a moment's rest. Her anger

had a good effect, however, for she hid it under a smiling face, and

seemed unusually blithe and brilliant. Laurie's eyes followed her with

pleasure, for she neither romped nor sauntered, but danced with spirit

and grace, making the delightsome pastime what it should be. He very

naturally fell to studying her from this new point of view; and, before

the evening was half over, had decided that "little Amy was going to

make a very charming woman."

It was a lively scene, for soon the spirit of the social season took

possession of every one, and Christmas merriment made all faces shine,

hearts happy, and heels light. The musicians fiddled, tooted, and banged

as if they enjoyed it; everybody danced who could, and those who

couldn't admired their neighbors with uncommon warmth. The air was dark

with Davises, and many Joneses gambolled like a flock of young giraffes.

The golden secretary darted through the room like a meteor, with a

dashing Frenchwoman, who carpeted the floor with her pink satin train.

The Serene Teuton found the supper-table, and was happy, eating steadily

through the bill of fare, and dismayed the _garçons_ by the ravages he

committed. But the Emperor's friend covered himself with glory, for he

danced everything, whether he knew it or not, and introduced impromptu

pirouettes when the figures bewildered him. The boyish abandon of that

stout man was charming to behold; for, though he "carried weight," he

danced like an india-rubber ball. He ran, he flew, he pranced; his face

glowed, his bald head shone; his coat-tails waved wildly, his pumps

actually twinkled in the air, and when the music stopped, he wiped the

drops from his brow, and beamed upon his fellow-men like a French

Pickwick without glasses.

Amy and her Pole distinguished themselves by equal enthusiasm, but more

graceful agility; and Laurie found himself involuntarily keeping time to

the rhythmic rise and fall of the white slippers as they flew by as

indefatigably as if winged. When little Vladimir finally relinquished

her, with assurances that he was "desolated to leave so early," she was

ready to rest, and see how her recreant knight had borne his punishment.

It had been successful; for, at three-and-twenty, blighted affections

find a balm in friendly society, and young nerves will thrill, young

blood dance, and healthy young spirits rise, when subjected to the

enchantment of beauty, light, music, and motion. Laurie had a waked-up

look as he rose to give her his seat; and when he hurried away to bring

her some supper, she said to herself, with a satisfied smile,--

"Ah, I thought that would do him good!"

"You look like Balzac's 'Femme peinte par elle-même,'" he said, as he

fanned her with one hand, and held her coffee-cup in the other.

"My rouge won't come off;" and Amy rubbed her brilliant cheek, and

showed him her white glove with a sober simplicity that made him laugh

outright.

"What do you call this stuff?" he asked, touching a fold of her dress

that had blown over his knee.

"Illusion."

"Good name for it; it's very pretty--new thing, isn't it?"

"It's as old as the hills; you have seen it on dozens of girls, and you

never found out that it was pretty till now--_stupide_!"

"I never saw it on you before, which accounts for the mistake, you see."

"None of that, it is forbidden; I'd rather take coffee than compliments

just now. No, don't lounge, it makes me nervous."

Laurie sat bolt upright, and meekly took her empty plate, feeling an odd

sort of pleasure in having "little Amy" order him about; for she had

lost her shyness now, and felt an irresistible desire to trample on him,

as girls have a delightful way of doing when lords of creation show any

signs of subjection.

"Where did you learn all this sort of thing?" he asked, with a quizzical

look.

"As 'this sort of thing' is rather a vague expression, would you kindly

explain?" returned Amy, knowing perfectly well what he meant, but

wickedly leaving him to describe what is indescribable.

"Well--the general air, the style, the self-possession,

the--the--illusion--you know," laughed Laurie, breaking down, and

helping himself out of his quandary with the new word.

Amy was gratified, but, of course, didn't show it, and demurely

answered, "Foreign life polishes one in spite of one's self; I study as

well as play; and as for this"--with a little gesture toward her

dress--"why, tulle is cheap, posies to be had for nothing, and I am used

to making the most of my poor little things."

Amy rather regretted that last sentence, fearing it wasn't in good

taste; but Laurie liked her the better for it, and found himself both

admiring and respecting the brave patience that made the most of

opportunity, and the cheerful spirit that covered poverty with flowers.

Amy did not know why he looked at her so kindly, nor why he filled up

her book with his own name, and devoted himself to her for the rest of

the evening, in the most delightful manner; but the impulse that wrought

this agreeable change was the result of one of the new impressions which

both of them were unconsciously giving and receiving.

[Illustration: Demi and Daisy]

XXXVIII.

ON THE SHELF.

In France the young girls have a dull time of it till they are married,

when "_Vive la liberté_" becomes their motto. In America, as every one

knows, girls early sign the declaration of independence, and enjoy their

freedom with republican zest; but the young matrons usually abdicate

with the first heir to the throne, and go into a seclusion almost as

close as a French nunnery, though by no means as quiet. Whether they

like it or not, they are virtually put upon the shelf as soon as the

wedding excitement is over, and most of them might exclaim, as did a

very pretty woman the other day, "I'm as handsome as ever, but no one

takes any notice of me because I'm married."

Not being a belle or even a fashionable lady, Meg did not experience

this affliction till her babies were a year old, for in her little world

primitive customs prevailed, and she found herself more admired and

beloved than ever.

As she was a womanly little woman, the maternal instinct was very

strong, and she was entirely absorbed in her children, to the utter

exclusion of everything and everybody else. Day and night she brooded

over them with tireless devotion and anxiety, leaving John to the tender

mercies of the help, for an Irish lady now presided over the kitchen

department. Being a domestic man, John decidedly missed the wifely

attentions he had been accustomed to receive; but, as he adored his

babies, he cheerfully relinquished his comfort for a time, supposing,

with masculine ignorance, that peace would soon be restored. But three

months passed, and there was no return of repose; Meg looked worn and

nervous, the babies absorbed every minute of her time, the house was

neglected, and Kitty, the cook, who took life "aisy," kept him on short

commons. When he went out in the morning he was bewildered by small

commissions for the captive mamma; if he came gayly in at night, eager

to embrace his family, he was quenched by a "Hush! they are just asleep

after worrying all day." If he proposed a little amusement at home, "No,

it would disturb the babies." If he hinted at a lecture or concert, he

was answered with a reproachful look, and a decided "Leave my children

for pleasure, never!" His sleep was broken by infant wails and visions

of a phantom figure pacing noiselessly to and fro in the watches of the

night; his meals were interrupted by the frequent flight of the

presiding genius, who deserted him, half-helped, if a muffled chirp

sounded from the nest above; and when he read his paper of an evening,

Demi's colic got into the shipping-list, and Daisy's fall affected the

price of stocks, for Mrs. Brooke was only interested in domestic news.

The poor man was very uncomfortable, for the children had bereft him of

his wife; home was merely a nursery, and the perpetual "hushing" made

him feel like a brutal intruder whenever he entered the sacred precincts

of Babyland. He bore it very patiently for six months, and, when no

signs of amendment appeared, he did what other paternal exiles

do,--tried to get a little comfort elsewhere. Scott had married and gone

to housekeeping not far off, and John fell into the way of running over

for an hour or two of an evening, when his own parlor was empty, and his

own wife singing lullabies that seemed to have no end. Mrs. Scott was a

lively, pretty girl, with nothing to do but be agreeable, and she

performed her mission most successfully. The parlor was always bright

and attractive, the chess-board ready, the piano in tune, plenty of gay

gossip, and a nice little supper set forth in tempting style.

John would have preferred his own fireside if it had not been so lonely;

but as it was, he gratefully took the next best thing, and enjoyed his

neighbor's society.

Meg rather approved of the new arrangement at first, and found it a

relief to know that John was having a good time instead of dozing in the

parlor, or tramping about the house and waking the children. But by and

by, when the teething worry was over, and the idols went to sleep at

proper hours, leaving mamma time to rest, she began to miss John, and

find her work-basket dull company, when he was not sitting opposite in

his old dressing-gown, comfortably scorching his slippers on the fender.

She would not ask him to stay at home, but felt injured because he did

not know that she wanted him without being told, entirely forgetting the

many evenings he had waited for her in vain. She was nervous and worn

out with watching and worry, and in that unreasonable frame of mind

which the best of mothers occasionally experience when domestic cares

oppress them. Want of exercise robs them of cheerfulness, and too much

devotion to that idol of American women, the teapot, makes them feel as

if they were all nerve and no muscle.

"Yes," she would say, looking in the glass, "I'm getting old and ugly;

John doesn't find me interesting any longer, so he leaves his faded wife

and goes to see his pretty neighbor, who has no incumbrances. Well, the

babies love me; they don't care if I am thin and pale, and haven't time

to crimp my hair; they are my comfort, and some day John will see what

I've gladly sacrificed for them, won't he, my precious?"

To which pathetic appeal Daisy would answer with a coo, or Demi with a

crow, and Meg would put by her lamentations for a maternal revel, which

soothed her solitude for the time being. But the pain increased as

politics absorbed John, who was always running over to discuss

interesting points with Scott, quite unconscious that Meg missed him.

Not a word did she say, however, till her mother found her in tears one

day, and insisted on knowing what the matter was, for Meg's drooping

spirits had not escaped her observation.

"I wouldn't tell any one except you, mother; but I really do need

advice, for, if John goes on so much longer I might as well be widowed,"

replied Mrs. Brooke, drying her tears on Daisy's bib, with an injured

air.

"Goes on how, my dear?" asked her mother anxiously.

"He's away all day, and at night, when I want to see him, he is

continually going over to the Scotts'. It isn't fair that I should have

the hardest work, and never any amusement. Men are very selfish, even

the best of them."

"So are women; don't blame John till you see where you are wrong

yourself."

"But it can't be right for him to neglect me."

"Don't you neglect him?"

"Why, mother, I thought you'd take my part!"

"So I do, as far as sympathizing goes; but I think the fault is yours,

Meg."

"I don't see how."

"Let me show you. Did John ever neglect you, as you call it, while you

made it a point to give him your society of an evening, his only leisure

time?"

"No; but I can't do it now, with two babies to tend."

"I think you could, dear; and I think you ought. May I speak quite

freely, and will you remember that it's mother who blames as well as

mother who sympathizes?"

"Indeed I will! Speak to me as if I were little Meg again. I often feel

as if I needed teaching more than ever since these babies look to me for

everything."

Meg drew her low chair beside her mother's, and, with a little

interruption in either lap, the two women rocked and talked lovingly

together, feeling that the tie of motherhood made them more one than

ever.

"You have only made the mistake that most young wives make,--forgotten

your duty to your husband in your love for your children. A very natural

and forgivable mistake, Meg, but one that had better be remedied before

you take to different ways; for children should draw you nearer than

ever, not separate you, as if they were all yours, and John had nothing

to do but support them. I've seen it for some weeks, but have not

spoken, feeling sure it would come right in time."

"I'm afraid it won't. If I ask him to stay, he'll think I'm jealous; and

I wouldn't insult him by such an idea. He doesn't see that I want him,

and I don't know how to tell him without words."

"Make it so pleasant he won't want to go away. My dear, he's longing for

his little home; but it isn't home without you, and you are always in

the nursery."

"Oughtn't I to be there?"

"Not all the time; too much confinement makes you nervous, and then you

are unfitted for everything. Besides, you owe something to John as well

as to the babies; don't neglect husband for children, don't shut him out

of the nursery, but teach him how to help in it. His place is there as

well as yours, and the children need him; let him feel that he has his

part to do, and he will do it gladly and faithfully, and it will be

better for you all."

"You really think so, mother?"

"I know it, Meg, for I've tried it; and I seldom give advice unless I've

proved its practicability. When you and Jo were little, I went on just

as you are, feeling as if I didn't do my duty unless I devoted myself

wholly to you. Poor father took to his books, after I had refused all

offers of help, and left me to try my experiment alone. I struggled

along as well as I could, but Jo was too much for me. I nearly spoilt

her by indulgence. You were poorly, and I worried about you till I fell

sick myself. Then father came to the rescue, quietly managed everything,

and made himself so helpful that I saw my mistake, and never have been

able to get on without him since. That is the secret of our home

happiness: he does not let business wean him from the little cares and

duties that affect us all, and I try not to let domestic worries destroy

my interest in his pursuits. Each do our part alone in many things, but

at home we work together, always."

"It is so, mother; and my great wish is to be to my husband and children

what you have been to yours. Show me how; I'll do anything you say."

"You always were my docile daughter. Well, dear, if I were you, I'd let

John have more to do with the management of Demi, for the boy needs

training, and it's none too soon to begin. Then I'd do what I have often

proposed, let Hannah come and help you; she is a capital nurse, and you

may trust the precious babies to her while you do more housework. You

need the exercise, Hannah would enjoy the rest, and John would find his

wife again. Go out more; keep cheerful as well as busy, for you are the

sunshine-maker of the family, and if you get dismal there is no fair

weather. Then I'd try to take an interest in whatever John likes,--talk

with him, let him read to you, exchange ideas, and help each other in

that way. Don't shut yourself up in a bandbox because you are a woman,

but understand what is going on, and educate yourself to take your part

in the world's work, for it all affects you and yours."

"John is so sensible, I'm afraid he will think I'm stupid if I ask

questions about politics and things."

"I don't believe he would; love covers a multitude of sins, and of whom

could you ask more freely than of him? Try it, and see if he doesn't

find your society far more agreeable than Mrs. Scott's suppers."

"I will. Poor John! I'm afraid I _have_ neglected him sadly, but I

thought I was right, and he never said anything."

"He tried not to be selfish, but he _has_ felt rather forlorn, I fancy.

This is just the time, Meg, when young married people are apt to grow

apart, and the very time when they ought to be most together; for the

first tenderness soon wears off, unless care is taken to preserve it;

and no time is so beautiful and precious to parents as the first years

of the little lives given them to train. Don't let John be a stranger to

the babies, for they will do more to keep him safe and happy in this

world of trial and temptation than anything else, and through them you

will learn to know and love one another as you should. Now, dear,

good-by; think over mother's preachment, act upon it if it seems good,

and God bless you all!"

Meg did think it over, found it good, and acted upon it, though the

first attempt was not made exactly as she planned to have it. Of course

the children tyrannized over her, and ruled the house as soon as they

found out that kicking and squalling brought them whatever they wanted.

Mamma was an abject slave to their caprices, but papa was not so easily

subjugated, and occasionally afflicted his tender spouse by an attempt

at paternal discipline with his obstreperous son. For Demi inherited a

trifle of his sire's firmness of character,--we won't call it

obstinacy,--and when he made up his little mind to have or to do

anything, all the king's horses and all the king's men could not change

that pertinacious little mind. Mamma thought the dear too young to be

taught to conquer his prejudices, but papa believed that it never was

too soon to learn obedience; so Master Demi early discovered that when

he undertook to "wrastle" with "parpar," he always got the worst of it;

yet, like the Englishman, Baby respected the man who conquered him, and

loved the father whose grave "No, no," was more impressive than all

mamma's love-pats.

A few days after the talk with her mother, Meg resolved to try a social

evening with John; so she ordered a nice supper, set the parlor in

order, dressed herself prettily, and put the children to bed early, that

nothing should interfere with her experiment. But, unfortunately, Demi's

most unconquerable prejudice was against going to bed, and that night he

decided to go on a rampage; so poor Meg sung and rocked, told stories

and tried every sleep-provoking wile she could devise, but all in vain,

the big eyes wouldn't shut; and long after Daisy had gone to byelow,

like the chubby little bunch of good-nature she was, naughty Demi lay

staring at the light, with the most discouragingly wide-awake expression

of countenance.

"Will Demi lie still like a good boy, while mamma runs down and gives

poor papa his tea?" asked Meg, as the hall-door softly closed, and the

well-known step went tiptoeing into the dining-room.

"Me has tea!" said Demi, preparing to join in the revel.

"No; but I'll save you some little cakies for breakfast, if you'll go

bye-by like Daisy. Will you, lovey?"

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

desired day.

Taking advantage of the propitious moment, Meg slipped away, and ran

down to greet her husband with a smiling face, and the little blue bow

in her hair which was his especial admiration. He saw it at once, and

said, with pleased surprise,--

"Why, little mother, how gay we are to-night. Do you expect company?"

"Only you, dear."

"Is it a birthday, anniversary, or anything?"

"No; I'm tired of being a dowdy, so I dressed up as a change. You always

make yourself nice for table, no matter how tired you are; so why

shouldn't I when I have the time?"

"I do it out of respect to you, my dear," said old-fashioned John.

"Ditto, ditto, Mr. Brooke," laughed Meg, looking young and pretty again,

as she nodded to him over the teapot.

"Well, it's altogether delightful, and like old times. This tastes

right. I drink your health, dear." And John sipped his tea with an air

of reposeful rapture, which was of very short duration, however; for, as

he put down his cup, the door-handle rattled mysteriously, and a little

voice was heard, saying impatiently,--

"Opy doy; me's tummin!"

"It's that naughty boy. I told him to go to sleep alone, and here he is,

downstairs, getting his death a-cold pattering over that canvas," said

Meg, answering the call.

[Illustration: Mornin' now]

"Mornin' now," announced Demi, in a joyful tone, as he entered, with his

long night-gown gracefully festooned over his arm, and every curl

bobbing gayly as he pranced about the table, eying the "cakies" with

loving glances.

"No, it isn't morning yet. You must go to bed, and not trouble poor

mamma; then you can have the little cake with sugar on it."

"Me loves parpar," said the artful one, preparing to climb the paternal

knee, and revel in forbidden joys. But John shook his head, and said to

Meg,--

"If you told him to stay up there, and go to sleep alone, make him do

it, or he will never learn to mind you."

"Yes, of course. Come, Demi;" and Meg led her son away, feeling a

strong desire to spank the little marplot who hopped beside her,

laboring under the delusion that the bribe was to be administered as

soon as they reached the nursery.

Nor was he disappointed; for that short-sighted woman actually gave him

a lump of sugar, tucked him into his bed, and forbade any more

promenades till morning.

"Iss!" said Demi the perjured, blissfully sucking his sugar, and

regarding his first attempt as eminently successful.

Meg returned to her place, and supper was progressing pleasantly, when

the little ghost walked again, and exposed the maternal delinquencies by

boldly demanding,--

"More sudar, marmar."

"Now this won't do," said John, hardening his heart against the engaging

little sinner. "We shall never know any peace till that child learns to

go to bed properly. You have made a slave of yourself long enough; give

him one lesson, and then there will be an end of it. Put him in his bed

and leave him, Meg."

"He won't stay there; he never does, unless I sit by him."

"I'll manage him. Demi, go upstairs, and get into your bed, as mamma

bids you."

"S'ant!" replied the young rebel, helping himself to the coveted

"cakie," and beginning to eat the same with calm audacity.

"You must never say that to papa; I shall carry you if you don't go

yourself."

"Go 'way; me don't love parpar;" and Demi retired to his mother's skirts

for protection.

But even that refuge proved unavailing, for he was delivered over to the

enemy, with a "Be gentle with him, John," which struck the culprit with

dismay; for when mamma deserted him, then the judgment-day was at hand.

Bereft of his cake, defrauded of his frolic, and borne away by a strong

hand to that detested bed, poor Demi could not restrain his wrath, but

openly defied papa, and kicked and screamed lustily all the way

upstairs. The minute he was put into bed on one side, he rolled out on

the other, and made for the door, only to be ignominiously caught up by

the tail of his little toga, and put back again, which lively

performance was kept up till the young man's strength gave out, when he

devoted himself to roaring at the top of his voice. This vocal exercise

usually conquered Meg; but John sat as unmoved as the post which is

popularly believed to be deaf. No coaxing, no sugar, no lullaby, no

story; even the light was put out, and only the red glow of the fire

enlivened the "big dark" which Demi regarded with curiosity rather than

fear. This new order of things disgusted him, and he howled dismally for

"marmar," as his angry passions subsided, and recollections of his

tender bondwoman returned to the captive autocrat. The plaintive wail

which succeeded the passionate roar went to Meg's heart, and she ran up

to say beseechingly,--

"Let me stay with him; he'll be good, now, John."

"No, my dear, I've told him he must go to sleep, as you bid him; and he

must, if I stay here all night."

"But he'll cry himself sick," pleaded Meg, reproaching herself for

deserting her boy.

"No, he won't, he's so tired he will soon drop off, and then the matter

is settled; for he will understand that he has got to mind. Don't

interfere; I'll manage him."

"He's my child, and I can't have his spirit broken by harshness."

"He's my child, and I won't have his temper spoilt by indulgence. Go

down, my dear, and leave the boy to me."

When John spoke in that masterful tone, Meg always obeyed, and never

regretted her docility.

"Please let me kiss him once, John?"

"Certainly. Demi, say 'good-night' to mamma, and let her go and rest,

for she is very tired with taking care of you all day."

Meg always insisted upon it that the kiss won the victory; for after it

was given, Demi sobbed more quietly, and lay quite still at the bottom

of the bed, whither he had wriggled in his anguish of mind.

"Poor little man, he's worn out with sleep and crying. I'll cover him

up, and then go and set Meg's heart at rest," thought John, creeping to

the bedside, hoping to find his rebellious heir asleep.

But he wasn't; for the moment his father peeped at him, Demi's eyes

opened, his little chin began to quiver, and he put up his arms, saying,

with a penitent hiccough, "Me's dood, now."

Sitting on the stairs, outside, Meg wondered at the long silence which

followed the uproar; and, after imagining all sorts of impossible

accidents, she slipped into the room, to set her fears at rest. Demi lay

fast asleep; not in his usual spread-eagle attitude, but in a subdued

bunch, cuddled close in the circle of his father's arm and holding his

father's finger, as if he felt that justice was tempered with mercy, and

had gone to sleep a sadder and a wiser baby. So held, John had waited

with womanly patience till the little hand relaxed its hold; and, while

waiting, had fallen asleep, more tired by that tussle with his son than

with his whole day's work.

As Meg stood watching the two faces on the pillow, she smiled to

herself, and then slipped away again, saying, in a satisfied tone,--

"I never need fear that John will be too harsh with my babies: he _does_

know how to manage them, and will be a great help, for Demi _is_ getting

too much for me."

When John came down at last, expecting to find a pensive or reproachful

wife, he was agreeably surprised to find Meg placidly trimming a bonnet,

and to be greeted with the request to read something about the election,

if he was not too tired. John saw in a minute that a revolution of some

kind was going on, but wisely asked no questions, knowing that Meg was

such a transparent little person, she couldn't keep a secret to save her

life, and therefore the clew would soon appear. He read a long debate

with the most amiable readiness, and then explained it in his most lucid

manner, while Meg tried to look deeply interested, to ask intelligent

questions, and keep her thoughts from wandering from the state of the

nation to the state of her bonnet. In her secret soul, however, she

decided that politics were as bad as mathematics, and that the mission

of politicians seemed to be calling each other names; but she kept these

feminine ideas to herself, and when John paused, shook her head, and

said with what she thought diplomatic ambiguity,--

"Well, I really don't see what we are coming to."

John laughed, and watched her for a minute, as she poised a pretty

little preparation of lace and flowers on her hand, and regarded it with

the genuine interest which his harangue had failed to waken.

"She is trying to like politics for my sake, so I'll try and like

millinery for hers, that's only fair," thought John the Just, adding

aloud,--

"That's very pretty; is it what you call a breakfast-cap?"

[Illustration: My dear man, it's a bonnet]

"My dear man, it's a bonnet! My very best go-to-concert-and-theatre

bonnet."

"I beg your pardon; it was so small, I naturally mistook it for one of

the fly-away things you sometimes wear. How do you keep it on?"

"These bits of lace are fastened under the chin with a rosebud, so;" and

Meg illustrated by putting on the bonnet, and regarding him with an air

of calm satisfaction that was irresistible.

"It's a love of a bonnet, but I prefer the face inside, for it looks

young and happy again," and John kissed the smiling face, to the great

detriment of the rosebud under the chin.

"I'm glad you like it, for I want you to take me to one of the new

concerts some night; I really need some music to put me in tune. Will

you, please?"

"Of course I will, with all my heart, or anywhere else you like. You

have been shut up so long, it will do you no end of good, and I shall

enjoy it, of all things. What put it into your head, little mother?"

"Well, I had a talk with Marmee the other day, and told her how nervous

and cross and out of sorts I felt, and she said I needed change and less

care; so Hannah is to help me with the children, and I'm to see to

things about the house more, and now and then have a little fun, just to

keep me from getting to be a fidgety, broken-down old woman before my

time. It's only an experiment, John, and I want to try it for your sake

as much as for mine, because I've neglected you shamefully lately, and

I'm going to make home what it used to be, if I can. You don't object, I

hope?"

Never mind what John said, or what a very narrow escape the little

bonnet had from utter ruin; all that we have any business to know, is

that John did _not_ appear to object, judging from the changes which

gradually took place in the house and its inmates. It was not all

Paradise by any means, but every one was better for the division of

labor system; the children throve under the paternal rule, for accurate,

steadfast John brought order and obedience into Babydom, while Meg

recovered her spirits and composed her nerves by plenty of wholesome

exercise, a little pleasure, and much confidential conversation with her

sensible husband. Home grew home-like again, and John had no wish to

leave it, unless he took Meg with him. The Scotts came to the Brookes'

now, and every one found the little house a cheerful place, full of

happiness, content, and family love. Even gay Sallie Moffatt liked to go

there. "It is always so quiet and pleasant here; it does me good, Meg,"

she used to say, looking about her with wistful eyes, as if trying to

discover the charm, that she might use it in her great house, full of

splendid loneliness; for there were no riotous, sunny-faced babies

there, and Ned lived in a world of his own, where there was no place for

her.

This household happiness did not come all at once, but John and Meg had

found the key to it, and each year of married life taught them how to

use it, unlocking the treasuries of real home-love and mutual

helpfulness, which the poorest may possess, and the richest cannot buy.

