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LITTLE WOMEN by LOUISA MAY ALCOTT


This text was digitized (typed by hand) by

Ted & Florence Daniel
New Wave Publishers
2103 N. Liberty Street
Portland OR 97217-4971
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This text is in the public domain.



                          FORWARD

               LOUISA MAY ALCOTT  1832-1888

     Louisa May Alcott's novel brings to life vividly the life
of New England during the nineteenth century.   A  life  that
was tranquil, secure, and productive.

     It is little wonder,  for she drew on her own and on her
family's experiences for her work.   As one of four daughters
growing up in Boston.

     At the age of eight, she moved with her family to nearby
Concord.  There she spent the happiest  years of  her younger
life, even though she experienced the constant threat of pov-
erty.

     She counted as friends the children of Hawthorne and Em-
erson.  The Alcott was only a modest cottage,  but  the girls
made use of a neighboring barn to  perform  plays written  by
Louisa May.

     She was educated at home, and became a school teacher in
Boston. She saw her first story printed in a Boston newspaper
at the age of twenty.  Her  first  full-length book  appeared
two years later.

     Interrupting her career as a writer,she served as a nurse
in a Washington hospital during the Civil War.

     The thing that pleased her most about her writing, as  she
became more and more well known, was the fact that sales of her
books helped to make life more comfortable and less of a  daily
struggle for her parents in their later years.

     LITTLE WOMEN was published in 1869, and has gone on to be-
come one of America's classics.

     This copy of LITTLE WOMEN has been transposed to disk and
is supplied by  NEW WAVE PUBLISHERS,  2103  N. LIBERTY STREET,
PORTLAND, OR  97217-4971

UPLOADED FROM ELVIRA'S PINNACLE CLUB  286-5577  7 AM  - 10 PM




                             LITTLE WOMEN

                              c 1869 by

                           Louisa May Alcott


                              CHAPTER ONE

     "Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents," grumbled
Jo, lying on the rug.

     "It's so dreadful to be poor!"  sighed Meg,  looking down at
her old dress.

      "I don't think it's fair for some girls to have plenty of
pretty things, and other girls nothing at all,"  added little Amy,
with an injured sniff.

     "We've got Father and Mother, and each other," said Beth
contentedly from her corner.

     The four young faces on which the firelight shone brightened
at the cheerful words, but darkened again as Jo said sadly, "We
haven't got Father, and shall not have him for a long time."  She
didn't say "perhaps never,"  but each silently added it, thinking
of Father far away, where the fighting was.

     Nobody spoke for a minute; then Meg said in an altered tone,
"You know the reason Mother proposed not having any presents this
Christmas was because it is going to be a hard winter for everyone;
and she thinks we ought not to spend money for  pleasure,  when
our  men are suffering so in the army. We can't do much,but we can
make our little sacrifices, and ought to do it gladly.  But I am
afraid I don't"  And Meg shook her head,as she thought regretfully
of all the pretty things she wanted.

     "But I don't think the little we should spend would  do any
good. We've each got a dollar, and the army wouldn't be much helped
by our giving that. I agree not to expect anything from Mother or
you, but I do want to buy UNDINE AND SINTRAM for myself.  I've
wanted it so long," said Jo, who was a bookworm.

     "I planned to spend mine in new music," said Beth,  with a
little sigh, which no one heard but the hearth brush and kettle
holder.

     "I shall get a  nice box  of Faber's drawing  pencils.   I
really  need them," said Amy decidedly.

     "Mother didn't say anything about  our money,  and she won't
wish us to give up everything.   Let's  each buy what we want, and
have a little fun.  I'm sure we work hard enough to earn it," cried
Jo, examining the heels of her shoes in a gentlemanly manner.

     "I know I do--teaching those  tiresome  children nearly  all
day, when I'm longing to enjoy myself at home," began Meg, in the
complaining tone again.

     "You don't have half such a hard time as I do,"  said  Jo.
"How would you like to be shut up for hours with a nervous, fussy
old lady, who keeps you trotting, is never satisfied,  and worries
you till you you're ready to fly out the window or cry?"

     "It's naughty to fret,  but I do think washing dishes and
keeping things tidy is the worst work in the  world.   It makes me
cross, and my hands get so stiff, I can't practice well at all."
And Beth looked at her rough hands with a sigh that any one could
hear that time.

     "I don't believe any of you suffer as I do,"  cried Amy, "for
you don't have to go to school with impertinent girls,  who plague
you if you don't know your lessons, and laugh at your dresses, and
label your father if he isn't rich, and insult you when your nose
isn't nice."

     "If you mean libel, I'd say so, and not talk about labels, as
if Papa was a pickle bottle," advised Jo, laughing.

     "I know what I mean, and you needn't be statirical about it.
It's proper to use good words, and improve your vocabilary,"
returned  Amy, with dignity.

     "Don't peck at one another,  children.  Don't you wish we
had the money Papa lost when we were little, Jo?  Dear me! How
happy and good we'd be, if we had no worries!"  said Meg,  who
could remember better times.

     "You said the other day you thought we  were a deal happier
than the King children,  for they were fighting and fretting all
the time, in spite of their money."

     "So I did, Beth.  Well, I think we are.  For though we do
have to work,  we make fun of ourselves,  and are a pretty  jolly
set,  as Jo would say."

     "Jo does use such slang words!"   observed Amy,  with a
reproving look at the long figure stretched on the rug.

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

     "Don't, Jo.  It's so boyish!"

     "That's why I do it."

     "I detest rude, unladylike girls!"

     "I hate affected, niminy-piminy chits!"

     "Birds in their little nests agree,"  sang Beth,  the
peacemaker, with such a funny face that both sharp voices
softened to  a  laugh, and the "pecking" ended for that time.

     "Really, girls, you are both to be blamed,"  said Meg,
beginning to lecture in her elder-sisterly fashion."You are old
enough to leave off boyish tricks, and to behave better,
Josephine.  It didn't matter so much when you were a little
girl, but now you are so tall,and turn up your hair, you should
remember that you are a young lady."

     "I'm not!   And if turning up my hair makes me one,  I'll
wear it in two tails till I'm twenty,"  cried  Jo,  pulling off
her net,  and shaking down a chestnut mane.   "I hate  to think
I've got to grow up,  and be Miss March, and wear long gowns,
and look as prim as a  China Aster!  It's bad enough to be a
girl, anyway, when I like boy's games and work and manners!  I
can't get over my disappointment in not being a boy.  And it's
worse than ever now,  for I'm dying  to go and fight with Papa.
And I can only stay home and knit, like a poky old woman!"

     And Jo shook the blue army sock till the needles rattled
like castanets, and her ball bounded across the room.

     "Poor Jo!  It's too bad, but it can't be helped.  So you
must try to be contented with making your name boyish, and
playing brother to us girls," said Beth, stroking the rough
head with a hand that all the dish washing and dusting in the
world could not make ungentle in its touch.

     "As for you, Amy," continued Meg, "you are altogether
to particular and prim.  Your airs are funny now, but you'll
grow up an affected little goose, if you don't take care.  I
I like your nice manners and refined ways of speaking, when
you don't try to be elegant. But your absurd words are as bad
as Jo's slang."

     "If Jo is a tomboy and Amy a goose, what am I, please?"
asked Beth, ready to share the lecture.

     "You're a dear, and nothing else," answered Meg warmly,
and no one contradicted her, for the `Mouse' was the pet of the
family.

     As young readers like to know `how people look', we will
take this moment to give them a little sketch of the four
sisters, who sat knitting away in the twilight, while the
December snow fell quietly without, and the fire crackled
cheerfully within.  It was a comfortable room,though the carpet
was faded and the furniture very plain, for a good picture or
two hung on the walls, books filled the recesses, chrysanthemums
and Christmas roses bloomed in the windows, and a pleasant atmos-
phere of home peace pervaded it.

     Margaret, the eldest of the four, was sixteen, and very pretty,
being plump and fair, with large eyes, plenty of soft brown hair, a
sweet mouth, and white hands,of which she was rather vain.  Fifteen-
year-old Jo was very tall, thin, and brown, and reminded one of a
colt, for she never seemed to know what to do with her long limbs,
which were very much in her way.  She had a decided mouth, a comical
nose, and sharp, gray eyes, which appeared to see everything, and
were by turns fierce,funny, or thoughtful.  Her long, thick hair
was her one beauty, but it was usually bundled into a net, to be
out of her way.  Round shoulders had Jo, big hands and feet, a fly-
away look to her clothes, and the uncomfortable appearance of a
girl who was rapidly shooting up into a woman and didn't like it.
Elizabeth, or Beth, as everyone called her, was a rosy, smooth-
haired, bright-eyed girl of thirteen, with a shy manner, a timid
voice, and a ;peaceful expression which was seldom disturbed. Her
father called her `Little Miss Tranquility', and the name suited
her excellently, for she seemed to live in a happy world of her
own, only venturing out to meet the few whom she trusted and loved.
Amy, though the youngest, was a most important person, in her own
opinion at least.  A regular snow maiden, with blue eyes, and
yellow hair curling on her shoulders, pale and slender, and always
carrying herself like a young lady mindful of her manners. What
the characters of the four sisters were we will leave to be found
out.

     The clock struck six and, having swept up the hearth, Beth
put a pair of slippers down to warm.  Somehow the sight of the old
shoes had a good effect upon the girls, for Mother was coming, and
everyone brightened to welcome her.  Meg stopped lecturing, and
lighted the lamp, Amy got out of the easy chair without being asked,
and Jo forgot how tired she was as she sat up to hold the slippers
nearer to the blaze.

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

     "I thought I'd get her some with my dollar," said Beth.

     "No, I shall!" cried Amy.

     "I'm the oldest," began Meg, but Jo cut in with a decided,
"I'm the man of the family now Papa is away, and I shall provide
the slippers, for he told me to take special care of Mother while
he was gone."

     "I'll tell you what we'll do," said Beth, "let's each get her
something for Christmas,land not get anything for ourselves."

     "That's like you, dear!  What will we get?" exclaimed Jo.

     Everyone thought soberly for a minute, then Meg announced, as
if the idea was suggested by the sight of her own pretty hands, "I
shall give her a nice pair of gloves."

     "Army shoes, best to be had," cried Jo.

     "Some handkerchiefs, all hemmed," said Beth.

     "I'll get a little bottle of cologne.  She likes it, and it
won't cost much, so I'll have some left to buy my pencils," added
Amy.

     "How will we give the things?" asked Meg.

     "Put them on the table, and bring her in and see her open
the bundles.  Don't you remember how we used to do on our birth-
days?" answered Jo.

     "I used to be so frightened when it was my turn to sit in the
chair with the crown on, and see you all come marching round to
give the presents, with a kiss.  I liked the things and the kisses,
but it was dreadful to have you sit looking at me while I opened
the bundles," said Beth, who was toasting her face and the bread
for tea at the same time.

     "Let Marmee think we are getting things for ourselves, and
then surprise her.  We must go shopping tomorrow afternoon, Meg.
There is so much to do about the play for Christmas night," said
Jo, marching up and down, with her hands behind her back, and her
nose in the air.

     "I don't mean to act any more after this time.  I'm getting
too old for such things," observed Meg, who was as much a child
as ever about `dressing-up' frolics.

     "You won't stop, I know, as long as you can trail round in a
white gown with your hair down, and wear gold-paper jewelry.  You
are the best actress we've got, and there'll be an end of every-
thing if you quit the boards," said Jo.  "We ought to rehearse
tonight. Come here,Amy, and do the fainting scene, for you are as
stiff as a poker in that."

     "I can't help it.  I never saw anyone faint, and I don't choose
to make myself all black and blue, tumbling flat as you do.  If I
can go down easily, I'll drop.  If I can't, I shall fall into a
chair and be graceful.  I don't care if Hugo does come at me with
a pistol," returned Amy, who was not gifted with dramatic power,
but was chosen because she was small enough to be borne out shrieking
by the villain of the piece.

     "Do it this way.  Clasp your hands so, and stagger across the
room, crying frantically, `Roderigo`  Save me! Save me! and away
went Jo, with a melodramatic scream which was truly thrilling.

     Amy followed, but she poked her hands out stiffly before her,
and jerked herself along as if she went by machinery, and her "Ow!"
was more suggestive of pins being run into her than of fear and
anguish.  Jo gave a despairing groan, and Meg laughed outright,
while Beth let her bread burn as she watched the fun with interest.

     "It's no use!  Do the best you can when the time comes, and if
the audience laughs, don't blame me.  Come on, Meg."

     "Then things went smoothly, for Don Pedro defied the world in
a speech of two pages without a single break. Hagar, the witch,
chanted an awful incantation over her kettleful of simmering toads,
with weird effect.  Roderigo rent his chains asunder manfully, and
Hugo died in agonies of remorse and arsenic, with a wild,"Ha! Ha!"

     "It's the best we've had yet," said Meg, as the dead villain
sat up and rubbed his elbows.

     "I don't see how you can write and act such splendid things,
Jo.  You're a regular Shakespeare!" exclaimed Beth, who firmly
believed that her sisters were gifted with wonderful genius in all
things.

     "Not quite," replied Jo modestly. "I do think THE WITCHES CURSE,
an Operatic Tragedy is rather a nice thing, but I'd like to try
McBETH, if we only had a trapdoor for Banquo.  I always wanted to
do the killing part.  `Is that a dagger that I see before me?"
muttered Jo, rolling her eyes and clutching at the air, as she had
seen a famous tragedian do.

     "No, it's the toasting fork, with Mother's shoe on it instead
of the bread.  Beth's stage-struck!"  cried Meg, and the rehearsal
ended in a general burst of laughter.

     "Glad to find you so merry, my girls," said a cheery voice at
the door, and actors and audience turned to welcome a tall, motherly
lady with a `can I help you' look about her which was truly delightful.
She was not elegantly dressed, but a noble-looking woman, and the
girls thought the gray cloak and unfashionable bonnet covered the most
splendid mother in the world.

     "Well, dearies, how have you got on today?  There was so much to
do, getting the boxes ready to go tomorrow, that I didn't come home
to dinner.  Has anyone called, Beth?  How is your cold, Meg?  Jo,
you look tired to death.  Come and kiss me, baby."

     While making these maternal inquiries Mrs. March got her wet
things off, her warm slippers on, and sitting down in the easy
chair, drew Amy to her lap, preparing to enjoy the happiest hour
of her busy day.  The girls flew about, trying to make things
comfortable, each in her own way.  Meg arranged the tea table, Jo
brought wood and set chairs, dropping, over-turning,and clattering
everything she touched.  Beth trotted to and fro between parlor
kitchen, quiet and busy, while Amy gave directions to everyone, as
she sat with her hands folded.

     As they gathered about the table, Mrs. March said, with a
particularly happy face, "I've got a treat for you after supper."

     A quick, bright smile went round like a streak of sunshine.
Beth clapped her hands, regardless of the biscuit she held,and
Jo tossed up her napkin, crying, "A letter! A letter! Three
cheers for Father!"

     "Yes, a nice long letter.  He is well, and thinks he shall
get through the cold season better than we feared. He sends all
sorts of loving wishes for Christmas, and an especial message
to you girls," said Mrs. March, patting her pocket as if she
had got a treasure there.

     "Hurry and get done!  Don't stop to quirk your little finger
and simper over your plate, Amy," cried Jo, choking on her tea
and dropping her bread, butter side down, on the carpet in her
haste to get at the treat.

     Beth ate no more, but crept away to sit in her shadowy corner
and brood over the delight to come, till the others were ready.

     "I think it was so splendid in Father to go as chaplain
when he was too old to be drafted, and not strong enough for
a soldier," said Meg warmly.

     "Don't I wish I could go as a drummer, a vivan--what's its
name?  Or a nurse, so I could be near him and help him," exclaimed
Jo, with a groan.

     "It must be very disagreeable to sleep in a tent, and eat
all sorts of bad-tasting things, and drink out of a tin mug,"
sighed Amy.

     "When will he come home, Marmee?  asked Beth, with a little
quiver in her voice.

     "Not for many months, dear, unless he is sick.  He will stay
and do his work faithfully as long as he can, and we won't ask
for him back a minute sooner than he can be spared.  Now come and
hear the letter."

     They all drew to the fire, Mother in the big chair with Beth
at her feet, Meg and Amy perched on either arm of the chair, and
Jo leaning on the back, where no one would see any sign of emotion
if the letter should happen to be touching.  Very few letters were
written in those hard times that were not touching, especially
those which fathers sent home.  In this one little was said of the
hardships endured, the dangers faced, or the homesickness con-
quered.  It was a cheerful, hopeful letter, full of lively descrip-
tions of camp life, marches, and military news, and only at the end
did the writer's heart over-flow with fatherly love and longing for
the little girls at home.

     " Give them all of my dear love and a kiss.  Tell them I think
of them by day, pray  for them by night, and find my best comfort
in their affection at all times.  A year seems very long to wait
before I see them, but remind them that while we wait we may all
work, so that these hard days need not be wasted.  I know they will
remember all I said to them, that they will be loving children to
you, will do their duty faithfully, fight their bosom enemies bravely,
and conquer themselves so beautifully that when I come back to them
I may be fonder and prouder than ever of my little women."

     Everybody sniffed when they came to that part.  Jo wasn't
ashamed of the great tear that dropped off the end of her nose, and
Amy never minded the rumpling of her curls as she hid her face on
her mother's shoulder and sobbed out, "I am a selfish girl!  But
I'll truly try to be better, so he mayn't be disappointed in me
by-and-by."

     We all will," cried Meg.  "I think too much of my looks and
hate to work, but won't any more, if I can help it."

     "I'll try and be what he loves to call me, `a little woman'
and not be rough and wild, but do my duty here instead of wanting
to be somewhere else," said Jo, thinking that keeping her temper
at home was a much harder task than facing a rebel or two down South.

     Beth said nothing, but wiped away her tears with the blue army
sock and began to knit with all her might, losing no time in doing
the duty that lay nearest her, while she resolved in her quiet
little soul to be all that Father hoped to find her when the year
brought round the happy coming home.

     Mrs. March broke the silence that followed Jo's words, by
saying in her cheery voice, "Do you remember how you used to play
Pilgrims Progress when you were little things?  Nothing delighted
you more than to have me tie my piece bags on your backs for burdens,
give you hats and sticks and rolls of paper, and let you travel
through the house from the cellar, which was the City of Destruction,
up, up, to the housetop, where you had all the lovely things you
could collect to make a Celestial City."

     "What fun it was, especially going by the lions, fighting
Apollyon, and passing through the valley where the hob-goblins
were," said Jo.

     "I liked the place where the bundles fell off and tumbled
downstairs," said Meg.

     "I don't remember much about it, except that I was afraid of
the cellar and the dark entry, and always liked the cake and milk
we had up at the top.  If I wasn't too old for such things, I'd
rather like to play it over again," said Amy, who began to talk
of renouncing childish  things at the mature age of twelve.

     "We never are too old for this, my dear, because it is a play
we are playing all the time in one way or another. Out burdens are
here, our road is before us, and the longing for goodness and
happiness is the guide that leads us through many troubles and mis-
takes to the peace which is a true Celestial City.  Now, my little
pilgrims, suppose you begin again, not in play, but in earnest,
and see how far on you can get before Father comes home."

     "Really, Mother?  Where are our bundles?" asked Amy, who was
a very literal young lady.

     "Each of you told what your burden was just now, except Beth.
I rather think she hasn't got any," said her mother.

     "Yes, I have.  Mine is dishes and dusters, and envying girls
with nice pianos, and being afraid of people."

     Beth's bundle was such a funny one that everybody wanted to
laugh, but nobody did, for it would have hurt her feelings very
much.

     "Let us do it," said Meg thoughtfully.  "It is only another
name for trying to be good, and the story may help us, for though
we do want to be good, it's hard work and we forget, and don't do
our best."

     "We were in the Slough of Despond tonight, and Mother came
and pulled us out as Help did in the book.  We ought to have our
roll of directions, like Christian.  What shall we do about that?"
asked Jo, delighted with the fancy which lent a little romance to
the very dull task of doing her duty.

     "Look under your pillows christmas morning, and you will
find your guidebook," replied Mrs. March.

     They talked over the new plan while old Hannah cleared the
table, then out came the four little work baskets, and the needles
flew as the girls made sheets for Aunt March.  It was uninteresting
sewing, but tonight no one grumbled.  They adopted Jo's plan of
dividing the long seams into four parts, and calling the quarters
Europe, Asia, Africa, and America, and in that way got on capitally,
especially when they talked about the different countries as they
stitched their way through them.

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

                  Crinkle, crinkle, 'ittle 'tar,

and it had become a household custom,, for the mother was a born
singer.  The first sound in the morning was her voice as she went
about the house singing like a lark, and the last sound at night
was the same cheery sound, for the girls never grew too old for
that familiar lullaby.


                        CHAPTER TWO

     Jo was the first to wake in the gray dawn of Christmas morn-
ing.  No stockings hung at the fireplace, and for a moment she
felt as much disappointed as she did long ago, when her little
sock fell down because it was crammed so full of goodies. Then
she remembered her mother's promise and, slipping her hand under
her pillow, drew out a little crimson-covered book.  She knew
it very well, for it was that beautiful old story of the best
life ever lived, and Jo felt that it was a true guidebook for
any pilgrim going on a long journey.  She woke Meg with a "Merry
Christmas," and bade her see what was under her pillow. A green-
covered book appeared, with the same picture inside, and a few
words written by their mother, which made their one present very
precious in their eyes.  Presently Beth and Amy woke to rummage
and find their little books also, one dove-colored, the other
blue, and all sat looking at and talking about them, while the
east grew rosy with the coming day.

     In spite of her small vanities, Margaret had a sweet and
pious nature, which unconsciously influenced her sisters, espec-
ially Jo, who loved her very tenderly, and obeyed her because
her advice was so gently given.

     "Girls," said Meg seriously, looking from the tumbled head
beside her to the two little night-capped ones in the room beyond,
"Mother wants us to read and love and mind these books, and we
must begin at once.  We used to be faithful about it, but since
Father went away and all this war trouble unsettled us, we have
neglected many things. You can do as you please, but I shall keep
my book on the table here and read a little every morning as soon
as I wake, for I know it will do me good and help me through the
day."

     Then she opened her new book and began to read.  Jo put her
arm round her and, leaning cheek to cheek, read also, with the
quiet expression so seldom seen on her restless face.

