DP Tool Club 8/CDASC08.ISO/VRAC/LILWOMEN.ZIP/CHPT46.TXT

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                      CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

     While Laurie and Amy were taking conjugal strolls over velvet
carpets, as they set their house in order, and planned a blissful
future, Mr. Bhaer and Jo were enjoying promenades of a different
sort, along muddy roads and sodden fields.

     "I always do take a walk toward evening, and I don't know
why I should give it up, just because I happen to meet the Pro-
fessor 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 return-
ing.  He was always walking rapidly, and never seemed to see her
until quite close, when he would look as if his short-sighted
eyes had failed to recognize the approaching lady till that
moment.  Then, if she was going to Meg's he always had something
for the babies.  If her face was turned homeward, he had merely
strolled down to see the river, and was just returning, unless
they were tired of his frequent calls.

     Under the circumstances, what could Jo do but greet him
civilly, and invite him in?  If she was tired of his visits, she
concealed her weariness with perfect skill,and took care that
there should be coffee for supper, "as Friedrich--I mean Mr.
Bhaer--doesn't like tea."

     By the second week, everyone knew perfectly well what was
going on, yet everyone tried to look as if they were stone-blind
to the changes in Jo's face.  They never asked why she sang about
her work, did up her hair three times a day, and got so blooming
with her evening exercise.  And no one seemed to have the slight-
est suspicion that Professor Bhaer, while talking philosophy with
the father, was giving the daughter lessons in love.

     Jo couldn't even lose her heart in a decorous manner, but
sternly tried to quench her feelings, and failing to do so, led
a somewhat agitated life.  She was mortally afraid of being laughed
at for surrendering, after her many and vehement declarations of
independence.  Laurie was her especial dread, but thanks to the
new manager, he behaved with praiseworthy propriety, never called
Mr. Bhaer `a capital old fellow' in public, never alluded, in the
remotest manner, to Jo's improved appearance, or expressed the
least surprise at seeing the Professor's hat on the Marches' table
nearly every evening.  But he exulted in private and longed for
the time to come when he could give Jo a piece of plate, with a
bear and a ragged staff on it as an appropriate coat of arms.

     For a fortnight, the Professor came and went with lover-like
regularity.  Then he stayed away for three whole days, and made
no sign, a proceeding which caused everybody to look sober, and
Jo to become pensive, at first, and then--alas for romance--very
cross.

     "Disgusted, I dare say, and gone home as suddenly as he came.
It's nothing tome, of course, but I should think he would have
come and bid us goodbye like a gentleman," she said to herself,
with a despairing look at the gate, as she put on her things for
the customary walk one dull afternoon.

     "You'd better take the little umbrella, dear.  It looks like
rain," said her mother, observing that she had on her new bonnet,
but not alluding to the fact.

     "Yes, Marmee, do you want anything in town?  I've got to
run in and get some paper," returned Jo, pulling out the bow
under her chin before the glass as an excuse for not looking at
her mother.

     "Yes, I want some twilled silesia, a paper of number nine
needles, and two yards of narrow lavender ribbon.  Have you got
your thick boots on, and something warm under your cloak?"

     "I believe so," answered Jo absently.

     "If you happen to meet Mr. Bhaer, bring him home to tea.
I quite long to see the dear man," added Mrs. March.

     Jo heard that, but made no answer, except to kiss her mother,
and walk rapidly away, thinking with a glow of gratitude, in spite
of her heartache, "How good she is to me! What do girls do who
haven't any mothers to help them through their troubles?"

     The dry-goods stores were not down among the counting-houses,
banks, and wholesale warerooms, where gentlemen most do congregate,
but Jo found herself in that part of the city before she did a
single errand, loitering along as if waiting for someone, examin-
ing 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 unceremon-
iously 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 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 pre-
cipitated herself into the arms of a stately old gentleman, who
said, "I beg pardon, ma'am," and looked mortally offended.  Some-
what daunted, Jo righted herself, spread her handkerchief over
the devoted ribbons, and putting temptation behind her, hurried on,
with increasing dampness about the ankles, and much clashing of
umbrellas overhead.  The fact that a somewhat dilapidated blue
one remained stationary above the unprotected bonnet attracted
her attention, and looking up, she saw Mr. Bhaer looking down.