This is the sort of shelf on which young wives and mothers may consent

to be laid, safe from the restless fret and fever of the world, finding

loyal lovers in the little sons and daughters who cling to them,

undaunted by sorrow, poverty, or age; walking side by side, through fair

and stormy weather, with a faithful friend, who is, in the true sense of

the good old Saxon word, the "house-band," and learning, as Meg learned,

that a woman's happiest kingdom is home, her highest honor the art of

ruling it, not as a queen, but a wise wife and mother.

[Illustration: Tail-piece]

[Illustration: Sat piping on a stone while his goats skipped]

XXXIX.

LAZY LAURENCE.

Laurie went to Nice intending to stay a week, and remained a month. He

was tired of wandering about alone, and Amy's familiar presence seemed

to give a home-like charm to the foreign scenes in which she bore a

part. He rather missed the "petting" he used to receive, and enjoyed a

taste of it again; for no attentions, however flattering, from

strangers, were half so pleasant as the sisterly adoration of the girls

at home. Amy never would pet him like the others, but she was very glad

to see him now, and quite clung to him, feeling that he was the

representative of the dear family for whom she longed more than she

would confess. They naturally took comfort in each other's society, and

were much together, riding, walking, dancing, or dawdling, for, at Nice,

no one can be very industrious during the gay season. But, while

apparently amusing themselves in the most careless fashion, they were

half-consciously making discoveries and forming opinions about each

other. Amy rose daily in the estimation of her friend, but he sunk in

hers, and each felt the truth before a word was spoken. Amy tried to

please, and succeeded, for she was grateful for the many pleasures he

gave her, and repaid him with the little services to which womanly women

know how to lend an indescribable charm. Laurie made no effort of any

kind, but just let himself drift along as comfortably as possible,

trying to forget, and feeling that all women owed him a kind word

because one had been cold to him. It cost him no effort to be generous,

and he would have given Amy all the trinkets in Nice if she would have

taken them; but, at the same time, he felt that he could not change the

opinion she was forming of him, and he rather dreaded the keen blue eyes

that seemed to watch him with such half-sorrowful, half-scornful

surprise.

"All the rest have gone to Monaco for the day; I preferred to stay at

home and write letters. They are done now, and I am going to Valrosa to

sketch; will you come?" said Amy, as she joined Laurie one lovely day

when he lounged in as usual, about noon.

"Well, yes; but isn't it rather warm for such a long walk?" he answered

slowly, for the shaded _salon_ looked inviting, after the glare without.

"I'm going to have the little carriage, and Baptiste can drive, so

you'll have nothing to do but hold your umbrella and keep your gloves

nice," returned Amy, with a sarcastic glance at the immaculate kids,

which were a weak point with Laurie.

"Then I'll go with pleasure;" and he put out his hand for her

sketch-book. But she tucked it under her arm with a sharp--

"Don't trouble yourself; it's no exertion to me, but _you_ don't look

equal to it."

Laurie lifted his eyebrows, and followed at a leisurely pace as she ran

downstairs; but when they got into the carriage he took the reins

himself, and left little Baptiste nothing to do but fold his arms and

fall asleep on his perch.

The two never quarrelled,--Amy was too well-bred, and just now Laurie

was too lazy; so, in a minute he peeped under her hat-brim with an

inquiring air; she answered with a smile, and they went on together in

the most amicable manner.

It was a lovely drive, along winding roads rich in the picturesque

scenes that delight beauty-loving eyes. Here an ancient monastery,

whence the solemn chanting of the monks came down to them. There a

bare-legged shepherd, in wooden shoes, pointed hat, and rough jacket

over one shoulder, sat piping on a stone, while his goats skipped among

the rocks or lay at his feet. Meek, mouse-colored donkeys, laden with

panniers of freshly-cut grass, passed by, with a pretty girl in a

_capaline_ sitting between the green piles, or an old woman spinning

with a distaff as she went. Brown, soft-eyed children ran out from the

quaint stone hovels to offer nosegays, or bunches of oranges still on

the bough. Gnarled olive-trees covered the hills with their dusky

foliage, fruit hung golden in the orchard, and great scarlet anemones

fringed the roadside; while beyond green slopes and craggy heights, the

Maritime Alps rose sharp and white against the blue Italian sky.

Valrosa well deserved its name, for, in that climate of perpetual

summer, roses blossomed everywhere. They overhung the archway, thrust

themselves between the bars of the great gate with a sweet welcome to

passers-by, and lined the avenue, winding through lemon-trees and

feathery palms up to the villa on the hill. Every shadowy nook, where

seats invited one to stop and rest, was a mass of bloom; every cool

grotto had its marble nymph smiling from a veil of flowers, and every

fountain reflected crimson, white, or pale pink roses, leaning down to

smile at their own beauty. Roses covered the walls of the house, draped

the cornices, climbed the pillars, and ran riot over the balustrade of

the wide terrace, whence one looked down on the sunny Mediterranean, and

the white-walled city on its shore.

"This is a regular honeymoon Paradise, isn't it? Did you ever see such

roses?" asked Amy, pausing on the terrace to enjoy the view, and a

luxurious whiff of perfume that came wandering by.

"No, nor felt such thorns," returned Laurie, with his thumb in his

mouth, after a vain attempt to capture a solitary scarlet flower that

grew just beyond his reach.

"Try lower down, and pick those that have no thorns," said Amy,

gathering three of the tiny cream-colored ones that starred the wall

behind her. She put them in his button-hole, as a peace-offering, and he

stood a minute looking down at them with a curious expression, for in

the Italian part of his nature there was a touch of superstition, and

he was just then in that state of half-sweet, half-bitter melancholy,

when imaginative young men find significance in trifles, and food for

romance everywhere. He had thought of Jo in reaching after the thorny

red rose, for vivid flowers became her, and she had often worn ones like

that from the greenhouse at home. The pale roses Amy gave him were the

sort that the Italians lay in dead hands, never in bridal wreaths, and,

for a moment, he wondered if the omen was for Jo or for himself; but the

next instant his American common-sense got the better of sentimentality,

and he laughed a heartier laugh than Amy had heard since he came.

"It's good advice; you'd better take it and save your fingers," she

said, thinking her speech amused him.

"Thank you, I will," he answered in jest, and a few months later he did

it in earnest.

"Laurie, when are you going to your grandfather?" she asked presently,

as she settled herself on a rustic seat.

"Very soon."

"You have said that a dozen times within the last three weeks."

"I dare say; short answers save trouble."

"He expects you, and you really ought to go."

"Hospitable creature! I know it."

"Then why don't you do it?"

"Natural depravity, I suppose."

"Natural indolence, you mean. It's really dreadful!" and Amy looked

severe.

"Not so bad as it seems, for I should only plague him if I went, so I

might as well stay, and plague you a little longer, you can bear it

better; in fact, I think it agrees with you excellently;" and Laurie

composed himself for a lounge on the broad ledge of the balustrade.

Amy shook her head, and opened her sketch-book with an air of

resignation; but she had made up her mind to lecture "that boy," and in

a minute she began again.

"What are you doing just now?"

"Watching lizards."

"No, no; I mean what do you intend and wish to do?"

"Smoke a cigarette, if you'll allow me."

"How provoking you are! I don't approve of cigars, and I will only allow

it on condition that you let me put you into my sketch; I need a

figure."

"With all the pleasure in life. How will you have me,--full-length or

three-quarters, on my head or my heels? I should respectfully suggest a

recumbent posture, then put yourself in also, and call it '_Dolce far

niente._'"

"Stay as you are, and go to sleep if you like. _I_ intend to work hard,"

said Amy, in her most energetic tone.

"What delightful enthusiasm!" and he leaned against a tall urn with an

air of entire satisfaction.

"What would Jo say if she saw you now?" asked Amy impatiently, hoping to

stir him up by the mention of her still more energetic sister's name.

"As usual, 'Go away, Teddy, I'm busy!'" He laughed as he spoke, but the

laugh was not natural, and a shade passed over his face, for the

utterance of the familiar name touched the wound that was not healed

yet. Both tone and shadow struck Amy, for she had seen and heard them

before, and now she looked up in time to catch a new expression on

Laurie's face,--a hard, bitter look, full of pain, dissatisfaction, and

regret. It was gone before she could study it, and the listless

expression back again. She watched him for a moment with artistic

pleasure, thinking how like an Italian he looked, as he lay basking in

the sun with uncovered head, and eyes full of southern dreaminess; for

he seemed to have forgotten her, and fallen into a reverie.

"You look like the effigy of a young knight asleep on his tomb," she

said, carefully tracing the well-cut profile defined against the dark

stone.

"Wish I was!"

"That's a foolish wish, unless you have spoilt your life. You are so

changed, I sometimes think--" there Amy stopped, with a half-timid,

half-wistful look, more significant than her unfinished speech.

Laurie saw and understood the affectionate anxiety which she hesitated

to express, and looking straight into her eyes, said, just as he used to

say it to her mother,--

"It's all right, ma'am."

That satisfied her and set at rest the doubts that had begun to worry

her lately. It also touched her, and she showed that it did, by the

cordial tone in which she said,--

"I'm glad of that! I didn't think you'd been a very bad boy, but I

fancied you might have wasted money at that wicked Baden-Baden, lost

your heart to some charming Frenchwoman with a husband, or got into some

of the scrapes that young men seem to consider a necessary part of a

foreign tour. Don't stay out there in the sun; come and lie on the grass

here, and 'let us be friendly,' as Jo used to say when we got in the

sofa-corner and told secrets."

[Illustration: Laurie threw himself down on the turf]

Laurie obediently threw himself down on the turf, and began to amuse

himself by sticking daisies into the ribbons of Amy's hat, that lay

there.

"I'm all ready for the secrets;" and he glanced up with a decided

expression of interest in his eyes.

"I've none to tell; you may begin."

"Haven't one to bless myself with. I thought perhaps you'd had some news

from home."

"You have heard all that has come lately. Don't you hear often? I

fancied Jo would send you volumes."

"She's very busy; I'm roving about so, it's impossible to be regular,

you know. When do you begin your great work of art, Raphaella?" he

asked, changing the subject abruptly after another pause, in which he

had been wondering if Amy knew his secret, and wanted to talk about it.

"Never," she answered, with a despondent but decided air. "Rome took all

the vanity out of me; for after seeing the wonders there, I felt too

insignificant to live, and gave up all my foolish hopes in despair."

"Why should you, with so much energy and talent?"

"That's just why,--because talent isn't genius, and no amount of energy

can make it so. I want to be great, or nothing. I won't be a

common-place dauber, so I don't intend to try any more."

"And what are you going to do with yourself now, if I may ask?"

"Polish up my other talents, and be an ornament to society, if I get the

chance."

It was a characteristic speech, and sounded daring; but audacity becomes

young people, and Amy's ambition had a good foundation. Laurie smiled,

but he liked the spirit with which she took up a new purpose when a

long-cherished one died, and spent no time lamenting.

"Good! and here is where Fred Vaughn comes in, I fancy."

Amy preserved a discreet silence, but there was a conscious look in her

downcast face, that made Laurie sit up and say gravely,--

"Now I'm going to play brother, and ask questions. May I?"

"I don't promise to answer."

"Your face will, if your tongue won't. You aren't woman of the world

enough yet to hide your feelings, my dear. I heard rumors about Fred and

you last year, and it's my private opinion that, if he had not been

called home so suddenly and detained so long, something would have come

of it--hey?"

"That's not for me to say," was Amy's prim reply; but her lips would

smile, and there was a traitorous sparkle of the eye, which betrayed

that she knew her power and enjoyed the knowledge.

"You are not engaged, I hope?" and Laurie looked very elder-brotherly

and grave all of a sudden.

"No."

"But you will be, if he comes back and goes properly down upon his

knees, won't you?"

"Very likely."

"Then you are fond of old Fred?"

"I could be, if I tried."

"But you don't intend to try till the proper moment? Bless my soul, what

unearthly prudence! He's a good fellow, Amy, but not the man I fancied

you'd like."

"He is rich, a gentleman, and has delightful manners," began Amy, trying

to be quite cool and dignified, but feeling a little ashamed of herself,

in spite of the sincerity of her intentions.

"I understand; queens of society can't get on without money, so you mean

to make a good match, and start in that way? Quite right and proper, as

the world goes, but it sounds odd from the lips of one of your mother's

girls."

"True, nevertheless."

A short speech, but the quiet decision with which it was uttered

contrasted curiously with the young speaker. Laurie felt this

instinctively, and laid himself down again, with a sense of

disappointment which he could not explain. His look and silence, as well

as a certain inward self-disapproval, ruffled Amy, and made her resolve

to deliver her lecture without delay.

"I wish you'd do me the favor to rouse yourself a little," she said

sharply.

"Do it for me, there's a dear girl."

"I could, if I tried;" and she looked as if she would like doing it in

the most summary style.

"Try, then; I give you leave," returned Laurie, who enjoyed having some

one to tease, after his long abstinence from his favorite pastime.

"You'd be angry in five minutes."

"I'm never angry with you. It takes two flints to make a fire: you are

as cool and soft as snow."

"You don't know what I can do; snow produces a glow and a tingle, if

applied rightly. Your indifference is half affectation, and a good

stirring up would prove it."

"Stir away; it won't hurt me and it may amuse you, as the big man said

when his little wife beat him. Regard me in the light of a husband or a

carpet, and beat till you are tired, if that sort of exercise agrees

with you."

Being decidedly nettled herself, and longing to see him shake off the

apathy that so altered him, Amy sharpened both tongue and pencil, and

began:--

"Flo and I have got a new name for you; it's 'Lazy Laurence.' How do you

like it?"

She thought it would annoy him; but he only folded his arms under his

head, with an imperturbable "That's not bad. Thank you, ladies."

"Do you want to know what I honestly think of you?"

"Pining to be told."

"Well, I despise you."

If she had even said "I hate you," in a petulant or coquettish tone, he

would have laughed, and rather liked it; but the grave, almost sad,

accent of her voice made him open his eyes, and ask quickly,--

"Why, if you please?"

"Because, with every chance for being good, useful, and happy, you are

faulty, lazy, and miserable."

"Strong language, mademoiselle."

"If you like it, I'll go on."

"Pray, do; it's quite interesting."

"I thought you'd find it so; selfish people always like to talk about

themselves."

"Am _I_ selfish?" The question slipped out involuntarily and in a tone

of surprise, for the one virtue on which he prided himself was

generosity.

"Yes, very selfish," continued Amy, in a calm, cool voice, twice as

effective, just then, as an angry one. "I'll show you how, for I've

studied you while we have been frolicking, and I'm not at all satisfied

with you. Here you have been abroad nearly six months, and done nothing

but waste time and money and disappoint your friends."

"Isn't a fellow to have any pleasure after a four-years grind?"

"You don't look as if you'd had much; at any rate, you are none the

better for it, as far as I can see. I said, when we first met, that you

had improved. Now I take it all back, for I don't think you half so nice

as when I left you at home. You have grown abominably lazy; you like

gossip, and waste time on frivolous things; you are contented to be

petted and admired by silly people, instead of being loved and respected

by wise ones. With money, talent, position, health, and beauty,--ah, you

like that, Old Vanity! but it's the truth, so I can't help saying

it,--with all these splendid things to use and enjoy, you can find

nothing to do but dawdle; and, instead of being the man you might and

ought to be, you are only--" There she stopped, with a look that had

both pain and pity in it.

"Saint Laurence on a gridiron," added Laurie, blandly finishing the

sentence. But the lecture began to take effect, for there was a

wide-awake sparkle in his eyes now, and a half-angry, half-injured

expression replaced the former indifference.

"I supposed you'd take it so. You men tell us we are angels, and say we

can make you what we will; but the instant we honestly try to do you

good, you laugh at us, and won't listen, which proves how much your

flattery is worth." Amy spoke bitterly, and turned her back on the

exasperating martyr at her feet.

In a minute a hand came down over the page, so that she could not draw,

and Laurie's voice said, with a droll imitation of a penitent child,--

"I will be good, oh, I will be good!"

But Amy did not laugh, for she was in earnest; and, tapping on the

outspread hand with her pencil, said soberly,--

"Aren't you ashamed of a hand like that? It's as soft and white as a

woman's, and looks as if it never did anything but wear Jouvin's best

gloves, and pick flowers for ladies. You are not a dandy, thank Heaven!

so I'm glad to see there are no diamonds or big seal-rings on it, only

the little old one Jo gave you so long ago. Dear soul, I wish she was

here to help me!"

"So do I!"

The hand vanished as suddenly as it came, and there was energy enough in

the echo of her wish to suit even Amy. She glanced down at him with a

new thought in her mind; but he was lying with his hat half over his

face, as if for shade, and his mustache hid his mouth. She only saw his

chest rise and fall, with a long breath that might have been a sigh, and

the hand that wore the ring nestled down into the grass, as if to hide

something too precious or too tender to be spoken of. All in a minute

various hints and trifles assumed shape and significance in Amy's mind,

and told her what her sister never had confided to her. She remembered

that Laurie never spoke voluntarily of Jo; she recalled the shadow on

his face just now, the change in his character, and the wearing of the

little old ring, which was no ornament to a handsome hand. Girls are

quick to read such signs and feel their eloquence. Amy had fancied that

perhaps a love trouble was at the bottom of the alteration, and now she

was sure of it. Her keen eyes filled, and, when she spoke again, it was

in a voice that could be beautifully soft and kind when she chose to

make it so.

"I know I have no right to talk so to you, Laurie; and if you weren't

the sweetest-tempered fellow in the world, you'd be very angry with me.

But we are all so fond and proud of you, I couldn't bear to think they

should be disappointed in you at home as I have been, though, perhaps,

they would understand the change better than I do."

"I think they would," came from under the hat, in a grim tone, quite as

touching as a broken one.

"They ought to have told me, and not let me go blundering and scolding,

when I should have been more kind and patient than ever. I never did

like that Miss Randal, and now I hate her!" said artful Amy, wishing to

be sure of her facts this time.

"Hang Miss Randal!" and Laurie knocked the hat off his face with a look

that left no doubt of his sentiments toward that young lady.

"I beg pardon; I thought--" and there she paused diplomatically.

"No, you didn't; you knew perfectly well I never cared for any one but

Jo." Laurie said that in his old, impetuous tone, and turned his face

away as he spoke.

"I did think so; but as they never said anything about it, and you came

away, I supposed I was mistaken. And Jo wouldn't be kind to you? Why, I

was sure she loved you dearly."

"She _was_ kind, but not in the right way; and it's lucky for her she

didn't love me, if I'm the good-for-nothing fellow you think me. It's

her fault, though, and you may tell her so."

The hard, bitter look came back again as he said that, and it troubled

Amy, for she did not know what balm to apply.

"I was wrong, I didn't know. I'm very sorry I was so cross, but I can't

help wishing you'd bear it better, Teddy, dear."

"Don't, that's her name for me!" and Laurie put up his hand with a quick

gesture to stop the words spoken in Jo's half-kind, half-reproachful

tone. "Wait till you've tried it yourself," he added, in a low voice, as

he pulled up the grass by the handful.

"I'd take it manfully, and be respected if I couldn't be loved," said

Amy, with the decision of one who knew nothing about it.

Now, Laurie flattered himself that he _had_ borne it remarkably well,

making no moan, asking no sympathy, and taking his trouble away to live

it down alone. Amy's lecture put the matter in a new light, and for the

first time it did look weak and selfish to lose heart at the first

failure, and shut himself up in moody indifference. He felt as if

suddenly shaken out of a pensive dream, and found it impossible to go to

sleep again. Presently he sat up, and asked slowly,--

"Do you think Jo would despise me as you do?"

"Yes, if she saw you now. She hates lazy people. Why don't you do

something splendid, and _make_ her love you?"

"I did my best, but it was no use."

"Graduating well, you mean? That was no more than you ought to have

done, for your grandfather's sake. It would have been shameful to fail

after spending so much time and money, when every one knew you _could_

do well."

"I did fail, say what you will, for Jo wouldn't love me," began Laurie,

leaning his head on his hand in a despondent attitude.

"No, you didn't, and you'll say so in the end, for it did you good, and

proved that you could do something if you tried. If you'd only set about

another task of some sort, you'd soon be your hearty, happy self again,

and forget your trouble."

"That's impossible."

"Try it and see. You needn't shrug your shoulders, and think, 'Much she

knows about such things.' I don't pretend to be wise, but I _am_

observing, and I see a great deal more than you'd imagine. I'm

interested in other people's experiences and inconsistencies; and,

though I can't explain, I remember and use them for my own benefit. Love

Jo all your days, if you choose, but don't let it spoil you, for it's

wicked to throw away so many good gifts because you can't have the one

you want. There, I won't lecture any more, for I know you'll wake up and

be a man in spite of that hardhearted girl."

Neither spoke for several minutes. Laurie sat turning the little ring on

his finger, and Amy put the last touches to the hasty sketch she had

been working at while she talked. Presently she put it on his knee,

merely saying,--

"How do you like that?"

He looked and then he smiled, as he could not well help doing, for it

was capitally done,--the long, lazy figure on the grass, with listless

face, half-shut eyes, and one hand holding a cigar, from which came the

little wreath of smoke that encircled the dreamer's head.

"How well you draw!" he said, with genuine surprise and pleasure at her

skill, adding, with a half-laugh,--

"Yes, that's me."

"As you are: this is as you were;" and Amy laid another sketch beside

the one he held.

It was not nearly so well done, but there was a life and spirit in it

which atoned for many faults, and it recalled the past so vividly that a

sudden change swept over the young man's face as he looked. Only a rough

sketch of Laurie taming a horse; hat and coat were off, and every line

of the active figure, resolute face, and commanding attitude, was full

of energy and meaning. The handsome brute, just subdued, stood arching

his neck under the tightly drawn rein, with one foot impatiently pawing

the ground, and ears pricked up as if listening for the voice that had

mastered him. In the ruffled mane, the rider's breezy hair and erect

attitude, there was a suggestion of suddenly arrested motion, of

strength, courage, and youthful buoyancy, that contrasted sharply with

the supine grace of the "_Dolce far niente_" sketch. Laurie said

nothing; but, as his eye went from one to the other, Amy saw him flush

up and fold his lips together as if he read and accepted the little

lesson she had given him. That satisfied her; and, without waiting for

him to speak, she said, in her sprightly way,--

[Illustration: A rough sketch of Laurie taming a horse]

"Don't you remember the day you played Rarey with Puck, and we all

looked on? Meg and Beth were frightened, but Jo clapped and pranced, and

I sat on the fence and drew you. I found that sketch in my portfolio the

other day, touched it up, and kept it to show you."

"Much obliged. You've improved immensely since then, and I congratulate

you. May I venture to suggest in 'a honeymoon Paradise' that five

o'clock is the dinner-hour at your hotel?"

Laurie rose as he spoke, returned the pictures with a smile and a bow,

and looked at his watch, as if to remind her that even moral lectures

should have an end. He tried to resume his former easy, indifferent air,

but it _was_ an affectation now, for the rousing had been more

efficacious than he would confess. Amy felt the shade of coldness in his

manner, and said to herself,--

"Now I've offended him. Well, if it does him good, I'm glad; if it makes

him hate me, I'm sorry; but it's true, and I can't take back a word of

it."

They laughed and chatted all the way home; and little Baptiste, up

behind, thought that monsieur and mademoiselle were in charming spirits.

But both felt ill at ease; the friendly frankness was disturbed, the

sunshine had a shadow over it, and despite their apparent gayety, there

was a secret discontent in the heart of each.

"Shall we see you this evening, _mon frère_?" asked Amy as they parted

at her aunt's door.

"Unfortunately I have an engagement. _Au revoir, mademoiselle_," and

Laurie bent as if to kiss her hand, in the foreign fashion, which became

him better than many men. Something in his face made Amy say quickly and

warmly,--

"No; be yourself with me, Laurie, and part in the good old way. I'd

rather have a hearty English hand-shake than all the sentimental

salutations in France."

"Good-by, dear," and with these words, uttered in the tone she liked,

Laurie left her, after a hand-shake almost painful in its heartiness.

Next morning, instead of the usual call, Amy received a note which made

her smile at the beginning and sigh at the end:--

"MY DEAR MENTOR,--

"Please make my adieux to your aunt, and exult within yourself,

for 'Lazy Laurence' has gone to his grandpa, like the best of

boys. A pleasant winter to you, and may the gods grant you a

blissful honeymoon at Valrosa! I think Fred would be benefited

by a rouser. Tell him so, with my congratulations.

"Yours gratefully, TELEMACHUS."

"Good boy! I'm glad he's gone," said Amy, with an approving smile; the

next minute her face fell as she glanced about the empty room, adding,

with an involuntary sigh,--

"Yes, I _am_ glad, but how I shall miss him!"

[Illustration: The Valley of the Shadow]

XL.

THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW.

When the first bitterness was over, the family accepted the inevitable,

and tried to bear it cheerfully, helping one another by the increased

affection which comes to bind households tenderly together in times of

trouble. They put away their grief, and each did his or her part toward

making that last year a happy one.

The pleasantest room in the house was set apart for Beth, and in it was

gathered everything that she most loved,--flowers, pictures, her piano,

the little work-table, and the beloved pussies. Father's best books

found their way there, mother's easy-chair, Jo's desk, Amy's finest

sketches; and every day Meg brought her babies on a loving pilgrimage,

to make sunshine for Aunty Beth. John quietly set apart a little sum,

that he might enjoy the pleasure of keeping the invalid supplied with

the fruit she loved and longed for; old Hannah never wearied of

concocting dainty dishes to tempt a capricious appetite, dropping tears

as she worked; and from across the sea came little gifts and cheerful

letters, seeming to bring breaths of warmth and fragrance from lands

that know no winter.

Here, cherished like a household saint in its shrine, sat Beth, tranquil

and busy as ever; for nothing could change the sweet, unselfish nature,

and even while preparing to leave life, she tried to make it happier for

those who should remain behind. The feeble fingers were never idle, and

one of her pleasures was to make little things for the school-children

daily passing to and fro,--to drop a pair of mittens from her window for

a pair of purple hands, a needle-book for some small mother of many

dolls, pen-wipers for young penmen toiling through forests of pot-hooks,

scrap-books for picture-loving eyes, and all manner of pleasant devices,

till the reluctant climbers up the ladder of learning found their way

strewn with flowers, as it were, and came to regard the gentle giver as

a sort of fairy godmother, who sat above there, and showered down gifts

miraculously suited to their tastes and needs. If Beth had wanted any

reward, she found it in the bright little faces always turned up to her

window, with nods and smiles, and the droll little letters which came to

her, full of blots and gratitude.