     "How good Meg is!  Come, Amy, let's do as they do.  I'll
help you with the hard words, and they'' explain things if we
don't understand," whispered Beth, very much impressed by the
pretty books and her sisters, example.

     "I'm glad mine is blue," said Amy.  and then the rooms were
very still while the pages were softly turned, and the winter
sunshine crept in to touch the bright heads and serious faces
with a Christmas greeting.

     "Where is Mother?" asked Meg, as she and Jo ran down to
thank her for their gifts, half an hour later.

     "Goodness only knows. some poor creeter came a-beggin', and
your ma went straight off to see what was needed.  There never was
such a woman for givin' away vittles and drink, clothes and firin',"
replied Hannah, who had lived with the family since Meg was born,
and was considered by them all more as a friend than a servant.

     "She will be back soon, I think, so fry your cakes, and have
everything ready," said Meg, looking over the presents which were
collected in a basket and kept under the sofa, ready to be pro-
duced at the proper time.  "why, where is Amy's bottle of cologne?"
she added, as the little flask did not appear.

     "She took it out a minute ago, and went off with it to put a
ribbon on it, or some such notion," replied Jo, dancing about the
room to take the first stiffness off the new army slippers.

     "How nice my handkerchiefs look, don't they?  Hannah washed
and ironed them for me, and I marked them all myself," said Beth,
looking proudly at the somewhat uneven letters which had cost her
such labor.

     "Bless the child!  She's gone and put `Mother' on them in-
stead of `M. March'.  How funny!" cried Jo, taking one up.

     "Isn't that right?  I thought it was better to do it so,
because Meg's initials are M.M., and I don't want anyone to use
these but Marmee," said Beth;, looking troubled.

     "It's all right, dear, and a very pretty idea, quite sensible
too, for no one can ever mistake now. It will please her very much,
I know," said Meg, with a frown for Jo and a smile for Beth.

     "There's Mother. Hide the basket, quick!" cried Jo, as a door
slammed and steps sounded in the hall.

     Amy came in hastily, and looked rather abashed when she saw
her sisters all waiting for her.

     "Where have you been, and what are you hiding behind you?"
asked Meg, surprised to see, by her hood and cloak, that lazy Amy
had been out so early.

     "Don't laugh at me, Jo!  I didn't mean anyone should know till
the time came.  I only meant to change the little bottle for a big
one, and I gave all my money to get it, and I'm truly trying not
to be selfish any more."

     As she spoke, Amy showed the handsome flask which replaced
the cheap one, and looked so earnest and humble in her little
effort to forget herself that Meg hugged her on the spot, and Jo
pronounced her `a trump', while Beth ran to the window, and picked
her finest rose to ornament the stately bottle.

     "You see I felt ashamed of my present, after reading and talking
about being good this morning, so I ran round the corner and changed
it the minute I was up, and I'm so glad, for mine is the handsomest
now."

     Another bang of the street door sent the basket under the sofa,
and the girls to the table, eager for breakfast.

     "Merry Christmas, Marmee!  Many of them!  Thank you for our
books.  We read some, and mean to every day," they all cried in
chorus.

     "Merry Christmas, little daughters!  I'm glad you began at
once, and hope you will keep on.  But I want to say one word
before we sit down.  Not far away from here lies a poor woman
with a little newborn baby.  Six children are huddled into one bed
to keep from freezing, for they have no fire.  There is nothing to
eat over there, and the oldest boy came to tell me they were suffer-
ing hunger and cold.  My girls, will you give them your breakfast
as a Christmas present?"

     They were all unusually hungry, having waited nearly an hour,
and for a minute no one spoke, only a minute, for Jo exclaimed im-
petuously, "I'm so glad you came before we began!"

     "May I go and help carry the things to the poor little children?"
asked Beth eagerly.

     "I shall take the cream and the muffings," added Amy, heroically
giving up the article she most liked.

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

     "I thought you'd do it," said Mrs. March, smiling as if satisfied.
"You shall all go and help me, and when we come back we will have bread
and milk for breakfast, and make it up at dinnertime."

     They were soon ready, and the procession set out.  Fortunately
it was early, and they went through back streets, so few people saw
them, and no one laughed at the queer party.

     A poor, bare, miserable room it was, with broken windows, no
fire, ragged bedclothes, a sick mother, wailing baby, and a group
of pale, hungry children cuddled under one old quilt, trying to
keep warm.

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

     "Ach, mein Gott!  It is good angels come to us!"  said the poor
woman, crying for joy.

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

     In a few minutes it really did seem as if kind spirits had been
at work there.  Hannah, who had carried wood, made a fire, and
stopped up the broken panes with old hats and her own cloak.  Mrs.
March gave the mother tea and gruel, and comforted her with promises
of help, while she dressed the little baby as tenderly as if it had
been her own.  The girls meantime spread the table, set the children
round the fire, and fed them like so many hungry birds, laughing,
talking, and trying to understand the funny broken English.

     "Das ist gut!" "Die Engel-kinder!" cried the poor things as
they ate and warmed their purple hands at the comfortable blaze.

     The girls had never been called angel children before, and
thought it very agreeable, especially Jo, who had been considered
a `Sancho' ever since she was born.  That was a very happy break-
fast, though they didn't get any of it.  And when they went away,
leaving comfort behind, I think there were not in all the city
four merrier people than the hungry little girls who gave away
their breakfasts and contented themselves with bread and milk
on Christmas morning.

     "That's loving our neighbor better than ourselves, and I
like it," said Meg, as they set out their presents while their
mother was upstairs collecting clothes for the poor Hummels.

     Not a very splendid show, but there was a great deal of
love done up in the few little bundles, and the tall vase of
red roses, white chrysanthemums, and trailing vines, which
stood in the middle, gave quite an elegant air to the table.

     "She's coming!  Strike up, Beth!  Open the door, Amy!  Three
cheers for Marmee!" cried Jo, prancing about while Meg went to
conduct Mother to the seat of honor.

     Beth played her gayest march, amy threw open the door, and
Meg enacted escort with great dignity.  Mrs. March was both
surprised and touched, and smiled with her eyes full as she
examined her presents and read the little notes which accompanied
them.  The slippers went on at once, a new handkerchief was slipped
into her pocket, well scented with Amy's cologne, the rose was
fastened in her bosom, and the nice gloves were pronounced a perfect
fit.

    There was a good deal of laughing and kissing and explaining,
in the simple, loving fashion which makes these home festivals so
pleasant at the time, so sweet to remember long afterward, and
then all fell to work.

     The morning charities and ceremonies took so much time that
the rest of the day was devoted to preparations for the evening
festivities.  Being still too young to go often to the theater,
and not rich enough to afford any great outlay for private per-
formances, the girls put their wits to work, and necessity being
the  mother of invention, made whatever they needed.  Very clever
were some of their productions, pasteboard guitars, antique lamps
made of old-fashioned butter boats covered with silver paper,
gorgeous robes of old cotton, glittering with tin spangles from
a pickle factory, and armor covered with the same useful diamond
shaped bits left inn sheets when the lids of preserve pots were
cut out.  The big chamber was the scene of many innocent revels.

     No gentleman were admitted, so Jo played male parts to her
heart's content and took immense satisfaction in a pair of russet
leather boots given her by a friend, who knew a  lady who knew an
actor.  These boots, an old foil, and a slashed doublet once used
by an artist for some picture, were Jo's chief treasures and
appeared on all occasions.  The smallness of the company made it
necessary  for the two principal actors to take several parts
apiece, and they certainly deserved some credit for the hard work
they did in learning three or four different parts, whisking in
and out of various costumes, and managing the stage besides.  It
was excellent drill for their memories, a harmless amusement, and
employed many hours which otherwise would have been idle, lonely,
or spent in less profitable society.

     On christmas night, a dozen girls piled onto the bed which
was the dress circle, and sat before the blue and yellow chintz
curtains in a most flattering state of expectancy.  There was a
good deal of rustling and whispering behind the curtain, a trifle
of lamp smoke,and an occasional giggle from Amy, who was apt to
get hysterical in the excitement of the moment.  Presently a bell
sounded, the curtains flew apart, and the OPERATIC TRAGEDY began.

     "A gloomy wood," according to the one playbill, was repre-
sented by a few shrubs in pots, green baize on the floor, and a
cave in the distance.  This cave was made with a clothes horse
for a roof, bureaus for walls, and in it was a small furnace in
full blast, with a black pot on it and an old witch bending over
it.  The stage was dark and the glow of the furnace had a fine
effect, especially as real steam issued from the kettle when the
witch took off the cover.  A moment was allowed for the first
thrill to subside, then Hugo, the villain, stalked in with a
clanking sword at his side, a slouching hat, black beard, mys-
terious cloak, and the boots.  After pacing to and fro in much
agitation, he struck his forehead, and burst out in a wild
strain, singing of his hatred to Roderigo, his love for Zara,
and his pleasing resolution to kill the one and win the other.
The gruff tones of Hugo's voice, with an occasional shout when
his feelings overcame him, were very impressive, and the audience
applauded the moment he paused for breath.  bowing with the air
of one accustomed to public praise, he stole to the cavern and
ordered Hagar to come forth with a commanding, "What ho, minion!
I need thee!"

     Out came Meg, with gray horsehair hanging about her face,
a red and black robe, a staff, and cabalistic signs upon her
cloak.  Hugo demanded a potion to make Zara adore him, and one
destroy Roderigo.  Hagar, in a fine dramatic melody, promised
both, and proceeded to call up the spirit who would bring the
love philter.

               Hither, hither,from thy home,
               Airy sprite, I bid thee come!
               Born of roses, fed on dew,
               Charms and potions canst thou brew?
               Bring me here, with elfin speed,
               The fragrant philter which I need.
               Make it sweet and swift and strong,
               Spirit, answer now my song!

     A soft strain of music sounded, and then at the back of the
cave appeared a little figure in cloudy white, with glittering
wings, golden hair, and a garland of roses on its head.  Waving
a wand, it sang . . .

               Hither I come,
               From my airy home,
               Afar in the silver moon.
               Take the magic spell,
               And use it well,
               Or its power will vanish soon!

     And dropping a small, gilded bottle at the witch's feet, the
spirit vanished.  Another chant from Hagar produced another apparition,
not a lovely one, for with a bang an ugly black imp appeared and,
having croaked a reply, tossed a dark bottle at Hugo and disappeared
with a mocking laugh.  Having warbled his thanks and put the potions
in his boots, Hugo departed, and Hagar informed the audience that
as he had killed a few of her friends in times past, she had cursed
him, and intends to thwart his plans, and be revenged on him.  Then
the curtain fell, and the audience reposed and ate candy while dis-
cussing the merits of the play.

     A good deal of hammering went on before the curtain rose again,
but when it became evident what a masterpiece of stage carpentery
had been got up, no one murmured at the delay. It was truly superb.
A tower rose to the ceiling, halfway up appeared a window with a
lamp burning in it, and behind the white curtain appeared Zara in
a lovely blue and silver dress, waiting for Roderigo.  He came in
gorgeous array, with plumed cap, red cloak, chestnut lovelocks, a
guitar, and the boots, of course.  Kneeling at the foot of the tower,
he sang a serenade in melting tones.  Zara replied and, after a
musical dialogue, consented to fly.  Then came the grand effect of
the play.  Roderigo produced a rope ladder, with five steps to it,
threw up one end, and invited Zara to descend.  Timidly she crept
from her lattice, put her hand on Roderigo's shoulder, and was
about to leap gracfully down when "Alas!  Alas for Zara!" she
forgot her train.  It caught in the window, the tower tottered,
leaned forward, fell with a crash, and buried the unhappy lovers
in the ruins.

     A universal shriek arose as the russet boots waved wildly
from the wreck and a golden head emerged, exclaiming, "I told you
so!  I told you so!" With wonderful presence of mind, Don Pedro,
the cruel sire, rushed in, dragged out his daughter, with a hasty
aside . . .

     "Don't laugh!  Act as if it was all right!"  and, ordering
Roderigo up, banished him form the kingdom with wrath and scorn.
Though decidedly shaken by the fall from the tower upon him,
Roderigo defied the old gentleman and refused to stir.  This
dauntless example fired Zara.  She also defied her sire, and he
ordered them both to the deepest dungeons of the castle.  A stout
little retainer came in with chains and led them away, looking very
much frightened and evidently forgetting the speech he ought to
have made.

     Act third was the castle hall, and here Hagar appeared, having
come to free the lovers and finish Hugo.  She hears him coming and
hides, sees him put the potions into two cups of wine and bid the
the timid little servant, "Bear them to the captives in their cells,
and tell them I shall come anon."  The servant takes Hugo aside to
tell him something, and Hagar changes the cups for two others which
are harmless.  Ferdinando, the `minion', carries them away, and
Hagar puts back the cup which holds the poison meant for Roderigo.
Hugo, getting thirsty after a long warble, drinks it, loses his wits,
and after a good deal of clutching and stamping, falls flat and dies,
while Hagar informs him what she has done in a song of exquisite
power and melody.

     This was a truly thrilling scene, though some persons might
have thought that the sudden tumbling down of a quantity of long red
hair rather marred the effect of the villain's death.  He was called
before the curtain, and with great propriety appeared, leading Hagar,
whose singing was considered more wonderful than all the rest of the
performance put together.

     Act fourth displayed the despairing Roderigo on the point of
stabbing himself because he has been told that Zara has deserted him.
Just as the dagger is at his heart, a lovely song is sung under his
window, informing him that Zara is true but in danger, and he can
save her if he will.  A key is thrown in, which unlocks the door,
and in a spasm of rapture he tears off his chains and rushes away
to find and rescue his lady love.

     Act fifth opened with a stormy scene between Zara and Don Pedro.
He wishes her to go into a convent, but she won't hear of it, and
after a touching appeal, is about to faint when Roderigo dashes in
and demands her hand.  Don Pedro refuses, because he is not rich.
They shout and gesticulate tremendously but cannot agree, and Rod-
rigo is about to bear away the exhausted Zara, when the timid
servant enters with a letter and a bag from Hagar,   who has myster-
iously disappeared.  The latter informs the party that she bequeths
untold wealth to the young pair and an awful doom to Don Pedro, if
he doesn't make them happy. The bag is opened, and several quarts of
tin money shower down upon the stage till it is quite glorified with
the glitter.  This entirely softens the stern sire.  He consents
without a murmur, all join in a joyful chorus, and the curtain falls
upon the lovers kneeling to receive Don Pedro's blessing in attitudes
of the most romantic grace.

     Tumultuous applause followed but received an unexpected check,
for the cot bed, on which the dress circle was built, suddenly shut
up and extinguished the enthusiastic audience.  Roderigo and Don
Pedro flew to the rescue, and all were taken out unhurt, though many
were speechless with laughter.  the excitement had hardly subsided
when Hannah appeared, with "Mrs. March's compliments, and would the
ladies walk down to supper."

     This was a surprise even to the actors, and when they saw the
table, they looked at one another in rapturous amazement.  It was
like Marmee to get up a little treat for them, but anything so fine
as this was unheard of since the departed days of plenty. There was
ice cream, actually two dishes of it, pink and white, and cake and
fruit and distracting french bonbons and, in the middle of the
table, four great bouquets of hot house flowers.

     It quite took their breath away, and they stared first at the
table and then at their mother, who looked as if she enjoyed it
immensely.

     "Is it fairies?" asked Amy.

     "Santa Claus," said Beth.

     "Mother did it." And Meg smiled her sweetest, in spite of her
gray beard and white eyebrows.

     "Aunt March had a good fit and sent the supper," cried Jo, with
a sudden inspiration.

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

     "The Laurence boy's grandfather! What in the world put such a
thing into his head?  We don't know him!' exclaimed Meg.

     "Hannah told one of his servants about your breakfast party.
He is an odd old gentleman, but that pleased him.  He knew my father
years ago, and he sent me a polite note this afternoon, saying he
hoped I would allow him to express his friendly feeling toward my
children by sending them a few trifles in honor of the day.  I
could not refuse, and so you have a little feast at night to make
up for the bread-and-milk breakfast."

     "That boy; put it into his head, I know he did!  He's a capital
fellow, and I wish we could get acquainted.  He looks as if he'd
like to know us but he's bashful, and Meg is so prim she won't let
me speak to him when we pass," said Jo, as the plates went round,
and the ice began to melt out of sight, with ohs and ahs of satisfaction.

     "You mean the people who live in the big house next door, don't
you?" asked one of the girls.  "My mother knows old Mr. Laurence,
but says he's very proud and doesn't like to mix with his neighbors.
He keeps his grandson shut up, when he isn't riding or walking with
his tutor, and makes him study very hard.  We invited him to our
party, but he didn't come.  Mother says he's very nice, though he
never speaks to us girls."

     "Our cat ran away once, and he brought her back, and we
talked over the fence, and were getting on capitally, all about
cricket, and so on, when he saw Meg coming, and walked off.  I
mean to know him some day, for he needs fun, I'm sure he does,"
said Jo decidedly.

     "I like his manners, and he looks like a little gentleman, so
I've no objection to your knowing him, if a proper opportunity comes.
He brought the flowers himself, and I should have asked him in, if
I had been sure what was going on upstairs. He looked so wistful
as he went away, hearing the frolic and evidently having none of
his own."

     "It's a mercy you didn't , Mother!" laughed Jo, looking at
her boots.  "But we'll have another play sometime that he can
see.  Perhaps he'll help act.  Wouldn't that be jolly?"

     "I never had such a fine bouquet before!  How pretty it is!"
And Meg examined her flowers with great interest.

     "They are lovely.  But Beth's roses are sweeter to me," said
Mrs. March, smelling the half-dead posy in her belt.

     Beth nestled up to her, and whispered softly, "I wish I
could send my bunch to Father.  I'm afraid he isn't having such
a merry Christmas as we are."


                      CHAPTER THREE

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

     "Here!" answered a husky voice from above, and, running up,
Meg found her sister eating apples and crying over the HEIR OF
REDCLYFFE, wrapped up in a comforter on an old three-legged sofa
by the sunny window.  This was Jo's favorite refuge, and here she
loved to retire with half a dozen russets and a nice book, to enjoy
the quiet and the society of a pet rat who lived near by and didn't
mind her a particle.  As Meg appeared, Scrabble whisked into his
hole. Jo shook the tears off her cheeks and waited to hear the news.

     "Such fun!  Only see!  A regular note of invitation from Mrs.
Gardiner for tomorrow night!" cried Meg, waving the precious paper
and then proceeding to read it with girlish delight.

     "`Mrs. Gardiner would be happy to see Miss March and Miss Jo-
sephine at a little dance on New Year's Eve.' Marmee is willing we
should go, now what shall we wear?"

     "What's the use of asking that, when you know we shall wear
our poplins, because we haven't got anything else?" answered Jo
with her mouth full.

     "If I only had a silk!" sighed Meg.  "Mother says I may when
I'm eighteen perhaps, but two years is an everlasting time to wait."

     "I'm sure our pops look like silk, and they are nice enough for
us.  Yours is as good as new, but I forgot the burn and the tear in
mine.  Whatever shall I do?  The burn shows badly, and I can't take
any out."

     "You must sit still all you can and keep your back out of sight.
The front is all right.  I shall have a new ribbon for my hair, and
Marmee will lend me her little pearl pin, and my new slippers are
lovely, and my gloves will do, though they aren't as nice as I'd like."

     "Mine are spoiled with lemonade, and I can't get any new ones,
so I shall have to go without," said Jo, who never troubled herself
much about dress.

     "You must have gloves, or I won't go," cried Meg decidedly.
"Gloves are more important than anything else.  You can't dance
without them, and if you don't I should be so mortified."

     "Then I'll stay still.  I don't care much for company dancing.
It's no fun to go sailing round.  I like to fly about and cut capers."

     "You can't ask Mother for new ones, they are so expensive, and
you are so careless.  She said when you spoiled the others that she
shouldn't get you any more this winter.  Can't you make them do?"

     "I can hold them crumpled up in my hand, so no one will know
how stained they are.  That's all I can do. No!  I'll tell you how
we can manage, each wear one good one and carry a bad one.  Don't
you see?"

     "Your hands are bigger than mine, and you will stretch my glove
dreadfully," began Meg, whose gloves were a tender point with her.

     "Then I'll go without.  I don't care what people say!" cried Jo,
taking up her book.

     "You may have it, you may!  Only don't stain it, and do behave
nicely.  Don't put your hands behind you, or stare, or say `Christopher
Columbus!' will you?"

     "Don't worry about me. I'll be as prim ad I can and not get
into any scrapes, if I can help it.  Now go and answer your note,
and let me finish this splendid story."

     So Meg went away to `accept with thanks', look over her dress,
and sing blithely as she did up her one real lace frill, while Jo
finished her story, her four apples, and had a game of romps with
Scrabble.

     On New Year's Eve the parlor was deserted, for the two younger
girls played dressing maids and the two elder were absorbed in the
all-important business of `getting ready for the party'.  Simple
as the toilets were, there was a great deal of running up and down,
laughing and talking, and at one time a strong smell of burned hair
pervaded the house.  Meg wanted a few curls about her face, and Jo
undertook to pinch the papered locks with a pair of hot tongs.

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

     "It's the dampness drying," replied Jo.

     "What a queer smell!  It's like burned feathers," observed Amy,
smoothing her own pretty curls with a superior air.

     "There, now I'll take off the papers and you'll see a cloud
of little ringlets," said Jo, putting down the tongs.

     She did take off the papers, but no cloud of ringlets appeared,
for the hair came with the papers, and the horrified hairdresser
laid a row of little scorched bundles on the bureau before her victim.

     "Oh, oh, oh! What have you done?  I'm spoiled!  I can't go!  My
hair, oh, my hair!" wailed Meg, looking with despair at the uneven
frizzle on her forehead.

     "Just my luck!  You shouldn't have asked me to do it. I always
spoil everything.  I'm so sorry, but the tongs were too hot, and so
I've made a mess," groaned poor Jo, regarding the little black
pancakes with tears of regret.

     "It isn't spoiled.  Just frizzle it, and tie your ribbon so
the ends come on your forehead a bit, and it will look like the
last fashion.  I've seen many girls do it so," said Amy consolingly.

     "Serves me right for trying to be fine.  I wish I'd let my hair
alone," cried Meg petulantly.