     "I feel to know the strong-minded lady who goes so bravely
under many horse noses, and so fast through much mus.  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 her 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 tome?" he asked so reproachfully
that she felt as if she had insulted him by the suggestion, and
answered heartily . . .

     "No, I didn't.  I knew you were busy about your own affairs,
but we rather missed you, Father and Mother especially."

     "And you?"

     "I'm always glad to see you, sir."

     In her anxiety to keep her voice quite calm, Jo made it rather
cool, and the frosty little monosyllable at the end seemed to chill
the Professor, for his smile vanished, as he said gravely . . .

     "I thank you, and come one more time before I go."

     "You are going, then?"

     "I haf no longer any business here, it is done."

     "Successfully, I hope?" said Jo, for the bitterness of dis-
appointment was in that short reply of his.

     "I ought to think so, for I haf a way opened to me by which
I can make my bread and gif my Junglings much help."

     "Tell me, please!  I like to know all about the--the boys,"
said Jo eagerly.

     "That is so kind, I gladly tell you.  My friends find for me
a place in a college, where I teach as at home, and earn enough
to make the way smooth for Franz and Emil.  For this I should be
grateful, should I not?"

     "Indeed you should.  How splendid it will be to have you
doing what you like, and be able to see you often, and the boys!"
cried Jo, clinging to the lads as an excuse for the satisfaction
she could not help betraying.

     "Ah!  But we shall not meet often, I fear, this place is at
the West."

     "So far away!" And Jo left her skirts to their fate, as if
it didn't matter now what became of her clothes or herself.

     Mr. Bhaer could read several languages, but he had not
learned to read women yet.  He flattered himself that he knew
Jo pretty well, and was, therefore, much amazed by the contra-
dictions 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 neat-
ness and dispatch with which she would accomplish the business.
But owing to the flutter she was in, everything went amiss.
She upset the tray of needles, forgot the silesia was to be
`twilled' till it was cut off, gave the wrong change, and
covered herself with confusion by asking for lavender ribbon
at the calico counter.  Mr. Bhaer stood by, watching her blush
and blunder, and as he watched, his own bewilderment seemed to
subside, for he was beginning to see that on some occasions,
women,like dreams, go by contraries.

     When they came out, he put the parcel under his arm with
a more cheerful aspect, and splashed through the puddles as if
he rather enjoyed it on the whole.

     "Should we no do a little what you call shopping for the
babies, and haf a farewell feast tonight if I go for my last
call at your so pleasant home?" he asked, stopping before a
window full of fruit and flowers.

     "What will we buy?" asked Jo, ignoring the latter part of
his speech, and sniffing the mingled odors with an affectation
of delight as they went in.

     "May they haf oranges and figs?" asked Mr. Bhaer, with a
paternal air.

     "They eat them when they can get them."

     "Do you care for nuts?"

     "Like a squirrel."

     "Hamburg grapes.  Yes, we shall drink to the Fatherland in
those?"

     Jo frowned upon that piece of extravagance, and asked why
he didn't buy a frail of dated, a cask of raisins, and a bag of
almonds, and be done with it?  Whereat Mr. Bhaer confiscated her
purse, produced his own, and finished the marketing by buying
several pounds of grapes, a pot of rosy daisies, and a pretty
jar of honey, to be regarded in the light of a demijohn.  Then
distorting his pockets with knobby bundles,and giving her the
flowers to hold, he put up the old umbrella, and they traveled
on again.

     "Miss Marsch, I haf a great favor to ask of you," began the
Professor, after a moist promenade of half a block.

     "Yes, sir." And Jo's heart began to beat so hard she was
afraid he would hear it.

     "I am bold to say it in spite of the rain, because so short
a time remains to me."

     "Yes, sir."  And Jo nearly crushed the small flowerpot with
the sudden squeeze she gave it.

     "I wish to get a little dress for my Tina, and I am too stupid
to go alone.  Will you kindly gif me a word of taste and help?"

     "Yes, sir." And JO felt as calm and cool all of a sudden as if
she had stepped into a refrigerator.

     "Perhaps also a shawl for Tina's mother, she is so poor and sick,
and the husband is such a care.  Yes, yes, a thick, warm shawl
would be a friendly thing to take the little mother."