The first few months were very happy ones, and Beth often used to look

round, and say "How beautiful this is!" as they all sat together in her

sunny room, the babies kicking and crowing on the floor, mother and

sisters working near, and father reading, in his pleasant voice, from

the wise old books which seemed rich in good and comfortable words, as

applicable now as when written centuries ago; a little chapel, where a

paternal priest taught his flock the hard lessons all must learn, trying

to show them that hope can comfort love, and faith make resignation

possible. Simple sermons, that went straight to the souls of those who

listened; for the father's heart was in the minister's religion, and the

frequent falter in the voice gave a double eloquence to the words he

spoke or read.

It was well for all that this peaceful time was given them as

preparation for the sad hours to come; for, by and by, Beth said the

needle was "so heavy," and put it down forever; talking wearied her,

faces troubled her, pain claimed her for its own, and her tranquil

spirit was sorrowfully perturbed by the ills that vexed her feeble

flesh. Ah me! such heavy days, such long, long nights, such aching

hearts and imploring prayers, when those who loved her best were forced

to see the thin hands stretched out to them beseechingly, to hear the

bitter cry, "Help me, help me!" and to feel that there was no help. A

sad eclipse of the serene soul, a sharp struggle of the young life with

death; but both were mercifully brief, and then, the natural rebellion

over, the old peace returned more beautiful than ever. With the wreck of

her frail body, Beth's soul grew strong; and, though she said little,

those about her felt that she was ready, saw that the first pilgrim

called was likewise the fittest, and waited with her on the shore,

trying to see the Shining Ones coming to receive her when she crossed

the river.

Jo never left her for an hour since Beth had said, "I feel stronger when

you are here." She slept on a couch in the room, waking often to renew

the fire, to feed, lift, or wait upon the patient creature who seldom

asked for anything, and "tried not to be a trouble." All day she haunted

the room, jealous of any other nurse, and prouder of being chosen then

than of any honor her life ever brought her. Precious and helpful hours

to Jo, for now her heart received the teaching that it needed; lessons

in patience were so sweetly taught her that she could not fail to learn

them; charity for all, the lovely spirit that can forgive and truly

forget unkindness, the loyalty to duty that makes the hardest easy, and

the sincere faith that fears nothing, but trusts undoubtingly.

Often, when she woke, Jo found Beth reading in her well-worn little

book, heard her singing softly, to beguile the sleepless night, or saw

her lean her face upon her hands, while slow tears dropped through the

transparent fingers; and Jo would lie watching her, with thoughts too

deep for tears, feeling that Beth, in her simple, unselfish way, was

trying to wean herself from the dear old life, and fit herself for the

life to come, by sacred words of comfort, quiet prayers, and the music

she loved so well.

Seeing this did more for Jo than the wisest sermons, the saintliest

hymns, the most fervent prayers that any voice could utter; for, with

eyes made clear by many tears, and a heart softened by the tenderest

sorrow, she recognized the beauty of her sister's life,--uneventful,

unambitious, yet full of the genuine virtues which "smell sweet, and

blossom in the dust," the self-forgetfulness that makes the humblest on

earth remembered soonest in heaven, the true success which is possible

to all.

One night, when Beth looked among the books upon her table, to find

something to make her forget the mortal weariness that was almost as

hard to bear as pain, as she turned the leaves of her old favorite

Pilgrim's Progress, she found a little paper, scribbled over in Jo's

hand. The name caught her eye, and the blurred look of the lines made

her sure that tears had fallen on it.

"Poor Jo! she's fast asleep, so I won't wake her to ask leave; she shows

me all her things, and I don't think she'll mind if I look at this,"

thought Beth, with a glance at her sister, who lay on the rug, with the

tongs beside her, ready to wake up the minute the log fell apart.

"MY BETH.

"Sitting patient in the shadow

Till the blessed light shall come,

A serene and saintly presence

Sanctifies our troubled home.

Earthly joys and hopes and sorrows

Break like ripples on the strand

Of the deep and solemn river

Where her willing feet now stand.

"O my sister, passing from me,

Out of human care and strife,

Leave me, as a gift, those virtues

Which have beautified your life.

Dear, bequeath me that great patience

Which has power to sustain

A cheerful, uncomplaining spirit

In its prison-house of pain.

"Give me, for I need it sorely,

Of that courage, wise and sweet,

Which has made the path of duty

Green beneath your willing feet.

Give me that unselfish nature,

That with charity divine

Can pardon wrong for love's dear sake--

Meek heart, forgive me mine!

"Thus our parting daily loseth

Something of its bitter pain,

And while learning this hard lesson,

My great loss becomes my gain.

For the touch of grief will render

My wild nature more serene,

Give to life new aspirations,

A new trust in the unseen.

"Henceforth, safe across the river,

I shall see forevermore

A beloved, household spirit

Waiting for me on the shore.

Hope and faith, born of my sorrow,

Guardian angels shall become,

And the sister gone before me

By their hands shall lead me home."

Blurred and blotted, faulty and feeble, as the lines were, they brought

a look of inexpressible comfort to Beth's face, for her one regret had

been that she had done so little; and this seemed to assure her that her

life had not been useless, that her death would not bring the despair

she feared. As she sat with the paper folded between her hands, the

charred log fell asunder. Jo started up, revived the blaze, and crept to

the bedside, hoping Beth slept.

"Not asleep, but so happy, dear. See, I found this and read it; I knew

you wouldn't care. Have I been all that to you, Jo?" she asked, with

wistful, humble earnestness.

"O Beth, so much, so much!" and Jo's head went down upon the pillow,

beside her sister's.

"Then I don't feel as if I'd wasted my life. I'm not so good as you make

me, but I _have_ tried to do right; and now, when it's too late to

begin even to do better, it's such a comfort to know that some one loves

me so much, and feels as if I'd helped them."

"More than any one in the world, Beth. I used to think I couldn't let

you go; but I'm learning to feel that I don't lose you; that you'll be

more to me than ever, and death can't part us, though it seems to."

"I know it cannot, and I don't fear it any longer, for I'm sure I shall

be your Beth still, to love and help you more than ever. You must take

my place, Jo, and be everything to father and mother when I'm gone. They

will turn to you, don't fail them; and if it's hard to work alone,

remember that I don't forget you, and that you'll be happier in doing

that than writing splendid books or seeing all the world; for love is

the only thing that we can carry with us when we go, and it makes the

end so easy."

"I'll try, Beth;" and then and there Jo renounced her old ambition,

pledged herself to a new and better one, acknowledging the poverty of

other desires, and feeling the blessed solace of a belief in the

immortality of love.

So the spring days came and went, the sky grew clearer, the earth

greener, the flowers were up fair and early, and the birds came back in

time to say good-by to Beth, who, like a tired but trustful child, clung

to the hands that had led her all her life, as father and mother guided

her tenderly through the Valley of the Shadow, and gave her up to God.

Seldom, except in books, do the dying utter memorable words, see

visions, or depart with beatified countenances; and those who have sped

many parting souls know that to most the end comes as naturally and

simply as sleep. As Beth had hoped, the "tide went out easily;" and in

the dark hour before the dawn, on the bosom where she had drawn her

first breath, she quietly drew her last, with no farewell but one loving

look, one little sigh.

With tears and prayers and tender hands, mother and sisters made her

ready for the long sleep that pain would never mar again, seeing with

grateful eyes the beautiful serenity that soon replaced the pathetic

patience that had wrung their hearts so long, and feeling, with reverent

joy, that to their darling death was a benignant angel, not a phantom

full of dread.

When morning came, for the first time in many months the fire was out,

Jo's place was empty, and the room was very still. But a bird sang

blithely on a budding bough, close by, the snow-drops blossomed freshly

at the window, and the spring sunshine streamed in like a benediction

over the placid face upon the pillow,--a face so full of painless peace

that those who loved it best smiled through their tears, and thanked God

that Beth was well at last.

[Illustration: Tail-piece]

[Illustration: Sat staring up at the busts]

XLI.

LEARNING TO FORGET.

Amy's lecture did Laurie good, though, of course, he did not own it till

long afterward; men seldom do, for when women are the advisers, the

lords of creation don't take the advice till they have persuaded

themselves that it is just what they intended to do; then they act upon

it, and, if it succeeds, they give the weaker vessel half the credit of

it; if it fails, they generously give her the whole. Laurie went back to

his grandfather, and was so dutifully devoted for several weeks that the

old gentleman declared the climate of Nice had improved him wonderfully,

and he had better try it again. There was nothing the young gentleman

would have liked better, but elephants could not have dragged him back

after the scolding he had received; pride forbid, and whenever the

longing grew very strong, he fortified his resolution by repeating the

words that had made the deepest impression, "I despise you;" "Go and do

something splendid that will _make_ her love you."

Laurie turned the matter over in his mind so often that he soon brought

himself to confess that he _had_ been selfish and lazy; but then when a

man has a great sorrow, he should be indulged in all sorts of vagaries

till he has lived it down. He felt that his blighted affections were

quite dead now; and, though he should never cease to be a faithful

mourner, there was no occasion to wear his weeds ostentatiously. Jo

_wouldn't_ love him, but he might _make_ her respect and admire him by

doing something which should prove that a girl's "No" had not spoilt his

life. He had always meant to do something, and Amy's advice was quite

unnecessary. He had only been waiting till the aforesaid blighted

affections were decently interred; that being done, he felt that he was

ready to "hide his stricken heart, and still toil on."

As Goethe, when he had a joy or a grief, put it into a song, so Laurie

resolved to embalm his love-sorrow in music, and compose a Requiem which

should harrow up Jo's soul and melt the heart of every hearer. Therefore

the next time the old gentleman found him getting restless and moody,

and ordered him off, he went to Vienna, where he had musical friends,

and fell to work with the firm determination to distinguish himself.

But, whether the sorrow was too vast to be embodied in music, or music

too ethereal to uplift a mortal woe, he soon discovered that the Requiem

was beyond him, just at present. It was evident that his mind was not in

working order yet, and his ideas needed clarifying; for often in the

middle of a plaintive strain, he would find himself humming a dancing

tune that vividly recalled the Christmas ball at Nice, especially the

stout Frenchman, and put an effectual stop to tragic composition for the

time being.

Then he tried an Opera, for nothing seemed impossible in the beginning;

but here, again, unforeseen difficulties beset him. He wanted Jo for his

heroine, and called upon his memory to supply him with tender

recollections and romantic visions of his love. But memory turned

traitor; and, as if possessed by the perverse spirit of the girl, would

only recall Jo's oddities, faults, and freaks, would only show her in

the most unsentimental aspects,--beating mats with her head tied up in

a bandanna, barricading herself with the sofa-pillow, or throwing cold

water over his passion _à la_ Gummidge,--and an irresistible laugh

spoilt the pensive picture he was endeavoring to paint. Jo wouldn't be

put into the Opera at any price, and he had to give her up with a "Bless

that girl, what a torment she is!" and a clutch at his hair, as became a

distracted composer.

When he looked about him for another and a less intractable damsel to

immortalize in melody, memory produced one with the most obliging

readiness. This phantom wore many faces, but it always had golden hair,

was enveloped in a diaphanous cloud, and floated airily before his

mind's eye in a pleasing chaos of roses, peacocks, white ponies, and

blue ribbons. He did not give the complacent wraith any name, but he

took her for his heroine, and grew quite fond of her, as well he might;

for he gifted her with every gift and grace under the sun, and escorted

her, unscathed, through trials which would have annihilated any mortal

woman.

Thanks to this inspiration, he got on swimmingly for a time, but

gradually the work lost its charm, and he forgot to compose, while he

sat musing, pen in hand, or roamed about the gay city to get new ideas

and refresh his mind, which seemed to be in a somewhat unsettled state

that winter. He did not do much, but he thought a great deal and was

conscious of a change of some sort going on in spite of himself. "It's

genius simmering, perhaps. I'll let it simmer, and see what comes of

it," he said, with a secret suspicion, all the while, that it wasn't

genius, but something far more common. Whatever it was, it simmered to

some purpose, for he grew more and more discontented with his desultory

life, began to long for some real and earnest work to go at, soul and

body, and finally came to the wise conclusion that every one who loved

music was not a composer. Returning from one of Mozart's grand operas,

splendidly performed at the Royal Theatre, he looked over his own,

played a few of the best parts, sat staring up at the busts of

Mendelssohn, Beethoven, and Bach, who stared benignly back again; then

suddenly he tore up his music-sheets, one by one, and, as the last

fluttered out of his hand, he said soberly to himself,--

"She is right! Talent isn't genius, and you can't make it so. That

music has taken the vanity out of me as Rome took it out of her, and I

won't be a humbug any longer. Now what shall I do?"

That seemed a hard question to answer, and Laurie began to wish he had

to work for his daily bread. Now, if ever, occurred an eligible

opportunity for "going to the devil," as he once forcibly expressed it,

for he had plenty of money and nothing to do, and Satan is proverbially

fond of providing employment for full and idle hands. The poor fellow

had temptations enough from without and from within, but he withstood

them pretty well; for, much as he valued liberty, he valued good faith

and confidence more, so his promise to his grandfather, and his desire

to be able to look honestly into the eyes of the women who loved him,

and say "All's well," kept him safe and steady.

Very likely some Mrs. Grundy will observe, "I don't believe it; boys

will be boys, young men must sow their wild oats, and women must not

expect miracles." I dare say _you_ don't, Mrs. Grundy, but it's true

nevertheless. Women work a good many miracles, and I have a persuasion

that they may perform even that of raising the standard of manhood by

refusing to echo such sayings. Let the boys be boys, the longer the

better, and let the young men sow their wild oats if they must; but

mothers, sisters, and friends may help to make the crop a small one, and

keep many tares from spoiling the harvest, by believing, and showing

that they believe, in the possibility of loyalty to the virtues which

make men manliest in good women's eyes. If it _is_ a feminine delusion,

leave us to enjoy it while we may, for without it half the beauty and

the romance of life is lost, and sorrowful forebodings would embitter

all our hopes of the brave, tender-hearted little lads, who still love

their mothers better than themselves, and are not ashamed to own it.

Laurie thought that the task of forgetting his love for Jo would absorb

all his powers for years; but, to his great surprise, he discovered it

grew easier every day. He refused to believe it at first, got angry with

himself, and couldn't understand it; but these hearts of ours are

curious and contrary things, and time and nature work their will in

spite of us. Laurie's heart _wouldn't_ ache; the wound persisted in

healing with a rapidity that astonished him, and, instead of trying to

forget, he found himself trying to remember. He had not foreseen this

turn of affairs, and was not prepared for it. He was disgusted with

himself, surprised at his own fickleness, and full of a queer mixture of

disappointment and relief that he could recover from such a tremendous

blow so soon. He carefully stirred up the embers of his lost love, but

they refused to burst into a blaze: there was only a comfortable glow

that warmed and did him good without putting him into a fever, and he

was reluctantly obliged to confess that the boyish passion was slowly

subsiding into a more tranquil sentiment, very tender, a little sad and

resentful still, but that was sure to pass away in time, leaving a

brotherly affection which would last unbroken to the end.

As the word "brotherly" passed through his mind in one of these

reveries, he smiled, and glanced up at the picture of Mozart that was

before him:--

"Well, he was a great man; and when he couldn't have one sister he took

the other, and was happy."

Laurie did not utter the words, but he thought them; and the next

instant kissed the little old ring, saying to himself,--

"No, I won't! I haven't forgotten, I never can. I'll try again, and if

that fails, why, then--"

Leaving his sentence unfinished, he seized pen and paper and wrote to

Jo, telling her that he could not settle to anything while there was the

least hope of her changing her mind. Couldn't she, wouldn't she, and let

him come home and be happy? While waiting for an answer he did nothing,

but he did it energetically, for he was in a fever of impatience. It

came at last, and settled his mind effectually on one point, for Jo

decidedly couldn't and wouldn't. She was wrapped up in Beth, and never

wished to hear the word "love" again. Then she begged him to be happy

with somebody else, but always to keep a little corner of his heart for

his loving sister Jo. In a postscript she desired him not to tell Amy

that Beth was worse; she was coming home in the spring, and there was no

need of saddening the remainder of her stay. That would be time enough,

please God, but Laurie must write to her often, and not let her feel

lonely, homesick, or anxious.

"So I will, at once. Poor little girl; it will be a sad going home for

her, I'm afraid;" and Laurie opened his desk, as if writing to Amy had

been the proper conclusion of the sentence left unfinished some weeks

before.

But he did not write the letter that day; for, as he rummaged out his

best paper, he came across something which changed his purpose. Tumbling

about in one part of the desk, among bills, passports, and business

documents of various kinds, were several of Jo's letters, and in another

compartment were three notes from Amy, carefully tied up with one of her

blue ribbons, and sweetly suggestive of the little dead roses put away

inside. With a half-repentant, half-amused expression, Laurie gathered

up all Jo's letters, smoothed, folded, and put them neatly into a small

drawer of the desk, stood a minute turning the ring thoughtfully on his

finger, then slowly drew it off, laid it with the letters, locked the

drawer, and went out to hear High Mass at Saint Stefan's, feeling as if

there had been a funeral; and, though not overwhelmed with affliction,

this seemed a more proper way to spend the rest of the day than in

writing letters to charming young ladies.

[Illustration: Turning the ring thoughtfully upon his finger]

The letter went very soon, however, and was promptly answered, for Amy

_was_ homesick, and confessed it in the most delightfully confiding

manner. The correspondence flourished famously, and letters flew to and

fro, with unfailing regularity, all through the early spring. Laurie

sold his busts, made allumettes of his opera, and went back to Paris,

hoping somebody would arrive before long. He wanted desperately to go to

Nice, but would not till he was asked; and Amy would not ask him, for

just then she was having little experiences of her own, which made her

rather wish to avoid the quizzical eyes of "our boy."

Fred Vaughn had returned, and put the question to which she had once

decided to answer "Yes, thank you;" but now she said, "No, thank you,"

kindly but steadily; for, when the time came, her courage failed her,

and she found that something more than money and position was needed to

satisfy the new longing that filled her heart so full of tender hopes

and fears. The words, "Fred is a good fellow, but not at all the man I

fancied you would ever like," and Laurie's face when he uttered them,

kept returning to her as pertinaciously as her own did when she said in

look, if not in words, "I shall marry for money." It troubled her to

remember that now, she wished she could take it back, it sounded so

unwomanly. She didn't want Laurie to think her a heartless, worldly

creature; she didn't care to be a queen of society now half so much as

she did to be a lovable woman; she was so glad he didn't hate her for

the dreadful things she said, but took them so beautifully, and was

kinder than ever. His letters were such a comfort, for the home letters

were very irregular, and were not half so satisfactory as his when they

did come. It was not only a pleasure, but a duty to answer them, for the

poor fellow was forlorn, and needed petting, since Jo persisted in being

stony-hearted. She ought to have made an effort, and tried to love him;

it couldn't be very hard, many people would be proud and glad to have

such a dear boy care for them; but Jo never would act like other girls,

so there was nothing to do but be very kind, and treat him like a

brother.

If all brothers were treated as well as Laurie was at this period, they

would be a much happier race of beings than they are. Amy never lectured

now; she asked his opinion on all subjects; she was interested in

everything he did, made charming little presents for him, and sent him

two letters a week, full of lively gossip, sisterly confidences, and

captivating sketches of the lovely scenes about her. As few brothers are

complimented by having their letters carried about in their sisters'

pockets, read and reread diligently, cried over when short, kissed when

long, and treasured carefully, we will not hint that Amy did any of

these fond and foolish things. But she certainly did grow a little pale

and pensive that spring, lost much of her relish for society, and went

out sketching alone a good deal. She never had much to show when she

came home, but was studying nature, I dare say, while she sat for hours,

with her hands folded, on the terrace at Valrosa, or absently sketched

any fancy that occurred to her,--a stalwart knight carved on a tomb, a

young man asleep in the grass, with his hat over his eyes, or a

curly-haired girl in gorgeous array, promenading down a ball-room on the

arm of a tall gentleman, both faces being left a blur according to the

last fashion in art, which was safe, but not altogether satisfactory.

Her aunt thought that she regretted her answer to Fred; and, finding

denials useless and explanations impossible, Amy left her to think what

she liked, taking care that Laurie should know that Fred had gone to

Egypt. That was all, but he understood it, and looked relieved, as he

said to himself, with a venerable air,--

"I was sure she would think better of it. Poor old fellow! I've been

through it all, and I can sympathize."

With that he heaved a great sigh, and then, as if he had discharged his

duty to the past, put his feet up on the sofa, and enjoyed Amy's letter

luxuriously.

While these changes were going on abroad, trouble had come at home; but

the letter telling that Beth was failing never reached Amy, and when the

next found her, the grass was green above her sister. The sad news met

her at Vevay, for the heat had driven them from Nice in May, and they

had travelled slowly to Switzerland, by way of Genoa and the Italian

lakes. She bore it very well, and quietly submitted to the family decree

that she should not shorten her visit, for, since it was too late to say

good-by to Beth, she had better stay, and let absence soften her sorrow.

But her heart was very heavy; she longed to be at home, and every day

looked wistfully across the lake, waiting for Laurie to come and comfort

her.

He did come very soon; for the same mail brought letters to them both,

but he was in Germany, and it took some days to reach him. The moment he

read it, he packed his knapsack, bade adieu to his fellow-pedestrians,

and was off to keep his promise, with a heart full of joy and sorrow,

hope and suspense.

He knew Vevay well; and as soon as the boat touched the little quay, he

hurried along the shore to La Tour, where the Carrols were living _en

pension_. The _garçon_ was in despair that the whole family had gone to

take a promenade on the lake; but no, the blond mademoiselle might be in

the chateau garden. If monsieur would give himself the pain of sitting

down, a flash of time should present her. But monsieur could not wait

even "a flash of time," and, in the middle of the speech, departed to

find mademoiselle himself.

A pleasant old garden on the borders of the lovely lake, with chestnuts

rustling overhead, ivy climbing everywhere, and the black shadow of the

tower falling far across the sunny water. At one corner of the wide, low

wall was a seat, and here Amy often came to read or work, or console

herself with the beauty all about her. She was sitting here that day,

leaning her head on her hand, with a homesick heart and heavy eyes,

thinking of Beth, and wondering why Laurie did not come. She did not

hear him cross the court-yard beyond, nor see him pause in the archway

that led from the subterranean path into the garden. He stood a minute,

looking at her with new eyes, seeing what no one had ever seen

before,--the tender side of Amy's character. Everything about her mutely

suggested love and sorrow,--the blotted letters in her lap, the black

ribbon that tied up her hair, the womanly pain and patience in her face;

even the little ebony cross at her throat seemed pathetic to Laurie, for

he had given it to her, and she wore it as her only ornament. If he had

any doubts about the reception she would give him, they were set at

rest the minute she looked up and saw him; for, dropping everything, she

ran to him, exclaiming, in a tone of unmistakable love and longing,--

"O Laurie, Laurie, I knew you'd come to me!"

[Illustration: O Laurie, Laurie, I knew you'd come]

I think everything was said and settled then; for, as they stood

together quite silent for a moment, with the dark head bent down

protectingly over the light one, Amy felt that no one could comfort and

sustain her so well as Laurie, and Laurie decided that Amy was the only

woman in the world who could fill Jo's place, and make him happy. He did

not tell her so; but she was not disappointed, for both felt the truth,

were satisfied, and gladly left the rest to silence.

In a minute Amy went back to her place; and, while she dried her tears,

Laurie gathered up the scattered papers, finding in the sight of sundry

well-worn letters and suggestive sketches good omens for the future. As

he sat down beside her, Amy felt shy again, and turned rosy red at the

recollection of her impulsive greeting.

"I couldn't help it; I felt so lonely and sad, and was so very glad to

see you. It was such a surprise to look up and find you, just as I was

beginning to fear you wouldn't come," she said, trying in vain to speak

quite naturally.

"I came the minute I heard. I wish I could say something to comfort you

for the loss of dear little Beth; but I can only feel, and--" He could

not get any further, for he, too, turned bashful all of a sudden, and

did not quite know what to say. He longed to lay Amy's head down on his

shoulder, and tell her to have a good cry, but he did not dare; so took

her hand instead, and gave it a sympathetic squeeze that was better than

words.

"You needn't say anything; this comforts me," she said softly. "Beth is

well and happy, and I mustn't wish her back; but I dread the going home,

much as I long to see them all. We won't talk about it now, for it makes

me cry, and I want to enjoy you while you stay. You needn't go right

back, need you?"

"Not if you want me, dear."

"I do, so much. Aunt and Flo are very kind; but you seem like one of the

family, and it would be so comfortable to have you for a little while."

Amy spoke and looked so like a homesick child, whose heart was full,

that Laurie forgot his bashfulness all at once, and gave her just what

she wanted,--the petting she was used to and the cheerful conversation

she needed.

"Poor little soul, you look as if you'd grieved yourself half-sick! I'm

going to take care of you, so don't cry any more, but come and walk

about with me; the wind is too chilly for you to sit still," he said, in

the half-caressing, half-commanding way that Amy liked, as he tied on

her hat, drew her arm through his, and began to pace up and down the

sunny walk, under the new-leaved chestnuts. He felt more at ease upon

his legs; and Amy found it very pleasant to have a strong arm to lean

upon, a familiar face to smile at her, and a kind voice to talk

delightfully for her alone.

The quaint old garden had sheltered many pairs of lovers, and seemed

expressly made for them, so sunny and secluded was it, with nothing but

the tower to overlook them, and the wide lake to carry away the echo of

their words, as it rippled by below. For an hour this new pair walked

and talked, or rested on the wall, enjoying the sweet influences which

gave such a charm to time and place; and when an unromantic dinner-bell

warned them away, Amy felt as if she left her burden of loneliness and

sorrow behind her in the chateau garden.