     "So do I, it was so smooth and pretty.  But it will soon grow
out again," said Beth, coming to kiss and comfort the shorn sheep.

     After various lesser mishaps, Meg was finished at last, and
by the united exertions of the entire family Jo's hair was got up
and her dress on.  They looked very well in their simple suits,
Meg's in silvery drab, with a blue velvet snood, lace frills, and
the pearl pin.  Jo in maroon, with a stiff, gentlemanly linen
collar, and a white chrysanthemum or two for her only ornament.
Each put on one nice light glove, and carried one soiled one, and
all pronounced the effect "quite easy and fine".  Meg's high-heeled
slippers were very tight and hurt her, though she would not own it,
and Jo's nineteen hairpins all seemed stuck straight into her head,
which was not exactly comfortable, but, dear me, let us be elegant
or die.

     "Have a good time, dearies!"  said Mrs. March, as the sisters
went daintily down the walk.  "Don't eat much supper, and come
away at eleven when I send Hannah for you."  As the gate clashed
behind them, a voice cried from a window . . .

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

     "Yes, yes, spandy nice, and Meg has cologne on hers," cried Jo,
adding with a laugh as they went on, "I do believe Marmee would ask
that if we were all running away from an earthquake.

     "It is one of her aristocratic tastes, and quite proper, for a
real lady is always known by neat boots,  gloves, and handkerchief,"
replied Meg, who had a good many little `aristocratic tastes' of
her own.

     "Now don't forget to keep the bad breadth out of sight, Jo.
Is my sash right?  And does my hair look very bad?" said Meg, as
she turned from the glass in Mrs. Gardiner's dressing room after
a prolonged prink.

     "I know I shall forget.  If you see me doing anything wrong,
just remind me by a wink, will you?" returned Jo, giving her
collar a twitch and her head a hasty brush.

     "No, winking isn't ladylike.  I'll lift my eyebrows if any
thing is wrong, and nod if you are all right.  Now hold your
shoulder straight, and take short steps, and don't shake hands if
you are introduced to anyone.  It isn't the thing."

     "How do you learn all the proper ways?  I never can.  Isn't
that music gay?"

     Down they went, feeling a trifle timid, for they seldom went
to parties, and informal as this little gathering was, it was an
event to them.  Mrs. Gardiner, a stately old lady, greeted them
kindly  and handed them over to the eldest of her six daughters.
Meg knew Sallie and was at her ease very soon, but Jo, who didn't
care much for girls or girlish gossip, stood about, with her back
carefully against the wall, and felt as much out of place as a
colt in a flower garden.  Half a dozen jovial lads were talking
about skates in another part of the room, and she longed to go and
join them, for skating was one of the joys of her life.  She tele-
graphed her wish to Meg, but the eyebrows went up so alarmingly
that she dared not stir.  No one came to talk to her, and one by
one the group dwindled away till she was left alone.  She could
not roam about and amuse herself, for the burned breadth would
show, so she stared at people rather forlornly till the dancing
began.  Meg was asked at once, and the tight slippers tripped
about so briskly that none would have guessed the pain their
wearer suffered smilingly.  Jo saw a big red headed youth
approaching her corner, and fearing he meant to engage her, she
slipped into a curtained recess, intending to peep and enjoy
herself in peace.  Unfortunately, another bashful person had
chosen the same refuge, for, as the curtain fell behind her,
she found herself face to face with the `Laurence boy'.

     "Dear me, I didn't know anyone was here!" stammered Jo,
preparing to back out as speedily as she had bounced in.

     But the boy laughed and said pleasantly, though he looked
a little startled, "Don't mind me, stay if you like."

     "Shan't I disturb you?"

     "Not a bit.  I only came here because I don't know many
people and felt rather strange at first, you know."

     "So did I.  Don't go away, please, unless you'd rather."

     The boy sat down again and looked at his pumps, till Jo
said, trying to be polite and easy, "I think I've had the pleasure
of seeing you before.  You live near us, don't you?"

     "Next door."  And he looked up and laughed outright, for Jo's
prim manner was rather funny when he remembered how they had chatted
about cricket when he brought the cat home.

     That put Jo at her ease and she laughed too, as she said, in
her heartiest way, "We did have such a good time over your nice
Christmas present."

     "Grandpa sent it."

     "But you put it into his head, didn't you, now?"

     "How is your cat, Miss March?"  asked the boy, trying to look
sober while his black eyes shone with fun.

     "Nicely, thank you, Mr. Laurence.  But I am not Miss March, I'm
only Jo," returned the young lady.

     "I'm not Mr. Laurence, I'm only Laurie."

     "Laurie Laurence, what an odd name."

     "My first name is theodore, but I don't like it, for the
fellows called me Dora, so I made the say Laurie instead."

     "I hate my name, too, so sentimental!  I wish every one would
say Jo instead of Josephine.  How did you make the boys stop calling
you Dora?"

     "I thrashed `em."

     "I can't thrash Aunt March, so I suppose I shall have to bear
it."  And Jo resigned herself with a sigh.

     "Don't you like to dance, Miss Jo?" asked Laurie, looking
as if he thought the name suited her.

     "I like it well enough if there is plenty of room, and every-
one is lively.  In a place like this I'm sure to upset something,
tread on people's toes, or do something dreadful, so I keep out
of mischief and let Meg sail about. Don't you dance?"

     "Sometimes. You see I've been abroad a good many years, and
haven't been into company enough yet to know how you do things here."

     "Abroad!." cried Jo.  "Oh, tell me about it!  I love dearly to
hear people describe their travels."

     Laurie didn't seem to know where to begin, but Jo's eager
questions soon set him going, and he told her how he had been at
school in Vevay, where the boys never wore hats and had a fleet of
boats on the lake, and for holiday fun went on walking trips about
Switzerland with their teachers.

     "Don't I wish I'd been there!" cried Jo.  "Did you go to Paris?"

     "We spent last winter there."

     "Can you talk French?"

     "We were not allowed to speak anything else at Vevay."

     "Do say some!  I can read it, but can't pronounce."

     "Quel nom a cetter jeune demoiselle en les pantoulles jolis?"

     "How nicely you do it!  Let me see . . . you said, `Who is the
young lady in the pretty slippers', didn't you?"

    "Oui, mademoiselle."

    "It's my sister Margaret, and you knew it was!  Do you think
she is pretty?"

     "Yes, she makes me think of the German girls, she looks so
fresh and quiet, and dances like a lady."

     Jo quite glowed with pleasure at this boyish praise of her
sister, and stored it up to repeat to Meg.  Both peeped and
critisized and chatted till they felt like old acquaintances.  Laurie's
bashfulness soon wore off, for Jo's gentlemanly demeanor amused and
set him at his ease, and Jo was her merry self again, because her
dress was forgotten and nobody lifted their eyebrows at her.  She
liked the `Laurence boy' better than ever and took several good
looks at him, so that she might describe him to the girls, for they
had no brothers, very few male cousins, and boys were almost unknown
creatures to them.

     "Curly black hair, brown skin, big black eyes,  handsome nose,
fine teeth, small hands and feet, taller than I am, very polite,
for a boy, and altogether jolly.  Wonder how old he is?"

     It was on the tip of Jo's tongue to ask, but she checked
herself in time and, with unusual tact, tried to find out in a
round-about way.

     "I suppose you are going to college soon?  I see you pegging
away at your books, no, I mean studying hard."  And Jo blushed
at the dreadful `pegging' which had escaped her.

     Laurie smiled but didn't seem shocked, and answered with a
shrug.  "Not for a year or two.  I won't go before seventeen,
anyway."

     "Aren't you but fifteen?" asked Jo, looking at the tall lad,
whom she had imagined seventeen already.

     "Sixteen, next month."

     "How I wish I was going to college!  You don't look as if
you liked it."

     "I hate it!  Nothing but grinding or skylarking.  And I don't
like the way fellows do either, in this country."

     "What do you like?"

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

     Jo wanted very much to ask what his own way was, but his
black brows looked rather threatening as he knit them, so she
changed the subject by saying, as her foot kept time, "That's a
splendid polka!  Why don't you go and try it?"

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

     "I can't, for I told meg I wouldn't, because . . ." There Jo
stopped, and looked undecided whether to tell or to laugh.

     "Because, what?"

     "You won't tell?"

     "Never!"

     "Well, I have a bad trick of standing before the fire, and so
I burn my frocks, and I scorched this one, and though it's nicely
mended, it shows, and Meg told me to keep still so no one would
see it.  You may laugh, if you want to.  It is funny, I know."

     But Laurie didn't laugh. He only looked dawn a minute, and
the expression of his face puzzled Jo when he said very gently,
"Never mind that.  I'll tell you how we can manage.  There's a long
hall out there, and we can dance grandly, and no one will see us.
Please come."

     Jo thanked him and gladly went, wishing she had two neat gloves
when she saw the nice, pearl-colored ones her partner wore.  The
hall was empty, and they had a grand polka, for Laurie danced well,
and taught her the German step, which delighted Jo,being full of
swing and spring>  When the music stopped, they sat down on the
stairs to get their breath, and Laurie was in the midst of an account
of a students' festival at Heidelberg when Meg appeared in search of
her sister.  She beckoned, and Jo reluctantly followed her into a
side room, where she found her on a sofa, holding her foot, and
looking pale.

     "I've sprained my ankle.  That stupid high heel turned and
gave me a sad wrench.  It aches so, I can hardly stand, and I don't
know how I'm ever going to get home," she said, rocking to and fro
in pain.

     "I knew you'd hurt your feet with those silly shoes.  I'm
sorry.  But I don't see what you can do, except get a carriage, or
stay here all night," answered Jo, softly rubbing the poor ankle as
she spoke.

     "I can't have a carriage without its costing ever so much.  I
dare say I can't get one at all, for most people come in their own,
and it's a long way to the stable, and no one to send."

     "I'll go."

     "No, indeed!  It's past nine, and dark as Egypt.  I can't stop
here, for the house is full.  Sallie has some girls staying with her.
I'll rest till Hannah comes, and then do the best I can."

     "I'll ask Laurie.  He will go," said Jo," looking relieved as
the idea occurred to her.

     "Mercy, no!  Don't ask or tell anyone.  Get me my rubbers, and
put these slippers with our things.  I can't dance anymore, but as
soon as supper is over, watch for Hannah and tell me the minute she
comes."

     "They are going out to supper now.  I'll stay with you.  I'd
rather."

     "No, dear, run along, and bring me some coffee.  I'm so tired
I can't stir."

     So Meg reclined, with rubbers well hidden, and Jo went blund-
ering away to the dining room, which she found after going into a
china closet, and opening the door of a room where old Mr. Gardiner
was taking a little private refreshment.  Making a dart at the
table, she secured the coffee, which she immediately spilled,
thereby making the front of her dress as bad as the back.

     "Oh, dear, what a blunderbuss I am!"  exclaimed Jo, finish-
ing Meg's glove by scrubbing her gown with it.

     "Can I help you?" said a friendly voice.  And there was Laurie,
with a full cup in one hand and a plate of ice in the other.

     "I was trying to get something for Meg, who is very tired, and
someone shook me, and here I am in a nice state," answered Jo,
glancing dismally from the stained skirt to the coffee-colored glove.

     "Too bad!   I was looking for someone to give this to.  May I
take it to your sister?"

     "Oh, thank you!  I'll show you where she is.  I don't offer to
take it myself, for I should only get into another scrape if I did."

     Jo led the way, and as if used to waiting on ladies, Laurie
drew up a little table, brought a second installment of coffee and
ice for Jo, and was so obliging that even particular Meg pronounced
him a `nice boy'.  They had a merry time over the bonbons and mottoes,
and were in the midst of a quiet game of BUZZ, with two or three
other young people who had strayed in, when Hannah appeared.  Meg
forgot her foot and rose so quickly that she was forced to catch
hold of Jo, with an exclamation of pain.

     "Hush!  Don't say anything," she whispered, adding aloud, "It's
nothing.  I turned my foot a little, that's all,"  and limped upstairs
to put her things on.

     Hannah scolded, Meg cried, and Jo was at her wits' end, till
se decided to take things into her own hands. Slipping out, she ran
down and, finding a servant, asked if he could get her a carriage.
It happened to be a hired waiter who knew nothing about the neigh-
borhood and Jo was looking round for help when Laurie, who had heard
what she said, came up and offered his grandfather's carriage, which
had just come for him, he said.

     "It's so early!  You can't mean to go yet?"  began Jo. looking
relieved but hesitating to accept the offer.

     "I always go early, I do, truly!  Please let me take you home.
It's all on my way, you know, and it rains, they say."

     That settled it, and telling him of Meg's mishap, Jo gratefully
accepted and rushed up to bring down the rest of the party.  Hannah
hated rain as much as a cat does so she made no trouble, and they
rolled away in the luxurious close carriage, feeling very festive
and elegant.  Laurie went on the box so Meg could keep her foot up,
and the girls talked over their party in freedom.

     "I had a capital time.  Did you?' asked Jo, rumpling up her
hair, and making herself comfortable.

     "Yes, till I hurt myself.  Sallie's friend, Annie Moffat, took
a fancy to me, and asked me to come and spend a week with her when
Sallie does.  She is going in the spring when the opera comes, and
it will be perfectly splendid, if Mother only lets me go," answered
Meg, cheering up at the thought.

     "I saw you dancing with the red headed man I ran away from.  Was
he nice?"

     "Oh. very!  His hair is auburn, not red, and he was very polite,
and I had a delicious redowa with him."

     "He looked like a grasshopper in a fit when he did the new step.
Laurie and I couldn't help laughing.  Did you hear us?"

     "No, but it was very rude.  What were you about all that time,
hidden away there?"

     Jo told her adventures, and by the time she had finished they
were at home.  With many thanks, they said good night and crept in,
hoping to disturb no one, but the instant their door creaked, two
little nightcaps bobbed up, and two sleepy but eager voices cried out . . .

     "Tell about the party!  Tell about the party!"

     With what Meg called `a great want of manners' Jo had saved some
bonbons for the little girls, and they soon subsided, after hearing
the most thrilling events of the evening.

     "I declare, it really seems like being a fine young lady, to
come home from the party in a carriage and sit in my dressing gown
wit a maid to wait on me," said Meg, as Jo bound up her foot with
arnica and brushed her hair.

     "I don't believe fine young ladies enjoy themselves a bit more
than we do, in spite of our burned hair, old gowns, one glove apiece
and tight slippers that sprain our ankles when we are silly enough
to wear them," And I think Jo was quite right.


                       CHAPTER 4

     "Oh,  dear,  how hard it does seem to take up our packs
and go on," sighed Meg the morning after the party, for  now
the holidays were over, the week of merrymaking  did not fit
her for going on easily with the task she never liked.

     "I wish it was Christmas or New Year's  all  the  time.
Wouldn't it be fun?"  answered Jo, yawning dismally.

     "We shouldn't enjoy ourselves half so much as we do now.
But it does seem so nice to have little suppers and bouquets,
and go to parties, and drive home, and read and rest,and not
work.  It's like other people, you know, and  I always  envy
girls who do  such things, I'm so fond of luxury," said Meg,
trying to decide which of two  shabby  gowns was  the  least
shabby.

     "Well, we can't have it, so don't let  us  grumble  but
shoulder  our bundles and trudge along as cheerfully as Mar-
mee does.  I'm sure Aunt March is a regular  Old Man of  the
Sea to me, but I suppose when I've learned to carry her with-
out complaining, she will tumble off, or get so light that I
shan't mind her."

      This  idea  tickled  Jo's  fancy  and  put her in good
spirits, but Meg didn't brighten, for her burden, consisting
of four spoiled children, seemed heavier than ever.  She had
not heart enough even to make herself  pretty  as  usual  by
putting on a blue neck ribbon and dressing her hair  in  the
most becoming way.

     "Where's the use of looking nice,  when no one sees  me
but those cross midgets, and no one cares whether I'm pretty
or not?" she muttered, shutting her drawer with a jerk.   "I
shall have to toil and moil all my days,  with  only  little
bits of fun now and then, and get old and ugly and sour, be-
cause  I'm poor and can't enjoy  my  life as other girls do.
It's a shame!"

     So Meg went down, wearing an injured look,and wasn't at
all agreeable at breakfast time.  Everyone seemed rather out
of sorts and inclined to croak.

     Beth had a headache and lay on the sofa, trying to com-
fort herself with the cat and three kittens.  Amy was frett-
ing because her lessons were not  learned,  and she couldn't
find her rubbers.  Jo would whistle and make a great  racket
getting ready.

     Mrs. March was very busy trying  to  finish  a  letter,
which must go at once, and Hannah  had the grumps, for being
up late didn't suit her.

     "There never was such a cross family!" cried Jo, losing
her temper when she had upset an  inkstand, broken both boot
lacings, and sat down upon her hat.

     "You're the crossest person in it!" returned Amy, wash-
ing out the sum that was all wrong with the  tears  that had
fallen on her slate.

     "Beth, if you don't keep these horrid cats down  cellar
I'll have them drowned," exclaimed Meg angrily as  she tried
to get rid of the kitten which had scrambled up her back and
stuck like a burr just out of reach.

     Jo laughed, Meg scolded, Beth implored, and Amy  wailed
because she couldn't remember how much nine times twelve was.

     "Girls, girls, do be quiet one minute!  I must get this
off by the early mail, and you drive me distracted with your
worry," cried Mrs. March, crossing out the third spoiled sen-
tence in her letter.

     There was a momentary lull, broken by Hannah, who stalk-
ed in, laid two hot turnovers on the table, and stalked  out
again.  These turnovers were an institution, and  the  girls
called them `muffs',for they had no others and found the hot
pies very comforting to their hands on cold mornings.

     Hannah never forgot to make them, no matter how busy or
grumpy she might be, for the walk  was long  and bleak.  The
poor things got no other lunch and were seldom  home  before
two.

     "Cuddle your cats and get over  your  headache,  Bethy.
Goodbye, Marmee.  We are a set of rascals this  morning, but
we'll come home regular angels.   Now  then, Meg!"   And  Jo
tramped away, feeling that the pilgrims were not setting out
as they ought to do.

     They always looked back before  turning the corner, for
their mother was always at the window to  nod and smile, and
wave her hand to them. Somehow it seemed as if they couldn't
have got through the day without that,  for whatever  their
mood might be, the last glimpse  of  that motherly  face was
sure to affect them like sunshine.

     "If Marmee shook her fist instead  of kissing her  hand
to us, it would serve us right, for more ungrateful wretches
than we are were never seen," cried Jo, taking a  remorseful
satisfaction in the snowy walk and bitter wind.

     "Don't use such dreadful expressions," replied Meg from
the depths of  the  veil  in which  she had shrouded herself
like a nun sick of the world.

     "I like good strong words that mean something," replied
Jo, catching her hat as it took a leap off her head prepara-
tory to flying away altogether.

     "Call yourself any names you like, but I am  neither  a
rascal nor a wretch and I don't choose to be called so."

     "You're a blighted being, and decidedly cross today be-
cause you can't sit in the lap of luxury all the time.  Poor
dear, just wait till I make my fortune, and  you shall revel
in carriages  and  ice cream  and high-heeled slippers,  and
posies, and red-headed boys to dance with."

     "How ridiculous you are, Jo!"  But Meg laughed  at  the
nonsense and felt better in spite of herself.

     "Lucky for you I am, for if I put on  crushed  airs and
tried to be dismal, as you do, we should be in a nice state.
Thank goodness, I can always find something funny to keep me
up.  Don't croak any more, but come  home  jolly,  there's a
dear."

     Jo gave her sister an encouraging pat on  the  shoulder
as they parted for the day, each going a different way, each
hugging her little warm  turnover,  and  each  trying to  be
cheerful in spite of wintry weather, hard work, and the  un-
satisfied desires of pleasure-loving youth.

     When Mr. March lost his property  in  trying to help an
unfortunate friend,the two oldest girls begged to be allowed
to do something toward their own support, at least.  Believ-
ing that they could not begin too early to cultivate energy,
industry,  and independence,  their parents  consented,  and
both fell to work with the hearty good will which  in  spite
of all obstacles is sure to succeed at last.

     Margaret found a place as nursery  governess  and  felt
rich with her small salary.  As she said,  she  was `fond of
luxury', and her chief  trouble was poverty.  She  found  it
harder to bear than the others because  she could remember a
time when home was beautiful,life full of ease and pleasure,
and want of any kind unknown.  She tried not  to  be envious
or discontented, but it was very natural that the young girl
should long for pretty things, gay friends, accomplishments,
and a happy life.  At the Kings' she daily saw all she want-
ed, for  the children's older sisters were just out, and Meg
caught frequent glimpses of dainty ball dresses and bouquets,
heard lively gossip about theaters, concerts, sleighing par-
ties, and merrymakings of all kinds, and saw money  lavished
on trifles which would have been  so precious to her.   Poor
Meg seldom complained,but a sense of injustice made her feel
bitter toward everyone sometimes,for she had not yet learned
to know how rich she was in the  blessings  which alone  can
make life happy.

     Jo happened to suit Aunt March, who was lame and needed
an active  person to wait upon her.  The  childless old lady
had offered to adopt one of the girls when the troubles came,
and was much offended because her offer was declined.  Other
friends told the Marches  that they  had lost all  chance of
being  remembered  in  the  rich  old  lady's will, but  the
unworldly Marches only said . . .

     "We can't give up our girls for a dozen fortunes.  Rich
or poor, we will keep together and be happy in one another."

     The old lady wouldn't speak to them for a time, but hap-
pening to meet Jo at at a friend's, something in her comical
face and blunt manners struck the old lady's fancy, and  she
proposed to take her for a companion.  This did  not suit Jo
at all, but she accepted the place since nothing better app-
eared and, to every one's surprise, got on  remarkably  well
with her irascible relative.  There was an occasional temp-
est, and once  Jo marched home, declaring she couldn't bear
it longer, but Aunt March always  cleared up  quickly,  and
sent for her to come back again with such urgency  that she
could not refuse, for in her heart  she  rather  liked  the
peppery old lady.

     I suspect that the real attraction was a large library
of fine books, which was left to  dust  and  spiders  since
Uncle March died. Jo remembered the kind old gentleman, who
used to let her build  railroads and bridges with  his  big
dictionaries, tell her stories about queer pictures  in his
Latin books, and buy her cards of gingerbread  whenever  he
met her in the street.  The dim, dusty room, with the busts
staring down from the tall bookcases, the cozy chairs,  the
globes, and best of all, the wilderness of books  in  which
she could wander where she liked, made the library a region
of bliss to her.