     "I'll do it with pleasure, Mr. Bhaer.  I'm going very fast,
and he's getting dearer every minute," added Jo to herself, then
with a mental shake she entered into the business with an energy
that was pleasant to behold.

     Mr. Bhaer left it all to her, so she chose a pretty gown for
Tina, and then ordered out the shawls.  The clerk, being a married
man, condescended to take an interest in the couple, who appeared
to be shopping for their family.

     "Your lady may prefer this.  It's a superior article, a most
desirable color, quite chaste and genteel," he said, shaking out
a comfortable gray shawl, and throwing it over Jo's shoulders.

     "Does this suit you, Mr. Bhaer?" she asked, turning her
back to him, and feeling deeply grateful for the chance of hiding
her face.

     "Excellently well, we will haf it," answered the Professor,
smiling to himself as he paid for it, while Jo continued to
rummage the counters like a confirmed bargain-hunter.

     "Now shall we go home?" he asked, as if the words were
very pleasant to him.

     "Yes, it's late, and I'm so tired." Jo's voice was more
pathetic than she knew.  For now the sun seemed to have gone
in as suddenly as it came out, and the world grew muddy and
miserable again, and for the first time she discovered that her
feet were cold, her head ached, and that her heart was colder
than the former, fuller of pain than the latter.   Mr. Bhaer
was going away, he only cared for her as a friend, it was all
a mistake, and the sooner it was over the better.  With this
idea in her head, she hailed an approaching omnibus with such
a hasty gesture that the daisies flew out of the pot and were
badly damaged.

     "This is not our omniboos," said the Professor, waving the
loaded vehicle away, and stopping to pick up the poor little
flowers.

     "I beg your pardon.  I didn't see the name distinctly. Never
mind, I can walk.  I'm used to plodding in the mud," returned Jo,
winking hard, because she would have died rather than openly
wipe her eyes.
     MR. Bhaer saw the drops on her cheeks, though she turned her
head away.  The sight seemed to touch him very much, for suddenly
stooping down, he asked in a tone that meant a great deal, "Heart's
dearest, why do you cry?"

     Now, if Jo had not been new to this sort of thing she would
have said she wasn't crying, had a cold in her head, or told
any other feminine fib proper to the occasion.  Instead of which,
that undignified creature answered, with an irrepressible sob,
"Because you are going away."

     "Ach, mein Gott, that is so good!" cried Mr. Bhaer, managing
to clasp his hands in spite of the umbrella and the bundles, "Jo,
I haf nothing but much love to gif you.  I came to see if you
could care for it, and I waited to be sure that I was something
more than a friend.  Am I?  Can you make a little place in your
heart for old Fritz?" he added, all in one breath.

     "Oh, yes!" said Jo, and he was quite satisfied, for she
folded both hands over his are, and looked up at him with an
expression that plainly showed how happy she would be to walk
through life beside him, even though she had no better shelter
than the old umbrella, if he carried it.

     It was certainly proposing under difficulties, for even if
he had desired to do so, Mr. Bhaer could not go down upon his
knees, on account of the mud.  Neither could he offer Jo his
hand, except figuratively, for both were full.  Much less could
he indulge in tender remonstrations in the open street, though
he was near it.  So the only way in which he could express his
rapture was to look at her, with an expression which glorified
his face to such a degree that there actually seemed to be
little rainbows in the drops that sparkled on his beard.  If
he had not loved Jo very much, I don't think he could have done
it then, for she looked far from lovely, with her skirts in a
deplorable state, her rubber boots splashed to the ankle, and
her bonnet a ruin.  Fortunately, Mr. Bhaer considered her the
most beautiful woman living, and she found him more `Jove-like"
than ever, though his hatbrim was quite limp with the little
rills trickling thence upon his shoulders (for he held the
umbrella all over Jo), and every finger of his gloves needed
mending.

     Passers-by probably thought them a pair of harmless lun-
atics, 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 magi-
cal 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 think-
ing 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 some-
thing the day I said goodbye in New York, but I thought the hand-
some friend was betrothed to thee, and so I spoke not. Wouldst
thou have said `Yes', then, if I had spoken?"