The moment Mrs. Carrol saw the girl's altered face, she was illuminated

with a new idea, and exclaimed to herself, "Now I understand it

all,--the child has been pining for young Laurence. Bless my heart, I

never thought of such a thing!"

With praiseworthy discretion, the good lady said nothing, and betrayed

no sign of enlightenment; but cordially urged Laurie to stay, and begged

Amy to enjoy his society, for it would do her more good than so much

solitude. Amy was a model of docility; and, as her aunt was a good deal

occupied with Flo, she was left to entertain her friend, and did it with

more than her usual success.

At Nice, Laurie had lounged and Amy had scolded; at Vevay, Laurie was

never idle, but always walking, riding, boating, or studying, in the

most energetic manner, while Amy admired everything he did, and followed

his example as far and as fast as she could. He said the change was

owing to the climate, and she did not contradict him, being glad of a

like excuse for her own recovered health and spirits.

The invigorating air did them both good, and much exercise worked

wholesome changes in minds as well as bodies. They seemed to get clearer

views of life and duty up there among the everlasting hills; the fresh

winds blew away desponding doubts, delusive fancies, and moody mists;

the warm spring sunshine brought out all sorts of aspiring ideas, tender

hopes, and happy thoughts; the lake seemed to wash away the troubles of

the past, and the grand old mountains to look benignly down upon them,

saying, "Little children, love one another."

In spite of the new sorrow, it was a very happy time, so happy that

Laurie could not bear to disturb it by a word. It took him a little

while to recover from his surprise at the rapid cure of his first, and,

as he had firmly believed, his last and only love. He consoled himself

for the seeming disloyalty by the thought that Jo's sister was almost

the same as Jo's self, and the conviction that it would have been

impossible to love any other woman but Amy so soon and so well. His

first wooing had been of the tempestuous order, and he looked back upon

it as if through a long vista of years, with a feeling of compassion

blended with regret. He was not ashamed of it, but put it away as one of

the bitter-sweet experiences of his life, for which he could be grateful

when the pain was over. His second wooing he resolved should be as calm

and simple as possible; there was no need of having a scene, hardly any

need of telling Amy that he loved her; she knew it without words, and

had given him his answer long ago. It all came about so naturally that

no one could complain, and he knew that everybody would be pleased, even

Jo. But when our first little passion has been crushed, we are apt to be

wary and slow in making a second trial; so Laurie let the days pass,

enjoying every hour, and leaving to chance the utterance of the word

that would put an end to the first and sweetest part of his new romance.

He had rather imagined that the _dénouement_ would take place in the

chateau garden by moonlight, and in the most graceful and decorous

manner; but it turned out exactly the reverse, for the matter was

settled on the lake, at noonday, in a few blunt words. They had been

floating about all the morning, from gloomy St. Gingolf to sunny

Montreux, with the Alps of Savoy on one side, Mont St. Bernard and the

Dent du Midi on the other, pretty Vevay in the valley, and Lausanne upon

the hill beyond, a cloudless blue sky overhead, and the bluer lake

below, dotted with the picturesque boats that look like white-winged

gulls.

They had been talking of Bonnivard, as they glided past Chillon, and of

Rousseau, as they looked up at Clarens, where he wrote his "Héloise."

Neither had read it, but they knew it was a love-story, and each

privately wondered if it was half as interesting as their own. Amy had

been dabbling her hand in the water during the little pause that fell

between them, and, when she looked up, Laurie was leaning on his oars,

with an expression in his eyes that made her say hastily, merely for the

sake of saying something,--

"You must be tired; rest a little, and let me row; it will do me good;

for, since you came, I have been altogether lazy and luxurious."

"I'm not tired; but you may take an oar, if you like. There's room

enough, though I have to sit nearly in the middle, else the boat won't

trim," returned Laurie, as if he rather liked the arrangement.

Feeling that she had not mended matters much, Amy took the offered third

of a seat, shook her hair over her face, and accepted an oar. She rowed

as well as she did many other things; and, though she used both hands,

and Laurie but one, the oars kept time, and the boat went smoothly

through the water.

[Illustration: How well we pull together]

"How well we pull together, don't we?" said Amy, who objected to silence

just then.

"So well that I wish we might always pull in the same boat. Will you,

Amy?" very tenderly.

"Yes, Laurie," very low.

Then they both stopped rowing, and unconsciously added a pretty little

_tableau_ of human love and happiness to the dissolving views reflected

in the lake.

XLII.

ALL ALONE.

It was easy to promise self-abnegation when self was wrapped up in

another, and heart and soul were purified by a sweet example; but when

the helpful voice was silent, the daily lesson over, the beloved

presence gone, and nothing remained but loneliness and grief, then Jo

found her promise very hard to keep. How could she "comfort father and

mother," when her own heart ached with a ceaseless longing for her

sister; how could she "make the house cheerful," when all its light and

warmth and beauty seemed to have deserted it when Beth left the old home

for the new; and where in all the world could she "find some useful,

happy work to do," that would take the place of the loving service which

had been its own reward? She tried in a blind, hopeless way to do her

duty, secretly rebelling against it all the while, for it seemed unjust

that her few joys should be lessened, her burdens made heavier, and life

get harder and harder as she toiled along. Some people seemed to get all

sunshine, and some all shadow; it was not fair, for she tried more than

Amy to be good, but never got any reward, only disappointment, trouble,

and hard work.

Poor Jo, these were dark days to her, for something like despair came

over her when she thought of spending all her life in that quiet house,

devoted to humdrum cares, a few small pleasures, and the duty that never

seemed to grow any easier. "I can't do it. I wasn't meant for a life

like this, and I know I shall break away and do something desperate if

somebody don't come and help me," she said to herself, when her first

efforts failed, and she fell into the moody, miserable state of mind

which often comes when strong wills have to yield to the inevitable.

But some one did come and help her, though Jo did not recognize her good

angels at once, because they wore familiar shapes, and used the simple

spells best fitted to poor humanity. Often she started up at night,

thinking Beth called her; and when the sight of the little empty bed

made her cry with the bitter cry of an unsubmissive sorrow, "O Beth,

come back! come back!" she did not stretch out her yearning arms in

vain; for, as quick to hear her sobbing as she had been to hear her

sister's faintest whisper, her mother came to comfort her, not with

words only, but the patient tenderness that soothes by a touch, tears

that were mute reminders of a greater grief than Jo's, and broken

whispers, more eloquent than prayers, because hopeful resignation went

hand-in-hand with natural sorrow. Sacred moments, when heart talked to

heart in the silence of the night, turning affliction to a blessing,

which chastened grief and strengthened love. Feeling this, Jo's burden

seemed easier to bear, duty grew sweeter, and life looked more

endurable, seen from the safe shelter of her mother's arms.

When aching heart was a little comforted, troubled mind likewise found

help; for one day she went to the study, and, leaning over the good gray

head lifted to welcome her with a tranquil smile, she said, very

humbly,--

"Father, talk to me as you did to Beth. I need it more than she did, for

I'm all wrong."

"My dear, nothing can comfort me like this," he answered, with a falter

in his voice, and both arms round her, as if he, too, needed help, and

did not fear to ask it.

[Illustration: Jo and her father]

Then, sitting in Beth's little chair close beside him, Jo told her

troubles,--the resentful sorrow for her loss, the fruitless efforts that

discouraged her, the want of faith that made life look so dark, and all

the sad bewilderment which we call despair. She gave him entire

confidence, he gave her the help she needed, and both found consolation

in the act; for the time had come when they could talk together not only

as father and daughter, but as man and woman, able and glad to serve

each other with mutual sympathy as well as mutual love. Happy,

thoughtful times there in the old study which Jo called "the church of

one member," and from which she came with fresh courage, recovered

cheerfulness, and a more submissive spirit; for the parents who had

taught one child to meet death without fear, were trying now to teach

another to accept life without despondency or distrust, and to use its

beautiful opportunities with gratitude and power.

Other helps had Jo,--humble, wholesome duties and delights that would

not be denied their part in serving her, and which she slowly learned to

see and value. Brooms and dishcloths never could be as distasteful as

they once had been, for Beth had presided over both; and something of

her housewifely spirit seemed to linger round the little mop and the old

brush, that was never thrown away. As she used them, Jo found herself

humming the songs Beth used to hum, imitating Beth's orderly ways, and

giving the little touches here and there that kept everything fresh and

cosey, which was the first step toward making home happy, though she

didn't know it, till Hannah said with an approving squeeze of the

hand,--

"You thoughtful creter, you're determined we sha'n't miss that dear lamb

ef you can help it. We don't say much, but we see it, and the Lord will

bless you for't, see ef He don't."

As they sat sewing together, Jo discovered how much improved her sister

Meg was; how well she could talk, how much she knew about good, womanly

impulses, thoughts, and feelings, how happy she was in husband and

children, and how much they were all doing for each other.

"Marriage is an excellent thing, after all. I wonder if I should blossom

out half as well as you have, if I tried it?" said Jo, as she

constructed a kite for Demi, in the topsy-turvy nursery.

"It's just what you need to bring out the tender, womanly half of your

nature, Jo. You are like a chestnut-burr, prickly outside, but

silky-soft within, and a sweet kernel, if one can only get at it. Love

will make you show your heart some day, and then the rough burr will

fall off."

"Frost opens chestnut-burrs, ma'am, and it takes a good shake to bring

them down. Boys go nutting, and I don't care to be bagged by them,"

returned Jo, pasting away at the kite which no wind that blows would

ever carry up, for Daisy had tied herself on as a bob.

Meg laughed, for she was glad to see a glimmer of Jo's old spirit, but

she felt it her duty to enforce her opinion by every argument in her

power; and the sisterly chats were not wasted, especially as two of

Meg's most effective arguments were the babies, whom Jo loved tenderly.

Grief is the best opener for some hearts, and Jo's was nearly ready for

the bag: a little more sunshine to ripen the nut, then, not a boy's

impatient shake, but a man's hand reached up to pick it gently from the

burr, and find the kernel sound and sweet. If she had suspected this,

she would have shut up tight, and been more prickly than ever;

fortunately she wasn't thinking about herself, so, when the time came,

down she dropped.

Now, if she had been the heroine of a moral story-book, she ought at

this period of her life to have become quite saintly, renounced the

world, and gone about doing good in a mortified bonnet, with tracts in

her pocket. But, you see, Jo wasn't a heroine; she was only a struggling

human girl, like hundreds of others, and she just acted out her nature,

being sad, cross, listless, or energetic, as the mood suggested. It's

highly virtuous to say we'll be good, but we can't do it all at once,

and it takes a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull all together,

before some of us even get our feet set in the right way. Jo had got so

far, she was learning to do her duty, and to feel unhappy if she did

not; but to do it cheerfully--ah, that was another thing! She had often

said she wanted to do something splendid, no matter how hard; and now

she had her wish, for what could be more beautiful than to devote her

life to father and mother, trying to make home as happy to them as they

had to her? And, if difficulties were necessary to increase the splendor

of the effort, what could be harder for a restless, ambitious girl than

to give up her own hopes, plans, and desires, and cheerfully live for

others?

Providence had taken her at her word; here was the task, not what she

had expected, but better, because self had no part in it: now, could she

do it? She decided that she would try; and, in her first attempt, she

found the helps I have suggested. Still another was given her, and she

took it, not as a reward, but as a comfort, as Christian took the

refreshment afforded by the little arbor where he rested, as he climbed

the hill called Difficulty.

"Why don't you write? That always used to make you happy," said her

mother, once, when the desponding fit overshadowed Jo.

"I've no heart to write, and if I had, nobody cares for my things."

"We do; write something for us, and never mind the rest of the world.

Try it, dear; I'm sure it would do you good, and please us very much."

"Don't believe I can;" but Jo got out her desk, and began to overhaul

her half-finished manuscripts.

An hour afterward her mother peeped in, and there she was, scratching

away, with her black pinafore on, and an absorbed expression, which

caused Mrs. March to smile, and slip away, well pleased with the success

of her suggestion. Jo never knew how it happened, but something got into

that story that went straight to the hearts of those who read it; for,

when her family had laughed and cried over it, her father sent it, much

against her will, to one of the popular magazines, and, to her utter

surprise, it was not only paid for, but others requested. Letters from

several persons, whose praise was honor, followed the appearance of the

little story, newspapers copied it, and strangers as well as friends

admired it. For a small thing it was a great success; and Jo was more

astonished than when her novel was commended and condemned all at once.

"I don't understand it. What _can_ there be in a simple little story

like that, to make people praise it so?" she said, quite bewildered.

"There is truth in it, Jo, that's the secret; humor and pathos make it

alive, and you have found your style at last. You wrote with no thought

of fame or money, and put your heart into it, my daughter; you have had

the bitter, now comes the sweet. Do your best, and grow as happy as we

are in your success."

"If there _is_ anything good or true in what I write, it isn't mine; I

owe it all to you and mother and to Beth," said Jo, more touched by her

father's words than by any amount of praise from the world.

So, taught by love and sorrow, Jo wrote her little stories, and sent

them away to make friends for themselves and her, finding it a very

charitable world to such humble wanderers; for they were kindly

welcomed, and sent home comfortable tokens to their mother, like dutiful

children whom good fortune overtakes.

When Amy and Laurie wrote of their engagement, Mrs. March feared that Jo

would find it difficult to rejoice over it, but her fears were soon set

at rest; for, though Jo looked grave at first, she took it very quietly,

and was full of hopes and plans for "the children" before she read the

letter twice. It was a sort of written duet, wherein each glorified the

other in lover-like fashion, very pleasant to read and satisfactory to

think of, for no one had any objection to make.

"You like it, mother?" said Jo, as they laid down the closely written

sheets, and looked at one another.

"Yes, I hoped it would be so, ever since Amy wrote that she had refused

Fred. I felt sure then that something better than what you call the

'mercenary spirit' had come over her, and a hint here and there in her

letters made me suspect that love and Laurie would win the day."

"How sharp you are, Marmee, and how silent! You never said a word to

me."

"Mothers have need of sharp eyes and discreet tongues when they have

girls to manage. I was half afraid to put the idea into your head, lest

you should write and congratulate them before the thing was settled."

"I'm not the scatter-brain I was; you may trust me, I'm sober and

sensible enough for any one's _confidante_ now."

"So you are, dear, and I should have made you mine, only I fancied it

might pain you to learn that your Teddy loved any one else."

"Now, mother, did you really think I could be so silly and selfish,

after I'd refused his love, when it was freshest, if not best?"

"I knew you were sincere then, Jo, but lately I have thought that if he

came back, and asked again, you might, perhaps, feel like giving another

answer. Forgive me, dear, I can't help seeing that you are very lonely,

and sometimes there is a hungry look in your eyes that goes to my heart;

so I fancied that your boy might fill the empty place if he tried now."

"No, mother, it is better as it is, and I'm glad Amy has learned to love

him. But you are right in one thing: I _am_ lonely, and perhaps if Teddy

had tried again, I might have said 'Yes,' not because I love him any

more, but because I care more to be loved than when he went away."

"I'm glad of that, Jo, for it shows that you are getting on. There are

plenty to love you, so try to be satisfied with father and mother,

sisters and brothers, friends and babies, till the best lover of all

comes to give you your reward."

"Mothers are the _best_ lovers in the world; but I don't mind whispering

to Marmee that I'd like to try all kinds. It's very curious, but the

more I try to satisfy myself with all sorts of natural affections, the

more I seem to want. I'd no idea hearts could take in so many; mine is

so elastic, it never seems full now, and I used to be quite contented

with my family. I don't understand it."

"I do;" and Mrs. March smiled her wise smile, as Jo turned back the

leaves to read what Amy said of Laurie.

"It is so beautiful to be loved as Laurie loves me; he isn't

sentimental, doesn't say much about it, but I see and feel it in all he

says and does, and it makes me so happy and so humble that I don't seem

to be the same girl I was. I never knew how good and generous and tender

he was till now, for he lets me read his heart, and I find it full of

noble impulses and hopes and purposes, and am so proud to know it's

mine. He says he feels as if he 'could make a prosperous voyage now

with me aboard as mate, and lots of love for ballast.' I pray he may,

and try to be all he believes me, for I love my gallant captain with all

my heart and soul and might, and never will desert him, while God lets

us be together. O mother, I never knew how much like heaven this world

could be, when two people love and live for one another!"

"And that's our cool, reserved, and worldly Amy! Truly, love does work

miracles. How very, very happy they must be!" And Jo laid the rustling

sheets together with a careful hand, as one might shut the covers of a

lovely romance, which holds the reader fast till the end comes, and he

finds himself alone in the work-a-day world again.

By and by Jo roamed away upstairs, for it was rainy, and she could not

walk. A restless spirit possessed her, and the old feeling came again,

not bitter as it once was, but a sorrowfully patient wonder why one

sister should have all she asked, the other nothing. It was not true;

she knew that, and tried to put it away, but the natural craving for

affection was strong, and Amy's happiness woke the hungry longing for

some one to "love with heart and soul, and cling to while God let them

be together."

Up in the garret, where Jo's unquiet wanderings ended, stood four little

wooden chests in a row, each marked with its owner's name, and each

filled with relics of the childhood and girlhood ended now for all. Jo

glanced into them, and when she came to her own, leaned her chin on the

edge, and stared absently at the chaotic collection, till a bundle of

old exercise-books caught her eye. She drew them out, turned them over,

and re-lived that pleasant winter at kind Mrs. Kirke's. She had smiled

at first, then she looked thoughtful, next sad, and when she came to a

little message written in the Professor's hand, her lips began to

tremble, the books slid out of her lap, and she sat looking at the

friendly words, as if they took a new meaning, and touched a tender spot

in her heart.

"Wait for me, my friend. I may be a little late, but I shall surely

come."

"Oh, if he only would! So kind, so good, so patient with me always; my

dear old Fritz, I didn't value him half enough when I had him, but now

how I should love to see him, for every one seems going away from me,

and I'm all alone."

And holding the little paper fast, as if it were a promise yet to be

fulfilled, Jo laid her head down on a comfortable rag-bag, and cried, as

if in opposition to the rain pattering on the roof.

[Illustration: Jo laid her head on a comfortable rag-bag and cried]

Was it all self-pity, loneliness, or low spirits? or was it the waking

up of a sentiment which had bided its time as patiently as its inspirer?

Who shall say?

[Illustration: A substantial lifelike ghost leaning over her]

XLIII.

SURPRISES.

Jo was alone in the twilight, lying on the old sofa, looking at the

fire, and thinking. It was her favorite way of spending the hour of

dusk; no one disturbed her, and she used to lie there on Beth's little

red pillow, planning stories, dreaming dreams, or thinking tender

thoughts of the sister who never seemed far away. Her face looked tired,

grave, and rather sad; for to-morrow was her birthday, and she was

thinking how fast the years went by, how old she was getting, and how

little she seemed to have accomplished. Almost twenty-five, and nothing

to show for it. Jo was mistaken in that; there was a good deal to show,

and by and by she saw, and was grateful for it.

"An old maid, that's what I'm to be. A literary spinster, with a pen for

a spouse, a family of stories for children, and twenty years hence a

morsel of fame, perhaps; when, like poor Johnson, I'm old, and can't

enjoy it, solitary, and can't share it, independent, and don't need it.

Well, I needn't be a sour saint nor a selfish sinner; and, I dare say,

old maids are very comfortable when they get used to it; but--" and

there Jo sighed, as if the prospect was not inviting.

It seldom is, at first, and thirty seems the end of all things to

five-and-twenty; but it's not so bad as it looks, and one can get on

quite happily if one has something in one's self to fall back upon. At

twenty-five, girls begin to talk about being old maids, but secretly

resolve that they never will be; at thirty they say nothing about it,

but quietly accept the fact, and, if sensible, console themselves by

remembering that they have twenty more useful, happy years, in which

they may be learning to grow old gracefully. Don't laugh at the

spinsters, dear girls, for often very tender, tragical romances are

hidden away in the hearts that beat so quietly under the sober gowns,

and many silent sacrifices of youth, health, ambition, love itself, make

the faded faces beautiful in God's sight. Even the sad, sour sisters

should be kindly dealt with, because they have missed the sweetest part

of life, if for no other reason; and, looking at them with compassion,

not contempt, girls in their bloom should remember that they too may

miss the blossom time; that rosy cheeks don't last forever, that silver

threads will come in the bonnie brown hair, and that, by and by,

kindness and respect will be as sweet as love and admiration now.

Gentlemen, which means boys, be courteous to the old maids, no matter

how poor and plain and prim, for the only chivalry worth having is that

which is the readiest to pay deference to the old, protect the feeble,

and serve womankind, regardless of rank, age, or color. Just recollect

the good aunts who have not only lectured and fussed, but nursed and

petted, too often without thanks; the scrapes they have helped you out

of, the "tips" they have given you from their small store, the stitches

the patient old fingers have set for you, the steps the willing old feet

have taken, and gratefully pay the dear old ladies the little attentions

that women love to receive as long as they live. The bright-eyed girls

are quick to see such traits, and will like you all the better for them;

and if death, almost the only power that can part mother and son,

should rob you of yours, you will be sure to find a tender welcome and

maternal cherishing from some Aunt Priscilla, who has kept the warmest

corner of her lonely old heart for the "the best nevvy in the world."

Jo must have fallen asleep (as I dare say my reader has during this

little homily), for suddenly Laurie's ghost seemed to stand before

her,--a substantial, lifelike ghost,--leaning over her, with the very

look he used to wear when he felt a good deal and didn't like to show

it. But, like Jenny in the ballad,--

"She could not think it he,"

and lay staring up at him in startled silence, till he stooped and

kissed her. Then she knew him, and flew up, crying joyfully,--

"O my Teddy! O my Teddy!"

"Dear Jo, you are glad to see me, then?"

"Glad! My blessed boy, words can't express my gladness. Where's Amy?"

"Your mother has got her down at Meg's. We stopped there by the way, and

there was no getting my wife out of their clutches."

"Your what?" cried Jo, for Laurie uttered those two words with an

unconscious pride and satisfaction which betrayed him.

"Oh, the dickens! now I've done it;" and he looked so guilty that Jo was

down upon him like a flash.

"You've gone and got married!"

"Yes, please, but I never will again;" and he went down upon his knees,

with a penitent clasping of hands, and a face full of mischief, mirth,

and triumph.

"Actually married?"

"Very much so, thank you."

"Mercy on us! What dreadful thing will you do next?" and Jo fell into

her seat, with a gasp.

"A characteristic, but not exactly complimentary, congratulation,"

returned Laurie, still in an abject attitude, but beaming with

satisfaction.

"What can you expect, when you take one's breath away, creeping in like

a burglar, and letting cats out of bags like that? Get up, you

ridiculous boy, and tell me all about it."

"Not a word, unless you let me come in my old place, and promise not to

barricade."

Jo laughed at that as she had not done for many a long day, and patted

the sofa invitingly, as she said, in a cordial tone,--

"The old pillow is up garret, and we don't need it now; so, come and

'fess, Teddy."

"How good it sounds to hear you say 'Teddy'! No one ever calls me that

but you;" and Laurie sat down, with an air of great content.

"What does Amy call you?"

"My lord."

"That's like her. Well, you look it;" and Jo's eyes plainly betrayed

that she found her boy comelier than ever.

The pillow was gone, but there _was_ a barricade, nevertheless,--a

natural one, raised by time, absence, and change of heart. Both felt it,

and for a minute looked at one another as if that invisible barrier cast

a little shadow over them. It was gone directly, however, for Laurie

said, with a vain attempt at dignity,--

"Don't I look like a married man and the head of a family?"

"Not a bit, and you never will. You've grown bigger and bonnier, but you

are the same scapegrace as ever."

"Now, really, Jo, you ought to treat me with more respect," began

Laurie, who enjoyed it all immensely.

"How can I, when the mere idea of you, married and settled, is so

irresistibly funny that I can't keep sober!" answered Jo, smiling all

over her face, so infectiously that they had another laugh, and then

settled down for a good talk, quite in the pleasant old fashion.

"It's no use your going out in the cold to get Amy, for they are all

coming up presently. I couldn't wait; I wanted to be the one to tell you

the grand surprise, and have 'first skim,' as we used to say when we

squabbled about the cream."

"Of course you did, and spoilt your story by beginning at the wrong end.

Now, start right, and tell me how it all happened; I'm pining to know."

"Well, I did it to please Amy," began Laurie, with a twinkle that made

Jo exclaim,--

"Fib number one; Amy did it to please you. Go on, and tell the truth, if

you can, sir."

"Now she's beginning to marm it; isn't it jolly to hear her?" said

Laurie to the fire, and the fire glowed and sparkled as if it quite

agreed. "It's all the same, you know, she and I being one. We planned to

come home with the Carrols, a month or more ago, but they suddenly

changed their minds, and decided to pass another winter in Paris. But

grandpa wanted to come home; he went to please me, and I couldn't let

him go alone, neither could I leave Amy; and Mrs. Carrol had got English

notions about chaperons and such nonsense, and wouldn't let Amy come

with us. So I just settled the difficulty by saying, 'Let's be married,

and then we can do as we like.'"

"Of course you did; you always have things to suit you."

"Not always;" and something in Laurie's voice made Jo say hastily,--

"How did you ever get aunt to agree?"

"It was hard work; but, between us, we talked her over, for we had heaps

of good reasons on our side. There wasn't time to write and ask leave,

but you all liked it, had consented to it by and by, and it was only

'taking Time by the fetlock,' as my wife says."

"Aren't we proud of those two words, and don't we like to say them?"

interrupted Jo, addressing the fire in her turn, and watching with

delight the happy light it seemed to kindle in the eyes that had been so

tragically gloomy when she saw them last.

"A trifle, perhaps; she's such a captivating little woman I can't help

being proud of her. Well, then, uncle and aunt were there to play

propriety; we were so absorbed in one another we were of no mortal use

apart, and that charming arrangement would make everything easy all

round; so we did it."

"When, where, how?" asked Jo, in a fever of feminine interest and

curiosity, for she could not realize it a particle.