     The moment Aunt March took her nap, or was  busy  with
company, Jo hurried to this quiet place,and curling herself
up in the easy chair, devoured  poetry,  romance,  history,
travels, and pictures like a regular  bookworm.   But, like
all happiness, it did not last long, for as sure as she had
just reached the heart of the story, the sweetest  verse of
a song, or the most perilous adventure of her  traveler,  a
shrill voice called, "Josy-phine!  Josy-phine! and  she had
to leave her paradise to wind  yarn, wash  the  poodle,  or
read Belsham's Essays by the hour together.

     Jo's ambition  was to do something very splendid. What
it was, she had no idea as yet,but left it for time to tell
her, and meanwhile, found her  greatest affliction  in  the
fact that she couldn't read, run, and ride as  much as  she
liked.  A quick temper, sharp tongue, and  restless  spirit
were always getting  her into scrapes, and her  life was  a
series of ups and downs, which were both comic and pathetic.
But the training she received at Aunt March's was just what
she needed, and the thought that she was doing something to
support herself made her happy in  spite of  the  perpetual
"Josy-phine!"

     Beth was too bashful to go to school.It had been tried,
but she suffered so much that it was given up, and she  did
her lessons at home with her father. Even when he went away,
and her mother was called to devote her skill and energy to
Soldiers' Aid Societies, Beth went faithfully on by herself
and did the best she could.  She was a  housewifely  little
creature, and helped Hannah keep home neat and  comfortable
for the workers, never thinking of any  reward  but  to  be
loved. Long, quiet days she spent, not lonely nor idle, for
her little world was peopled with imaginary friends,and she
was by nature a busy bee.  There were six dolls to be taken
up  and  dressed  every morning, for Beth was a child still
and and loved her pets as well as ever.  Not  one whole  or
handsome one among them, all were outcasts till  Beth  took
them in, for when her sisters  outgrew  these  idols,  they
passed to her because Amy would have  nothing old  or ugly.
Beth cherished them all the  more tenderly  for  that  very
reason, and set up a hospital  for infirm  dolls.  No  pins
were ever stuck into their cotton vitals, no harsh words or
blows were ever given them, no  neglect  ever saddened  the
heart or the most repulsive, but all were fed and  clothed,
nursed and caressed with an affection which  never failed.
One forlorn fragment of dollanity had belonged to  Jo  and,
having led a tempestuous life, was left a wreck in the rag
bag, from which dreary poorhouse  it  was  rescued by Beth
and taken to her refuge.  Having no top to its  head,  she
tied on a neat little cap, and as both arms  and legs were
gone,she hid these deficiencies by folding it in a blanket
and devoting her best bed to this chronic invalid.  If any-
had known  the  care lavished  on that  dolly,  I think it
would have touched their hearts, even while  they laughed.
She brought it bits of bouquets, she read  to it, took  it
out to breathe fresh air, hidden under her coat, she sang
it lullabies and never went to be without kissing its dirty
face and whispering tenderly, "I hope you'll have a good
night, my poor dear."

     Beth had her troubles as well as the others, and not
being an angel but a very human little girl, she often `wept
a little weep' as Jo said, because she couldn't take music
lessons and have a fine piano.  She loved music so dearly,
tried so hard to learn, and practiced away so patiently at
the jingling old instrument, that it did seem as if someone
(not to hint Aunt March) ought to help her.  Nobody did,
however, and nobody saw Beth wipe the tears off the yellow
keys, that wouldn't  keep in tune, when she was all alone.
She sang like a little lark about her work, never was too
tired for Marmee and the girls, and day after day said
hopefully to herself, " I know I'll get my music some time,
if I'm good."

    There are many Beths in the world, shy and quiet, sitting
in corners till needed, and living for others so cheerfully
that no one sees the sacrifices till the little cricket on
the hearth stops chirping, and the sweet, sunshiny presence
vanishes, leaving silence and shadow behind.

     If anybody had asked Amy  what the greatest trial of her
life was, she would have answered at once, "My nose."  When
she was a baby,Jo had accidently dropped her into the coal hod,
and Amy insisted that the fall had ruined her nose forever. It
was not big nor red, like poor `Petrea's', it was only rather
flat, and all the pinching in the world could not give it an
aristocratic point.  No one minded it but herself, and it was
doing its best to grow, but Amy felt deeply the want of a
Grecian nose, and drew whole sheets of handsome ones to console
herself.

    "Little Raphael," as her sisters called  her, had a decided
talent for drawing, and was never so happy as when copying
flowers, designing fairies, or illustrating stories with queer
specimens of art.  Her  teachers complained that instead of
doing her sums she covered her slate with animals, the blank
pages of her atlas were used to copy maps on, and caricatures
of the most ludicrous description came fluttering out of all
her books at unlucky moments.  She got through her lessons as
well as she could, and managed to escape reprimands by being
a model of deportment.  She was a great favorite with her mates,
being good-tempered and possessing the happy art of pleasing
without effort.  Her little airs and graces were much admired,
so were her accomplishments, for besides her drawing, she could
play twelve tunes, crochet, and read French without mispronounc-
ing more than two-thirds of the words.  She had a plaintive
way of saying, "When Papa was rich we did so-and-so," which
was very touching, and her long words were considered `perfectly
elegant' by the girls.
     Amy was in a fair way to be spoiled, for everyone petted
her, and her small vanities and selfishnesses were growing nicely.
One thing, however, rather quenched the vanities. She had to wear
her cousin's clothes.  Now Florence's mama hadn't a particle of
taste, and Amy suffered deeply at having to wear a red instead of
a blue bonnet, unbecoming gowns, and fussy aprons that did not
fit.  Everything was good, well made, and little worn, but Amy's
artistic eyes were much afflicted, especially this winter, when
her school dress was a dull purple with yellow dots and no
trimming.

     "My only comfort," she said to Meg, with tears in her eyes,
"is that Mother doesn't take tucks in my dresses whenever I'm
naughty, as Maria Parks's mother does.  My dear, it's really
dreadful, for sometimes she is so bad her frock is up to her
knees, and she can't come to school.  When I think of this
deggerredation, I fell that I can bear even my flat nose and
purple gown with yellow skyrockets on it."

     Meg was Amy's confidante and monitor, and by some strange
attraction of opposites Jo was gentle Beth's.  To Jo alone did
the shy child tell her thoughts, and over her big harum-scarum
sister Beth unconsciously exercised more influence than anyone
in the family. The two older girls were a great deal to one
another, but each took one of the younger sisters into her
keeping and watched over her in her own way, `playing mother'
they called it, and put their sisters in the places of
discarded dolls with the maternal instinct of litte women.

     "Has anybody got anything to tell?  It's been such a dismal
day I'm really dying for some amusement," said Meg, as they sat
sewing together that evening.

     "I had a queer time with Aunt today, and, as I got the best
of it,I'll tell you about it," began Jo, who dearly loved to tell
stories.  "I was reading that everlasting Belsham, and droning
away as I always do, for Aunt soon drops off, and then I take out
some nice book, and read like fury till she wakes up.  I actually
made myself sleepy, and before she began to nod, I gave such a
gape that she asked me what I meant by opening my mouth wide
enough to take the whole book in at once.

     "I wish I could, and be done with it," said I, trying not to
be saucy.

     "Then she gave me a long lecture on my sins, and told me to
sit and think them over while she just `lost' herself for a moment.
She never finds herself very soon, so the minute her cap began to
bob like a top-heavy dahlia, I whipped the VICAR OF WAKEFIELD out
of my pocket, and read away, with one eye on him and one on Aunt.
I'd just got to where they all tumbled into the water when I
forgot and laughed out loud.  Aunt woke up and, being more
good-natured after her nap, told me to read a bit and show what
frivolous work I preferred to the worthy and instructive Belsham.
I did my very best, and she liked it, though she only said . . .

     "I don't understand what it's all about.  Go back and begin
it, child."

     "Back I went, and made the Primroses as interesting as ever I
could.  Once I was wicked enough to stop in a thrilling place, and
say meekly, "I'm afraid it tires you, ma'am.  Shan't I stop now?"

     "She caught up her knitting, which had dropped out of her
hands, gave me a sharp look through her specs, and said, in her
short way, `Finish the chapter, and don't be impertinent, miss'."

     "Did she own she liked it?" asked Meg.

     "Oh, bless you, no!  But she let old Belsham rest, and when I
ran back after my gloves this afternoon, there she was, so hard at
the Vicar that she didn't hear me laugh as I danced a jig in the hall
because of the good time coming. What a pleasant life she might have
if only she chose!  I don't envy her much, in spite of her money, for
after all rich people have about as many worries as poor ones, I
think," added Jo.

     "That reminds me," said Meg, "that I've got something to tell.
It isn't funny, like Jo's story, but I thought about it a good deal
as I came home.  At the Kings' today I found everybody in a flurry,
and one of the children said that her oldest brother had done some-
thing dreadful, and Papa had sent him away.  I heard Mrs. King
crying and Mr. King talking very loud, and Grace and Ellen turned
away their faces when they passed me, so I shouldn't see how red and
swollen their eyes were.  I didn't ask any questions, of course, but
I felt so sorry for them and was rather glad I hadn't any wild
brothers to do wicked things and disgrace the family."

     "I think being disgraced in school is a great deal tryinger
than anything bad boys can do," said Amy, shaking her head, as if
her experience of life had been a deep one.  "Susie Perkins came
to school today with a lovely red carnelian ring.  I wanted it
dreadfully, and wished I was her with all my might.  Well, she
drew a picture of Mr. Davis, with a monstrous nose and a hump,
and the words, `Young ladies, my eye is upon you!' coming out of
his mouth in a balloon thing. We were laughing over it when all
of a sudden his eye was on us, and he ordered Susie to bring up
her slate.  She was parrylized with fright, but she went, and oh,
what do you think he did?  He took her by the ear--the ear!  Just
fancy how horrid!--and led her to the recitation platform, and
made her stand there half and hour, holding the slate so everyone
could see."

     "Didn't the girls laugh at the picture?" asked Jo, who
relished the scrape.

     "Laugh? Not one! They sat still as mice, and Susie cried
quarts, I know she did.  I didn't envy her then, for I felt that
millions of carnelian rings wouldn't have made me happy after that.
I never, never should have got over such a agonizing mortification."
And Amy went on with her work, in the proud consciousness of virtue
and the successful utterance of two long words in a breath.

     "I saw something I liked this morning, and I meant to tell it
at dinner, but I forgot," said Beth, putting Jo's topsy-turvy basket
in order as she talked.  "When I went to get some oysters for Hannah,
Mr. Laurence was in the fish shop, but he didn't see me, for I kept
behind the fish barrel, and he was busy with Mr. Cutter the fishman.
A poor woman came in with a pail a mop, and asked Mr. Cutter if he
would let her do some scrubbing for a bit of fish, because she
hadn't any dinner for her children, and had been disappointed of a
day's work.  Mr. Cutter was in a hurry and said `No', rather
crossly, so she was going away, looking hungry and sorry, when Mr.
Laurence hooked up a big fish with the crooked end of his cane and
held it out to her.  She was so glad and surprised she took it
right into her arms, and thanked him over and over.  He told her to
`go along and cook it', and she hurried off, so happy!  Wasn't it
good of him?  Oh, she did look so funny, hugging the big, slippery
fish, and hoping Mr. Laurence's bed in heaven would be `aisy'."

     When they had laughed at Beth's story, they asked their mother
for one, and after a moments thought, she said soberly, "As I sat
cutting out blue flannel jackets today at the rooms, I felt very
anxious about Father, and thought how lonely and helpless we should
be , if anything happened to him.  It was not a wise thing to do,
but I kept on worrying till an old man came in with an order for some
clothes.  He sat down near me, and I began to talk to him, for he
looked poor and tired and anxious.

     "`Have you sons in the army?' I asked,for the note he brought
was not to me.
     "Yes, ma'am. I had four, but two were killed, one is a prisoner,
and I'm going to the other, who is very sick in a Washington hospital.'
he answered quietly.

     "`You have done a great deal for your country, sir,' I said,
feeling respect now, instead of pity.

     "`Not a mite more than I ought, ma'am.  I'd go myself, if I was
any use.  As I ain't, I give my boys, and give 'em free.'

     "He spoke so cheerfully, looked so sincere, and seemed so glad
to give his all, that I was ashamed of myself.  I'd given one man and
thought it too much, while he gave four without grudging them. I had
all my girls to comfort me at home, and his last son was waiting,
miles away, to say good-by to him, perhaps!  I felt so rich, so happy
thinking of my blessings, that I made him a nice bundle, gave him
some money, and thanked him heartily for the lesson he had taught me."

     "Tell another story, Mother, one with a moral to it, like this.
I like to think about them afterward, if they are real and not too
preachy," said Jo, after a minute's silence.

     Mrs. March smiled and began at once, for she had told stories to
this little audience for many years, and knew how to please them.

     "Once upon a time, there were four girls, who had enough to eat
and drink and wear, a good many comforts and pleasures, kind friends
and parents who loved them dearly, and yet they were not contented."
(Here the listeners stole sly looks at one another, and began to sew diligently.) "These girls were anxious to be good and made many
excellent resolutions, but they did not keep them very well, and were
constantly saying, `If only we had this,' or `If we could only do
that,' quite forgetting how much they already had, and how many
things they actually could do.  So they asked an old woman what spell
they could use to make them happy, and she said, `When you feel
discontented, think over your blessings, and be grateful.'" (Here Jo
looked up quickly, as if about to speak, but changed her mind, seeing
that the story was not done yet.)

     "Being sensible girls, they decided to try her advice, and soon
were surprised to see how well off they were.  One discovered that
money couldn't keep shame and sorrow out of rich people's houses,
another that, though she was poor, she was a great deal happier, with
her youth, health, and good spirits, than a certain fretful, feeble
old lady who couldn't enjoy her comforts, a third that, disagreeable
as it was to help get dinner, it was harder still to go begging for
it and the fourth, that even carnelian rings were not so valuable as
good behavior.  So they agreed to stop complaining, to enjoy the
blessings already possessed, and try to deserve them, lest they
should be taken away entirely, instead of increased, and I believe
they were never disappointed or sorry that they took the old woman's
advice."

     "Now, Marmee, that is very cunning of you to turn our own
stories against us, and give us a sermon instead of a romance!"
cried Meg.

     "I like that kind of sermon.  It's the sort Father used to tell
us," said Beth thoughtfully, putting the needles straight on Jo's
cushion.

     "I don't complain near as much as the others do, and I shall be
more careful than ever now, for I've had warning from Susies's down-
fall," said Amy morally.

     "We needed that lesson, and we won't forget it.  If we do so,
you just say to us, as old Chloe did in UNCLE TOM, `Tink ob yer
marcies, chillen! `Tink ob yer marcies!'" added Jo, who could not,
for the life of her, help getting a morsel of fun out of the little
sermon, though she took it to heart as much as any of them.


                       CHAPTER FIVE

     "What in the world are you going to do now, Jo." asked
Meg one snowy afternoon,as her sister came tramping through
the hall, in rubber boots, old sack, and hood, with a broom
in one hand and a shovel in the other.

     "Going out for exercise," answered Jo with a  mischie-
vous twinkle in her eyes.

     "I should think two long walks this morning would have
been enough!  It's  cold and  dull out, and I advise you to
stay warm and dry by the fire, as I do," said Meg with a
shiver.

     "Never take advice!  Can't keep still all day, and not
being a pussycat, I don't like to doze by the fire.  I like
adventures, and I'm going to find some."

     Meg went back to toast her feet and read IVANHOE, and Jo
began to dig paths with great energy. The snow was light, and
with her broom she soon swept a path all round the garden, for
Beth to walk in when the sun came out and the invalid dolls
needed air.  Now, the garden separated the Marches' house from
that of Mr. Laurence. Both stood in a suburb of the city, which
was still countrylike, with groves and lawns, large gardens, and
quiet streets.  A low hedge parted the two estates.  On one side
was an old, brown house, looking rather bare and shabby, robbed
of the vines that in summer covered its walls and the flowers,
which then surrounded it.  On the other side was a stately stone
mansion, plainly betokening every sort of comfort and luxury, from
the big coach house and well-kept grounds to the conservatory and
the glimpses of lovely things one caught between the rich curtains.

     Yet it seemed a lonely, lifeless sort of house, for no children
frolicked on the lawn, no motherly face ever smiled at the windows,
and few people went in and out, except the old gentleman and his
grandson.

     To Jo's lively fancy, this fine house seemed a kind of enchanted
palace, full of splendors and delights which no one enjoyed.  She
had long wanted to behold these hidden glories, and to know the
Laurence boy, who looked as if he would like to be known, if he only
knew how to begin.  Since the party, she had been more eager than ever,
and had planned many ways of making friends with him, but he had not
been seen lately, and Jo began to think he had gone away, when she
one day spied a brown face at an upper window, looking wistfully down
into their garden, where Beth and Amy were snow-balling one another.

     "That boy is suffering for society and fun," she said to herself.
"His grandpa does not know what's good for him, and keeps him shut up
all alone.  He needs a party of jolly boys to play with, or somebody
young and lively.  I've a great mind to go over and tell the old
gentleman so!"

     The idea amused Jo. who liked to do daring things and was
always scandalizing Meg by her queer performances. The plan of
`going over' was not forgotten.  And when the snowy afternoon came,
Jo resolved to try what could be done. She saw Mr. Lawrence drive off,
and then sallied out to dig her way down to the hedge, where she
paused and took a survey.  All quiet, curtains down at the lower win-
dows, servants out of sight, and nothing human visible but a curly
black head leaning on a thin hand at the upper window.

     "There he is," thought Jo, "Poor boy!  All alone and sick this
dismal day.  It's a shame!  I'll toss up a snowball and make him look
out, and then say a kind word to him."

     Up went a handful of soft snow, and the head turned at once,
showing a face which lost its listless look in a minute, as the big
eyes brightened and the mouth began to smile. Jo nodded and laughed,
and flourished her broom as she called out . . .

     "How do you do?  Are you sick?"

     Laurie opened the window, and croaked out as hoarsely as a raven . . .

     "Better, thank you.  I've had a bad cold, and been shut up a
week."

     "I'm sorry.  What do you amuse yourself with?"

     "Nothing.  It's dull as tombs up here."

     "Don't you read?"

     "Not much.  They won't let me."

     "Can't somebody read to you?"

     "Grandpa does sometimes, but my books don't interest him, and
I hate to ask Brooke all the time."

     "Have someone come and see you then."

     "There isn't anyone I'd like to see.  Boys make such a row, and
my head is weak."

     "Isn't there some nice girl who'd read and amuse you?  Girls
are quiet and like to play nurse."

     "Don't know any."

     "You know us," began Jo, then laughed and stopped.

     "So I do!  Will you come, please?" cried Laurie.

     "I'm not quiet and nice, but I'll come, if Mother will let me.
I'll go ask her.  Shut the window, like a good boy, and wait till I
come."

     With that, Jo shouldered her broom and marched into the house,
wondering what they would all say to her.  Laurie was in a flutter
of excitement at the idea of having company, and flew about to get
ready, for as Mrs. March said, he was `a little gentleman'. and did
honor to the coming guest by brushing his curly pate, putting on a
fresh color, and trying tidy up the room, which in spite of half a
dozen servants, was anything but neat.  Presently there came a loud
ring, than a decided voice, asking for `Mr. laurie', and a surprised-
looking servant came running up to announce a young lady.

     "All right, show her up, it's Miss Jo,"said Laurie, going to the
door of his little parlor to meet Jo, who appeared, looking rosy and
quite at her ease, with a covered dish in one hand and Beth's three
kittens in the other.

     "Here I am, bag and baggage," she said briskly. "Mother sent her
love, and was glad if I could do anything for you.  Meg wanted me to
bring some of her blancmange, she makes it very nicely, and Beth thought
her cats would be comforting.  I knew you'd laugh at them, but I couldn't
refuse, she was so anxious to do something."

     It so happened that Beth's funny loan was just the thing, for
in laughing over the kits, Laurie forgot his bashfulness, and grew
sociable at once.

     "That looks too pretty to eat," he said, smiling with pleasure,
as Jo uncovered the dish, and showed the blancmange, surrounded by a
garland of green leaves, and the scarlet flowers of Amy's pet geranium.

     "It isn't anything, only they all felt kindly and wanted to show
it.  Tell the girl to put it away for your tea.  It's so simple you can
eat it, and being soft, it will slip down without hurting your sore
throat. What a cozy room this is!"

     "It might be it it was kept nice, but the maids are lazy,and
I don't know how to make them mind. It worries me though."

     "I'll right it up in two minutes, for it only needs to have the
hearth brushed, so--and the things made straight on the mantelpiece,
so--and the books put here, and the bottles there, and your sofa
turned from the light, and the pillows plumped up a bit.  Now then,
you're fixed."

     And so he was, for, as she laughed and talked, Jo had whisked
things into place and given quite a different air to the room. Laurie
watched her in respectful silence, and when she beckoned him to his
sofa, he sat down with a sigh of satisfaction, saying gratefully . . .

     "How kind you are!  Yes, that's what it wanted. Now please take
the big chair and let me do something to amuse my company."

     "No, I came to amuse you.  Shall I read aloud?" and Jo looked
affectionately toward some inviting books near by.

     "Thank you!  I've read all those, and if you don't mind, I'd
rather talk," answered Laurie.

     "Not a bit.  I'll talk all day if you'll only set me going.
Beth says I never know when to stop."

     "Is Beth the rosy one, who stays at home good deal and some-
times goes out with a little basket?" asked Laurie with interest.

     "Yes, that's Beth.  She's my girl, and a regular good one she
is, too."

     "The pretty one is Meg, and the curly-haired one is Amy, I be-
lieve?"

     Laurie colored up, but answered frankly, "Why, you see I often
hear you calling to one another, and when I'm alone up here, I can't
help looking over at your house, you always seem to be having such
good times.  I beg your pardon for being so rude, but sometimes you
forget to put down the curtain at the window where the flowers are.
And when the lamps are lighted, it's like looking at a picture to
see the fire, and you all around the table with your mother.  Her
face is right opposite, and it looks so sweet behind the flowers,
I can't help watching it.  I haven't got any mother, you know."
And Laurie poked the fire to hide a little twitching of the lips
that he could not control.