     "I don't know.  I'm afraid not, for I didn't have any heart
just then."

     "Prut!  That I do not believe.  It was asleep till the fairy
prince came through the wood, and waked it up.  Ah, well, `Die
erste Liebe ist die beste', but that I should not expect."

     "Yes, the first love is the best, but be so contented, for I
never had another.  Teddy was only a boy, and soon got over his
little fancy," said Jo, anxious to correct the Professor's mis-
take.

    "Good!  Then I shall rest happy, and be sure that thou givest
me all.  I haf waited so long, I am grown selfish, as thou wilt
find , Professorin."

     "I like that," cried Jo, delighted with her new name. "Now
tell me what brought you, at last, just when I wanted you?"

     "This." And Mr. Bhaer took a little worn paper out of his
waistcoat pocket.

     Jo unfolded it, and looked much abashed, for it was one of
her own contributions to a paper that paid for poetry, which
accounted for her sending it an occasional attempt.

     "How could that bring you?" she asked, wondering what he
meant.

     "I found it by chance.  I knew it by the names and the
initials, and in it there was one little verse that seemed to
call me.  Read and find him.  I will see that you go not in
the wet."

                         IN THE GARRET

                 Four little chests all in a row,
                 Dim with dust, and worn by time,
                 All fashioned and filled, long ago,
                 By children now in their prime.
                 Four little keys hung side by side,
                 With faded ribbons, brave and gay
                 When fastened there, with childish pride,
                 Long ago, on a rainy day.
                 Four little names, one on each lid,
                 Carved out by a boyish hand,
                 And underneath there lieth hid
                 Histories of the happpy band
                 Once playing here, and pausing oft
                 To hear the sweet refrain,
                 That came and went on the roof aloft,
                 In the falling summer rain.

                 "Meg" on the first lid, smooth and fair.
                 I look in with loving eyes,
                 For folded here, with well-known care,
                 A goodly gathering lies,
                 The record of a peaceful life--
                 Gifts to gentle child and girl,
                 A bridal gown, lines to a wife,
                 A tiny shoe, a baby curl.
                 No toys in this first chest remain,
                 For all are carried away,
                 In their old age, to join again
                 In another small Meg's play.
                 Ah, happy mother!  Well I know
                 You hear, like a sweet refrain,
                 Lullabies ever soft and low
                 In the falling summer rain.

                 "Jo" on the next lid, scratched and worn,
                 And within a motley store
                 Of headless, dolls, of schoolbooks torn,
                 Birds and beasts that speak no more,
                 Spoils brought home from the fairy ground
                 Only trod by youthful feet,
                 Dreams of a future never found,
                 Memories of a past still sweet,
                 Half-writ poems, stories wild,
                 April letters, warm and cold,
                 Diaries of a wilful child,
                 Hints of a woman early old,
                 A woman in a lonely home,
                 Hearing, like a sad refrain--
                 "Be worthy, love, and love will come,"
                 In the falling summer rain.

                 My Beth!  the dust is always swept
                 From the lid that bears your name,
                 As if by loving eyes that wept,
                 By careful hands that often came.
                 Death cannonized for us one saint,
                 Ever less human than divine,
                 And still we lay, with tender plaint,
                 Relics in this household shrine--
                 The silver bell, so seldom rung,
                 The little cap which last she wore,
                 The fair, dead Catherine that hung
                 By angels borne above her door.
                 The songs she sang, without lament,
                 In her prison-house of pain,
                 Forever are they sweetly blent
                 With the falling summer rain.

                 Upon the last lid's polished field--
                 Legend now both fair and true
                 A gallant knight bears on his shield,
                 "Amy" in letters gold and blue.
                 Within lie snoods that bound her hair,
                 Slippers that have danced their last,
                 Faded flowers laid by with care,
                 Fans whose airy toils are past,
                 Gay valentines, all ardent flames,
                 Trifles that have borne their part
                 In girlish hopes and fears and shames,
                 The record of a maiden heart
                 Now learning fairer, truer spells,
                 Hearing, like a blithe refrain,
                 The silver sound of bridal bells
                 In the falling summer rain.