"Six weeks ago, at the American consul's, in Paris; a very quiet

wedding, of course, for even in our happiness we didn't forget dear

little Beth."

Jo put her hand in his as he said that, and Laurie gently smoothed the

little red pillow, which he remembered well.

"Why didn't you let us know afterward?" asked Jo, in a quieter tone,

when they had sat quite still a minute.

"We wanted to surprise you; we thought we were coming directly home, at

first; but the dear old gentleman, as soon as we were married, found he

couldn't be ready under a month, at least, and sent us off to spend our

honeymoon wherever we liked. Amy had once called Valrosa a regular

honeymoon home, so we went there, and were as happy as people are but

once in their lives. My faith! wasn't it love among the roses!"

Laurie seemed to forget Jo for a minute, and Jo was glad of it; for the

fact that he told her these things so freely and naturally assured her

that he had quite forgiven and forgotten. She tried to draw away her

hand; but, as if he guessed the thought that prompted the

half-involuntary impulse, Laurie held it fast, and said, with a manly

gravity she had never seen in him before,--

"Jo, dear, I want to say one thing, and then we'll put it by forever. As

I told you in my letter, when I wrote that Amy had been so kind to me, I

never shall stop loving you; but the love is altered, and I have learned

to see that it is better as it is. Amy and you change places in my

heart, that's all. I think it was meant to be so, and would have come

about naturally, if I had waited, as you tried to make me; but I never

could be patient, and so I got a heartache. I was a boy then, headstrong

and violent; and it took a hard lesson to show me my mistake. For it

_was_ one, Jo, as you said, and I found it out, after making a fool of

myself. Upon my word, I was so tumbled up in my mind, at one time, that

I didn't know which I loved best, you or Amy, and tried to love both

alike; but I couldn't, and when I saw her in Switzerland, everything

seemed to clear up all at once. You both got into your right places, and

I felt sure that it was well off with the old love before it was on with

the new; that I could honestly share my heart between sister Jo and wife

Amy, and love them both dearly. Will you believe it, and go back to the

happy old times when we first knew one another?"

"I'll believe it, with all my heart; but, Teddy, we never can be boy and

girl again: the happy old times can't come back, and we mustn't expect

it. We are man and woman now, with sober work to do, for playtime is

over, and we must give up frolicking. I'm sure you feel this; I see the

change in you, and you'll find it in me. I shall miss my boy, but I

shall love the man as much, and admire him more, because he means to be

what I hoped he would. We can't be little playmates any longer, but we

will be brother and sister, to love and help one another all our lives,

won't we, Laurie?"

He did not say a word, but took the hand she offered him, and laid his

face down on it for a minute, feeling that out of the grave of a boyish

passion, there had risen a beautiful, strong friendship to bless them

both. Presently Jo said cheerfully, for she didn't want the coming home

to be a sad one,--

"I can't make it true that you children are really married, and going to

set up housekeeping. Why, it seems only yesterday that I was buttoning

Amy's pinafore, and pulling your hair when you teased. Mercy me, how

time does fly!"

"As one of the children is older than yourself, you needn't talk so like

a grandma. I flatter myself I'm a 'gentleman growed,' as Peggotty said

of David; and when you see Amy, you'll find her rather a precocious

infant," said Laurie, looking amused at her maternal air.

"You may be a little older in years, but I'm ever so much older in

feeling, Teddy. Women always are; and this last year has been such a

hard one that I feel forty."

"Poor Jo! we left you to bear it alone, while we went pleasuring. You

_are_ older; here's a line, and there's another; unless you smile, your

eyes look sad, and when I touched the cushion, just now, I found a tear

on it. You've had a great deal to bear, and had to bear it all alone.

What a selfish beast I've been!" and Laurie pulled his own hair, with a

remorseful look.

But Jo only turned over the traitorous pillow, and answered, in a tone

which she tried to make quite cheerful,--

"No, I had father and mother to help me, the dear babies to comfort me,

and the thought that you and Amy were safe and happy, to make the

troubles here easier to bear. I _am_ lonely, sometimes, but I dare say

it's good for me, and--"

"You never shall be again," broke in Laurie, putting his arm about her,

as if to fence out every human ill. "Amy and I can't get on without

you, so you must come and teach 'the children' to keep house, and go

halves in everything, just as we used to do, and let us pet you, and all

be blissfully happy and friendly together."

"If I shouldn't be in the way, it would be very pleasant. I begin to

feel quite young already; for, somehow, all my troubles seemed to fly

away when you came. You always were a comfort, Teddy;" and Jo leaned her

head on his shoulder, just as she did years ago, when Beth lay ill, and

Laurie told her to hold on to him.

He looked down at her, wondering if she remembered the time, but Jo was

smiling to herself, as if, in truth, her troubles _had_ all vanished at

his coming.

"You are the same Jo still, dropping tears about one minute, and

laughing the next. You look a little wicked now; what is it, grandma?"

"I was wondering how you and Amy get on together."

"Like angels!"

"Yes, of course, at first; but which rules?"

"I don't mind telling you that she does, now; at least I let her think

so,--it pleases her, you know. By and by we shall take turns, for

marriage, they say, halves one's rights and doubles one's duties."

"You'll go on as you begin, and Amy will rule you all the days of your

life."

"Well, she does it so imperceptibly that I don't think I shall mind

much. She is the sort of woman who knows how to rule well; in fact, I

rather like it, for she winds one round her finger as softly and

prettily as a skein of silk, and makes you feel as if she was doing you

a favor all the while."

"That ever I should live to see you a henpecked husband and enjoying

it!" cried Jo, with uplifted hands.

It was good to see Laurie square his shoulders, and smile with masculine

scorn at that insinuation, as he replied, with his "high and mighty"

air,--

"Amy is too well-bred for that, and I am not the sort of man to submit

to it. My wife and I respect ourselves and one another too much ever to

tyrannize or quarrel."

Jo liked that, and thought the new dignity very becoming, but the boy

seemed changing very fast into the man, and regret mingled with her

pleasure.

"I am sure of that; Amy and you never did quarrel as we used to. She is

the sun and I the wind, in the fable, and the sun managed the man best,

you remember."

"She can blow him up as well as shine on him," laughed Laurie. "Such a

lecture as I got at Nice! I give you my word it was a deal worse than

any of your scoldings,--a regular rouser. I'll tell you all about it

sometime,--_she_ never will, because, after telling me that she despised

and was ashamed of me, she lost her heart to the despicable party and

married the good-for-nothing."

"What baseness! Well, if she abuses you, come to me, and I'll defend

you."

"I look as if I needed it, don't I?" said Laurie, getting up and

striking an attitude which suddenly changed from the imposing to the

rapturous, as Amy's voice was heard calling,--

"Where is she? Where's my dear old Jo?"

In trooped the whole family, and every one was hugged and kissed all

over again, and, after several vain attempts, the three wanderers were

set down to be looked at and exulted over. Mr. Laurence, hale and hearty

as ever, was quite as much improved as the others by his foreign tour,

for the crustiness seemed to be nearly gone, and the old-fashioned

courtliness had received a polish which made it kindlier than ever. It

was good to see him beam at "my children," as he called the young pair;

it was better still to see Amy pay him the daughterly duty and affection

which completely won his old heart; and best of all, to watch Laurie

revolve about the two, as if never tired of enjoying the pretty picture

they made.

The minute she put her eyes upon Amy, Meg became conscious that her own

dress hadn't a Parisian air, that young Mrs. Moffat would be entirely

eclipsed by young Mrs. Laurence, and that "her ladyship" was altogether

a most elegant and graceful woman. Jo thought, as she watched the pair,

"How well they look together! I was right, and Laurie has found the

beautiful, accomplished girl who will become his home better than clumsy

old Jo, and be a pride, not a torment to him." Mrs. March and her

husband smiled and nodded at each other with happy faces, for they saw

that their youngest had done well, not only in worldly things, but the

better wealth of love, confidence, and happiness.

For Amy's face was full of the soft brightness which betokens a peaceful

heart, her voice had a new tenderness in it, and the cool, prim carriage

was changed to a gentle dignity, both womanly and winning. No little

affectations marred it, and the cordial sweetness of her manner was more

charming than the new beauty or the old grace, for it stamped her at

once with the unmistakable sign of the true gentlewoman she had hoped to

become.

"Love has done much for our little girl," said her mother softly.

"She has had a good example before her all her life, my dear," Mr. March

whispered back, with a loving look at the worn face and gray head beside

him.

Daisy found it impossible to keep her eyes off her "pitty aunty," but

attached herself like a lap-dog to the wonderful châtelaine full of

delightful charms. Demi paused to consider the new relationship before

he compromised himself by the rash acceptance of a bribe, which took the

tempting form of a family of wooden bears from Berne. A flank movement

produced an unconditional surrender, however, for Laurie knew where to

have him.

"Young man, when I first had the honor of making your acquaintance you

hit me in the face: now I demand the satisfaction of a gentleman;" and

with that the tall uncle proceeded to toss and tousle the small nephew

in a way that damaged his philosophical dignity as much as it delighted

his boyish soul.

[Illustration: The tall uncle proceeded to toss and tousle the small

nephew]

"Blest if she ain't in silk from head to foot? Ain't it a relishin'

sight to see her settin' there as fine as a fiddle, and hear folks

calling little Amy, Mis. Laurence?" muttered old Hannah, who could not

resist frequent "peeks" through the slide as she set the table in a most

decidedly promiscuous manner.

Mercy on us, how they did talk! first one, then the other, then all

burst out together, trying to tell the history of three years in half an

hour. It was fortunate that tea was at hand, to produce a lull and

provide refreshment, for they would have been hoarse and faint if they

had gone on much longer. Such a happy procession as filed away into the

little dining-room! Mr. March proudly escorted "Mrs. Laurence;" Mrs.

March as proudly leaned on the arm of "my son;" the old gentleman took

Jo, with a whispered "You must be my girl now," and a glance at the

empty corner by the fire, that made Jo whisper back, with trembling

lips, "I'll try to fill her place, sir."

The twins pranced behind, feeling that the millennium was at hand, for

every one was so busy with the new-comers that they were left to revel

at their own sweet will, and you may be sure they made the most of the

opportunity. Didn't they steal sips of tea, stuff gingerbread _ab

libitum_, get a hot biscuit apiece, and, as a crowning trespass, didn't

they each whisk a captivating little tart into their tiny pockets, there

to stick and crumble treacherously, teaching them that both human nature

and pastry are frail? Burdened with the guilty consciousness of the

sequestered tarts, and fearing that Dodo's sharp eyes would pierce the

thin disguise of cambric and merino which hid their booty, the little

sinners attached themselves to "Dranpa," who hadn't his spectacles on.

Amy, who was handed about like refreshments, returned to the parlor on

Father Laurence's arm; the others paired off as before, and this

arrangement left Jo companionless. She did not mind it at the minute,

for she lingered to answer Hannah's eager inquiry,--

"Will Miss Amy ride in her coop (_coupé_), and use all them lovely

silver dishes that's stored away over yander?"

"Shouldn't wonder if she drove six white horses, ate off gold plate, and

wore diamonds and point-lace every day. Teddy thinks nothing too good

for her," returned Jo with infinite satisfaction.

"No more there is! Will you have hash or fish-balls for breakfast?"

asked Hannah, who wisely mingled poetry and prose.

"I don't care;" and Jo shut the door, feeling that food was an

uncongenial topic just then. She stood a minute looking at the party

vanishing above, and, as Demi's short plaid legs toiled up the last

stair, a sudden sense of loneliness came over her so strongly that she

looked about her with dim eyes, as if to find something to lean upon,

for even Teddy had deserted her. If she had known what birthday gift was

coming every minute nearer and nearer, she would not have said to

herself, "I'll weep a little weep when I go to bed; it won't do to be

dismal now." Then she drew her hand over her eyes,--for one of her

boyish habits was never to know where her handkerchief was,--and had

just managed to call up a smile when there came a knock at the

porch-door.

She opened it with hospitable haste, and started as if another ghost had

come to surprise her; for there stood a tall, bearded gentleman, beaming

on her from the darkness like a midnight sun.

"O Mr. Bhaer, I _am_ so glad to see you!" cried Jo, with a clutch, as if

she feared the night would swallow him up before she could get him in.

[Illustration: O Mr. Bhaer, I am so glad to see you]

"And I to see Miss Marsch,--but no, you haf a party--" and the Professor

paused as the sound of voices and the tap of dancing feet came down to

them.

"No, we haven't, only the family. My sister and friends have just come

home, and we are all very happy. Come in, and make one of us."

Though a very social man, I think Mr. Bhaer would have gone decorously

away, and come again another day; but how could he, when Jo shut the

door behind him, and bereft him of his hat? Perhaps her face had

something to do with it, for she forgot to hide her joy at seeing him,

and showed it with a frankness that proved irresistible to the solitary

man, whose welcome far exceeded his boldest hopes.

"If I shall not be Monsieur de Trop, I will so gladly see them all. You

haf been ill, my friend?"

He put the question abruptly, for, as Jo hung up his coat, the light

fell on her face, and he saw a change in it.

"Not ill, but tired and sorrowful. We have had trouble since I saw you

last."

"Ah, yes, I know. My heart was sore for you when I heard that;" and he

shook hands again, with such a sympathetic face that Jo felt as if no

comfort could equal the look of the kind eyes, the grasp of the big,

warm hand.

"Father, mother, this is my friend, Professor Bhaer," she said, with a

face and tone of such irrepressible pride and pleasure that she might as

well have blown a trumpet and opened the door with a flourish.

If the stranger had had any doubts about his reception, they were set at

rest in a minute by the cordial welcome he received. Every one greeted

him kindly, for Jo's sake at first, but very soon they liked him for his

own. They could not help it, for he carried the talisman that opens all

hearts, and these simple people warmed to him at once, feeling even the

more friendly because he was poor; for poverty enriches those who live

above it, and is a sure passport to truly hospitable spirits. Mr. Bhaer

sat looking about him with the air of a traveller who knocks at a

strange door, and, when it opens, finds himself at home. The children

went to him like bees to a honey-pot; and, establishing themselves on

each knee, proceeded to captivate him by rifling his pockets, pulling

his beard, and investigating his watch, with juvenile audacity. The

women telegraphed their approval to one another, and Mr. March, feeling

that he had got a kindred spirit, opened his choicest stores for his

guest's benefit, while silent John listened and enjoyed the talk, but

said not a word, and Mr. Laurence found it impossible to go to sleep.

If Jo had not been otherwise engaged, Laurie's behavior would have

amused her; for a faint twinge, not of jealousy, but something like

suspicion, caused that gentleman to stand aloof at first, and observe

the new-comer with brotherly circumspection. But it did not last long.

He got interested in spite of himself, and, before he knew it, was drawn

into the circle; for Mr. Bhaer talked well in this genial atmosphere,

and did himself justice. He seldom spoke to Laurie, but he looked at him

often, and a shadow would pass across his face, as if regretting his own

lost youth, as he watched the young man in his prime. Then his eye would

turn to Jo so wistfully that she would have surely answered the mute

inquiry if she had seen it; but Jo had her own eyes to take care of,

and, feeling that they could not be trusted, she prudently kept them on

the little sock she was knitting, like a model maiden aunt.

A stealthy glance now and then refreshed her like sips of fresh water

after a dusty walk, for the sidelong peeps showed her several propitious

omens. Mr. Bhaer's face had lost the absent-minded expression, and

looked all alive with interest in the present moment, actually young and

handsome, she thought, forgetting to compare him with Laurie, as she

usually did strange men, to their great detriment. Then he seemed quite

inspired, though the burial customs of the ancients, to which the

conversation had strayed, might not be considered an exhilarating topic.

Jo quite glowed with triumph when Teddy got quenched in an argument, and

thought to herself, as she watched her father's absorbed face, "How he

would enjoy having such a man as my Professor to talk with every day!"

Lastly, Mr. Bhaer was dressed in a new suit of black, which made him

look more like a gentleman than ever. His bushy hair had been cut and

smoothly brushed, but didn't stay in order long, for, in exciting

moments, he rumpled it up in the droll way he used to do; and Jo liked

it rampantly erect better than flat, because she thought it gave his

fine forehead a Jove-like aspect. Poor Jo, how she did glorify that

plain man, as she sat knitting away so quietly, yet letting nothing

escape her, not even the fact that Mr. Bhaer actually had gold

sleeve-buttons in his immaculate wristbands!

"Dear old fellow! He couldn't have got himself up with more care if he'd

been going a-wooing," said Jo to herself; and then a sudden thought,

born of the words, made her blush so dreadfully that she had to drop her

ball, and go down after it to hide her face.

The manœuvre did not succeed as well as she expected, however; for,

though just in the act of setting fire to a funeral-pile, the Professor

dropped his torch, metaphorically speaking, and made a dive after the

little blue ball. Of course they bumped their heads smartly together,

saw stars, and both came up flushed and laughing, without the ball, to

resume their seats, wishing they had not left them.

Nobody knew where the evening went to; for Hannah skilfully abstracted

the babies at an early hour, nodding like two rosy poppies, and Mr.

Laurence went home to rest. The others sat round the fire, talking

away, utterly regardless of the lapse of time, till Meg, whose maternal

mind was impressed with a firm conviction that Daisy had tumbled out of

bed, and Demi set his night-gown afire studying the structure of

matches, made a move to go.

"We must have our sing, in the good old way, for we are all together

again once more," said Jo, feeling that a good shout would be a safe and

pleasant vent for the jubilant emotions of her soul.

They were not _all_ there. But no one found the words thoughtless or

untrue; for Beth still seemed among them, a peaceful presence,

invisible, but dearer than ever, since death could not break the

household league that love made indissoluble. The little chair stood in

its old place; the tidy basket, with the bit of work she left unfinished

when the needle grew "so heavy," was still on its accustomed shelf; the

beloved instrument, seldom touched now, had not been moved; and above it

Beth's face, serene and smiling, as in the early days, looked down upon

them, seeming to say, "Be happy. I am here."

"Play something, Amy. Let them hear how much you have improved," said

Laurie, with pardonable pride in his promising pupil.

But Amy whispered, with full eyes, as she twirled the faded stool,--

"Not to-night, dear. I can't show off to-night."

But she did show something better than brilliancy or skill; for she sung

Beth's songs with a tender music in her voice which the best master

could not have taught, and touched the listeners' hearts with a sweeter

power than any other inspiration could have given her. The room was very

still, when the clear voice failed suddenly at the last line of Beth's

favorite hymn. It was hard to say,--

"Earth hath no sorrow that heaven cannot heal;"

and Amy leaned against her husband, who stood behind her, feeling that

her welcome home was not quite perfect without Beth's kiss.

"Now, we must finish with Mignon's song; for Mr. Bhaer sings that," said

Jo, before the pause grew painful. And Mr. Bhaer cleared his throat with

a gratified "Hem!" as he stepped into the corner where Jo stood,

saying,--

"You will sing with me? We go excellently well together."

A pleasing fiction, by the way; for Jo had no more idea of music than a

grasshopper. But she would have consented if he had proposed to sing a

whole opera, and warbled away, blissfully regardless of time and tune.

It didn't much matter; for Mr. Bhaer sang like a true German, heartily

and well; and Jo soon subsided into a subdued hum, that she might listen

to the mellow voice that seemed to sing for her alone.

[Illustration: Mr. Bhaer sang heartily]

"Know'st thou the land where the citron blooms,"

used to be the Professor's favorite line, for "das land" meant Germany

to him; but now he seemed to dwell, with peculiar warmth and melody,

upon the words,--

"There, oh there, might I with thee,

O my beloved, go!"

and one listener was so thrilled by the tender invitation that she

longed to say she did know the land, and would joyfully depart thither

whenever he liked.

The song was considered a great success, and the singer retired covered

with laurels. But a few minutes afterward, he forgot his manners

entirely, and stared at Amy putting on her bonnet; for she had been

introduced simply as "my sister," and no one had called her by her new

name since he came. He forgot himself still further when Laurie said, in

his most gracious manner, at parting,--

"My wife and I are very glad to meet you, sir. Please remember that

there is always a welcome waiting for you over the way."

Then the Professor thanked him so heartily, and looked so suddenly

illuminated with satisfaction, that Laurie thought him the most

delightfully demonstrative old fellow he ever met.

"I too shall go; but I shall gladly come again, if you will gif me

leave, dear madame, for a little business in the city will keep me here

some days."

He spoke to Mrs. March, but he looked at Jo; and the mother's voice gave

as cordial an assent as did the daughter's eyes; for Mrs. March was not

so blind to her children's interest as Mrs. Moffat supposed.

"I suspect that is a wise man," remarked Mr. March, with placid

satisfaction, from the hearth-rug, after the last guest had gone.

"I know he is a good one," added Mrs. March, with decided approval, as

she wound up the clock.

"I thought you'd like him," was all Jo said, as she slipped away to her

bed.

She wondered what the business was that brought Mr. Bhaer to the city,

and finally decided that he had been appointed to some great honor,

somewhere, but had been too modest to mention the fact. If she had seen

his face when, safe in his own room, he looked at the picture of a

severe and rigid young lady, with a good deal of hair, who appeared to

be gazing darkly into futurity, it might have thrown some light upon the

subject, especially when he turned off the gas, and kissed the picture

in the dark.

[Illustration: Mrs. Laurence sitting in her mother's lap]

XLIV.

MY LORD AND LADY.

"Please, Madam Mother, could you lend me my wife for half an hour? The

luggage has come, and I've been making hay of Amy's Paris finery, trying

to find some things I want," said Laurie, coming in the next day to find

Mrs. Laurence sitting in her mother's lap, as if being made "the baby"

again.

"Certainly. Go, dear; I forget that you have any home but this," and

Mrs. March pressed the white hand that wore the wedding-ring, as if

asking pardon for her maternal covetousness.

"I shouldn't have come over if I could have helped it; but I can't get

on without my little woman any more than a--"

"Weathercock can without wind," suggested Jo, as he paused for a simile;

Jo had grown quite her own saucy self again since Teddy came home.

"Exactly; for Amy keeps me pointing due west most of the time, with only

an occasional whiffle round to the south, and I haven't had an easterly

spell since I was married; don't know anything about the north, but am

altogether salubrious and balmy, hey, my lady?"

"Lovely weather so far; I don't know how long it will last, but I'm not

afraid of storms, for I'm learning how to sail my ship. Come home, dear,

and I'll find your bootjack; I suppose that's what you are rummaging

after among my things. Men are _so_ helpless, mother," said Amy, with a

matronly air, which delighted her husband.

"What are you going to do with yourselves after you get settled?" asked

Jo, buttoning Amy's cloak as she used to button her pinafores.

"We have our plans; we don't mean to say much about them yet, because we

are such very new brooms, but we don't intend to be idle. I'm going into

business with a devotion that shall delight grandfather, and prove to

him that I'm not spoilt. I need something of the sort to keep me steady.

I'm tired of dawdling, and mean to work like a man."

"And Amy, what is she going to do?" asked Mrs. March, well pleased at

Laurie's decision, and the energy with which he spoke.

"After doing the civil all round, and airing our best bonnet, we shall

astonish you by the elegant hospitalities of our mansion, the brilliant

society we shall draw about us, and the beneficial influence we shall

exert over the world at large. That's about it, isn't it, Madame

Récamier?" asked Laurie, with a quizzical look at Amy.

"Time will show. Come away, Impertinence, and don't shock my family by

calling me names before their faces," answered Amy, resolving that there

should be a home with a good wife in it before she set up a _salon_ as a

queen of society.

"How happy those children seem together!" observed Mr. March, finding it

difficult to become absorbed in his Aristotle after the young couple had

gone.

"Yes, and I think it will last," added Mrs. March, with the restful

expression of a pilot who has brought a ship safely into port.

"I know it will. Happy Amy!" and Jo sighed, then smiled brightly as

Professor Bhaer opened the gate with an impatient push.

Later in the evening, when his mind had been set at rest about the

bootjack, Laurie said suddenly to his wife, who was flitting about,

arranging her new art treasures,--

"Mrs. Laurence."

"My lord!"

"That man intends to marry our Jo!"

"I hope so; don't you, dear?"

"Well, my love, I consider him a trump, in the fullest sense of that

expressive word, but I do wish he was a little younger and a good deal

richer."

"Now, Laurie, don't be too fastidious and worldly-minded. If they love

one another it doesn't matter a particle how old they are nor how poor.

Women _never_ should marry for money--" Amy caught herself up short as

the words escaped her, and looked at her husband, who replied, with

malicious gravity,--

"Certainly not, though you do hear charming girls say that they intend

to do it sometimes. If my memory serves me, you once thought it your

duty to make a rich match; that accounts, perhaps, for your marrying a

good-for-nothing like me."

"O my dearest boy, don't, don't say that! I forgot you were rich when I

said 'Yes.' I'd have married you if you hadn't a penny, and I sometimes

wish you _were_ poor that I might show how much I love you;" and Amy,

who was very dignified in public and very fond in private, gave

convincing proofs of the truth of her words.

"You don't really think I am such a mercenary creature as I tried to be

once, do you? It would break my heart if you didn't believe that I'd

gladly pull in the same boat with you, even if you had to get your

living by rowing on the lake."

"Am I an idiot and a brute? How could I think so, when you refused a

richer man for me, and won't let me give you half I want to now, when I

have the right? Girls do it every day, poor things, and are taught to

think it is their only salvation; but you had better lessons, and,

though I trembled for you at one time, I was not disappointed, for the

daughter was true to the mother's teaching. I told mamma so yesterday,

and she looked as glad and grateful as if I'd given her a check for a

million, to be spent in charity. You are not listening to my moral

remarks, Mrs. Laurence;" and Laurie paused, for Amy's eyes had an absent

look, though fixed upon his face.

"Yes, I am, and admiring the dimple in your chin at the same time. I

don't wish to make you vain, but I must confess that I'm prouder of my

handsome husband than of all his money. Don't laugh, but your nose is

_such_ a comfort to me;" and Amy softly caressed the well-cut feature

with artistic satisfaction.

Laurie had received many compliments in his life, but never one that

suited him better, as he plainly showed, though he did laugh at his

wife's peculiar taste, while she said slowly,--

"May I ask you a question, dear?"