     The solitary, hungry look in his eyes went straight to Jo's
warm heart.  she had been so simply taught that there was no
nonsense in her head, and at fifteen she was as innocent and frank
as any child.  Laurie was sick and lonely, and feeling how rich she
was in home and happiness, she gladly tried to share it with him.
Her face was very friendly and her sharp voice unusually gentle as
she said . . .

     "We'll never draw that curtain any more, and I give you leave
to look as much as you like.  I just wish, though, instead of peeping,
you'd come over and see us.  Mother is so splendid, she'd do you heaps
of good, and Beth would sing to you if I begged her to, and Amy would
dance.  Meg and I would make you laugh over our funny stage
properties, and we'd have jolly times. Wouldn't your grandpa let you?"

     "I think he would, if your mother asked him.  He's very kind,
though he does not look so, and he lets me do what I like, pretty much,
only he's afraid I might be a bother to strangers," began Laurie,
brightening more and more.

     "We are not strangers, we are neighbors, and you needn't think
you'd be a bother. We want to know you, and I've been trying to do
it this ever so long.  We haven't been here a great while, you know,
but we have got acquainted with all our neighbors but you."

     "You see, Grandpa lives among his books, and doesn't mind much
what happens outside.  Mr. Brooke, my tutor, doesn't stay here, you
know, and I have no one to go about with me, so I just stop at home
and get on as I can."

     "That's bad.  You ought to make an effort and go visiting
everywhere you are asked, then you'll have plenty of friends, and
pleasant places to go to.  Never mind being bashful. It won't last
long if you keep going."

     Laurie turned red again, but wasn't offended at being accused
of bashfulness, for there was so much good will in Jo it was
impossible not to take her blunt speeches as kindly as they were
meant.

     "Do you like your school?" asked the boy, changing the subject,
after a little pause, during which he stared at the fire and Jo
looked about her, well pleased.

     "Don't go to school, I'm a businessman--girl, I mean. I go to
wait on my great-aunt, and a dear, cross old soul she is, too,"
answered Jo.

     Laurie opened his mouth to ask another question, but remembering
just in time that it wasn't manners to make too many inquiries into
people's affairs, he shut it again, and looked uncomfortable.

     Jo liked his good breeding, and didn't mind having a laugh at
Aunt March, so she gave him a lively description of the fidgety
old lady, her fat poodle, the parrot that talked Spanish, and the
library where she reveled.

     Laurie enjoyed that immensely, and when she told about the
prim old gentleman who came once to woo Aunt March, and in the
middle of a fine speech, how Poll had tweaked his wig off to his
great dismay, the boy lay back and laughed till the tears ran
down his cheeks, and a maid popped her head in to see what was
the matter.

     "Oh!  That does me no end of good.  Tell on, please," he
said, taking his face out of the sofa cushion, red and shining
with merriment.

     Much elated with her success, Jo did `tell on', all about
their plays and plans, their hopes and fears for Father, and
the most interesting events of the little world in which the
sisters lived.  Then they got to talking about books, and to
Jo's delight, she found that Laurie loved them as well as she
did, and had read even more than herself.

     "If you like them so much, come down and see ours.  Grand-
father is out, so you needn't be afraid," said Laurie, getting
up.

     "I'm not afraid of anything," returned Jo, with a toss of
the head.

     "I don't believe you are!" exclaimed the boy, looking at her
with much admiration, though he privately thought she would have
good reason to be a trifle afraid of the old gentleman, if she
met hem in some of his moods.

     The atmosphere of the whole house being summerlike, Laurie
led the way from room to room, letting Jo stop to examine what-
ever struck her fancy. And so, at last they came to the library,
where she clapped her hands and pranced, as she always did when
especially delighted.  It was lined with books, and there were
pictures and statues, and distracting little cabinets full of
coins and curiosities, and Sleepy  Hollow chairs, and queer tables,
and bronzes, and best of all, a great open fireplace with quaint
tiles all round it.

     "What richness!"  sighed Jo, sinking into the depth of a
velour chair and gazing about her with an air of intense satis-
faction.  "Theodore Laurence, you ought to be the happiest boy in
the world," she added impressively.

     "A fellow can't live on books," said Laurie, shaking his head
as he perched on a table opposite.

     Before he could more, a bell rang, and Jo flew up, exclaiming
with alarm, "Mercy me!  It's your grandpa!"

     "Well, what if it is?  You are not afraid of anything, you
know," returned the boy, looking wicked.

     "I think I am a little bit afraid of him, but I don't know
why I should be.  Marmee said I might come, and I don't think
you're any the worse for it," said Jo, composing herself, though
she kept her eyes on the door.

     "I'm a great deal better for it, and ever so much obliged.
I'm only afraid you are very tired of talking to me.  It was so
pleasant, I couldn't bear to stop," said Laurie gratefully.

     "The doctor to see you, sir," and the maid beckoned as she
spoke.

     "Would you mind if I left you for a minute?  I suppose I
must see him," said Laurie.

     "Don't mind me.  I'm happy as a cricket here," answered Jo.

     Laurie went away, and his guest amused herself in her own way.
She was standing before a fine portrait of the old gentleman when
the door opened again, and without turning, she said decidedly, "I'm
sure now that I shouldn't be afraid of him, for he's got kind eyes,
though his mouth is grim, and he looks as if he had a tremendous will
of his own.  He isn't as handsome as my grandfather, but I like him."

     "Thank you, ma'am," said a gruff voice behind her, and there,
to her great dismay, stood old Mr. Laurence.

     Poor Jo blushed till she couldn't blush any redder, and her
heart began to beat uncomfortably fast as she thought what she had
said. For a minute a wild desire to run away possessed her, but
that was cowardly, and the girls would laugh at her, so she resolved
to stay and get out of the scrape as she could.  A second look showed
her that the living eyes, under the bushy eyebrows, were kinder even
than the painted ones, and there was a sly twinkle in them, which
lessened her fear a good deal.  The gruff voice was gruffer than ever,
as the old gentleman said abruptly, after the dreadful pause, "So
you're not afraid of me, hey?"

     "Not much, sir."

     "And you don't think me as handsome as your grandfather?"

     "Not quite, sir."

     "And I've got a tremendous will, have I?"

     "I only said I thought so."

     "But you like me in spite of it?"

     "Yes, I do, sir."

     That answer pleased the old gentleman. He gave a short laugh,
shook hands with her, and, putting his finger under her chin, turned
up her face, examined it gravely, and let it go, saying with a nod,
"You've got your grandfather's spirit, if you haven't his face.  He
was a fine man, my dear, but what is better, he was a brave and an
honest one, and I was proud to be his friend."

     "Thank you, sir,"  And Jo was quite comfortable after that, for
it suited her exactly.

     "What have you been doing to this boy of mine, hey?" was the
next question, sharply put.

     "Only trying to be neighborly, sir."  And Jo to how her visit
came about.

     "You think he needs cheering up a bit, do you?"

     "Yes, sir, he seems a little lonely, and young folks would do
him good perhaps.  We are only girls, but we should be glad to
help if we could, for we don't forget the splendid Christmas present
you sent us," said Jo eagerly.

     "Tut, tut, tut!  That was the boy's affair. How is the poor
woman?"

     "Doing nicely, sir."  And off went Jo, talking very fast, as
she told all about the Hummels, in whom her mother had interested
richer friends than they were.

     "Just her father's way of doing good.  I shall come and see
your mother some fine day.  Tell her so.  There's the tea bell,
we have it early on the boy's account.  Come down and go on being
neighborly."

     "If you'd like to have me, sir."

     "Shouldn't ask you, if I didn't."  And Mr. Laurence offered
her his arm with old-fashioned courtesy.

     "What would Meg say to this?"  thought Jo, as she was marched
away, while her eyes danced with fun as she imagined herself telling
the story at home.

     "Hey!  Why, what the dickens has come to the fellow?"  said the
old gentleman, as Laurie came running downstairs and brought up with
a start of surprise at the astounding sight of Jo arm in arm  with
his redoubtable grandfather.

     "I didn't know you'd come, sir," he began, as Jo gave him a
triumphant little glance.

     "That's evident, by the way you racket downstairs.  Come to
your tea, sir, and behave like a gentleman."  And having pulled
the boy's hair by way of a caress, Mr. Laurence walked on, while
Laurie went through a series of comic evolutions behind their
backs, which nearly produced an explosion of laughter from Jo.

     The old gentleman did not say much as he drank his four
cups of tea, but he watched the young people, who soon chatted
away like old friends, and the change in his grandson did not
escape him.  There was color, light, and life in the boy's face
now, vivacity in his manner, and genuine merriment in his laugh.

     "She's right, the lad is lonely.  I'll see what these little
girls can do for him," thought Mr. Laurence, as he looked and
listened.  He liked Jo, for her odd, blunt ways suited him, and
she seemed to understand the boy almost as well as if she had
been one herself.

     If the Laurences had been what Jo called `prim and poky',
she would not have got on at all, for such people always made
her shy and awkward. But finding them free and easy, she was
so herself, and made a good impression.  When they rose she
proposed to go, but Laurie said he had something more to show
her, and took her away to the conservatory, which had been
lighted for her benefit.  It seemed quite fairylike to Jo, as
she went up and down the walks, enjoying the blooming walls on
either side, the soft light, the damp sweet air, and the wonderful
vines and trees that hung about her, while her new friend cut the
finest flowers till his hands were full. Then he tied them up,
saying, with the happy look Jo liked to see, "Please give these
to your mother, and tell her I like the medicine she sent me very
much."

     They found Mr. Laurence standing before the fire in the great
drawing room, by Jo's attention was entirely absorbed by a grand
piano, which stood open.

     "Do you play?"  she asked, turning to Laurie with a respectful
expression.

     "Sometimes," he answered modestly.

     "Please do now.  I want to hear it, so I can tell Beth."

     "Won't you first?"

     "Don't know how.  Too stupid to learn, but I love music dearly."

     So Laurie played and Jo listened, with her nose luxuriously
buried in heliotrope and tea roses.  Her respect and regard for
the `Laurence' boy increased very much, for he played remarkably well
and didn't put on any  airs.  She wished Beth could hear him, but
she did not say so, only praised him till he was quite abashed, and
his grandfather came to his rescue.

     "That will do, that will do, young lady.  too many sugarplums
are not good for him.  His music isn't bad, but I hope he will do
as well in more important things.  Going?  well, I'm much obliged
to you, and I hope you'll come again.  My respects to your mother.
Good night, Doctor Jo."

     He shook hands kindly, but looked as if something did not
please him.  When they got into the hall, Jo asked Laurie if she
had said something amiss.  He shook his head.

     "No, it was me.  He doesn't like to hear me play."

     "Why not?"

     "I'll tell you some day.  John is going home with you, as I
can't."

     "No need of that.  I am not a young lady, and it's only a
step.  Take care of yourself, won't you?"

     "Yes, but you will come again, I hope?"

     "If you promise to come and see us after you are well."

     "I will."

     "Good night, Laurie!"

     "Good night, Jo, good night!"

     When all the afternoon's adventures had been told, the family
felt inclined to go visiting in a body, for each found something
very attractive in the big house on the other side of the hedge.
Mrs. March wanted to talk of her father with the old man who had
not forgotten him, Meg longed to walk in the conservatory, Beth
sighed for the grand piano. and Amy was eager to see the fine
pictures and statues.

     "Mother, why didn't Mr. Laurence like to have Laurie play?"
asked Jo, who was of an inquiring disposition.

     "I am not sure, but I think it was because his son, Laurie's
father, married an Italian lady, a musician, which displeased the
old man, who is very proud.  The lady was good and lovely and
accomplished, but he did not like her, and never saw his son after
he married.  They both died when Laurie was a little child, and
then his grandfather took him home.  I fancy the boy, who was born
in Italy, is not very strong, and the old man is afraid of losing
him, which makes him so careful.  Laurie comes naturally by his
love of music, for he is like his mother, and I dare say his grand-
father fears that he may want to be a musician.  At any rate, his
skill reminds him of the woman he did not like, and so he `glowered'
as Jo said."

     "Dear me, how romantic!"  exclaimed Meg.

     "How silly!" said Jo.  "Let him be a musician if he wants to,
and not plague his life out sending him to college, when he hates
to go."

     "That's why he has such handsome black eyes and pretty manners,
I suppose. Italians are always nice, " said Meg, who was a little
sentimental.

     "What do you know about his eyes and his manners?  You never
spoke to him, hardly," cried Jo, who was not sentimental.

     "I saw him at the party, and what you tell shows that he knows
how to behave.  That was a nice little speech about the medicine
Mother sent him."

     "He meant the blanc mange, I suppose."

     "How stupid you are, child!  He meant you, of course."

     "Did he?"  And Jo opened her eyes as if it had never occurred
to her before.

     "I never saw such a girl!  You don't know a compliment when
you get it," said Meg, with the air of a young lady who knew all
about the matter.

     "I think they are great nonsense, and I'll thank you not to
be silly and spoil my fun.  Laurie's a nice boy and I like him,
and I won't have any sentimental stuff about compliments and such
rubbish.  We'll all be good to him because he hasn't got any mother,
and he may come over and see us, mayn't he, Marmee?"

     "Yes, Jo, your little friend is very welcome, and I hope Meg
will remember that children should be children as long as they can."

     "I don't call myself a child, and I'm not in my teens yet,"
observed Amy.  "What do you say, Beth?"

     "I was thinking about our `PILGRIM'S PROGRESS'," answered Beth,
who had not heard a word.  "How we got out of the Slough and through
the Wicket Gate by resolving to be good, and up the steep hill by
trying, and that maybe the house over there, full of splendid things,
is going to be our Palace Beautiful."

     "We have got to get by the lions first," said Jo, as if she
rather liked the prospect.


                      CHAPTER SIX

     The big house did prove a Palace Beautiful, though it took
some time for all to get in, and Beth found it very hard to pass
the lions.  Old Mr. Laurence was the biggest one, but after he
had called, said something funny or kind to each one of the girls,
and talked over old times with their mother, nobody felt much
afraid of him, except timid Beth. The other lion was the fact that
they were poor and Laurie rich, for this made them shy of accepting
favors which they could not return.  But, after a while, they found
that he considered them the benefactors, and could not do enough to
show how grateful he was for Mrs. March's motherly welcome, their
cheerful society, and the comfort he took in that humble home of
theirs.  So they soon forgot their pride and interchanged kindnesses
without stopping to think which was the greater.

     All sorts of pleasant things happened about that time, for the
new friendship flourished like grass in spring.  Every one liked
Laurie, and he privately informed his tutor that "the Marches were
regularly splendid girls."  With the delightful enthusiasm of youth,
they took the solitary boy into their midst and made much of him,
and he found something very charming in the innocent companionship
of these simple-hearted girls. Never having known mother or sisters,
he was quick to feel the influences they brought about him, and
their busy, lively ways made him ashamed of the indolent life he led.
He was tired of books, and found people so interesting now that Mr.
Brooke was obliged to make very unsatisfactory reports, for Laurie
was always playing truant and running over to the Marches'.

     "Never mind, let him take a holiday, and make it up afterward,"
said the old gentleman.  "The good lady next door says he is studying
too hard and needs young society, amusement, and exercise.  I suspect
she is  right, and that I've been coddling the fellow as if I'd been
his grandmother. Let him do what he likes, as long as he is happy.
He can't get into mischief in that little nunnery over there, and
Mrs. March is doing more for him than we can."

     What good times they had, to be sure.  Such plays and tableaux,
such sleigh rides and skating frolics, such pleasant evenings in
the old parlor, and now and then such gay little parties at the
great house.  Meg could walk in the conservatory whenever she liked
and revel in bouquets, Jo browsed over the new library voraciously,
and convulsed the old gentleman with her criticisms, Amy copied
pictures and enjoyed beauty to her heart's content, and Laurie
played `lord of the manor' in the most delightful style.

     But Beth, though yearning for the grand piano, could not
pluck up courage to go to the `Mansion of Bliss', as Meg called
it.  She went once with Jo, but the old gentleman, not being
aware of her infirmity, stared at her so hard from under his
heavy eyebrows, and said "Hey!" so loud, that he frightened her
so much her `feet chattered on the floor', she never told her
mother, and she ran away, declaring she would never go there
any more, not even for the dear piano.  No persuasions or entice-
ments could overcome her fear, till, the fact coming to Mr.
Laurence's ear in some mysterious way, he set about mending
matters.  During one of the brief calls he made, he artfully
led the conversation to music, and talked away about great
singers whom he had seen, fine organs he had heard, and told
such charming anecdotes that Beth found it impossible to stay
in her distant corner, but crept nearer and nearer, as if
fascinated.  At the back of his chair she stopped and stood
listening, with her great eyes wide open and her cheeks red
with excitement of this unusual performance.  Taking no more
notice of her than if she had been a fly, Mr. Laurence talked on
about Laurie's lessons and teachers.  And presently, as if the
idea had just occurred to him, he said to Mrs. March . . .

     "The boy neglects his music now, and I'm glad of it, for
he was getting too fond of it.  But the piano suffers for want
of use.  Wouldn't some of your girls like to run over, and
practice on it now and then, just to keep it in tune, you know,
ma`am?"

     Beth took a step forward, and pressed her hands tightly
together to keep from clapping them, for this was an irresistible
temptation, and the thought of practicing on that splendid
instrument quite took her breath away.  Before Mrs. March could
reply, Mr. Laurence went on with an odd little nod and smile. . .

     "They needn't see or speak to anyone, but run in at any time.
For I'm shut up in my study at the other end of the house, Laurie
is out a great deal, and the servants are never near the drawing
room after nine o'clock."

     Here he rose, as if going, and Beth made up her mind to speak,
for that last arrangement left nothing to be desired.  "Please, tell
the young ladies what I say, and if they don't care to come, why,
never mind."  Here a little hand slipped into his, and Beth looked
up at him with a face full of gratitude, as she said, in her earnest
yet timid way . . .

     "Oh sir, they do care, very very much!"

     "Are you the musical girl?"  he asked, without any startling
"Hey!" as he looked down at  her very kindly.

     "I'm Beth.  I love it dearly, and I'll come, if you are quite
sure nobody will hear me, and be disturbed," she added, fearing to
be rude, and trembling at her own boldness as she spoke.

     "Not a soul, my dear.  The house is empty half the day, so
come and drum away as much as you like, and I shall be obliged to
you."

     "How kind you are, sir!"

     Beth blushed like a rose under the friendly look he wore, but
she was not frightened now, and gave the hand a grateful squeeze
because she had no words to thank him for the precious gift he had
given her.  The old gentleman softly stroked the hair off her fore-
head, and, stooping down, he kissed herr, saying, in a tone few
people ever heard . . .

     "I had a little girl once, with eyes like these.  God bless you,
my dear!  Good day. madam."  And away he went, in a great hurry.

     Beth had a rapture with her mother, and then rushed up to
impart the glorious news to her family of invalids, as the girls
were not home.  How blithely she sang that evening, and how they
all laughed at her because she woke Amy in the night by playing
the piano on her face in her sleep.  Next day, having seen both
the old and young gentleman out of the house, Beth, after two or
three retreats, fairly got in at the side door, and made her way
as noiselessly as any mouse to the drawing room where her idol
stood. Quite by accident, of course, some pretty, easy music lay
on the piano, and with trembling fingers and frequent stops to
listen and look about, Beth at last touched the great instrument,
and straightway forgot her fear, herself, and everything else but
the unspeakable delight which the music gave her, for it was like
the voice of a beloved friend.

     She stayed till Hannah came to take her home to dinner, but she
had no appetite,and could only sit and smile upon everyone in a general
state of beatitude.

     After that, the little brown hood slipped through the hedge
nearly every day, and the great drawing room was haunted by a tuneful
spirit that came and went unseen.  She never knew that Mr. Laurence
opened his study door to hear the old-fashioned airs he liked.  She
never saw Laurie mount guard in the hall to warn the servants away.
She never suspected that the exercise books and new songs which she
found in the rack were put there for her especial benefit, and when
he talked to her about music at home, she only thought how kind he
was to tell things that helped her so much.  So she enjoyed herself
heartily, and found, what isn't always the case, that her granted
wish was all she had hoped.  Perhaps it was because she was so grateful
for this blessing that a greater was given her.  At any rate she
deserved both.

     "Mother, I'm going to work Mr. Laurence a pair of slippers.  He
is so kind to me, I must thank him, and I don't know any other way.
Can I do it?" asked Beth, a few weeks after that eventful call of his.

     "Yes, dear.  It will please him very much, and be a nice way of
thanking him.  The girls will help you about them, and I will pay for
the making up,"  replied Mrs. March, who took peculiar pleasure in
granting Beth's requests because she so seldom asked anything for
herself.

     After many serious discussions with Meg and Jo, the pattern was
chosen, the materials bought, and the slippers begun.  A cluster of
grave yet cheerful pansies on a deeper purple ground was pronounced
very appropriate and pretty, and beth worked away early and late, with
occasional lifts over hard parts.  She was a nimble little needlewoman,
and they were finished before anyone got tired of them.  Then she wrote
a short, simple note, and with Laurie's help, got them smuggled onto
the study table one morning before the old gentleman was up.

     When this excitement was over, Beth waited to see what would
happen.  All day passed a a part of the next before any acknowledge-
ment arrived, and she was beginning to fear she had offended her
crochety friend.  On the afternoon of the second day, she went out
to do an errand, and give poor Joanna, the invalid doll, her daily
exercise.  As she came up the street, on her return, she saw three,
yes, four heads popping in and out of the parlor windows, and the
moment they saw her, several hands were waved, and several joyful
voices screamed . . .

     "Here's a letter from the old gentleman!  Come quick, and read
it!"

     "Oh, Beth, he's sent you . . ." began Amy, gesticulating with
unseemly energy, but she got no further, for Jo quenched her by
slamming down the window.

     Beth hurried on in a flutter of suspense.  At the door her
sisters seized and bore her to the parlor in a triumphal procession,
all pointing and all saying at once, "Look there!  Look there!" Beth
did look, and turned pale with delight and surprise, for there stood
a little cabinet piano, with a letter lying on the glossy lid, directed
like a sign board to "Miss Elizabeth March."