                 Four little chests all in a row,
                 Dim with dust, and worn by time,
                 Four women, taught by weal and woe
                 To love and labor in their prime.
                 Four sisters, parted for an hour,
                 None lost, one only gone before,
                 Made by love's immortal power,
                 Nearest and dearest evermore.
                 Oh, when these hidden stores of ours
                 Lie open to the Father's sight,
                 May they be rich in golden hours,
                 Deeds that show fairer for the light,
                 Lives whose brave music long shall ring,
                 Like a spirit-stirring strain,
                 Souls that shall gladly soar and sing
                 In the long sunshine after rain.

     "It's very bad poetry, but I felt it when I wrote it, one day
when I was very lonely, and had a good cry on a rag bag.  I never
thought it would go where it could tell tales," said Jo, tearing
up the verses the Professor had treasured so long.

     "Let it go, it has done it's duty, and I will haf a fresh one
when I read all the brown book in which she keeps her little
secrets," said Mr. Bhaer with a smile as he watched the fragments
fly away on the wind.  "Yes," he added earnestly, "I read that,
and I think to myself, She has a sorrow, she is lonely, she would
find comfort in true love.  I haf a heart full, full for her. Shall
I not go and say, "If this is not too poor a thing to gif for what
I shall hope to receive, take it in Gott's name?"

     "And so you came to find that it was not too poor,but the one
precious thing I needed," whispered Jo.

     "I had no courage to think that at first, heavenly kind as was
your welcome to me.  But soon I began to hope, and then I said, `I
will haf her if I die for it'. and so I will!" cried Mr. Bhaer,
with a defiant nod, as if the walls of mist closing round them were
barriers which he was to surmount or valiantly knock down.

     Jo thought that was splendid, and resolved to be worthy of her
knight, though he did not come prancing on a charger in gorgeous
array.

     "What made you stay away so long?" she asked presently, finding
it so pleasant to ask confidential questions and get delightful
answers that she could not keep silent.

     "It was not easy, but I could not find the heart to take you
from that so happy home until I could haf a prospect of one to
gif you, after much time, perhaps, and hard work.  How could I ask
you to gif up so much for a poor old fellow, who has no fortune
but a little learning?"

     "I'm glad you are poor.  I couldn't bear a rich husband,"
said Jo decidedly, adding in a softer tone, "Don't fear poverty.
I've known it long enough to lose my dread and be happy working
for those I love, and don't call yourself old--forty is the prime
of life.  I couldn't help loving you if you were seventy!"

     The Professor found that so touching that he would have been
glad of his handkerchief, if he could have got at it.  As her
couldn't, Jo wiped his eyes for him, and said, laughing, as she
took away a bundle or two...

     "I may be strong-minded, but no one can say I'm out of my
sphere now, for woman's special mission is supposed to be drying
tears and bearing burdens.  I'm to carry my share, Friedrich,
and help to earn the home.  Make up your mind to that, or I'll
never go," she added resolutely, as he tried to reclaim his load.

     "We shall see.  Haf you patience to wait a long time, Jo?
I must go away and do my work alone.  I must help my boys first,
because, even for you, I may not break my word to Minna.  Can
you forgif that, and be happy while we hope and wait?"

     "Yes, I know I can, for we love one another, and that makes
all the rest easy to bear.  I have my duty, also, and my work.
I couldn't enjoy myself if I neglected them even for you, so
there's no need of hurry or impatience.  You can do your part
out West, I can do mine here, and both be happy hoping for the
best, and leaving the future to be as God wills."

     "Ah! Thou gifest me such hope and courage, and I haf nothing
to gif back but a full heart and these empty hands," cried the
Professor, quite overcome.

     Jo never, never would learn to be proper, for when he said
that as they stood upon the steps, she just put both hands into
his, whispering tenderly,  "Not empty now," and stooping down,
kissed her Friedrich under the umbrella.  It was dreadful, but
she would have done it if the flock of draggle-tailed sparrows
on the hedge had been human beings, for she was very far gone
indeed, and quite regardless of everything but her own happiness.
Though it came in such a very simple guise, that was the crowning
moment of both their lives, when, turning from the night and
storm and loneliness to the household light and warmth and peace
waiting to receive them, with a glad "Welcome home!"  Jo led her
lover in, and shut the door.

                    END OF CHAPTER FORTY-SIX