"Of course you may."

"Shall you care if Jo does marry Mr. Bhaer?"

"Oh, that's the trouble, is it? I thought there was something in the

dimple that didn't suit you. Not being a dog in the manger, but the

happiest fellow alive, I assure you I can dance at Jo's wedding with a

heart as light as my heels. Do you doubt it, my darling?"

Amy looked up at him, and was satisfied; her last little jealous fear

vanished forever, and she thanked him, with a face full of love and

confidence.

"I wish we could do something for that capital old Professor. Couldn't

we invent a rich relation, who shall obligingly die out there in

Germany, and leave him a tidy little fortune?" said Laurie, when they

began to pace up and down the long drawing-room, arm-in-arm, as they

were fond of doing, in memory of the chateau garden.

[Illustration: They began to pace up and down]

"Jo would find us out, and spoil it all; she is very proud of him, just

as he is, and said yesterday that she thought poverty was a beautiful

thing."

"Bless her dear heart! she won't think so when she has a literary

husband, and a dozen little professors and professorins to support. We

won't interfere now, but watch our chance, and do them a good turn in

spite of themselves. I owe Jo for a part of my education, and she

believes in people's paying their honest debts, so I'll get round her in

that way."

"How delightful it is to be able to help others, isn't it? That was

always one of my dreams, to have the power of giving freely; and, thanks

to you, the dream has come true."

"Ah! we'll do quantities of good, won't we? There's one sort of poverty

that I particularly like to help. Out-and-out beggars get taken care of,

but poor gentlefolks fare badly, because they won't ask, and people

don't dare to offer charity; yet there are a thousand ways of helping

them, if one only knows how to do it so delicately that it does not

offend. I must say, I like to serve a decayed gentleman better than a

blarneying beggar; I suppose it's wrong, but I do, though it is

harder."

"Because it takes a gentleman to do it," added the other member of the

domestic admiration society.

"Thank you, I'm afraid I don't deserve that pretty compliment. But I was

going to say that while I was dawdling about abroad, I saw a good many

talented young fellows making all sorts of sacrifices, and enduring real

hardships, that they might realize their dreams. Splendid fellows, some

of them, working like heroes, poor and friendless, but so full of

courage, patience, and ambition, that I was ashamed of myself, and

longed to give them a right good lift. Those are people whom it's a

satisfaction to help, for if they've got genius, it's an honor to be

allowed to serve them, and not let it be lost or delayed for want of

fuel to keep the pot boiling; if they haven't, it's a pleasure to

comfort the poor souls, and keep them from despair when they find it

out."

"Yes, indeed; and there's another class who can't ask, and who suffer in

silence. I know something of it, for I belonged to it before you made a

princess of me, as the king does the beggar-maid in the old story.

Ambitious girls have a hard time, Laurie, and often have to see youth,

health, and precious opportunities go by, just for want of a little help

at the right minute. People have been very kind to me; and whenever I

see girls struggling along, as we used to do, I want to put out my hand

and help them, as I was helped."

"And so you shall, like an angel as you are!" cried Laurie, resolving,

with a glow of philanthropic zeal, to found and endow an institution for

the express benefit of young women with artistic tendencies. "Rich

people have no right to sit down and enjoy themselves, or let their

money accumulate for others to waste. It's not half so sensible to leave

legacies when one dies as it is to use the money wisely while alive, and

enjoy making one's fellow-creatures happy with it. We'll have a good

time ourselves, and add an extra relish to our own pleasure by giving

other people a generous taste. Will you be a little Dorcas, going about

emptying a big basket of comforts, and filling it up with good deeds?"

"With all my heart, if you will be a brave St. Martin, stopping, as you

ride gallantly through the world, to share your cloak with the beggar."

"It's a bargain, and we shall get the best of it!"

So the young pair shook hands upon it, and then paced happily on again,

feeling that their pleasant home was more home-like because they hoped

to brighten other homes, believing that their own feet would walk more

uprightly along the flowery path before them, if they smoothed rough

ways for other feet, and feeling that their hearts were more closely

knit together by a love which could tenderly remember those less blest

than they.

[Illustration: Tail-piece]

XLV.

DAISY AND DEMI.

I cannot feel that I have done my duty as humble historian of the March

family, without devoting at least one chapter to the two most precious

and important members of it. Daisy and Demi had now arrived at years of

discretion; for in this fast age babies of three or four assert their

rights, and get them, too, which is more than many of their elders do.

If there ever were a pair of twins in danger of being utterly spoilt by

adoration, it was these prattling Brookes. Of course they were the most

remarkable children ever born, as will be shown when I mention that they

walked at eight months, talked fluently at twelve months, and at two

years they took their places at table, and behaved with a propriety

which charmed all beholders. At three, Daisy demanded a "needler," and

actually made a bag with four stitches in it; she likewise set up

housekeeping in the sideboard, and managed a microscopic cooking-stove

with a skill that brought tears of pride to Hannah's eyes, while Demi

learned his letters with his grandfather, who invented a new mode of

teaching the alphabet by forming the letters with his arms and legs,

thus uniting gymnastics for head and heels. The boy early developed a

mechanical genius which delighted his father and distracted his mother,

for he tried to imitate every machine he saw, and kept the nursery in a

chaotic condition, with his "sewin-sheen,"--a mysterious structure of

string, chairs, clothes-pins, and spools, for wheels to go "wound and

wound;" also a basket hung over the back of a big chair, in which he

vainly tried to hoist his too confiding sister, who, with feminine

devotion, allowed her little head to be bumped till rescued, when the

young inventor indignantly remarked, "Why, marmar, dat's my lellywaiter,

and me's trying to pull her up."

Though utterly unlike in character, the twins got on remarkably well

together, and seldom quarrelled more than thrice a day. Of course, Demi

tyrannized over Daisy, and gallantly defended her from every other

aggressor; while Daisy made a galley-slave of herself, and adored her

brother as the one perfect being in the world. A rosy, chubby, sunshiny

little soul was Daisy, who found her way to everybody's heart, and

nestled there. One of the captivating children, who seem made to be

kissed and cuddled, adorned and adored like little goddesses, and

produced for general approval on all festive occasions. Her small

virtues were so sweet that she would have been quite angelic if a few

small naughtinesses had not kept her delightfully human. It was all fair

weather in her world, and every morning she scrambled up to the window

in her little night-gown to look out, and say, no matter whether it

rained or shone, "Oh, pitty day, oh, pitty day!" Every one was a friend,

and she offered kisses to a stranger so confidingly that the most

inveterate bachelor relented, and baby-lovers became faithful

worshippers.

[Illustration: Me loves evvybody]

"Me loves evvybody," she once said, opening her arms, with her spoon in

one hand, and her mug in the other, as if eager to embrace and nourish

the whole world.

As she grew, her mother began to feel that the Dove-cote would be blest

by the presence of an inmate as serene and loving as that which had

helped to make the old house home, and to pray that she might be spared

a loss like that which had lately taught them how long they had

entertained an angel unawares. Her grandfather often called her "Beth,"

and her grandmother watched over her with untiring devotion, as if

trying to atone for some past mistake, which no eye but her own could

see.

Demi, like a true Yankee, was of an inquiring turn, wanting to know

everything, and often getting much disturbed because he could not get

satisfactory answers to his perpetual "What for?"

He also possessed a philosophic bent, to the great delight of his

grandfather, who used to hold Socratic conversations with him, in which

the precocious pupil occasionally posed his teacher, to the undisguised

satisfaction of the womenfolk.

[Illustration: What makes my legs go, dranpa?]

"What makes my legs go, dranpa?" asked the young philosopher, surveying

those active portions of his frame with a meditative air, while resting

after a go-to-bed frolic one night.

"It's your little mind, Demi," replied the sage, stroking the yellow

head respectfully.

"What is a little mine?"

"It is something which makes your body move, as the spring made the

wheels go in my watch when I showed it to you."

"Open me; I want to see it go wound."

"I can't do that any more than you could open the watch. God winds you

up, and you go till He stops you."

"Does I?" and Demi's brown eyes grew big and bright as he took in the

new thought. "Is I wounded up like the watch?"

"Yes; but I can't show you how; for it is done when we don't see."

Demi felt of his back, as if expecting to find it like that of the

watch, and then gravely remarked,--

"I dess Dod does it when I's asleep."

A careful explanation followed, to which he listened so attentively that

his anxious grandmother said,--

"My dear, do you think it wise to talk about such things to that baby?

He's getting great bumps over his eyes, and learning to ask the most

unanswerable questions."

"If he is old enough to ask the questions he is old enough to receive

true answers. I am not putting the thoughts into his head, but helping

him unfold those already there. These children are wiser than we are,

and I have no doubt the boy understands every word I have said to him.

Now, Demi, tell me where you keep your mind?"

If the boy had replied like Alcibiades, "By the gods, Socrates, I cannot

tell," his grandfather would not have been surprised; but when, after

standing a moment on one leg, like a meditative young stork, he

answered, in a tone of calm conviction, "In my little belly," the old

gentleman could only join in grandma's laugh, and dismiss the class in

metaphysics.

There might have been cause for maternal anxiety, if Demi had not given

convincing proofs that he was a true boy, as well as a budding

philosopher; for, often, after a discussion which caused Hannah to

prophesy, with ominous nods, "That child ain't long for this world," he

would turn about and set her fears at rest by some of the pranks with

which dear, dirty, naughty little rascals distract and delight their

parents' souls.

Meg made many moral rules, and tried to keep them; but what mother was

ever proof against the winning wiles, the ingenious evasions, or the

tranquil audacity of the miniature men and women who so early show

themselves accomplished Artful Dodgers?

"No more raisins, Demi, they'll make you sick," says mamma to the young

person who offers his services in the kitchen with unfailing regularity

on plum-pudding day.

"Me likes to be sick."

"I don't want to have you, so run away and help Daisy make patty-cakes."

He reluctantly departs, but his wrongs weigh upon his spirit; and, by

and by, when an opportunity comes to redress them, he outwits mamma by a

shrewd bargain.

"Now you have been good children, and I'll play anything you like," says

Meg, as she leads her assistant cooks upstairs, when the pudding is

safely bouncing in the pot.

"Truly, marmar?" asks Demi, with a brilliant idea in his well-powdered

head.

"Yes, truly; anything you say," replies the short-sighted parent,

preparing herself to sing "The Three Little Kittens" half a dozen times

over, or to take her family to "Buy a penny bun," regardless of wind or

limb. But Demi corners her by the cool reply,--

"Then we'll go and eat up all the raisins."

Aunt Dodo was chief playmate and _confidante_ of both children, and the

trio turned the little house topsy-turvy. Aunt Amy was as yet only a

name to them, Aunt Beth soon faded into a pleasantly vague memory, but

Aunt Dodo was a living reality, and they made the most of her, for which

compliment she was deeply grateful. But when Mr. Bhaer came, Jo

neglected her playfellows, and dismay and desolation fell upon their

little souls. Daisy, who was fond of going about peddling kisses, lost

her best customer and became bankrupt; Demi, with infantile penetration,

soon discovered that Dodo liked to play with "the bear-man" better than

she did with him; but, though hurt, he concealed his anguish, for he

hadn't the heart to insult a rival who kept a mine of chocolate-drops in

his waistcoat-pocket, and a watch that could be taken out of its case

and freely shaken by ardent admirers.

Some persons might have considered these pleasing liberties as bribes;

but Demi didn't see it in that light, and continued to patronize the

"bear-man" with pensive affability, while Daisy bestowed her small

affections upon him at the third call, and considered his shoulder her

throne, his arm her refuge, his gifts treasures of surpassing worth.

Gentlemen are sometimes seized with sudden fits of admiration for the

young relatives of ladies whom they honor with their regard; but this

counterfeit philoprogenitiveness sits uneasily upon them, and does not

deceive anybody a particle. Mr. Bhaer's devotion was sincere, however

likewise effective,--for honesty is the best policy in love as in law;

he was one of the men who are at home with children, and looked

particularly well when little faces made a pleasant contrast with his

manly one. His business, whatever it was, detained him from day to day,

but evening seldom failed to bring him out to see--well, he always asked

for Mr. March, so I suppose _he_ was the attraction. The excellent papa

labored under the delusion that he was, and revelled in long discussions

with the kindred spirit, till a chance remark of his more observing

grandson suddenly enlightened him.

Mr. Bhaer came in one evening to pause on the threshold of the study,

astonished by the spectacle that met his eye. Prone upon the floor lay

Mr. March, with his respectable legs in the air, and beside him,

likewise prone, was Demi, trying to imitate the attitude with his own

short, scarlet-stockinged legs, both grovellers so seriously absorbed

that they were unconscious of spectators, till Mr. Bhaer laughed his

sonorous laugh, and Jo cried out, with a scandalized face,--

"Father, father, here's the Professor!"

Down went the black legs and up came the gray head, as the preceptor

said, with undisturbed dignity,--

"Good evening, Mr. Bhaer. Excuse me for a moment; we are just finishing

our lesson. Now, Demi, make the letter and tell its name."

"I knows him!" and, after a few convulsive efforts, the red legs took

the shape of a pair of compasses, and the intelligent pupil triumphantly

shouted, "It's a We, dranpa, it's a We!"

[Illustration: Dranpa, it's a We]

"He's a born Weller," laughed Jo, as her parent gathered himself up, and

her nephew tried to stand on his head, as the only mode of expressing

his satisfaction that school was over.

"What have you been at to-day, bübchen?" asked Mr. Bhaer, picking up the

gymnast.

"Me went to see little Mary."

"And what did you there?"

"I kissed her," began Demi, with artless frankness.

"Prut! thou beginnest early. What did the little Mary say to that?"

asked Mr. Bhaer, continuing to confess the young sinner, who stood upon

his knee, exploring the waistcoat-pocket.

"Oh, she liked it, and she kissed me, and I liked it. _Don't_ little

boys like little girls?" added Demi, with his mouth full, and an air of

bland satisfaction.

"You precocious chick! Who put that into your head?" said Jo, enjoying

the innocent revelations as much as the Professor.

"'Tisn't in mine head; it's in mine mouf," answered literal Demi,

putting out his tongue, with a chocolate-drop on it, thinking she

alluded to confectionery, not ideas.

"Thou shouldst save some for the little friend: sweets to the sweet,

mannling;" and Mr. Bhaer offered Jo some, with a look that made her

wonder if chocolate was not the nectar drunk by the gods. Demi also saw

the smile, was impressed by it, and artlessly inquired,--

"Do great boys like great girls, too, 'Fessor?"

Like young Washington, Mr. Bhaer "couldn't tell a lie;" so he gave the

somewhat vague reply that he believed they did sometimes, in a tone that

made Mr. March put down his clothes-brush, glance at Jo's retiring face,

and then sink into his chair, looking as if the "precocious chick" had

put an idea into _his_ head that was both sweet and sour.

Why Dodo, when she caught him in the china-closet half an hour

afterward, nearly squeezed the breath out of his little body with a

tender embrace, instead of shaking him for being there, and why she

followed up this novel performance by the unexpected gift of a big slice

of bread and jelly, remained one of the problems over which Demi puzzled

his small wits, and was forced to leave unsolved forever.

[Illustration: Tail-piece]

[Illustration: Mr. Bhaer and Jo were enjoying promenades]

XLVI.

UNDER THE UMBRELLA.

While Laurie and Amy were taking conjugal strolls over velvet carpets,

as they set their house in order, and planned a blissful future, Mr.

Bhaer and Jo were enjoying promenades of a different sort, along muddy

roads and sodden fields.

"I always do take a walk toward evening, and I don't know why I should

give it up, just because I often happen to meet the Professor on his way

out," said Jo to herself, after two or three encounters; for, though

there were two paths to Meg's, whichever one she took she was sure to

meet him, either going or returning. He was always walking rapidly, and

never seemed to see her till quite close, when he would look as if his

short-sighted eyes had failed to recognize the approaching lady till

that moment. Then, if she was going to Meg's, he always had something

for the babies; if her face was turned homeward, he had merely strolled

down to see the river, and was just about returning, unless they were

tired of his frequent calls.

Under the circumstances, what could Jo do but greet him civilly, and

invite him in? If she _was_ tired of his visits, she concealed her

weariness with perfect skill, and took care that there should be coffee

for supper, "as Friedrich--I mean Mr. Bhaer--doesn't like tea."

By the second week, every one knew perfectly well what was going on, yet

every one tried to look as if they were stone-blind to the changes in

Jo's face. They never asked why she sang about her work, did up her hair

three times a day, and got so blooming with her evening exercise; and no

one seemed to have the slightest suspicion that Professor Bhaer, while

talking philosophy with the father, was giving the daughter lessons in

love.

Jo couldn't even lose her heart in a decorous manner, but sternly tried

to quench her feelings; and, failing to do so, led a somewhat agitated

life. She was mortally afraid of being laughed at for surrendering,

after her many and vehement declarations of independence. Laurie was her

especial dread; but, thanks to the new manager, he behaved with

praiseworthy propriety, never called Mr. Bhaer "a capital old fellow" in

public, never alluded, in the remotest manner, to Jo's improved

appearance, or expressed the least surprise at seeing the Professor's

hat on the Marches' hall-table nearly every evening. But he exulted in

private and longed for the time to come when he could give Jo a piece of

plate, with a bear and a ragged staff on it as an appropriate

coat-of-arms.

For a fortnight, the Professor came and went with lover-like regularity;

then he stayed away for three whole days, and made no sign,--a

proceeding which caused everybody to look sober, and Jo to become

pensive, at first, and then--alas for romance!--very cross.

"Disgusted, I dare say, and gone home as suddenly as he came. It's

nothing to me, of course; but I _should_ think he would have come and

bid us good-by, like a gentleman," she said to herself, with a

despairing look at the gate, as she put on her things for the customary

walk, one dull afternoon.

"You'd better take the little umbrella, dear; it looks like rain," said

her mother, observing that she had on her new bonnet, but not alluding

to the fact.

"Yes, Marmee; do you want anything in town? I've got to run in and get

some paper," returned Jo, pulling out the bow under her chin before the

glass as an excuse for not looking at her mother.

"Yes; I want some twilled silesia, a paper of number nine needles, and

two yards of narrow lavender ribbon. Have you got your thick boots on,

and something warm under your cloak?"

"I believe so," answered Jo absently.

"If you happen to meet Mr. Bhaer, bring him home to tea. I quite long to

see the dear man," added Mrs. March.

Jo heard _that_, but made no answer, except to kiss her mother, and walk

rapidly away, thinking with a glow of gratitude, in spite of her

heartache,--

"How good she is to me! What _do_ girls do who haven't any mothers to

help them through their troubles?"

The dry-goods stores were not down among the counting-houses, banks, and

wholesale warerooms, where gentlemen most do congregate; but Jo found

herself in that part of the city before she did a single errand,

loitering along as if waiting for some one, examining engineering

instruments in one window and samples of wool in another with most

unfeminine interest; tumbling over barrels, being half-smothered by

descending bales, and hustled unceremoniously by busy men who looked as

if they wondered "how the deuce she got there." A drop of rain on her

cheek recalled her thoughts from baffled hopes to ruined ribbons; for

the drops continued to fall, and, being a woman as well as a lover, she

felt that, though it was too late to save her heart, she might her

bonnet. Now she remembered the little umbrella, which she had forgotten

to take in her hurry to be off; but regret was unavailing, and nothing

could be done but borrow one or submit to a drenching. She looked up at

the lowering sky, down at the crimson bow already flecked with black,

forward along the muddy street, then one long, lingering look behind, at

a certain grimy warehouse, with "Hoffmann, Swartz, & Co." over the door,

and said to herself, with a sternly reproachful air,--

"It serves me right! What business had I to put on all my best things

and come philandering down here, hoping to see the Professor? Jo, I'm

ashamed of you! No, you shall _not_ go there to borrow an umbrella, or

find out where he is, from his friends. You shall trudge away, and do

your errands in the rain; and if you catch your death and ruin your

bonnet, it's no more than you deserve. Now then!"

With that she rushed across the street so impetuously that she narrowly

escaped annihilation from a passing truck, and precipitated herself into

the arms of a stately old gentleman, who said, "I beg pardon, ma'am,"

and looked mortally offended. Somewhat daunted, Jo righted herself,

spread her handkerchief over the devoted ribbons, and, putting

temptation behind her, hurried on, with increasing dampness about the

ankles, and much clashing of umbrellas overhead. The fact that a

somewhat dilapidated blue one remained stationary above the unprotected

bonnet, attracted her attention; and, looking up, she saw Mr. Bhaer

looking down.

[Illustration: Looking up she saw Mr. Bhaer]

"I feel to know the strong-minded lady who goes so bravely under many

horse-noses, and so fast through much mud. What do you down here, my

friend?"

"I'm shopping."

Mr. Bhaer smiled, as he glanced from the pickle-factory on one side, to

the wholesale hide and leather concern on the other; but he only said

politely,--

"You haf no umbrella. May I go also, and take for you the bundles?"

"Yes, thank you."

Jo's cheeks were as red as her ribbon, and she wondered what he thought

of her; but she didn't care, for in a minute she found herself walking

away arm-in-arm with her Professor, feeling as if the sun had suddenly

burst out with uncommon brilliancy, that the world was all right again,

and that one thoroughly happy woman was paddling through the wet that

day.

"We thought you had gone," said Jo hastily, for she knew he was looking

at her. Her bonnet wasn't big enough to hide her face, and she feared he

might think the joy it betrayed unmaidenly.

"Did you believe that I should go with no farewell to those who haf been

so heavenly kind to me?" he asked so reproachfully that she felt as if

she had insulted him by the suggestion, and answered heartily,--

"No, _I_ didn't; I knew you were busy about your own affairs, but we

rather missed you,--father and mother especially."

"And you?"

"I'm always glad to see you, sir."

In her anxiety to keep her voice quite calm, Jo made it rather cool, and

the frosty little monosyllable at the end seemed to chill the Professor,

for his smile vanished, as he said gravely,--

"I thank you, and come one time more before I go."

"You _are_ going, then?"

"I haf no longer any business here; it is done."

"Successfully, I hope?" said Jo, for the bitterness of disappointment

was in that short reply of his.

"I ought to think so, for I haf a way opened to me by which I can make

my bread and gif my Jünglings much help."

"Tell me, please! I like to know all about the--the boys," said Jo

eagerly.

"That is so kind, I gladly tell you. My friends find for me a place in

a college, where I teach as at home, and earn enough to make the way

smooth for Franz and Emil. For this I should be grateful, should I not?"

"Indeed you should. How splendid it will be to have you doing what you

like, and be able to see you often, and the boys!" cried Jo, clinging to

the lads as an excuse for the satisfaction she could not help betraying.

"Ah! but we shall not meet often, I fear; this place is at the West."

"So far away!" and Jo left her skirts to their fate, as if it didn't

matter now what became of her clothes or herself.

Mr. Bhaer could read several languages, but he had not learned to read

women yet. He flattered himself that he knew Jo pretty well, and was,

therefore, much amazed by the contradictions of voice, face, and manner,

which she showed him in rapid succession that day, for she was in half a

dozen different moods in the course of half an hour. When she met him

she looked surprised, though it was impossible to help suspecting that

she had come for that express purpose. When he offered her his arm, she

took it with a look that filled him with delight; but when he asked if

she missed him, she gave such a chilly, formal reply that despair fell

upon him. On learning his good fortune she almost clapped her hands: was

the joy all for the boys? Then, on hearing his destination, she said,

"So far away!" in a tone of despair that lifted him on to a pinnacle of

hope; but the next minute she tumbled him down again by observing, like

one entirely absorbed in the matter,--

"Here's the place for my errands; will you come in? It won't take long."

Jo rather prided herself upon her shopping capabilities, and

particularly wished to impress her escort with the neatness and despatch

with which she would accomplish the business. But, owing to the flutter

she was in, everything went amiss; she upset the tray of needles, forgot

the silesia was to be "twilled" till it was cut off, gave the wrong

change, and covered herself with confusion by asking for lavender ribbon

at the calico counter. Mr. Bhaer stood by, watching her blush and

blunder; and, as he watched, his own bewilderment seemed to subside,

for he was beginning to see that on some occasions women, like dreams,

go by contraries.

When they came out, he put the parcel under his arm with a more cheerful

aspect, and splashed through the puddles as if he rather enjoyed it, on

the whole.

"Should we not do a little what you call shopping for the babies, and

haf a farewell feast to-night if I go for my last call at your so

pleasant home?" he asked, stopping before a window full of fruit and

flowers.

"What will we buy?" said Jo, ignoring the latter part of his speech, and

sniffing the mingled odors with an affectation of delight as they went

in.

"May they haf oranges and figs?" asked Mr. Bhaer, with a paternal air.

"They eat them when they can get them."

"Do you care for nuts?"

"Like a squirrel."

"Hamburg grapes; yes, we shall surely drink to the Fatherland in those?"

Jo frowned upon that piece of extravagance, and asked why he didn't buy

a frail of dates, a cask of raisins, and a bag of almonds, and done with

it? Whereat Mr. Bhaer confiscated her purse, produced his own, and

finished the marketing by buying several pounds of grapes, a pot of rosy

daisies, and a pretty jar of honey, to be regarded in the light of a

demijohn. Then, distorting his pockets with the knobby bundles, and

giving her the flowers to hold, he put up the old umbrella, and they

travelled on again.

"Miss Marsch, I haf a great favor to ask of you," began the Professor,

after a moist promenade of half a block.

"Yes, sir;" and Jo's heart began to beat so hard she was afraid he would

hear it.

"I am bold to say it in spite of the rain, because so short a time

remains to me."

"Yes, sir;" and Jo nearly crushed the small flower-pot with the sudden

squeeze she gave it.

"I wish to get a little dress for my Tina, and I am too stupid to go

alone. Will you kindly gif me a word of taste and help?"

"Yes, sir;" and Jo felt as calm and cool, all of a sudden, as if she had

stepped into a refrigerator.

"Perhaps also a shawl for Tina's mother, she is so poor and sick, and

the husband is such a care. Yes, yes, a thick, warm shawl would be a

friendly thing to take the little mother."