     "For me?" gasped Beth, holding onto Jo and feeling as if she
should tumble down, it was such an overwhelming thing altogether.

     "Yes, all for you, my precious!  Isn't it splendid of him?  Don't
you think he's the dearest old man in the world?  Here's the key in
the letter.  We didn't open it, but we are dying to know what he says,"
cried Jo, hugging her sister and offering the note.

     "You read it!  I can't, I feel so queer!  Oh, it is too lovely!"
and Beth hid her face in Jo's apron, quite upset by her present.

     Jo opened the paper and began to laugh, for the first worked she
saw were . . .

     "Miss March:
        "Dear Madam--"
       "How nice it sounds!  I wish someone would write to me so!" said
Amy, who thought the old-fashioned address very elegant.

     "`I have had many pairs of slippers in my life, but I never had
any that suited me so well as yours,'" continues Jo.  "`Heartsease is
my favorite flower, and these will always remind me of the gentle
giver.  I like to pay my debts, so I know you will allow `the old
gentleman' to send you something which once belonged to the little
grand daughter he lost.  With hearty thanks and best wishes, I remain
     "`Your grateful friend and humble servant,
                                     "`JAMES LAURENCE'

     "There, Beth, that's an honor to be proud of, I'm sure! Laurie
told me how fond Mr.Laurence used to be of the child who died, and
how he kept all her little things carefully.  Just think, he's given
you her piano.  That comes of having big blue eyes and loving music,"
said Jo, trying to soothe Beth, who trembled and looked more excited
than she had ever been before.

     "See the cunning brackets to hold candles, and the nice green
sild, puckered up, with a gold rose in the middle, and the pretty
rack and stool, all complete," added Meg, opening the instrument
and displaying its beauties.

     "`Your humble servant, James Laurence'.  Only think of his
writing that to you.  I'll tell the girls.  They'll think it's
splendid," said Amy, much impressed by the note.

     "Try it, honey.  Let's hear the sound of the baby pianny,"
said Hannah, who always took a share in the family joys and sorrows.

     So Beth tried it, and everyone pronounced it the most remarkable
piano ever heard.  It had evidently been newly tuned and put in apple-
pie order, but, perfect as it was, I think the real charm lay in the
happiest of all happy faces which leaned over it, as Beth lovingly
touched the beautiful black and white keys and pressed the bright
pedals.

     "You'll have to go and thank him," said Jo, by way of a joke,
for the idea of the child's really going never entered her head.

     "Yes, I mean to.  I guess I'll go no, before I get frightened
thinking about it." And, to the utter amazement of the assembled
family, Beth walked deliberately down the garden, through the
hedge, and in at the Laurences' door.

     "Well, I wish I may die if it ain't the queerest thing I ever
see!  The pianny has turned her head!  She'd never have gone in
her right mind," cried Hannah, staring after her, while the girls
were rendered quite speechless by the miracle.

     They would have been still more amazed if they had seen what
Beth did afterward.  If you will believe me, she went and knocked
at the study door before she gave herself time to think, and when
a gruff voice called out, "come in!" she did go in, right up to
Mr. Laurence, who looked quite taken aback, and held out her hand,
saying, with only a small quaver in her voice, "I came to thank you,
sir, for. . ." But she didn't finish, for he looked so friendly that
she forgot her speech and, only remembering that he had lost the
little girl he loved, she put both arms round his neck and kissed
him.

     If the roof of the house had suddenly flown off, the old
gentleman wouldn't have been more astonished.  But he liked it.
Oh, dear, yes, he liked it amazingly!  And was so touched and
pleased by that confiding little kiss that all his crustiness
vanished, and he just set her on his knee, and laid his
wrinkled cheek against her rosy one, feeling as if he had got his
own little grand daughter back again.  Beth ceased to fear him
from that moment, and sat there talking to him as cozily as if
she had known him all her life, for love casts out fear, and
gratitude can conquer pride.  When she went home, he walked with
her to her own gate, shook hands cordially, and touched his hat
as he marched back again, looking very stately and erect, like
a handsome, soldierly old gentleman, as he was.

     When the girls saw that performance, Jo began to dance a jig,
by way of expressing her satisfaction, Amy nearly fell out of the
window in her surprise, and Meg exclaimed, with up-lifted hands,
"Well, I do believe the world is coming to an end.


                    CHAPTER SEVEN

     "That boy is a perfect cyclops, isn't he?" said Amy one day,
as Laurie clattered by on horseback, with a flourish of his whip
as he passed.

     "How dare you say so, when he's got both his eyes?  And
very handsome ones they are, too," cried Jo, who resented any
slighting remarks about her friend.

     "I didn't day anything about his eyes, and I don't see why
you need fire up when I admire his riding."

     "Oh, my goodness!  That little goose means a centaur, and she
called him a Cyclops," exclaimed Jo, with a burst of laughter.

     "You needn't be so rude, it's only a `lapse of lingy', as Mr.
Davis says," retorted Amy, finishing Jo with her Latin.  "I just
wish I had a little of the money Laurie spends on that horse," she
added, as if to herself, yet hoping her sisters would hear.

     "Why?" asked Meg kindly, for Jo had gone off in another laugh
at Amy's second blunder.

     "I need it so much.  I'm dreadfully in debt, and it won't be
my turn to have the rag money for a month."

     "In debt, Amy?  What do you mean?"  And Meg looked sober.

     "Why, I owe at least a dozen pickled limes, and I can't pay
them, you know, till I have money, for Marmee forbade my having
anything charged at the shop."

     "Tell me all about it. Are limes the fashion now?  It used
to be pricking bits of rubber to make balls."  And Meg tried to
keep her countenance, Amy looked so grave and important.

     "Why, you see, the girls are always buying them, and unless
you want to be thought mean, you must do it too.  It's nothing
but limes now, for everyone is sucking them in their desks in
schooltime, and trading them off for pencils, bead rings, paper
dolls, or something else, at recess.  If one girl likes another,
she gives her a lime.  If she's mad with her, she eats one before
her face, and doesn't offer even a suck.  They treat by turns,
and I've had ever so many but haven't returned them, and I ought
for they are debts of honor, you know."

     "How much will pay them off and restore your credit?" asked
Meg, taking out her purse."

     "A quarter would more than do it, and leave a few cents over
for a treat for you.  Don't you like limes?"

     "Not much.  You may have my share.  Here's the money.  Make it
last as long as you can, for it isn't very plenty, you know."

     "Oh, thank you!  It must be so nice to have pocket money!  I'll
have a grand feast, for I haven't tasted a lime this week.  I felt
delicate about taking any, as I couldn't return them, and I'm
actually suffering for one."

     Next day Amy was rather late at school, but could not resist the
temptation of displaying, with pardonable pride, a moist brown-paper
parcel, before she consigned it to the inmost recesses of her desk.
During the next few minutes the rumor that Amy March had got twenty-
four  delicious limes (she ate one on the way) and was going to
treat circulated through her `set', and the attentions of her friends
became quite overwhelming.  Katy Brown invited her to her next party
on the spot.  Mary Kinglsey insisted on lending her her watch till
recess, and Jenny Snow, a satirical young lady, who had basely twitted
Amy upon her limeless state, promptly buried the hatchet and offered
to furnish answers to certain appalling sums.  But Amy had not for-
gotten Miss Snow's cutting remarks about `some persons whose noses
were not too flat to smell other people's limes, and stuck-up people
who were not too proud to ask for them', and she instantly crushed
`that Snow girl's' hopes by the withering telegram, "You needn't be
so polite all of a sudden, for you won't get any."

     A distinguished personage happened to visit the school that
morning, and Amy's beautifully drawn maps received praise, which
honor to her foe rankled in the soul of Miss Snow, and caused Miss
March to assume the airs of a studious young peacock.  But, alas,
alas!  Pride goes before a fall, and the revengeful Snow turned the
tables with disastrous success.  No sooner had the guest paid the
usual stale compliments and bowed himself out, than Jenny, under
pretense of asking an important question, informed Mr. Davis, the
teacher, that Amy March had pickled limes in her desk.

     Now Mr. Davis had declared limes a contraband article, and
solemnly vowed to publicly ferrule the first person who was found
breaking the law.  This much-enduring man had succeeded in banishing
chewing gum after a long and stormy war, had made a bonfire of the
confiscated novels and newspapers, had suppressed a private post
office, had forbidden distortions of the face, nicknames, and cari-
catures, and done all that one man could do to keep half a hundred
rebellious girls in order.  Boys are trying enough to human patience,
goodness knows, but girls are infinitely more so, especially to
nervous gentlemen with tyrannical tempers and no more talent for
teaching than Dr. Blimber.  Mr. Davis knew any quantity of Greek,
Latin, algebra, and ologies of all sorts so he was called a fine
teacher, and manners, morals, feelings, and examples were not con-
sidered of any particular importance.  It was a most unfortunate
moment for denouncing Amy, and Jenny knew it.  Mr. Davis had
evidently taken his coffee too  strong that morning, there was an
east wind, which always affected his neuralgia, and his pupils had
not done him the credit which he felt he deserved.  Therefore, to
use the expressive, if not elegant, language of a schoolgirl, "He
was as nervous as a witch and as cross as a bear".  The word `limes'
was like fire to powder, his yellow face flushed, and he rapped on
his desk with an energy which made Jenny skip to her seat with
unusual rapidity.

     "Young ladies, attention, if you please!"

     At the stern order the buzz ceased, and fifty pairs of blue,
black, gray, and brown eyes were obediently fixed upon his awful
countenance.

     "Miss March, come to the desk."

     Amy rose to comply with outward composure, but a secret fear
oppressed her, for the limes weighed upon her conscience.

     "Bring with you the limes you have in your desk," was the
unexpected command which arrested her before she got out of her seat.

     "Don't take all." whispered her neighbor, a young lady of great
presence of mind.

     Amy hastily shook out half a dozen and laid the rest down before
Mr. Davis, feeling that any man possessing a human heart would relent
when that delicious perfume met his nose.  Unfortunately, Mr. Davis
particularly detested the odor of the fashionable pickle, and disgust
added to his wrath.

     "Is that all?"

     "Not quite," stammered Amy.

     "Bring the rest immediately."

     With a despairing glance at her set, she obeyed.

     "You are sure there are no more?'

     "I never lie, sir."

     "So I see.  Now take these disgusting things two by two, and
throw them out of the window."

     There was a simultaneous sigh, which created quite a little gust,
as the last hope fled, and the treat was ravished from their longing
lips.  Scarlet with shame and anger, Amy went to and fro six dreadful
times, and as each doomed couple, looking oh, so plump and juicy, fell
from her reluctant hands, a shout from the street completed the anguish
of the girls, for it told them that their feast was being exulted over
by the little Irish children, who were their sworn foes.  This--this
was too much.  All flashed indignant or appealing glances at the in-
exorable Davis, and one passionate lime lover burst into tears.

     As Amy returned from her last trip, Mr. Davis gave a portentous
"Hem!" and said, in his most impressive manner . . .

     "Young ladies, you remember what I said to you a week ago.  I
am sorry this has happened, but I never allow my rules to be infringed,
and I never break my word.  Miss March, hold out your hand."

     Amy started, and put both hands behind her, turning on him an
imploring look which pleaded for her better than the words she could
not utter.  She was rather a favorite with `old Davis', as, of course,
he was called, and it's my private belief that he would have broken
his word if the indignation of one irrepressible young lady had not
found vent in a hiss.  That hiss, faint as it was, irritated the
irascible gentleman, and sealed the culprit's fate.

     "Your hand, Miss March!" was the only answer her mute appeal
received, and too proud to cry or beseech, Amy set her teeth, threw
bach her head defiantly, and bore without flinching several tingling
blows on her little palm.  They were neither many nor heavy,but that
made no difference to her.  For the first time in her life she had
been struck, and the disgrace, in her eyes, was as deep as if he had
knocked her down.

     "You will now stand on the platform till recess," said Mr. Davis,
resolved to do the thing thoroughly, since he had begun.

     That was dreadful.  It would have been bad enough to go to her
seat, and see the pitying faces of her friends, or the satisfied
ones of her few enemies, but to face the whole school, with that
shame fresh upon her, seemed  impossible, and for a second she felt
as if she could only drop down where she stood, and break her heart
with crying. A bitter sense of wrong and the thought of Jenny Snow
helped her to bear it, and, taking the ignominious place, she fixed
her eyes on the stove funnel above what now seemed a sea of faces,
and stood there, so motionless and white that the girls found it
hard to study with that pathetic figure before them.

     During the fifteen minutes that followed, the proud and sensitive
little girl suffered a shame and pain which she never forgot.  To
others it might seem a ludicrous or trivial affair, but to her it was
a hard experience, for during the twelve years of her life she had been
governed by love alone, and a blow of that sort had never touched her
before.  The smart of her hand and the ache of her heart were forgotten
in the sting of the thought, "I shall have to tell at home, and they
will be so disappointed in me!"

     The fifteen minutes seemed an hour, but they came to an end at
last, and the word `Recess!' had never seemed so welcome to her before.

     "You can go, Miss March," said Mr. Davis, looking, as he felt,
uncomfortable.

     He did not soon forget the reproachful glance Amy gave him, as
she went, without a word to anyone, straight into the anteroom,
snatched her things, and left the place "forever," as she passionately
declared to herself.  She was in a sad state when she got home, and
when the older girls arrived, some time later, an indignation meeting
was held at once.  Mrs. March did not say much but looked disturbed,
and comforted her afflicted little daughter in her tenderest manner.
Meg bathed the insulted hand with glycerine and tears, Beth felt
that even her beloved kittens would fail as a balm for griefs like
this, Jo wrathfully proposed that Mr. Davis be arrested without delay,
and Hannah shook her fist at the `villain' and pounded potatoes for
dinner as if she had him under her pestle.

     No notice was taken of Amy's flight, except by her mates, but
the sharp-eyed demoiselles discovered that Mr. Davis was quite be-
nignant in the afternoon, also unusually nervous.  Just before
school closed, Jo appeared, wearing a grim expression as she
stalked up to the desk, and delivered a letter from her mother,
then collected Amy's property, and departed, carefully scraping
the mud from her boots on the door mat, as if she shook that dust
of  the place off her feet.

     "Yes, you can have a vacation from school, but I want you to
study a little every day with Beth," said Mrs. March that evening.
"I don't approve of corporal punishment, especially for girls.  I
dislike Mr. Davis's manner of teaching and don't think the girls
you associate with are doing you any good, so I shall ask your
father's  advice before I send you anywhere else."

     "That's good!  I wish all the girls would leave, and spoil
his old school.  It's perfectly maddening to think of those lovely
limes," sighed Amy, with the air of a martyr.

     "I am not sorry you lost them, for you broke the rules, and
deserved some punishment for disobedience," was the severe reply,
which rather disappointed the young lady, who expected nothing but
sympathy.

     "Do you mean you are glad I was disgraced before the whole
school?" cried Amy.

     "I should not have chosen that way of mending a fault,"
replied her mother, "but I'm not sure that it won't do you more
good than a molder method.  You are getting to be rather conceited,
my dear, and it is quite time you set about correcting it.  You
have a good many little gifts and virtues,but there is no need of
parading them, for conceit spoils the finest genius.  There is not
much danger that real talent or goodness will be overlooked long,
even if it is, the consciousness of possessing and using it well
should satisfy one, and the great charm of all power is modesty."

     "So it is!" cried Laurie, who was playing chess in a corner
with Jo.  "I knew a girl once, who had a really remarkable talent
for music, and she didn't know it, never guessed what sweet little
things she composed when she was alone, and wouldn't have believed
it if anyone had told her."

     "I wish I'd known that nice girl.  Maybe she would have helped
me, I'm so stupid," said Beth, who stood beside him, listening
eagerly.

     "You do know her, and she helps you better than anyone else
could," answered Laurie, looking at her with such mischievous
meaning in his merry black eyes that Beth suddenly turned very
red, and hid her face in the sofa cushion, quite overcome by such
an unexpected discovery.

     Jo let Laurie win the game to pay for that praise of her Beth,
who could not be prevailed upon to play for them after her compl-
iment.  So Laurie did his best, and sang delightfully, being in a
particularly lively humor, for to the Marches he seldom showed the
moody side of his character.  When he was gone, amy, who had been
pensive all evening, said suddenly, as if busy over some new idea,
"Is Laurie an accomplished boy?"

     "Yes, he has had an excellent education, and has much talent.
He will make a fine man, if not spoiled by petting," replied her
mother.

     "And he isn't conceited, is he?"  asked Amy.

     "Not in the least.  That is why he is so charming and we all
like him so much."

     "I see.  It's nice to have accomplishments and be elegant, but
not to show off or get perked up," said Amy thoughtfully.

     "These things are always seen and felt in a person's manner
and conversations, if modestly used, but it is not necessary to
display them," said Mrs. March.

     "Any more than it's proper to wear all your bonnets and gowns
and ribbons at once, that folks may know you've got them," added Jo,
and the lecture ended in a laugh.


                   CHAPTER EIGHT

     "Girls, where are you going?" asked Amy, coming into their
room one Saturday afternoon, and finding them getting ready to
go out with an air of secrecy which excited her curiosity.

     "Never mind.  Little girls shouldn't ask questions," returned
Jo sharply.

     Now if there is anything mortifying to out feelings when we
are young, it is to be told that, and to be bidden to "run away,
dear" is still more trying to us.  Amy bridled up at this insult,
and determined to find out the secret, if she teased for an hour.
Turning to Meg, who never refused her anything very long, she said
coaxingly, "Do tell me! I should think you might let me go, too,
for Beth is fussing over her piano, and I haven't got anything to
do, and am so lonely."

     "I can't, dear, because you aren't invited," began Meg, but
Jo broke in impatiently, "Now, Meg, be quiet or you will spoil it
all.  You can't go, Amy, so don't be a baby and whine about it."

     "You are going somewhere with Laurie, I know you are. You
were whispering and laughing together on the sofa last night, and
you stopped when I came in.  Aren't you going with him?"

     "Yes, we are.  Now do be still, and stop bothering."

     Amy held her tongue, but used her eyes, and saw Meg slip a
fan into her pocket.

     "I know!  I know!  You're going to the theater to see the
SEVEN CASTLES!" she cried, adding resolutely, "and I shall go,
for Mother said I might see it, and I've got my rag money, and
it was mean not to tell me in time."

     "Just listen to me a minute, and be a good child," said Meg
soothingly.  "Mother doesn't wish you to go this week, because
your eyes are not well enough yet to bear the light of this
fairy piece.  Next week you can go with Beth and Hannah, and
have a nice time."

     "I don't like that half as well as going with you and Laurie.
Please let me.  I've been sick with this cold so long, and shut
up, I'm dying for some fun.  Do, Meg!  I'll be ever so good,"
pleaded Amy, looking as pathetic as she could.

     "Suppose we take her.  I don't believe Mother would mind,
if we bundle her up well," began Meg.

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

     Her tone and manner angered Amy, who began to put her boots
on, saying, in her most aggravating way, "I shall go.  Meg says I
may, and if I pay for myself, Laurie hasn't anything to do with it."

     "You can't sit with us, for our seats are reserved, and you
mustn't sit alone, so Laurie will give you his place, and that
will spoil our pleasure. Or he'll get another seat for you, and
that isn't proper when you weren't asked.  You shan't stir a
step, so you may just stay where you are," scolded Jo, crosser
than ever, having just pricked her finger in her hurry.

     Sitting on the floor with one boot on, Amy began to cry
and Meg to reason with her, when Laurie called from below, and
the two girls hurried down, leaving their sister wailing.  For
now and then she forgot her grown-up ways and acted like a
spoiled child.  Just as the party was setting out, Amy called
over the banisters in a threatening tone, "You'll be sorry for
this, Jo March, see if you ain't."

     "Fiddlesticks!" returned Jo, slamming the door.

     They had a charming time, for THE SEVEN CASTLES OF THE
DIAMOND LAKE was as brilliant and wonderful as heart could wish.
But in spite of the comical red imps, sparkling elves, and the
gorgeous princes and princesses, Jo's pleasure had a drop of
bitterness in it.  The fairy queen's yellow curls reminded her
of Amy, and between the acts she amused herself with wondering
what her sister would do to make her `sorry for it'.  She and
Amy had had many lively skirmishes in the course of their lives,
for both had quick tempers and were apt to be violent when fairly
roused.  Amy teased Jo, and Jo irritated Amy, and semioccasional
explosions occurred, of which both were much ashamed afterward.
Although the oldest, Jo had the least self-control, and had hard
times trying to curb the fiery spirit which was continually getting
her into trouble.  Her anger never lasted long, and having humbly
confessed her fault, she sincerely repented and tried to do better.
Her sisters used to say that they rather liked to get Jo into a
fury because she was such an angel afterward.  Poor Jo tried
desperately to be good, but her bosom enemy was always ready to
flame up and defeat her, and it took years of patient effort to
subdue it.

     When they got home, they found amy reading in the parlor.
She assumed an injured air as they came in, never lifted her eyes
from her book, or asked a single question.  Perhaps curiosity
might have conquered resentment, if Beth had not been there to
inquire and receive a glowing description of the play.  On going
up to put away her best hat, Jo's first look was toward the
bureau, for in their last quarrel Amy had soothed her feelings
by turning Jo's top drawer upside down on the floor.  Everything
was in its place, however, and after a hasty glance into her
various closets, bags, and boxes, Jo decided that Amy had
forgiven  and forgotten her wrongs.

     There Jo was mistaken, for next day she made a discovery
which produced a tempest.  Meg, Beth, and Amy were sitting together,
late in the afternoon, when Jo burst into the room, looking excited
and demanding breathlessly, "Has anyone taken my book?"

     Meg and Beth said, "No." at once, and looked surprised. Amy
poked the fire and said nothing.  Jo saw her color rise and was
down upon her in a minute.

     "Amy, you've got it!"

     "No, I haven't."

     "You know where it is, then!"

     "No, I don't."

     "That's a fib!" cried Jo, taking her by the shoulders, and
looking fierce enough to frighten a much braver child than Amy.

     "It isn't.  I haven't got it, don't know where it is now, and
don't care."

     "You know something about it, and you'd better tell at once,
or I'll make you."  And Jo gave her a slight shake.

     "Scold as much as you like, you'll never see your silly old
book again," cried Amy, getting excited in her turn.

     "why not?"

     "I burned it up."

     "What!  My little book I was so fond of, and worked over, and
meant to finish before Father got home?  Have you really burned it?"
said Jo, turning very pale, while her eyes kindled and her hands
clutched Amy nervously.

     "Yes, I did!  I told you I'd make you pay for being so cross
yesterday, and I have, so . . ."

     Amy got no farther, for Jo's hot temper mastered her, and
she shook Amy till her teeth chattered in her head, crying in a
passion of grief and anger . . .

     "You wicked, wicked girl!  I never can write it again, and
I'll never forgive you as long as I live."

     Meg flew to rescue Amy, and Beth to pacify Jo, but Jo was
quite beside herself, and with a parting box on her sister's ear,
she rushed out of the room up to the old sofa in the garret, and
finished her fight alone.

     The storm cleared up below, for Mrs. March came home, and,
having heard the story, soon brought Amy to a sense of the wrong
she had done her sister.  Jo's book was the pride of her heart,
and was regarded by her family as a literary sprout of great
promise.  It was only half a dozen little fairy tales, but Jo
had worked over them patiently, putting her whole heart into
her work, hoping to make something good enough to print.  She
had just copied them with great care, and had destroyed the old
manuscript, so that Amy's bonfire had consumed the loving work
of several years.  It seemed a small loss to others, but to Jo
it was a dreadful calamity, and she felt that it never could be
made up to her.  Beth mourned as for a departed kitten, and Meg
refused to defend her pet.  Mrs. March looked grave and grieved,
and Amy felt that no one would love her till she had asked pardon
for the act which she now regretted more than any of them.

     When the tea bell rang, Jo appeared, looking so grim and
unapproachable that it took all Amy's courage to say meekly . . .

     "Please forgive me, Jo.  I'm very, very sorry."

     "I never shall forgive you," was Jo's stern answer, and
from that moment she ignored Amy entirely.

     No one spoke of the great trouble, not even Mrs. March, for
all had learned by experience that when Jo was in that mood words
were wasted, and the wisest course was to wait till some little
accident, or her own generous nature, softened Jo's resentment
and healed the breach.  It was not a happy evening, for though
they sewed as usual, while their mother read aloud from Bremer,
Scott, or Edgeworth, something was wanting, and the sweet home
peace was disturbed.  They felt this most when singing time came,
for Beth could only play, Jo stood dumb as a stone, and Amy broke
down, so Meg and Mother sang alone.  But in spite of their efforts
to be as cheery as larks, the flutelike voices did not seem to
chord as well as usual, and all felt out of tune.

     As Jo received her good-night kiss, Mrs. March whispered gently,
"My dear, don't let the sun go down upon your anger.  Forgive each
other, help each other, and begin again tomorrow."

     Jo wanted to lay her head down on that motherly bosom, and
cry her grief and anger all away, but tears were an unmanly weak-
ness, and she felt so deeply injured that she really couldn't
quite forgive yet.  So she winked hard, shook her head, and said
gruffly because Amy was listening, "It was an abominable thing,
and she doesn't deserve to be forgiven."

     With that she marched off to bed, and there was no merry
or confidential gossip that night.

     Amy was much offended that her overtures of peace had been
repulsed, and began to wish she had not humbled herself, to feel
more injured than ever, and to plume herself on her superior
virtue in a way which was particularly exasperating.  Jo still
looked like a thunder cloud, and nothing went well all day.  It
was bitter cold in the morning, she dropped her precious turnover
in the gutter, Aunt March had an attack of the fidgets, Meg was
sensitive, Beth would look grieved and wistful when she got home,
and Amy kept making remarks about people who were always talking
about being good and yet wouldn't even try when other people set
them a virtuous example.

     "Everybody is so hateful, I'll ask Laurie to go skating.  He
is always kind and jolly, and will put me to rights, I know," said
Jo to herself, and off she went.

     Amy heard the clash of skates, and looked out with an impatient
exclamation.

     "There!  She promised I should go next time, for this is the
last ice we shall have.  But it's no use to ask such a crosspatch
to take me."

     "Don't say that.  You were very naughty, and it is hard to
forgive the loss of her precious little book, but I think she
might do it now, and I guess she will, if you try her at the
right minute," said Meg.  "Go after them. Don't say anything till
Jo has got good-natured with Laurie, than take a quiet minute and
just kiss her, or do some kind thing, and I'm sure she'll be
friends again with all her heart."

     "I'll try," said Amy, for the advice suited her, and after a
flurry to get ready, she ran after the friends, who were just
disappearing over the hill.

     It was not far to the river, but both were ready before Amy
reached them.  Jo saw her coming, and turned her back.  Laurie did
not see, for he was carefully skating along the shore, sounding the
ice, for a warm spell had preceded the cold snap.

     "I'll go on to the first bend, and see if it's all right before
we begin to race," Amy heard him say, as he shot away, looking like
a young Russian in his fur-trimmed coat and cap.

     Jo heard Amy panting after her run, stamping her feet and
blowing on her fingers as she tried to put her skates on, but Jo
never turned and went slowly zigzagging down the river, taking a
bitter, unhappy sort of satisfaction in her sister's troubles.
She had cherished her anger till it grew strong and took possession
of her, as evil thoughts and feelings always do unless cast out at
once. As Laurie turned the bend, he shouted back . . .

     "Keep near the shore.  It isn't safe in the middle."

     Jo heard, but Amy was struggling to her feet and did not catch
a word.  Jo glanced over her shoulder, and the little demon she was
harboring said in her ear . . .

     "No matter whether she heard or not, let her take care of
herself."

     Laurie had vanished round the bend, Jo was just at the turn,
and Amy, far behind, striking out toward the the smoother ice in
the middle of the river.  For a minute Jo stood still with a
strange feeling in her heart, then she resolved to go on,but
something held and turned her round, just in time to see Amy throw
up her hands and go down, with a sudden crash of rotten ice, the
splash of water, and a cry that made Jo's heart stand still with
fear.  She tried to call Laurie, but her voice was gone.  She tried
to rush forward, but her feet seemed to have no strength in them,
and  for a second, she could only stand motionless, staring with a
terror-stricken face at the little blue hood above the black water.
Something rushed swiftly by her, and Laurie's voice cried out . . .

     "Bring a rail.  Quick, quick!"

     How she did it, she never knew, but for the next few minutes
she worked as if possessed, blindly obeying Laurie, who was quite
self-possessed, and lying flat, held Amy up by his arm and hockey
stick till Jo dragged a rail from the fence, and together they
got the child out, more frightened than hurt.

     "Now then, we must walk her home as fast as we can.  Pile our
things on her, while I get off these confounded skates," cried
Laurie, wrapping his coat round Amy, and tugging away at the straps
which never seemed so intricate before.

     Shivering, dripping, and crying, they got Amy home, and after
an exciting time of it, she fell asleep, rolled in blankets before
a hot fire. During the bustle Jo had scarcely spoken but flown
about, looking pale and wild, with her things half off, her dress
torn, and her hands cut and bruised by ice and rails and refrac-
tory buckles.  When Amy was comfortably asleep, the house quiet,
and Mrs. March sitting by the bed, she called Jo to her and began
to bind up the hurt hands.

     "Are you sure she is safe?" whispered Jo, looking remorse-
fully at the golden head, which might have been swept away from
her sight forever under the treacherous ice.

     "Quite safe, dear.  she is not hurt, and won't even take cold,
I think, you were so sensible in covering and getting her home
quickly," replied her mother cheerfully.

     "Laurie did it all.  I only let her go.  Mother, if she should
die, it would be my fault."  And Jo dropped down beside the bed in
a passion of penitent tears, telling all that had happened, bitterly
condemning her hardness of heart, and sobbing out her gratitude for
being spared the heavy punishment which might have come upon her.

     "It's my dreadful temper!  I try to cure it, I think I have,
and then it breaks out worse than ever.  OH, Mother, what shall I
do?  What shall I do?" cried poor Jo, in despair.

     "Watch and pray, dear, never get tired of trying, and never
think it is impossible to conquer your fault," said Mrs. March,
drawing the blowzy head to her shoulder and kissing the wet cheek
so tenderly that Jo cried even harder.

     "You don't know, you can't guess how bad it is!  It seems as
if I could do anything when I'm in a passion.  I get so savage, I
could hurt anyone and enjoy it.  I'm afraid I shall do something
dreadful some day, and spoil my life, and make everybody hate me.
Oh, Mother, help me, do help me!"

     "I will, my child, I will.  Don't cry so bitterly, but remember
this day, and resolve with all your soul that you will never know
another like it.  Jo, dear, we all have our temptations, some far
greater than yours, and it often takes us all our lives to conquer
them.  You think your temper is the worst in the world,but mine
used to be just like it."

     "Yours, Mother?  Why, you are never angry!"  And for the
moment Jo forgot remorse in surprise.

     "I've been trying to cure it for forty years, and have only
succeeded in controlling it.  I am angry nearly every day of my
life, Jo, but I have learned not to show it, and I still hope to
learn not to feel it, though it may take me another forty years
to do so."

     The patience and the humility of the face she loved so well
was a better lesson to Jo than the wisest lecture, the sharpest
reproof.  She felt comforted at once by the sympathy and confi-
dence given her.  The knowledge that her mother had a fault like
hers, and tried to mend it, made her own easier to bear and
strengthened her resolution to cure it, though forty years seemed
rather a long time to watch and pray to a girl of fifteen.

     "Mother, are you angry when you fold your lips tight together
and go out of the room sometimes, when Aunt March scolds or people
worry you?"  asked  Jo, feeling nearer and dearer to her mother
than ever before.

     "Yes, I've learned to check the hasty words that rise to my
lips, and when I feel that they mean to break out against my will,
I just go away for a minute, and give myself a little shake for
being so weak and wicked," answered Mrs. March with a sigh and a
smile, as she smoothed and fastened up Jo's disheveled hair.

     "How did you learn to keep still?  That is what troubles me,
for the sharp words fly out before I know what I'm about, and the
more I say the worse I get, till it's a pleasure to hurt people's
feelings and say dreadful things.  Tell me how you do it, Marmee
dear."

     "My good mother used to help me . . ."

     "As you do us . . ." interrupted Jo, with a grateful kiss.

     "But I lost her when I was a little older than you are, and
for years had to struggle on alone, for I was too proud to confess
my weakness to anyone else.  I had a hard time, Jo, and shed a good
many bitter tears over my failures, for in spite of my efforts I
never seemed to get on.  Then your father came, and I was so happy
that i found it easy to be good.  But by-and-by, when I had four
little daughters round me and we were poor, then the old trouble
began again, for I am not patient by nature, and it tried me very
much to see my children wanting anything."

     "Poor Mother!  What helped you then?"

     "Your father, Jo.  He never loses patience, never doubts or
complains, but always hopes, and works and waits so cheerfully
that one is ashamed to do otherwise before him.  He helped and
comforted me, and showed me that I must try to practice all the
virtues I would have my little girls possess, for I was their
example.  It was easier to try for your sakes than for my own.
A startled or surprised look from one of you when I spoke sharply
rebuked me more than any words could have done, and the love,
respect, and confidence of my children was the sweetest reward I
could receive for my efforts to be the woman I would have them
copy."

     "Oh, Mother, if I'm ever half as good as you, I shall be
satisfied," cried Jo, much touched.

     "I hope you will be a great deal better, dear, but you must
keep watch over your `bosom enemy', as father calls it, or it
may sadden, if not spoil your life.  You have had a warning.
Remember it, and try with heart and soul to master this quick
temper, before it brings you greater sorrow and regret than you
have known today."

     "I will try, Mother, I truly will.  But you must help me,
remind me, and keep me from flying out.  I used to see Father
sometimes put his finger on his lips, and look at you with a
very kind but sober face, and you always folded your lips tight
and went away.  Was he reminding you then?"  asked Jo softly.

     "Yes.  I asked him to help me so, and he never forgot it,
but saved me from many a sharp word by that little gesture
and kind look."

     Jo saw that her mother's eyes filled and her lips trembled
as she spoke, and fearing that she had said too much, she
whispered anxiously,  "Was it wrong to watch you and to speak of
it?  I didn't mean to be rude, but it's so comfortable to say all
I think to you, and feel so safe and happy here."

    "Mu Jo, you may say anything to your mother, for it is my
greatest happiness and pride to feel that my girls confide in me
and know how much I love them."

     "I thought I'd grieved you."

     "No, dear, but speaking of Father reminded me how much I
miss him, how much I owe him, and how faithfully I should watch
and work to keep his little daughters safe and good for him."

     "Yet you told him to go, Mother, and didn't cry when he
went, and never complain now, or seem as if you needed any help,"
said Jo, wondering.

     "I gave my best to the country I love, and kept my tears
till he was gone.  Why should I complain, when we both have
merely done our duty and will surely be the happier for it in
the end?  If I don't seem to need help, it is because I have a
better friend, even than Father, to comfort and sustain me.  My
child, the troubles and temptations of your life are beginning
and may be many, but you can overcome and outlive them all if
you learn to feel the strength and tenderness of your Heavenly
Father as you do that of your earthly one.  The more you love
and trust Him, and the less you will depend on human power and
wisdom.  His love and care never tire or change, can never be
taken from you, but my become the source of lifelong peace,
happiness, and strength.  Believe this heartily, and go to God
with all your little cares, and hopes, and sins, and sorrows, as
freely and confidingly as you come to your mother."

     Jo's only answer was to hold her mother close, and in the
silence which followed the sincerest prayer she had ever prayed
left her heart without words.  For in that sad yet happy hour,
she had learned not only the bitterness of remorse and despair,
but the sweetness of self-denial and self-control, and led by
her mother's hand, she had drawn nearer to the Friend who always
welcomes every child with a love stronger than that of any father,
tenderer than that of any mother.

     Amy stirred and sighed in her sleep, and as if eager to begin
at once to mend her fault,l Jo looked up with an expression on her
face which it had never worn before.

     "I let the sun go down on my anger.  I wouldn't forgive her,
and today, if it hadn't been for Laurie, it might have been too
late!  How could I be so wicked?" said Jo, half aloud, as she
leaned over her sister softly stroking the wet hair scattered on
the pillow.

     As if she heard, Amy opened her eyes, and held out her arms,
with a smile that went straight to Jo's heart.  Neither said a
word, but they hugged one another close, in spite of the blankets,
and everything was forgiven and forgotten in one hearty kiss.


                        CHAPTER NINE

     "I do think it was the most fortunate thing in the world that
those children should have the measles just now," said Meg, one
April day, as she stood packing the `go abroady' trunk in her room,
surrounded by her sisters.

     "And so nice of Annie Moffat not to forget her promise.  A
whole fortnight of fun will be regularly splendid," replied Jo,
looking like a windmill as she folded skirts with her long arms.

     "And such lovely weather, I'm so glad of that," added Beth,
tidily sorting neck and hair ribbons in her best box, lent for
the great occasion.

     "I wish I was going to have a fine time and wear all these
nice things," said Amy with her mouth full of pins, as she
artistically replenished her sister's cushion.

     "I wish you were all going, but as you can't, I shall keep
my adventures to tell you when I come back.  I'm sure it's the
least I can do when you have been so kind, lending me things
and helping me get ready," said Meg, glancing round the room
at the very simple outfit, which seemed nearly perfect in their
eyes.

     "What did Mother give you out of the treasure box?"  asked
Amy, who had not been present at the opening of a certain cedar
chest in which Mrs. March kept a few relics of past splendor, as
gifts for her girls when the proper time came.

     "A pair of silk stockings, that pretty carved fan, and a
lovely blue sash.  I wanted the violet silk, but there isn't
time to make it over, so I must be contented with my old tarlatan."


     "It will look nice over my new muslin skirt, and the sash will
set it off beautifully.  I wish I hadn't smashed my coral bracelet,
for you might have had it," said Jo, who loved to give and lend,
but whose possessions were usually too dilapidated to be of much
use.

     "There is a lovely old-fashioned pearl set in the treasure
chest, but Mother said real flowers were the prettiest ornament
for a young girl, and Laurie promised to send me all I want,"
replied Meg.  "Now, let me see, there's my new gray walking suit,
just curl up the feather in my hat, Beth, then my poplin for
Sunday and the small party, it looks heavy for spring, doesn't
it?  The violet silk would be so nice.  Oh, dear!"

     "Never mind, you've got the tarlatan for the big party, and
you always look like an angel in white," said Amy, brooding
over the little store of finery in which her soul delighted.

     "It isn't low-necked, and it doesn't sweep enough, but it
will have to do.  My blue housedress looks so well, turned and
freshly trimmed, that I feel as if I'd got a new one.  My silk
sacque isn't a bit the fashion, and my bonnet doesn't look like
Sallie's.  I didn't like to say anything, but I was sadly dis-
appointed in my umbrella.  I told Mother black with a white
handle, but she forgot and bought a green one with a yellowish
handle.  It's strong and neat, so I ought not to complain, but I
know I shall feel ashamed of it beside Annie's silk one with a
gold top," sighed Meg, surveying the little umbrella with great
disfavor.

     "Change it," advised Jo.

     "I won't be so silly, or hurt Marmee's feelings, when she
took so much pains to get my things.  It's a nonsensical notion
of mine, and I'm not going to give up to it.  My silk stockings
and two pairs of new gloves are my comfort.  You are a dear to
lend me yours, Jo.  I feel so rich and sort of elegant, with
two new pairs, and the old ones cleaned up for common."  And
Meg took a refreshing peep at her glove box.

     "Annie Moffat has blue and pink bows on her nightcaps.
Would you put some on mine?" she asked, as Beth brought up a
pile of snowy muslins, fresh from Hannah's hands.

     "No, I wouldn't, for the smart caps won't match the plain
gowns without any trimming on them.  Poor folks shouldn't rig,"
said Jo decidedly.

     "I wonder if I shall ever be happy enough to have real lace
on my clothes and bows on my caps?" said Meg impatiently.

     "You said the other day that you'd be perfectly happy if
you could only go to Annie Moffat's," observed Beth in her quiet
way.

     "So I did!  Well, I am happy, and I won't fret, but it does
seem as if the more one gets the more one wants, doesn't it?  There
now, the trays are ready, and everything in but my ball dress,
which I shall leave for Mother to pack," said Meg, cheering up, as
she glanced from the half-filled trunk to the many times pressed
and mended white tarlatan, which she called her `ball dress' with
an important air.

     The next day was fine, and Meg departed in style for a fort-
night of novelty and pleasure.  Mrs. March had consented to the
visit rather reluctantly, fearing that Margaret would come back
more discontented than she went.  But she begged so hard, and
Sallie had promised to take good care of her, and a little pleasure
seemed so delightful after a winter of irksome work that the mother
yielded, and the daughter went to take her first taste of fashion-
able life.

     The Moffats were very fashionable, and simple Meg was rather
daunted, at first, by the splendor of the house and the elegance
of its occupants.  But they were kindly people, in spite of the
frivolous life they led, and soon put their guest at her ease.
Perhaps Meg felt, without understanding why, that they were not
particularly cultivated or intelligent people, and that all their
gilding could not quite conceal the ordinary material of which
they were made.  It certainly was agreeable to fare sumptuously,
drive in a fine carriage, wear her best frock every day, and do
nothing but enjoy herself.  It suited her exactly, and soon she
began to imitate the manners and conversation of those about her,
to put on little airs and graces, use French phrases, crimp her
hair, take in her dresses, and talk about the fashions as well as
she could. The more she saw of Annie Moffat's pretty things, the
more she envied her and sighed to be rich.  Home now looked bare
and dismal as she thought of it, work grew harder than ever, and
she felt that she was a very destitute and much-injured girl, in
spite of the new gloves and silk stockings.

     She had not much time for repining, however, for the three
young girls were busily employed in `having a good time'.  They
shopped, walked, rode, and called all day, went to theaters and
operas or frolicked at home in the evening, for Annie had many
friends and knew how to entertain them.  Her older sisters were
very fine young ladies, and one was engaged, which was extremely
interesting and romantic, Meg thought.  Mr. Moffat was a fat,
jolly old gentleman, who knew her father, and Mrs. Moffat, a fat,
jolly old lady, who took as great a fancy to Meg as her daughter
had done.  Everyone petted her, and `Daisey', as they called her,
was in a fair way to have her head turned.

     When the evening for the small party came, she found that
the poplin wouldn't do at all, for the other girls were putting
on thin dresses and making themselves very fine indeed.  So out
came the tarlatan, looking older, limper, and shabbier than ever
beside Sallie's crisp new one.  Meg saw the girls glance at it
and then at one another, and her cheeks began to burn, for with
all her gentleness she was very proud.  No one said a word about
it, but Sallie offered to dress her hair, and Annie to tie her
sash, and Belle, the engaged sister, praised her white arms.  But
in their kindness Meg saw only pity for her poverty, and her
heart felt very heavy as she stood by herself, while the others
laughed, chattered, and flew about like gauzy butterflies.  The
hard, bitter feeling was getting pretty bad, when the maid
brought in a box of flowers.  Before she could speak, Annie had
the cover off, and all were exclaiming at the lovely roses, heath,
and fern within.

     "It's for Belle, of course, George always sends her some,
but these are altogether ravishing," cried Annie, with a great
sniff.

     "They are for Miss March, the man said.  And here's a note,"
put in the maid, holding it to Meg.

     "What fun!  Who are they from?  Didn't know you had a lover,"
cried the girls, fluttering about Meg in a high state of curiosity
and surprise.

     "The note is from Mother, and the flowers from Laurie," said
Meg simply, yet much gratified that he had not forgotten her.

     "Oh, indeed!" said Annie with a funny look, as Meg slipped
the note into her pocket as a sort of talisman against envy,
vanity, and false pride, for the few loving words had done her
good, and the flowers cheered her up by their beauty.

     Feeling almost happy again,she laid by a few ferns and roses
for herself, and quickly made up the rest in dainty bouquets for
the breasts, hair, or skirts of her friends, offering them so
prettily that Clara, the elder sister, told her she was  `the
sweetest little thing she ever saw', and they looked quite
charmed with her small attention.  Somehow the kind act finished
her despondency, and when all the rest went to show themselves
to Mrs. Moffat, she saw a happy, bright-eyed face in the mirror,
as she laid her ferns against her rippling hair and fastened
the roses in the dress that didn't strike her as so very shabby
now.