"I'll do it with pleasure, Mr. Bhaer. I'm going very fast and he's

getting dearer every minute," added Jo to herself; then, with a mental

shake, she entered into the business with an energy which was pleasant

to behold.

Mr. Bhaer left it all to her, so she chose a pretty gown for Tina, and

then ordered out the shawls. The clerk, being a married man,

condescended to take an interest in the couple, who appeared to be

shopping for their family.

"Your lady may prefer this; it's a superior article, a most desirable

color, quite chaste and genteel," he said, shaking out a comfortable

gray shawl, and throwing it over Jo's shoulders.

[Illustration: Does this suit you, Mr. Bhaer?]

"Does this suit you, Mr. Bhaer?" she asked, turning her back to him,

and feeling deeply grateful for the chance of hiding her face.

"Excellently well; we will haf it," answered the Professor, smiling to

himself as he paid for it, while Jo continued to rummage the counters

like a confirmed bargain-hunter.

"Now shall we go home?" he asked, as if the words were very pleasant to

him.

"Yes; it's late, and I'm _so_ tired." Jo's voice was more pathetic than

she knew; for now the sun seemed to have gone in as suddenly as it came

out, the world grew muddy and miserable again, and for the first time

she discovered that her feet were cold, her head ached, and that her

heart was colder than the former, fuller of pain than the latter. Mr.

Bhaer was going away; he only cared for her as a friend; it was all a

mistake, and the sooner it was over the better. With this idea in her

head, she hailed an approaching omnibus with such a hasty gesture that

the daisies flew out of the pot and were badly damaged.

"This is not our omniboos," said the Professor, waving the loaded

vehicle away, and stopping to pick up the poor little flowers.

"I beg your pardon, I didn't see the name distinctly. Never mind, I can

walk. I'm used to plodding in the mud," returned Jo, winking hard,

because she would have died rather than openly wipe her eyes.

Mr. Bhaer saw the drops on her cheeks, though she turned her head away;

the sight seemed to touch him very much, for, suddenly stooping down, he

asked in a tone that meant a great deal,--

"Heart's dearest, why do you cry?"

Now, if Jo had not been new to this sort of thing she would have said

she wasn't crying, had a cold in her head, or told any other feminine

fib proper to the occasion; instead of which that undignified creature

answered, with an irrepressible sob,--

"Because you are going away."

"Ach, mein Gott, that is _so_ good!" cried Mr. Bhaer, managing to clasp

his hands in spite of the umbrella and the bundles. "Jo, I haf nothing

but much love to gif you; I came to see if you could care for it, and I

waited to be sure that I was something more than a friend. Am I? Can

you make a little place in your heart for old Fritz?" he added, all in

one breath.

"Oh, yes!" said Jo; and he was quite satisfied, for she folded both

hands over his arm, and looked up at him with an expression that plainly

showed how happy she would be to walk through life beside him, even

though she had no better shelter than the old umbrella, if he carried

it.

It was certainly proposing under difficulties, for, even if he had

desired to do so, Mr. Bhaer could not go down upon his knees, on account

of the mud; neither could he offer Jo his hand, except figuratively, for

both were full; much less could he indulge in tender demonstrations in

the open street, though he was near it: so the only way in which he

could express his rapture was to look at her, with an expression which

glorified his face to such a degree that there actually seemed to be

little rainbows in the drops that sparkled on his beard. If he had not

loved Jo very much, I don't think he could have done it _then_, for she

looked far from lovely, with her skirts in a deplorable state, her

rubber boots splashed to the ankle, and her bonnet a ruin. Fortunately,

Mr. Bhaer considered her the most beautiful woman living, and she found

him more "Jove-like" than ever, though his hat-brim was quite limp with

the little rills trickling thence upon his shoulders (for he held the

umbrella all over Jo), and every finger of his gloves needed mending.

Passers-by probably thought them a pair of harmless lunatics, for they

entirely forgot to hail a 'bus, and strolled leisurely along, oblivious

of deepening dusk and fog. Little they cared what anybody thought, for

they were enjoying the happy hour that seldom comes but once in any

life, the magical moment which bestows youth on the old, beauty on the

plain, wealth on the poor, and gives human hearts a foretaste of heaven.

The Professor looked as if he had conquered a kingdom, and the world had

nothing more to offer him in the way of bliss; while Jo trudged beside

him, feeling as if her place had always been there, and wondering how

she ever could have chosen any other lot. Of course, she was the first

to speak--intelligibly, I mean, for the emotional remarks which followed

her impetuous "Oh, yes!" were not of a coherent or reportable

character.

"Friedrich, why didn't you--"

"Ah, heaven, she gifs me the name that no one speaks since Minna died!"

cried the Professor, pausing in a puddle to regard her with grateful

delight.

"I always call you so to myself--I forgot; but I won't, unless you like

it."

"Like it? it is more sweet to me than I can tell. Say 'thou,' also, and

I shall say your language is almost as beautiful as mine."

"Isn't 'thou' a little sentimental?" asked Jo, privately thinking it a

lovely monosyllable.

"Sentimental? Yes. Thank Gott, we Germans believe in sentiment, and keep

ourselves young mit it. Your English 'you' is so cold, say 'thou,'

heart's dearest, it means so much to me," pleaded Mr. Bhaer, more like a

romantic student than a grave professor.

"Well, then, why didn't thou tell me all this sooner?" asked Jo

bashfully.

"Now I shall haf to show thee all my heart, and I so gladly will,

because thou must take care of it hereafter. See, then, my Jo,--ah, the

dear, funny little name!--I had a wish to tell something the day I said

good-by, in New York; but I thought the handsome friend was betrothed to

thee, and so I spoke not. Wouldst thou have said 'Yes,' then, if I _had_

spoken?"

"I don't know; I'm afraid not, for I didn't have any heart just then."

"Prut! that I do not believe. It was asleep till the fairy prince came

through the wood, and waked it up. Ah, well, 'Die erste Liebe ist die

beste;' but that I should not expect."

"Yes, the first love _is_ the best; so be contented, for I never had

another. Teddy was only a boy, and soon got over his little fancy," said

Jo, anxious to correct the Professor's mistake.

"Good! then I shall rest happy, and be sure that thou givest me all. I

haf waited so long, I am grown selfish, as thou wilt find, Professorin."

"I like that," cried Jo, delighted with her new name. "Now tell me what

brought you, at last, just when I most wanted you?"

"This;" and Mr. Bhaer took a little worn paper out of his

waistcoat-pocket.

Jo unfolded it, and looked much abashed, for it was one of her own

contributions to a paper that paid for poetry, which accounted for her

sending it an occasional attempt.

"How could that bring you?" she asked, wondering what he meant.

"I found it by chance; I knew it by the names and the initials, and in

it there was one little verse that seemed to call me. Read and find him;

I will see that you go not in the wet."

Jo obeyed, and hastily skimmed through the lines which she had

christened--

"IN THE GARRET.

"Four little chests all in a row,

Dim with dust, and worn by time,

All fashioned and filled, long ago,

By children now in their prime.

Four little keys hung side by side,

With faded ribbons, brave and gay

When fastened there, with childish pride,

Long ago, on a rainy day.

Four little names, one on each lid,

Carved out by a boyish hand,

And underneath there lieth hid

Histories of the happy band

Once playing here, and pausing oft

To hear the sweet refrain,

That came and went on the roof aloft,

In the falling summer rain.

"'Meg' on the first lid, smooth and fair.

I look in with loving eyes,

For folded here, with well-known care,

A goodly gathering lies,

The record of a peaceful life,--

Gifts to gentle child and girl,

A bridal gown, lines to a wife,

A tiny shoe, a baby curl.

No toys in this first chest remain,

For all are carried away,

In their old age, to join again

In another small Meg's play.

Ah, happy mother! well I know

You hear, like a sweet refrain,

Lullabies ever soft and low

In the falling summer rain.

"'Jo' on the next lid, scratched and worn,

And within a motley store

Of headless dolls, of school-books torn,

Birds and beasts that speak no more;

Spoils brought home from the fairy ground

Only trod by youthful feet,

Dreams of a future never found,

Memories of a past still sweet;

Half-writ poems, stories wild,

April letters, warm and cold,

Diaries of a wilful child,

Hints of a woman early old;

A woman in a lonely home,

Hearing, like a sad refrain,--

'Be worthy love, and love will come,'

In the falling summer rain.

"My Beth! the dust is always swept

From the lid that bears your name,

As if by loving eyes that wept,

By careful hands that often came.

Death canonized for us one saint,

Ever less human than divine,

And still we lay, with tender plaint,

Relics in this household shrine.--

The silver bell, so seldom rung,

The little cap which last she wore,

The fair, dead Catherine that hung

By angels borne above her door;

The songs she sang, without lament,

In her prison-house of pain,

Forever are they sweetly blent

With the falling summer rain.

"Upon the last lid's polished field--

Legend now both fair and true--

A gallant knight bears on his shield,

'Amy,' in letters gold and blue.

Within lie snoods that bound her hair,

Slippers that have danced their last,

Faded flowers laid by with care,

Fans whose airy toils are past;

Gay valentines, all ardent flames,

Trifles that have borne their part

In girlish hopes and fears and shames,--

The record of a maiden heart

Now learning fairer, truer spells,

Hearing, like a blithe refrain,

The silver sound of bridal bells

In the falling summer rain.

"Four little chests all in a row,

Dim with dust, and worn by time,

Four women, taught by weal and woe

To love and labor in their prime.

Four sisters, parted for an hour,

None lost, one only gone before,

Made by love's immortal power,

Nearest and dearest evermore.

Oh, when these hidden stores of ours

Lie open to the Father's sight,

May they be rich in golden hours,

Deeds that show fairer for the light,

Lives whose brave music long shall ring,

Like a spirit-stirring strain,

Souls that shall gladly soar and sing

In the long sunshine after rain.

"J. M."

"It's very bad poetry, but I felt it when I wrote it, one day when I was

very lonely, and had a good cry on a rag-bag. I never thought it would

go where it could tell tales," said Jo, tearing up the verses the

Professor had treasured so long.

"Let it go, it has done its duty, and I will haf a fresh one when I read

all the brown book in which she keeps her little secrets," said Mr.

Bhaer, with a smile, as he watched the fragments fly away on the wind.

"Yes," he added earnestly, "I read that, and I think to myself, 'She has

a sorrow, she is lonely, she would find comfort in true love. I haf a

heart full, full for her; shall I not go and say, 'If this is not too

poor a thing to gif for what I shall hope to receive, take it in Gott's

name?'"

"And so you came to find that it was not too poor, but the one precious

thing I needed," whispered Jo.

"I had no courage to think that at first, heavenly kind as was your

welcome to me. But soon I began to hope, and then I said, 'I will haf

her if I die for it,' and so I will!" cried Mr. Bhaer, with a defiant

nod, as if the walls of mist closing round them were barriers which he

was to surmount or valiantly knock down.

Jo thought that was splendid, and resolved to be worthy of her knight,

though he did not come prancing on a charger in gorgeous array.

"What made you stay away so long?" she asked presently, finding it so

pleasant to ask confidential questions and get delightful answers that

she could not keep silent.

"It was not easy, but I could not find the heart to take you from that

so happy home until I could haf a prospect of one to give you, after

much time, perhaps, and hard work. How could I ask you to gif up so much

for a poor old fellow, who has no fortune but a little learning?"

"I'm glad you _are_ poor; I couldn't bear a rich husband," said Jo

decidedly, adding, in a softer tone, "Don't fear poverty; I've known it

long enough to lose my dread, and be happy working for those I love; and

don't call yourself old,--forty is the prime of life. I couldn't help

loving you if you were seventy!"

The Professor found that so touching that he would have been glad of his

handkerchief, if he could have got at it; as he couldn't, Jo wiped his

eyes for him, and said, laughing, as she took away a bundle or two,--

"I may be strong-minded, but no one can say I'm out of my sphere now,

for woman's special mission is supposed to be drying tears and bearing

burdens. I'm to carry my share, Friedrich, and help to earn the home.

Make up your mind to that, or I'll never go," she added resolutely, as

he tried to reclaim his load.

"We shall see. Haf you patience to wait a long time, Jo? I must go away

and do my work alone. I must help my boys first, because, even for you,

I may not break my word to Minna. Can you forgif that, and be happy

while we hope and wait?"

"Yes, I know I can; for we love one another, and that makes all the rest

easy to bear. I have my duty, also, and my work. I couldn't enjoy myself

if I neglected them even for you, so there's no need of hurry or

impatience. You can do your part out West, I can do mine here, and both

be happy hoping for the best, and leaving the future to be as God

wills."

"Ah! thou gifest me such hope and courage, and I haf nothing to gif back

but a full heart and these empty hands," cried the Professor, quite

overcome.

[Illustration: Under the umbrella]

Jo never, never would learn to be proper; for when he said that as they

stood upon the steps, she just put both hands into his, whispering

tenderly, "Not empty now;" and, stooping down, kissed her Friedrich

under the umbrella. It was dreadful, but she would have done it if the

flock of draggle-tailed sparrows on the hedge had been human beings, for

she was very far gone indeed, and quite regardless of everything but her

own happiness. Though it came in such a very simple guise, that was the

crowning moment of both their lives, when, turning from the night and

storm and loneliness to the household light and warmth and peace waiting

to receive them, with a glad "Welcome home!" Jo led her lover in, and

shut the door.

[Illustration: Tail-piece]

[Illustration: Harvest time]

XLVII.

HARVEST TIME.

For a year Jo and her Professor worked and waited, hoped and loved, met

occasionally, and wrote such voluminous letters that the rise in the

price of paper was accounted for, Laurie said. The second year began

rather soberly, for their prospects did not brighten, and Aunt March

died suddenly. But when their first sorrow was over,--for they loved the

old lady in spite of her sharp tongue,--they found they had cause for

rejoicing, for she had left Plumfield to Jo, which made all sorts of

joyful things possible.

"It's a fine old place, and will bring a handsome sum; for of course you

intend to sell it," said Laurie, as they were all talking the matter

over, some weeks later.

"No, I don't," was Jo's decided answer, as she petted the fat poodle,

whom she had adopted, out of respect to his former mistress.

"You don't mean to live there?"

"Yes, I do."

"But, my dear girl, it's an immense house, and will take a power of

money to keep it in order. The garden and orchard alone need two or

three men, and farming isn't in Bhaer's line, I take it."

"He'll try his hand at it there, if I propose it."

"And you expect to live on the produce of the place? Well, that sounds

paradisiacal, but you'll find it desperate hard work."

"The crop we are going to raise is a profitable one;" and Jo laughed.

"Of what is this fine crop to consist, ma'am?"

"Boys. I want to open a school for little lads,--a good, happy, homelike

school, with me to take care of them, and Fritz to teach them."

"There's a truly Joian plan for you! Isn't that just like her?" cried

Laurie, appealing to the family, who looked as much surprised as he.

"I like it," said Mrs. March decidedly.

"So do I," added her husband, who welcomed the thought of a chance for

trying the Socratic method of education on modern youth.

"It will be an immense care for Jo," said Meg, stroking the head of her

one all-absorbing son.

"Jo can do it, and be happy in it. It's a splendid idea. Tell us all

about it," cried Mr. Laurence, who had been longing to lend the lovers a

hand, but knew that they would refuse his help.

"I knew you'd stand by me, sir. Amy does too--I see it in her eyes,

though she prudently waits to turn it over in her mind before she

speaks. Now, my dear people," continued Jo earnestly, "just understand

that this isn't a new idea of mine, but a long-cherished plan. Before my

Fritz came, I used to think how, when I'd made my fortune, and no one

needed me at home, I'd hire a big house, and pick up some poor, forlorn

little lads, who hadn't any mothers, and take care of them, and make

life jolly for them before it was too late. I see so many going to ruin,

for want of help at the right minute; I love so to do anything for them;

I seem to feel their wants, and sympathize with their troubles, and, oh,

I should _so_ like to be a mother to them!"

Mrs. March held out her hand to Jo, who took it, smiling, with tears in

her eyes, and went on in the old enthusiastic way, which they had not

seen for a long while.

"I told my plan to Fritz once, and he said it was just what he would

like, and agreed to try it when we got rich. Bless his dear heart, he's

been doing it all his life,--helping poor boys, I mean, not getting

rich; that he'll never be; money doesn't stay in his pocket long enough

to lay up any. But now, thanks to my good old aunt, who loved me better

than I ever deserved, _I'm_ rich, at least I feel so, and we can live at

Plumfield perfectly well, if we have a flourishing school. It's just the

place for boys, the house is big, and the furniture strong and plain.

There's plenty of room for dozens inside, and splendid grounds outside.

They could help in the garden and orchard: such work is healthy, isn't

it, sir? Then Fritz can train and teach in his own way, and father will

help him. I can feed and nurse and pet and scold them; and mother will

be my stand-by. I've always longed for lots of boys, and never had

enough; now I can fill the house full, and revel in the little dears to

my heart's content. Think what luxury,--Plumfield my own, and a

wilderness of boys to enjoy it with me!"

As Jo waved her hands, and gave a sigh of rapture, the family went off

into a gale of merriment, and Mr. Laurence laughed till they thought

he'd have an apoplectic fit.

"I don't see anything funny," she said gravely, when she could be heard.

"Nothing could be more natural or proper than for my Professor to open a

school, and for me to prefer to reside on my own estate."

"She is putting on airs already," said Laurie, who regarded the idea in

the light of a capital joke. "But may I inquire how you intend to

support the establishment? If all the pupils are little ragamuffins, I'm

afraid your crop won't be profitable in a worldly sense, Mrs. Bhaer."

"Now don't be a wet-blanket, Teddy. Of course I shall have rich pupils,

also,--perhaps begin with such altogether; then, when I've got a start,

I can take a ragamuffin or two, just for a relish. Rich people's

children often need care and comfort, as well as poor. I've seen

unfortunate little creatures left to servants, or backward ones pushed

forward, when it's real cruelty. Some are naughty through mismanagement

or neglect, and some lose their mothers. Besides, the best have to get

through the hobbledehoy age, and that's the very time they need most

patience and kindness. People laugh at them, and hustle them about, try

to keep them out of sight, and expect them to turn, all at once, from

pretty children into fine young men. They don't complain much,--plucky

little souls,--but they feel it. I've been through something of it, and

I know all about it. I've a special interest in such young bears, and

like to show them that I see the warm, honest, well-meaning boys'

hearts, in spite of the clumsy arms and legs and the topsy-turvy heads.

I've had experience, too, for haven't I brought up one boy to be a pride

and honor to his family?"

"I'll testify that you tried to do it," said Laurie, with a grateful

look.

"And I've succeeded beyond my hopes; for here you are, a steady,

sensible business man, doing heaps of good with your money, and laying

up the blessings of the poor, instead of dollars. But you are not merely

a business man: you love good and beautiful things, enjoy them yourself,

and let others go halves, as you always did in the old times. I _am_

proud of you, Teddy, for you get better every year, and every one feels

it, though you won't let them say so. Yes, and when I have my flock,

I'll just point to you, and say, 'There's your model, my lads.'"

Poor Laurie didn't know where to look; for, man though he was, something

of the old bashfulness came over him as this burst of praise made all

faces turn approvingly upon him.

"I say, Jo, that's rather too much," he began, just in his old boyish

way. "You have all done more for me than I can ever thank you for,

except by doing my best not to disappoint you. You have rather cast me

off lately, Jo, but I've had the best of help, nevertheless; so, if I've

got on at all, you may thank these two for it;" and he laid one hand

gently on his grandfather's white head, the other on Amy's golden one,

for the three were never far apart.

"I do think that families are the most beautiful things in all the

world!" burst out Jo, who was in an unusually uplifted frame of mind

just then. "When I have one of my own, I hope it will be as happy as the

three I know and love the best. If John and my Fritz were only here, it

would be quite a little heaven on earth," she added more quietly. And

that night, when she went to her room, after a blissful evening of

family counsels, hopes, and plans, her heart was so full of happiness

that she could only calm it by kneeling beside the empty bed always near

her own, and thinking tender thoughts of Beth.

It was a very astonishing year altogether, for things seemed to happen

in an unusually rapid and delightful manner. Almost before she knew

where she was, Jo found herself married and settled at Plumfield. Then a

family of six or seven boys sprung up like mushrooms, and flourished

surprisingly, poor boys as well as rich; for Mr. Laurence was

continually finding some touching case of destitution, and begging the

Bhaers to take pity on the child, and he would gladly pay a trifle for

its support. In this way the sly old gentleman got round proud Jo, and

furnished her with the style of boy in which she most delighted.

Of course it was up-hill work at first, and Jo made queer mistakes; but

the wise Professor steered her safely into calmer waters, and the most

rampant ragamuffin was conquered in the end. How Jo did enjoy her

"wilderness of boys," and how poor, dear Aunt March would have lamented

had she been there to see the sacred precincts of prim, well-ordered

Plumfield overrun with Toms, Dicks, and Harrys! There was a sort of

poetic justice about it, after all, for the old lady had been the terror

of the boys for miles round; and now the exiles feasted freely on

forbidden plums, kicked up the gravel with profane boots unreproved, and

played cricket in the big field where the irritable "cow with a crumpled

horn" used to invite rash youths to come and be tossed. It became a sort

of boys' paradise, and Laurie suggested that it should be called the

"Bhaer-garten," as a compliment to its master and appropriate to its

inhabitants.

It never was a fashionable school, and the Professor did not lay up a

fortune; but it _was_ just what Jo intended it to be,--"a happy,

homelike place for boys, who needed teaching, care, and kindness."

Every room in the big house was soon full; every little plot in the

garden soon had its owner; a regular menagerie appeared in barn and

shed, for pet animals were allowed; and, three times a day, Jo smiled at

her Fritz from the head of a long table lined on either side with rows

of happy young faces, which all turned to her with affectionate eyes,

confiding words, and grateful hearts, full of love for "Mother Bhaer."

She had boys enough now, and did not tire of them, though they were not

angels, by any means, and some of them caused both Professor and

Professorin much trouble and anxiety. But her faith in the good spot

which exists in the heart of the naughtiest, sauciest, most tantalizing

little ragamuffin gave her patience, skill, and, in time, success; for

no mortal boy could hold out long with Father Bhaer shining on him as

benevolently as the sun, and Mother Bhaer forgiving him seventy times

seven. Very precious to Jo was the friendship of the lads; their

penitent sniffs and whispers after wrong-doing; their droll or touching

little confidences; their pleasant enthusiasms, hopes, and plans; even

their misfortunes, for they only endeared them to her all the more.

There were slow boys and bashful boys; feeble boys and riotous boys;

boys that lisped and boys that stuttered; one or two lame ones; and a

merry little quadroon, who could not be taken in elsewhere, but who was

welcome to the "Bhaer-garten," though some people predicted that his

admission would ruin the school.

Yes; Jo was a very happy woman there, in spite of hard work, much

anxiety, and a perpetual racket. She enjoyed it heartily, and found the

applause of her boys more satisfying than any praise of the world; for

now she told no stories except to her flock of enthusiastic believers

and admirers. As the years went on, two little lads of her own came to

increase her happiness,--Rob, named for grandpa, and Teddy, a

happy-go-lucky baby, who seemed to have inherited his papa's sunshiny

temper as well as his mother's lively spirit. How they ever grew up

alive in that whirlpool of boys was a mystery to their grandma and

aunts; but they flourished like dandelions in spring, and their rough

nurses loved and served them well.

There were a great many holidays at Plumfield, and one of the most

delightful was the yearly apple-picking; for then the Marches,

Laurences, Brookes, and Bhaers turned out in full force, and made a day

of it. Five years after Jo's wedding, one of these fruitful festivals

occurred,--a mellow October day, when the air was full of an

exhilarating freshness which made the spirits rise, and the blood dance

healthily in the veins. The old orchard wore its holiday attire;

golden-rod and asters fringed the mossy walls; grasshoppers skipped

briskly in the sere grass, and crickets chirped like fairy pipers at a

feast; squirrels were busy with their small harvesting; birds twittered

their adieux from the alders in the lane; and every tree stood ready to

send down its shower of red or yellow apples at the first shake.

Everybody was there; everybody laughed and sang, climbed up and tumbled

down; everybody declared that there never had been such a perfect day or

such a jolly set to enjoy it; and every one gave themselves up to the

simple pleasures of the hour as freely as if there were no such things

as care or sorrow in the world.

Mr. March strolled placidly about, quoting Tusser, Cowley, and Columella

to Mr. Laurence, while enjoying--

"The gentle apple's winey juice."

The Professor charged up and down the green aisles like a stout Teutonic

knight, with a pole for a lance, leading on the boys, who made a hook

and ladder company of themselves, and performed wonders in the way of

ground and lofty tumbling. Laurie devoted himself to the little ones,

rode his small daughter in a bushel-basket, took Daisy up among the

birds' nests, and kept adventurous Rob from breaking his neck. Mrs.

March and Meg sat among the apple piles like a pair of Pomonas, sorting

the contributions that kept pouring in; while Amy, with a beautiful

motherly expression in her face, sketched the various groups, and

watched over one pale lad, who sat adoring her with his little crutch

beside him.

Jo was in her element that day, and rushed about, with her gown pinned

up, her hat anywhere but on her head, and her baby tucked under her arm,

ready for any lively adventure which might turn up. Little Teddy bore a

charmed life, for nothing ever happened to him, and Jo never felt any

anxiety when he was whisked up into a tree by one lad, galloped off on

the back of another, or supplied with sour russets by his indulgent

papa, who labored under the Germanic delusion that babies could digest

anything, from pickled cabbage to buttons, nails, and their own small

shoes. She knew that little Ted would turn up again in time, safe and

rosy, dirty and serene, and she always received him back with a hearty

welcome, for Jo loved her babies tenderly.

[Illustration: Teddy bore a charmed life]

At four o'clock a lull took place, and baskets remained empty, while the

apple-pickers rested, and compared rents and bruises. Then Jo and Meg,

with a detachment of the bigger boys, set forth the supper on the grass,

for an out-of-door tea was always the crowning joy of the day. The land

literally flowed with milk and honey on such occasions, for the lads

were not required to sit at table, but allowed to partake of refreshment

as they liked,--freedom being the sauce best beloved by the boyish soul.