     She enjoyed herself very much that evening, for she danced
to her heart's content.  Everyone was very kind, and she had
three compliments.  Annie made her sing, and some one said she
had a remarkably fine voice.  Major Lincoln asked who `the fresh
little girl with the beautiful eyes' was, and Mr. Moffat insisted
on dancing with her because she `didn't dawdle, but had some spring
in her', as he gracefully expressed it.  So altogether she had a
very nice time, till she overheard a bit of conversation, which
disturbed her extremely.  She was sitting just inside the conserv-
atory, waiting for her partner to bring her an ice, when she
heard a voice ask on the other side of the flowery wall . . .

     "How old is he?"

     "Sixteen or seventeen, I should say," replied another voice.

     "It would be a grand thing for one of those girls, wouldn't
it?  Sallie says they are very intimate now, and the old man quite
dotes on them."

     "Mrs. M. has made her plans, I dare say, and will play her
cards well, early as it is.  The girl evidently doesn't think of it
yet," said Mrs. Moffat.

     "She told that fib about her momma, as if she did know, and
colored up when the flowers came quite prettily.  Poor thing!
She'd be so nice if she was only got up in style.  Do you think
she'd be offended if we offered to lend her a dress for Thursday?"
asked another voice.

     "She's proud, but I don't believe she'd mind, for that dowdy
tarlatan is all she has got.  She may tear it tonight, and that
will be a good excuse for offering a decent one."

     Here Meg's partner appeared, to find her looking much flushed
and rather agitated.  She was proud, and her pride was useful
just then, for it helped her hide her mortification, anger, and
disgust at what she had just heard.  For, innocent and unsuspicious
as she was, she could not help understanding the gossip of her
friends.  She tried to forget it, but could not, and kept repeating
to herself, "Mrs. M. has made her plans,"  "that fib about her
mamma,"  and 'dowdy tarlatan," till she was ready to cry and rush
home to tell her troubles and ask for advice.  As that was imposs-
ible, she did her best to seem gay, and being rather excited, she
succeeded so well that no one dreamed what an effort she was making.
She was very glad when it was all over and she was quiet in her bed,
where she could think and wonder and fume till her head ached and
her hot cheeks were cooled by a few natural tears.  Those foolish,
yet well meant words, had opened a new world to Meg, and much
disturbed the peace of the old one in which till now she had lived
as happily as a child.  Her innocent friendship with Laurie was
spoiled by the silly speeches she had overheard.  Her faith in her
mother was a little shaken by the worldly plans attributed to her
by Mrs. Moffat, who judged others by herself, and the sensible
resolution to be contented with the simple wardrobe which suited
a poor man's daughter was weakened by the unnecessary pity of
girls who thought a shabby dress one of the greatest calamities
under heaven.

     Poor Meg had a restless night, and got up heavy-eyed, unhappy,
half resentful toward her friends, and half ashamed of herself for
not speaking out frankly and setting everything right.  Everybody
dawdled that morning, and it was noon before the girls found
energy enough even to take up their worsted work.  Something in
the manner of her friends struck Meg at once.  They treated her
with more respect, she thought, took quite a tender interest in
what she said, and looked at her with eyes that plainly betrayed
curiosity.  All this surprised and flattered her, though she did
not understand it till Miss Belle looked up from her writing, and
said, with a sentimental air . . .

     "Daisy, dear, I've sent an invitation to your friend, Mr.
Laurence, for Thursday.  We should like to know him, and it's only
a proper compliment to you."

     Meg colored, but a mischievous fancy to tease the girls made
her reply demurely, "You are very kind, but I'm afraid he won't
come."

     "Why not, Cherie?" asked Miss Belle.

     "He's too old."

     "My child, what do you mean?  What is his age, I beg to
know!" cried Miss Clara.

     "Nearly seventy, I believe," answered Meg, counting stitches
to hide the merriment in her eyes.

     "You sly creature!  Of course we meant the young man,"
exclaimed Miss Belle, laughing.

     "There isn't any, Laurie is only a little boy."  And Meg
laughed also at the queer look which the sisters exchanged as she
thus described her supposed lover.

     "About you age," Nan said.

     "Nearer my sister Jo's, I am seventeen in August," returned
Meg, tossing her head.

     "It's very nice of him to send you flowers, isn't it?" said
Annie, looking wise about nothing.

     "Yes, he often does, to all of us, for their house is full, and
we are so fond of them.  My mother and old Mr. Laurence are friends,
you know, so it is quite natural that we children should play to-
gether."  And Meg hoped they would say no more.

     "It's evident Daisy isn't out yet," said Miss Clara to Belle
with a nod.

     "Quite a pastoral state of innocence all round," returned
Miss Belle with a shrug.

     "I'm going out to get some little matters for my girls.  Can
I do anything for you, young ladies?"  asked Mrs. Moffat, lumbering
in like an elephant in silk and lace.

     "No, thank you, ma'am," replied Sallie.  "I've got my new
pink silk for Thursday and don't want a thing."

     "Nor I . . ." began Meg, but stopped because it occurred to
her that she did want several things and could not have them.

     "What shall you wear?" asked Sallie.

     "My old white one again, if I can mend it fit to be seen, it
got sadly torn last night," said Meg, trying to speak quite easily,
but feeling very uncomfortable.

     "Why don't you send home for another?" said Sallie, who was
not an observing young lady.

     "I haven't got any other."  It cost Meg an effort to say that,
but Sallie did not see it and exclaimed in amiable surprise,  "Only
that?"  How funny . . ."  She did not finish her speech, for Belle
shook her head at her and broke in, saying kindly . . .

     "Not at all.  Where is the use of having a lot of dresses
when she isn't out yet?  There's no need of sending home, Daisy,
even if you had a dozen, for I've got a sweet blue silk laid away,
which I've outgrown, and you shall wear it to please me, won't
you, dear?"

     "You are very kind, but I don't mind my old dress if you
don't, it does well enough for a little girl like me," said Meg.

     "Now do let me please myself by dressing you up in style.
I admire to do it, and you'd be a regular little beauty with a
touch here and there.  I shan't let anyone see you till you are
done, and then we'll burst upon them like Cinderella and her
godmother going to the ball," said Belle in her persuasive tone.

     Meg couldn't refuse the offer so kindly made, for a desire to
see if she would be `a little beauty' after touching up caused
her to accept and forget all her former uncomfortable feelings
toward the Moffats.

     On the Thursday evening, Belle shut herself up with her maid,
and between them they turned Meg into a fine lady.  They crimped
and curled her hair, they polished her neck and arms with some
fragrant powder, touched her lips with coralline salve to make
them redder, and Hortense would have added `a soupcon of rouge',
if Meg had not rebelled.  They laced her into a sky-blue dress,
which was so tight she could hardly breathe and so low in the
neck that modest Meg blushed at herself in the mirror.  A set
of silver filagree was added, bracelets, necklace, brooch, and
even earrings, for Hortense tied them on with a bit of pink
silk which did not show.  A cluster of tea-rose buds at the
bosom and a ruche, reconciled Meg to the display of her pretty,
white shoulders, and a pair of high-heeled silk boots satisfied
the last wish of her heart.  A lace handkerchief, a plumy fan,
and a bouquet in a shoulder holder finished her off, and Miss
Belle surveyed her with the satisfaction of a little girl with
a newly dressed doll.

     "Mademoiselle is chatmante, tres jolie, is she not?" cried
Hortense, clasping her hands in an affected rapture.

     "Come and show yourself," said Miss Belle, leading the way
to the room where the others were waiting.

     As Meg went rustling after, with her long skirts trailing,
her earrings tinkling, her curls waving, and her heart beating,
she felt as if her fun had really begun at last, for the mirror
had plainly told her that she was `a little beauty'.  Her friends
repeated the pleasing phrase enthusiastically, and for several
minutes she stood, like a jackdaw in the fable, enjoying her
borrowed plumes, while the rest chattered like a party of magpies.

     "While I dress, do you drill her, Nan, in the management of her
skirt and those French heels, or she will trip herself up.  Take
your silver butterfly, and catch up that long curl on the left side
of her head, Clara, and don't any of you disturb the charming work
of my hands," said Belle, as she hurried away, looking well pleased
with her success.

     "You don't look a bit like yourself, but you are very nice.
I'm nowhere beside you, for Belle has heaps of taste, and you're
quite French, I assure you.  Let your flowers hang, don't be so
careful of them, and be sure you don't trip," returned Sallie, trying
not to care that Meg was prettier than herself.

     Keeping that warning carefully in mind, Margaret got safely
downstairs and sailed into the drawing rooms where the Moffats and
a few early guests were assembled.  She very soon discovered that
there is a charm about fine clothes which attracts a certain class
of people and secures their respect.  Several young ladies, who
had  taken no notice of her before, were very affectionate all of
a sudden.  Several young gentlemen, who had only stared at her at
the other party, now not only stared, but asked to be introduced,
and said all manner of foolish but agreeable things to her, and
several old ladies, who sat on the sofas, and criticized the rest
of the party, inquired who she was with an air of interest.  She
heard Mrs. Moffat reply to one of them . . .

     "Daisy March--father a colonel in the army--one of our first
families, but reverses of fortune, you know; intimate friends of
the Laurences; sweet creature, I assure you; my Ned is quite wild
about her."

     "Dear me!" said the old lady, putting up her glass for
another observation of Meg, who tried to look as if she had not
heard and been rather shocked at Mrs. Moffat's fibs.

     The `queer feeling' did not pass away, but she imagined
herself acting the new part of fine lady and so got on pretty
well, though the tight dress gave her a side-ache, the train kept
getting under her feet, and she was in constant fear lest her
earrings should fly off and get lost or broken. She was flirting
her fan and laughing at the feeble jokes of a young gentleman
who tried to be witty, when she suddenly stopped laughing and
looked confused, for just opposite, she saw Laurie.  He was
staring at her with undisguised surprise, and disapproval also,
she thought, for though he bowed and smiled, yet something in
his honest eyes made her blush and wish she had her old dress on.
To complete her confusion, she saw Belle nudge Annie, and both
glance from her to Laurie, who, she was happy to see, looked
unusually boyish and shy.

     "Silly creatures, to put such thoughts into my head. I won't
care for it, or let it change me a bit," thought Meg, and rustled
across the room to shake hands with her friend.

     "I'm glad you came, I was afraid you wouldn't." she said,
with her most grown-up air.

     "Jo wanted me to come, and tell her how you looked, so I
did," answered Laurie, without turning his eyes upon her, though
he half smiled at her maternal tone.

     "What shall you tell her?"  asked Meg, full of curiosity to
know his opinion of her, yet feeling ill at ease with him for the
first time.

     "I shall say I didn't know you, for you look so grown-up and
unlike yourself, I'm quite afraid of you," he said, fumbling at
his glove button.

     "How absurd of you!  The girls dressed me up for fun, and I
rather like it.   Wouldn't Jo stare if she saw me?" said Meg, bent
on making him say whether he thought her improved or not.

     "Yes, I think she would," returned Laurie gravely.

    "Don't you like me so?' asked Meg.

     "No, I don't," was the blunt reply.

     "Why not?" in an anxious tone.

     He glanced at her frizzled head, bare shoulders, and fantas-
tically trimmed dress with an expression that abashed her more
than his answer, which had not particle of his usual politeness
in it.

     "I don't like fuss and feathers."

     That was altogether too much from a lad younger than herself,
and Meg walked away, saying petulantly, "You are the rudest boy I
ever saw."

    Feeling very much ruffled, she went and stood at a quiet window
to cool her cheeks, for the tight dress gave her an uncomfortably
brilliant color.  As she stood there, Major Lincoln passed by, and
a minute after she heard him saying to his mother . . .

     "They are making a fool of that little girl.  I wanted you
to see her, but they have spoiled her entirely.  She's nothing
but a doll tonight."

     "Oh, dear!" sighed Meg.  "I wish I'd been sensible and worn
my own things, then I should not have disgusted other people, or
felt so uncomfortable and ashamed of myself."

     She leaned her forehead on the cool pane, and stood half
hidden by the curtains, never minding that her favorite waltz
had begun, till some one touched her, and turning, she saw
Laurie, looking penitent, as he said, with his very best bow
and his hand out . . .

     "Please forgive my rudeness, and come and dance with me."

     "I'm afraid it will be to disagreeable to you," said Meg,
trying to look offended and failing entirely.

     "Not a bit of it, I'm dying to do it.  Come, I'll be good.
I don't like your gown, but I do think you are just splendid."
And he waved his hands, as if words failed to express his
admiration.

     Meg smiled and relented, and whispered as they stood waiting
to catch the time, "Take care my skirt doesn't trip you up.  It's
the plague of my life and I was a goose to wear it."

     "Pin it round your neck, and then it will be useful," said
Laurie, looking down at the little blue boots, which he evidently
approved of.

     Away they went fleetly and gracefully, for having practiced
at home, they were well matched, and the blithe young couple were
a pleasant sight to see, as they twirled merrily round and round,
feeling more friendly than ever after their small tiff.

     "Laurie,I want you to do me a favor, will you?'  said Meg,
as he stood fanning her when her breath gave out, which it did
very soon though she would not own why.

     "Won't I!" said Laurie, with alacrity.

     "Please don't tell them at home about my dress tonight.
They won't understand the joke, and it will worry Mother.'

     "Then why did you do it?" said Laurie's eyes, so plainly
that Meg hastily added . . .

     "I shall tell them myself all about it, and `fess' to Mother
how silly I've been.  But I'd rather do it myself.  So you'll not
tell, will you?"

     "I give you my word I won't, only what shall I say when
they ask me?"

     "Just say I looked pretty well and was having a good time."

     "I'll say the first with all my heart, but how about the
other?  You don't look as if you were having a good time.  Are
you?'  And Laurie looked at her with an expression which made her
answer in a whisper . . .

     "No, not just now.  Don't think I'm horrid.  I only wanted
a little fun, but this sort doesn't pay, I find, and I'm getting
tired of it."

     "Here comes Ned Moffat.  What does he want?" said Laurie,
knitting his black brows as if he did not regard his young host
in the light of a pleasant addition to the party.

     "He put his name down for three dances, and I suppose he's
coming for them.  What a bore!"  said Meg, assuming a languid air
which amused Laurie immensely.

     He did not speak to her again till suppertime, when he saw
her drinking champagne with Ned and his friend Fisher, who were
behaving `like a pair of fools', as Laurie said to himself, for
he felt a brotherly sort of right to watch over the Marches and
fight their battles whenever a defender was needed.

     "You'll have a splitting headache tomorrow, if you drink
much of that.  I wouldn't, Meg, your mother doesn't like it, you
know," he whispered, leaning over her chair, as Ned turned to
refill her glass and Fisher stooped to pick up her fan.

     "I'm not Meg tonight, I'm `a doll' who does all sorts of
crazy things.  Tomorrow I shall put away my `fuss and feathers'
and be desperately good again," se answered with an affected
little laugh.

     "Wish tomorrow was here,then," muttered Laurie, walking off,
ill-pleased at the change he saw in her.

     Meg danced and flirted, chattered and giggled, as the other
girls did.  After supper she undertook the German, and blundered
through it, nearly upsetting her partner with her long skirt, and
romping in a way that scandalized Laurie, who looked on and medi-
tated a lecture.  But he got no chance to deliver it, for Meg kept
away from him till he came to say good night.

     "Remember!" she said, trying to smile, for the splitting
headache had already begun.

     "Silence a` la mort," replied Laurie, with a melodramatic
flourish, as he went away.

     This little bit of byplay excited Annie's curiosity, but Meg
was too tired for gossip and went to bed, feeling as if she had
been to a masquerade and hadn't enjoyed herself as much as she
expected. She was sick all the next day, and on Saturday went home,
quite used up with her fortnight's fun and feeling that she had
`sat in the lap of luxury' long enough.

     "It does seem pleasant to be quiet, and not have company
manners on all the time.  Home is a nice place, though it isn't
splendid," said Meg, looking about her with a restful expression,
as she sat with her mother and Jo on the Sunday evening.

     "I'm glad to hear you say so, dear, for I was afraid home
would seem dull and poor to you after your fine quarters," replied
her mother, who had given her many anxious looks that day.  For
motherly eyes are quick to see any change in children's faces.

     Meg had told her adventures gayly and said over and over what
a charming time she had had, but something still seemed to weigh
upon her spirits, and when the younger girls were gone to bed, she
sat thoughtfully staring at the fire, saying little and looking
worried.  As the clock struck nine and Jo proposed bed, Meg
suddenly left her chair and, taking Beth's stool, leaned her elbows
on her mother's knee, saying bravely . . .

     "Marmee, I want to `fess'."

     "I thought so.  What is it, dear?"

     "Shall I go away?" asked Jo discreetly.

     "Of course not.  Don't I always tell you everything?  I was
ashamed to speak of it before the younger children, but I want you
to know all the dreadful things I did at the Moffats'."

     "We are prepared," said Mrs. March, smiling but looking a
little anxious.

     "I told you they dressed me up, but I didn't tell you that
they powdered and squeezed and frizzled, and made me look like a
fashion plate.  Laurie thought I wasn't proper.  I know he did,
though he didn't say so, and one man called me `a doll'.  I knew
it was silly, but they flattered me and said I was a beauty, and
quantities of nonsense, so I let them make a fool of me."

     "Is that all?" asked Jo, as Mrs. March looked silently at
the downcast face of her pretty daughter, and could not find it
in her heart to blame her little follies.

     "No, I drank champagne and romped and tried to flirt, and
was altogether abominable," said Meg self-reproachfully.

     "There is something more, I think."  And Mrs. March smoothed
the soft cheek,which suddenly grew rosy as Meg answered slowly . . .

     "Yes.  It's very silly, but I want to tell it, because I hate
to have people say and think such things about us and Laurie."

     Then she told the various bits of gossip she had heard at the
Moffats', and as she spoke, Jo saw her mother fold her lips tightly,
as if ill pleased that such ideas should be put into Meg's innocent
mind.

     "Well, if that isn't the greatest rubbish I ever heard," cried
Jo indignantly.  "Why didn't you pop out and tell them so on the
spot?'

     "I couldn't, it was so embarrassing for me.  I couldn't help
hearing at first, and then I was so angry and ashamed, I didn't
remember that I ought to go away."

     "Just wait till I see Annie Moffat, and I'll show you how to
settle such ridiculous stuff.  The idea of having `plans' and being
kind to Laurie because he's rich and may marry us by-and-by!  Won't
he shout when I tell him what those silly things say about us poor
children?"  And Jo laughed, as if on second thoughts the thing
struck her as a good joke.

     "If you tell Laurie, I'll never forgive you!  She mustn't,
must she, Mother?"  said Meg, looking distressed.

     "No, never repeat that foolish gossip, and forget it as soon
as you can," said Mrs. March gravely.  "I was very unwise to let
you go among people of whom I know so little, kind, I dare say,
but worldly, ill-bred, and full of these vulgar ideas about young
people.  I am more sorry than I can express for the mischief this
visit may have done you, Meg."

     "Don't be sorry, I won't let it hurt me.  I'll forget all the
bad and remember only the good, for I did enjoy a great deal, and
thank you very much for letting me go.  I'll not be sentimental or
dissatisfied, Mother.  I know I'm a silly little girl, and I'll
stay with you till I'm fit to take care of myself.  But it is nice
to be praised and admired, and I can't help saying I like it," said
Meg, looking half ashamed of the confession.

     "That is perfectly natural, and quite harmless, if the liking
does not become a passion and lead one to do foolish or unmaidenly
things.  Learn to know and value the praise which is worth having,
and to excite the admiration of excellent people by being modest
as well as pretty, Meg."

     Margaret sat thinking a moment, while Jo stood with her hands
behind her, looking both interested and a little perplexed, for it
was a new thing to see Meg blushing and talking about admiration,
lovers, and things of that sort.  And Jo felt as if during that
fortnight her sister had grown up amazingly, and was drifting away
from her into a world where she could not follow.

     "Mother, do you have `plans', as Mrs. Moffat said?" asked Meg
bashfully.

     "Yes, my dear, I have a great many, all mothers do, but mine
differ somewhat from Mrs. Moffat's, I suspect.  I will tell you
some of them, for the time has come when a word may set this
romantic little head and heart of yours right, on a very serious
subject.  You are young, Meg, but not too young to understand me,
and mothers' lips are the fittest to speak of such things to girls
like you.  Jo, your turn will come in time, perhaps, so listen to
my `plans' and help me carry them out, if they are good."

     Jo went and sat on one arm of the chair, looking as if she
thought they were about to join in some very solemn affair.  Hold-
ing a hand of each, and watching the two young faces wistfully,
Mrs. March said, in her serious yet cheery way . . .

     "I want my daughters to be beautiful, accomplished, and good.
To be admired, loved, and respected.  To have a happy youth, to
be well and wisely married, and to lead useful, pleasant lives,
with as little care and sorrow to try them as God sees fit to send.
To be loved and chosen by a good man is the best and sweetest thing
which can happen to a woman, and I sincerely  hope my girls may
know this beautiful experience.  It is natural to think of it, Meg,
right to hope and wait for it, and wise to prepare for it, so that
when the happy time comes, you may feel ready for the duties and
worthy of the joy.  My dear girls, I am ambitious for you, but not
to have you make a dash in the world, marry rich men merely because
they are rich, or have splendid houses, which are not homes because
love is wanting.  Money is a needful and precious thing, and when
well used, a noble thing, but I never want you to think it is the
first or only prize to strive for.  I'd rather see you poor men's
wives, if you were happy, beloved, contented, than queens on thrones,
without self-respect and peace."

     "Poor girls don't stand any chance, Belle says, unless they
put themselves forward," sighed Meg.

     "Then we'll be old maids," said Jo stoutly.

     "right, Jo.  Better be happy old maids than unhappy wives, or
unmaidenly girls, running about to find husbands," said Mrs. March
decidedly.  "Don't be troubled, Meg, poverty seldom daunts a sincere
lover.  Some of the best and most honored women I know were poor
girls, but so love-worthy that they were not allowed to be old maids.
Leave these things to time.  Make this home happy, so that you may
be fit for homes of your own, if they are offered you, and contented
here if they are not.  One thing remember, my girls.  Mother is
always ready to be your confidante, Father to be your friend, and
both of hope and trust that our daughters, whether married or single,
will be the pride and comfort of out lives."

     "We will, Marmee, we will!" cried both, with all their hearts,
as she bade them good night.