They availed themselves of the rare privilege to the fullest extent, for

some tried the pleasing experiment of drinking milk while standing on

their heads, others lent a charm to leap-frog by eating pie in the

pauses of the game, cookies were sown broadcast over the field, and

apple-turnovers roosted in the trees like a new style of bird. The

little girls had a private tea-party, and Ted roved among the edibles at

his own sweet will.

When no one could eat any more, the Professor proposed the first regular

toast, which was always drunk at such times,--"Aunt March, God bless

her!" A toast heartily given by the good man, who never forgot how much

he owed her, and quietly drunk by the boys, who had been taught to

keep her memory green.

"Now, grandma's sixtieth birthday! Long life to her, with three times

three!"

That was given with a will, as you may well believe; and the cheering

once begun, it was hard to stop it. Everybody's health was proposed,

from Mr. Laurence, who was considered their special patron, to the

astonished guinea-pig, who had strayed from its proper sphere in search

of its young master. Demi, as the oldest grandchild, then presented the

queen of the day with various gifts, so numerous that they were

transported to the festive scene in a wheelbarrow. Funny presents, some

of them, but what would have been defects to other eyes were ornaments

to grandma's,--for the children's gifts were all their own. Every stitch

Daisy's patient little fingers had put into the handkerchiefs she hemmed

was better than embroidery to Mrs. March; Demi's shoe-box was a miracle

of mechanical skill, though the cover wouldn't shut; Rob's footstool had

a wiggle in its uneven legs, that she declared was very soothing; and no

page of the costly book Amy's child gave her was so fair as that on

which appeared, in tipsy capitals, the words,--"To dear Grandma, from

her little Beth."

During this ceremony the boys had mysteriously disappeared; and, when

Mrs. March had tried to thank her children, and broken down, while Teddy

wiped her eyes on his pinafore, the Professor suddenly began to sing.

Then, from above him, voice after voice took up the words, and from tree

to tree echoed the music of the unseen choir, as the boys sung, with all

their hearts, the little song Jo had written, Laurie set to music, and

the Professor trained his lads to give with the best effect. This was

something altogether new, and it proved a grand success; for Mrs. March

couldn't get over her surprise, and insisted on shaking hands with every

one of the featherless birds, from tall Franz and Emil to the little

quadroon, who had the sweetest voice of all.

After this, the boys dispersed for a final lark, leaving Mrs. March and

her daughters under the festival tree.

[Illustration: "Leaving Mrs. March and her daughters under the festival

tree."--Page 583]

"I don't think I ever ought to call myself 'Unlucky Jo' again, when my

greatest wish has been so beautifully gratified," said Mrs. Bhaer,

taking Teddy's little fist out of the milk-pitcher, in which he was

rapturously churning.

"And yet your life is very different from the one you pictured so long

ago. Do you remember our castles in the air?" asked Amy, smiling as she

watched Laurie and John playing cricket with the boys.

"Dear fellows! It does my heart good to see them forget business, and

frolic for a day," answered Jo, who now spoke in a maternal way of all

mankind. "Yes, I remember; but the life I wanted then seems selfish,

lonely, and cold to me now. I haven't given up the hope that I may write

a good book yet, but I can wait, and I'm sure it will be all the better

for such experiences and illustrations as these;" and Jo pointed from

the lively lads in the distance to her father, leaning on the

Professor's arm, as they walked to and fro in the sunshine, deep in one

of the conversations which both enjoyed so much, and then to her mother,

sitting enthroned among her daughters, with their children in her lap

and at her feet, as if all found help and happiness in the face which

never could grow old to them.

"My castle was the most nearly realized of all. I asked for splendid

things, to be sure, but in my heart I knew I should be satisfied, if I

had a little home, and John, and some dear children like these. I've got

them all, thank God, and am the happiest woman in the world;" and Meg

laid her hand on her tall boy's head, with a face full of tender and

devout content.

"My castle is very different from what I planned, but I would not alter

it, though, like Jo, I don't relinquish all my artistic hopes, or

confine myself to helping others fulfil their dreams of beauty. I've

begun to model a figure of baby, and Laurie says it is the best thing

I've ever done. I think so myself, and mean to do it in marble, so that,

whatever happens, I may at least keep the image of my little angel."

As Amy spoke, a great tear dropped on the golden hair of the sleeping

child in her arms; for her one well-beloved daughter was a frail little

creature and the dread of losing her was the shadow over Amy's sunshine.

This cross was doing much for both father and mother, for one love and

sorrow bound them closely together. Amy's nature was growing sweeter,

deeper, and more tender; Laurie was growing more serious, strong, and

firm; and both were learning that beauty, youth, good fortune, even love

itself, cannot keep care and pain, loss and sorrow, from the most blest;

for--

"Into each life some rain must fall,

Some days must be dark and sad and dreary."

"She is growing better, I am sure of it, my dear. Don't despond, but

hope and keep happy," said Mrs. March, as tender-hearted Daisy stooped

from her knee, to lay her rosy cheek against her little cousin's pale

one.

"I never ought to, while I have you to cheer me up, Marmee, and Laurie

to take more than half of every burden," replied Amy warmly. "He never

lets me see his anxiety, but is so sweet and patient with me, so devoted

to Beth, and such a stay and comfort to me always, that I can't love him

enough. So, in spite of my one cross, I can say with Meg, 'Thank God,

I'm a happy woman.'"

"There's no need for me to say it, for every one can see that I'm far

happier than I deserve," added Jo, glancing from her good husband to her

chubby children, tumbling on the grass beside her. "Fritz is getting

gray and stout; I'm growing as thin as a shadow, and am thirty; we never

shall be rich, and Plumfield may burn up any night, for that

incorrigible Tommy Bangs _will_ smoke sweet-fern cigars under the

bed-clothes, though he's set himself afire three times already. But in

spite of these unromantic facts, I have nothing to complain of, and

never was so jolly in my life. Excuse the remark, but living among boys,

I can't help using their expressions now and then."

"Yes, Jo, I think your harvest will be a good one," began Mrs. March,

frightening away a big black cricket that was staring Teddy out of

countenance.

"Not half so good as yours, mother. Here it is, and we never can thank

you enough for the patient sowing and reaping you have done," cried Jo,

with the loving impetuosity which she never could outgrow.

"I hope there will be more wheat and fewer tares every year," said Amy

softly.

"A large sheaf, but I know there's room in your heart for it, Marmee

dear," added Meg's tender voice.

Touched to the heart, Mrs. March could only stretch out her arms, as if

to gather children and grandchildren to herself, and say, with face and

voice full of motherly love, gratitude, and humility,--

"O, my girls, however long you may live, I never can wish you a greater

happiness than this!"

[Illustration: Tail-piece]

[Illustration]

Louisa M. Alcott's Writings

THE LITTLE WOMEN SERIES.

=Little Women=; or Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy. Illustrated. 16mo.

$1.50.

=Little Men.= Life at Plumfield with Jo's Boys. Illustrated.

16mo. $1.50.

=Jo's Boys and How They Turned Out.= A Sequel to "Little Men."

Portrait of Author. 16mo. $1.50.

=An Old-Fashioned Girl.= Illustrated. 16mo. $1.50.

=Eight Cousins=; or, The Aunt-Hill. Illustrated. 16mo. $1.50.

=Rose in Bloom.= A Sequel to "Eight Cousins." Illustrated. 16mo.

$1.50.

=Under the Lilacs.= Illustrated. 16mo. $1.50.

=Jack and Jill.= A Village Story. Illustrated. 16mo. $1.50.

The above eight volumes, uniformly bound in cloth, gilt, in box, $12.00.

THE LITTLE WOMEN SERIES. _New Illustrated Edition._

Printed from new plates with new cover designs, and illustrated with

84 full-page plates from drawings especially made for this edition

by Reginald B. Birch, Alice Barber Stephens, Jessie Willcox Smith,

and Harriet Roosevelt Richards. 8 vols. Crown 8vo. Decorated cloth,

gilt, in box. $16.00. Separately, $2.00.

THE SPINNING-WHEEL SERIES

=Spinning-Wheel Stories.=

=Silver Pitchers.=

=Proverb Stories.=

=A Garland for Girls.=

4 vols. 16mo. Each, $1.25. In box, $5.00.

THE SPINNING-WHEEL SERIES. _New Illustrated Edition._ Uniform in

size with the Illustrated Edition of the Little Women Series.

With 36 full-page plates by well-known artists. 4 vols. Crown

8vo. Decorated cloth. In box, $6.00. Separately, $1.50.

AUNT JO'S SCRAP-BAG

=My Boys.=

=Shawl-Straps.=

=Cupid and Chow-Chow.=

=My Girls.=

=Jimmy's Cruise in the Pinafore.=

=An Old-Fashioned Thanksgiving.=

6 vols. 16mo. Illustrated. Each, $1.00. In box, $6.00.

LULU'S LIBRARY

=Volume 1=

=Volume 2=

=Volume 3=

3 vols. Each, $1.00. The set uniformly bound in cloth, gilt, in box,

$3.00.

NOVELS, ETC.

=Hospital Sketches.=

=Work.=

=Comic Tragedies.=

=Moods.=

=A Modern Mephistopheles.=

=Life of Louisa May Alcott.=

6 vols. 16mo. Each, $1.50.

LITTLE, BROWN, & COMPANY

_Publishers_, 254 WASHINGTON STREET, BOSTON, MASS.

The Little Women Series

By LOUISA M. ALCOTT

1. LITTLE WOMEN; or Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy

Illustrated. 16mo. $1.50.

A simple story of the home life of four girls. A portrayal of

child life, natural, wholesome, and inspiring. One of the best

and most popular children's books ever written.

2. LITTLE MEN: Life at Plumfield with Jo's Boys

Illustrated. 16mo. $1.50.

Gives delightful pictures of boy life at old Plumfield, and is

brimful of activity, merriment, health, and happiness.

3. JO'S BOYS, and How They Turned Out

Illustrated. 16mo. $1.50.

This sequel to "Little Men" takes up the story and carries Jo's

boys through the home struggles and adventures in the outside

world until they are fairly launched on the sea of manhood.

4. AN OLD-FASHIONED GIRL

Illustrated. 16mo. $1.50.

The heroine of this book is shown as a possible improvement upon

the girl of the period, who seems sadly ignorant or ashamed of

the good old fashions which made women truly beautiful and

honored.

5. EIGHT COUSINS; or, the Aunt-Hill

Illustrated. 16mo. $1.50.

The story of a pretty-faced and sunny-tempered little girl,

obliged by the death of her parents to live with her uncle and

her aunts, thereby coming in contact with seven cousins--all

boys.

6. ROSE IN BLOOM

Illustrated. 16mo. $1.50.

This sequel to "Eight Cousins" carries on the story of Rose and

the cousins, and is full of vivacity, fresh and stirring

incident, and brilliant character painting.

7. UNDER THE LILACS

Illustrated. 16mo. $1.50.

Ben and his dog Sancho run away from a circus and find a home

with Bob and Betty in the old house under the lilacs. Told in

Miss Alcott's best style.

8. JACK AND JILL

Illustrated. 16mo. $1.50.

A vivid yet natural portrayal of home and school life in a New

England village, full of the sympathetic quality which lends

such a charm to Miss Alcott's writings. It is a lively and jolly

narrative.

THE ABOVE EIGHT VOLUMES, UNIFORMLY BOUND, IN BOX, $12.00

_Uniform with "The Little Women Series."_

COMIC TRAGEDIES

Written by "Jo" and "Meg," and acted by the "Little Women," with

a Foreword by "Meg." Portraits, etc. 16mo. $1.50.

LOUISA MAY ALCOTT

Her Life, Letters, and Journals. Edited by Ednah D. Cheney. With

photogravure portraits, etc. 16mo. $1.50.

Other Stories by LOUISA M. ALCOTT

SPINNING-WHEEL STORIES

Four volumes of healthy and hearty short stories so told as to

fascinate the young people, while inculcating sturdy courage and

kindness to the weak in the boys, and in the girls those virtues

which fit them for filling a woman's place in the home.

1. SPINNING-WHEEL STORIES

With twelve initial illustrations. 16mo. $1.25.

2. SILVER PITCHERS: and Independence

16mo. $1.25.

3. PROVERB STORIES

16mo. $1.25.

4. A GARLAND FOR GIRLS

With illustrations. 16mo. $1.25.

The above four volumes, uniformly bound in cloth, gilt, in box,

$5.00.

AUNT JO'S SCRAP BAG

Six books of jolly, readable stories told in Miss Alcott's best

style and sure to please young people.

1. MY BOYS

Illustrated. 16mo. $1.00.

2. SHAWL-STRAPS

Illustrated. Story of a voyage abroad. 16mo. $1.00

3. CUPID AND CHOW-CHOW

Illustrated. 16mo. $1.00.

4. MY GIRLS

Illustrated. 16mo. $1.00.

5. JIMMY'S CRUISE IN THE PINAFORE, ETC.

Illustrated. 16mo. $1.00.

6. AN OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING

Illustrated. 16mo. $1.00.

The above six volumes, uniformly bound in cloth, gilt, in box, $6.00.

LULU'S LIBRARY

Delightful short stories, many of them founded on incidents from

Miss Alcott's life. Told so as to attract children, and all

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Three volumes. Each, $1.00. The set, uniformly bound in cloth,

gilt, in box, $3.00.

MISS ALCOTT'S NOVELS

HOSPITAL SKETCHES

and Camp and Fireside Stories. With illustrations. 16mo. $1.50.

WORK

A Story of Experience. Illustrated by Sol Eytinge. 16mo. $1.50.

MOODS

A Novel. 16mo. $1.50.

A MODERN MEPHISTOPHELES

and a Whisper in the Dark. 16mo. $1.50.

Other Stories by LOUISA M. ALCOTT

A HOLE IN THE WALL. Illustrated. 12mo. 50 cents.

An account of a poor boy's admiration for a beautiful garden to

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MARJORIE'S THREE GIFTS. Illustrated. 12mo. 50 cents.

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A CHRISTMAS DREAM. Illustrated. 12mo. 50 cents.

A rather spoiled child gets her first real enjoyment of

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THE CANDY COUNTRY. Illustrated. 12mo. 50 cents.

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A bright, vivacious child visits her maiden aunts. Her

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POPPIES AND WHEAT. Illustrated. 12mo. 50 cents.

Two girls travel through Europe. The frivolous Ethel learns the

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The story of a New Hampshire farmer's daughter who is fond of

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PANSIES AND WATER-LILIES. Illustrated. 12mo. 50 cents.

"Pansies" is a story of a girls' discussion of books;

"Water-Lilies" is a romance by the sea-shore.

THE DOLLS' JOURNEY. Illustrated. 12mo. 50 cents.

A droll account of the travels of two dolls. ("Shadow-Children"

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MORNING GLORIES AND QUEEN ASTOR. Illustrated. 12mo. 50 cents.

Aunt Wee changes Daisy from a petulant to a cheerful girl by

interesting her in the wonderful world of nature which Daisy has

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THE LITTLE MEN PLAY.

THE LITTLE WOMEN PLAY.

Adapted from Miss Alcott's famous stories, "Little Men" and

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Two forty-five minute plays of two acts each, for eight or ten

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Transcriber's Notes:

Project Gutenberg has two versions of Little Women by Louisa May Alcott.

Original Edition

Illustrated Edition

Welcome to the Project Gutenberg Illustrated Edition of Little Women by

Louisa May Alcott, published by Little, Brown, and Company. Some

versions of the book, such as this one, use the full title of the book

from the title page, _Little Women; Or Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy_.

We used the version of the book from Little, Brown, and Company:

copyright 1896, for this transcription. A scanned copy of this book is

available through the internet archive, courtesy of the New York Public

Library.

A copy of the first version of the novel, published in 1869, was

consulted for emendations, the proper rendering of words hyphenated and

split between two lines for spacing, and other issues in transcribing

the novel. We are not trying to change this version of the novel back to

the 1869 novel, but correct the errors that were made in re-transcribing

and updating the text.

Passages in italics were indicated by _underscores_.

Passages in bold were indicated by =equal signs=.

Small caps were replaced with ALL CAPS.

Throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents of

the speakers. Those words were retained as-is.

Errors in punctuations and hyphenation were not corrected unless

otherwise noted below.

A note about spacing of illustrations: If there are four lines above the

illustration, then the illustration was at the top of a new chapter. If

there are four lines below the illustration, then the illustration was

at the end of a chapter. If there is two lines between a chapter heading

and the illustration, then the illustration was an inline illustration

(usually a drop-cap illustration).

On page vii, in the Table of Contents, change page 7 to 1 for the

beginning of Chapter One.

In the List of Illustrations, for the illustration on page 147,

"postmistress" was replaced with "post-mistress".

In the List of Illustrations, for the illustration on page 235,

"tea-pot" was replaced with "teapot".

On page 30, the punctuation after 'stained they are' may be a colon, but

on page 41 of the 1869 book, it is a semicolon. We used the semi-colon.

On page 34, transcribe red-headed with the hyphen. See page 44 of the

1869 novel.

On page 40, a period was added after "room where old Mr". See page 50 of

the 1869 novel.

On page 41, the semicolon after "Laurie went on the box" was replaced

with a comma. See page 52 of the 1869 novel.

On page 62, mantel-piece was transcribed with the hyphen. See Page 75 of

the 1869 novel.

On page 63, checked the clause "and I've been trying to do it this ever

so long." It is written the same way on page 77 of the 1869 book. No

change was made.

On page 64, add period after "red and shining with merriment." See page

79 of the 1869 book.

On page 68, changed weet to sweet in 'the damp weet air.' See page 84 of

the 1869 novel.

On page 79, add comma after I remain in the letter. See page 95 of the

1869 novel.

On page 84, ferrule was an adjustment from the 1869 book, which only

used one r in spelling the word (see page 101). Webster's dictionary

spells ferrule with two rs.

On page 109, a period was added after "and the old man quite dotes on

them". See page 130 of the 1869 novel.

On page 109, a period was added after "asked another voice". See page

131 of the 1869 novel.

On page 112, change colon to semicolon after "if you don't;"--see page

134 of the 1869 novel.

On page 113, transcribe ear-rings with the hyphen. See page 135 of the

1869 novel.

On Page 123, "One thing remember, my girls:" is written as it appears in

the 1896 novel. A comma instead of a colon was used after my girls in

the 1869 novel (see page 146). "One thing =to= remember," may work

better today, or even "Remember one thing," but we left this as Ms.

Alcott wrote it.

On Page 124, the P. C. is the Pickwick Club from a novel by Charles

Dickens. Samuel Pickwick, Tracy Tupman, Augustus Snodgrass, and

Nathaniel Winkle were introdued by Charles Dickens in the first chapter

of The Pickwick Papers. Samuel Weller makes his first appearance in

Chapter Ten of that novel.

On page 128, in the Pickwick Portfolio, there is no period after "it is

nearly school time" in N. Winkle's letter. This period was also missing

on page 151 of the 1869 novel. The missing period was intentional.

On page 135, the ambiguous punctuation after "Oh, dear, no!" is an

exclamation point. See page 160 of the 1869 novel.

On page 146, change buttonholes to button-holes. On page 173 of the 1869

novel, this word was hyphenated and split between two lines for spacing.

There were seven other occurrences of button-hole or button-holes in the

novel. We therefore used the hyphen.

On page 150, "Betty" was replaced with "Bethy". This error was also made

in the 1869 novel--see page 177. The character addressed is Beth.

On page 158, a period was added after "still kneeling". See page 187 of

the 1869 novel.

On page 160, "hard a lee" is spelled the same way in the 1869 novel (see

page 189) and this novel. We left this as is.

On page 166, a comma was added after "Meg" in "Meg obediently

following". See page 195 of the 1869 book.

On page 185, "receptable" was replaced with "receptacle". See page 217

of the 1869 novel.

On page 185, transcribe door-way with the hyphen. See page 217 of the

1869 novel. Also, change doorway to door-way a few lines down the same

page. See page 218 of the 1869 novel.

On page 189, the comma after "published every day" was replaced with a

period. See page 225 of 1869 book.

On page 198, the clause: "Beth, go and ask Mr. Laurence for a couple of

bottles of old wine:" was written as it appeared in the 1896 novel. The

clause ended in with a semi-colon in the 1869 book (see page 234).

On page 200, change needlework to needle-work. See page 236 of the 1869

novel.

On page 209, "turnovers" was replaced with "turn-overs". See page 246 of

the 1869 novel.

On page 214, the single quotation mark before "Head Nurse of Ward" was

replaced with a double quotation mark. See page 252 of the 1869 novel.

On page 218, "Year's ago" was replaced with "Years ago". See page 257 of

the 1869 novel.

On page 219, "ask him so help" was replaced with "ask him to help". See

page 257 of the 1869 novel.

On page 219, add period after "give it to her." See page 258 of the 1869

novel.

On page 230, "two, A.M." is spelled the same way, with the comma, in

this book and in the 1869 novel (on page 272). The comma was retained.

On page 244, "postscrips" was replaced with "postscripts". See page 287

of the 1869 novel.

On page 279, place exclamation point after won't in 'No, I won't!' See

page 329 in the 1869 novel.

On page 286, "actingly" was replaced with "acting". See page 337 of the

1869 novel.

On page 288, add comma after mankind in the clause "who felt at peace

with all mankind even his mischievous pupil." See page 339 of the 1869

novel.

On page 294, transcribe gray-headed with the hyphen. See page 5 of the

1869 novel.

On page 295, add a comma after salary in the phrase "with an

honestly-earned salary." See page 7 of the 1869 book.

Checked the clause "But once get used to these slight blemishes" on page

297. The sentence appears the same way on page 10 of the 1869 novel.

Checked the clause "People who hire all these things done for them never

know what they lose" on page 298. The sentence has a comma after them,

but is otherwise written the same way on page 11 of the 1869 novel.

On page 299, transcribe door-handles with the hyphen. See page 13 of the

1869 novel.

On page 339, "shortcomings" was replaced with "short-comings". See page

62 of the 1869 novel.

On page 345, "furbelows and notions" was written "furbelows and

quinny-dingles" in the 1869 novel. See page 59 of the 1869 novel. We

made no change, and only point this out because quinny-dingles is such a

memorable word that those intimate with the novel may notice the change.

On page 353, change snowbank to snow-bank. See page 79 of the 1869

novel.

On page 363, a double quotation mark was added before "Cross-patch, draw

the latch". See page 91 of the 1869 book.

On page 379, change period after Jo to a comma in the clause "as for Jo.

she would have gone up". See page 109 of the 1869 book.

On page 380, a comma was added after "all lying down". See page 111 of

the 1869 book.

On page 393, the punctuation after 'but so was everybody's' is difficult

to read. It could be a colon or semicolon. In the 1869 novel, the mark

is a semi-colon (see page 126). We used the semi-colon.

On page 396, the second line of the verse beginning with "'Out upon

you," is indented. In the 1869 version, the capital B of "Bold-faced

jig!'" is lined-up under Out. We aligned the verse as the 1869 version

of the novel--see page 131.

On page 404, add period after heaviness. See page 140 of the 1869 novel.

On page 405, transcribe needle-work with the hyphen. See page 141 of the

1869 book.

On Page 411, a letter is curiously addressed to Betsey, both here and on

page 148 of the 1869 book.

On Page 413, removed double quotes around Yes in "Yes," they say to one

another, these so kind ladies. Instead, place a single quote in front of

Yes, because Bhaer is resuming his quote. The resumed quote concludes

with a single quote after me and mine. See page 151 of the 1869 novel.

The double quote before 'he is a stupid old fellow' is actually a

triple-nested quote, ending in make themselves.

On page 417, transcribe Teddy-ism as Teddyism. See page 155 of the 1869

novel.

On page 451, a period was added after "I can't let you go". See page 196

of the 1869 novel.

On page 463, "Tarantula" was used as the name of a dance, but the author

might have meant "Tarantella," which is the name of an Italian dance

about tarantulas.

On page 468, transcribe chess-board with the hyphen. See page 218 of the

1869 novel.

On page 512, a period was added after "she said softly". If you see page

272 of the 1869 novel, you will also notice a comma in 'she said,

softly.' We added the period but not the comma.

On page 514, the 1869 novel did not have a comma after oar in the

sentence: "I'm not tired; but you may take an oar, if you like. See page

525 of the 1869 novel. We did not remove the comma.

On page 527, "the 'the best nevvy" was replaced with "the best nevvy".

On page 527, change he to the in 'like Jenny and he ballad'. See page

291 of the 1869 novel.

On page 531, David and Peggotty refer to two characters from the novel

"David Copperfield" by Charles Dickens.

On page 534, change of to off in the clause: Daisy found it impossible

to keep her eyes of her "pitty aunty," ... see page 300 of the 1869

novel.

On page 541, "know'st thou the land where the citron blooms," was broken

into two stanzas in the book for spacing. We transcribed this as one

line. See page 308 in 1869 novel.

On page 551, transcribe Dove-cote with the hyphen. See page 319 of the

1869 novel.

On the first page of ads, a period was added after "THE LITTLE WOMEN

SERIES. New Illustrated Edition".

On the second page of ads, in the blurb for the book Comic Tragedies, a

period as placed after "Portraits, etc".

After the novel is a list of The Works of Louisa May Alcott. The list is

not complete: for example, there are no listings for her work as Flora

Fairfield or A. M. Barnard. Nevertheless, the pages are a fine

structured outline of Ms. Alcott's best work.

Most of the novels and stories in these four pages are published by

Project Gutenberg. We included links to these titles for the reader's

convenience. A change had to be made for one item: We had to list each

of the three volumes of Lulu's Library to provide the links to that

book. These links will only work in the HTML document.

The final page is a listing of eleven stories originally published in

other volumes, such as Jo's Scrap-Bag, Lulu's Library, and A Garland for

Girls. These works were subsequently published separately in small

volumes, generally less than 100 pages, in The Children's Friend Series.

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