APDL Eductation Resources/APDL Eductation Resources.iso/text/books/little_wmn/CHAP10_19

Text File | 1994-09-11 | 206.3 KB | 4,565 lines

                           CHAPTER TEN

     As spring came on, a new set of amusements became the
fashion, and the lengthening days gave long afternoons for
work and play of all sorts.  The garden had to be put in order,
and each sister had a quarter of the little plot to do what she
liked with.  Hannah used to say, "I'd know which each of them
gardings belonged to, ef I see 'em in Chiny," and so she might,
for the girls' tastes differed as much as their characters. Meg's
had roses and heliotrope, myrtle, and a little orange tree in it.
Jo's bed was never alike two seasons, for she was always trying
experiments.  This year it was to be a plantation of sun flowers,
the seeds of which cheerful land aspiring plant were to feed
Aunt Cockle-top and her family of chicks.  Beth had old-fashioned
fragrant flowers in her garden, sweet peas and mignonette,
larkspur, pinks, pansies, and southernwood, with chickweed for
the birds and catnip for the pussies.  Amy had a bower in hers,
rather small and earwiggy, but very pretty to look at, with
honeysuckle and morning-glories hanging their colored horns and
bells in graceful wreaths all over it, tall white lilies, delicate
ferns, and as many brilliant, picturesque plants as would consent
to blossom there.

     Gardening, walks, rows on the river, and flower hunts em-
ployed the fine days, and for rainy ones, they had house diver-
sions, some old, some new, all more or less original.  One of
these was the `P.C', for as secret societies were the fashion,
it was thought proper to have one, and as all of the girls
admired Dickens, they called themselves the Pickwick Club.  With
a few interruptions, they had kept this up for a year, and met
every Saturday evening in the big garret, on which occasions the
ceremonies were as follows:  Three chairs were arranged in a row
before a table on which was a lamp, also four white badges, with
a big `P.C.' in different colors on each, and the weekly news-
paper called, THE PICKWICK PORTFOLIO, to which all contributed
something, while Jo, who reveled in pens and ink, was the editor.
At seven o'clock, the four members ascended to the clubroom,
tied their badges round their heads, and took their seats with
great solemnity.  Meg, as the eldest, was Samuel Pickwick, Jo,
being of a literary turn, Augustus Snodgrass, Beth, because she
was round and rosy, Tracy Tupman, and Amy, who was always trying
to do what she couldn't, was Nathaniel Winkle.  Pickwick, the
president, read the paper, which was filled with original tales,
poetry, local news, funny advertisements, and hints, in which
they good-naturedly reminded each other of their faults and
short comings.  On one occasion, Mr. Pickwick put on a pair
of spectacles without any glass, rapped upon the table, hemmed,
and having stared hard at Mr. Snodgrass, who was tilting back
in his chair, till he arranged himself properly, began to read:

      ____________________________________________________

                    "THE PICKWICK PORTFOLIO"

     _____________________________________________________

                          MAY 20, 18---
     _____________________________________________________

                          POET'S CORNER
     _____________________________________________________

                         ANNIVERSARY ODE
                            ___________

                    Again we meet to celebrate
                     With badge and solemn rite,
                    Our fifty-second anniversary,
                     In Pickwick Hall, tonight.

                    We all are here in perfect health,
                     None gone from our small band:
                    Again we see each well-known face,
                     And press each friendly hand.

                    Our Pickwick, always at his post,
                     With reverence we greet,
                    As, spectacles on nose, he reads
                     Our well-filled weekly sheet.

                    Although he suffers from a cold,
                     We joy to hear him speak,
                    For words of wisdom from him fall,
                     In spite of croak or squeak.

                    Old six-foot Snodgrass looms on high,
                     With elephantine grace,
                    And beams upon the company,
                     With brown and jovial face.

                    Poetic fire lights up his eye,
                     He struggles 'gainst his lot.
                    Behold ambition on his brow,
                     And on his nose, a blot.

                    Next our peaceful Tupman comes,
                     So rosy, plump, and sweet,
                    Who chokes with laughter at the puns,
                     And tumbles off his seat.

                    Prim little Winkle too is here,
                     With every hair in place,
                    A model of propriety,
                     Though he hates to wash his face.

                    The year is gone, we still unite
                     To joke and laugh and read,
                    And tread the path of literature
                     That doth to glory lead.

                    Long may our paper prosper well,
                     Our club unbroken be,
                    And coming years their blessings pour
                     On the useful, gay `P. C.'.
                                             A. SNODGRASS

                                 ________

                      THE MASKED MARRIAGE
                       (A Tale Of Venice)

          Gondola after gondola swept up to the marble
     steps, and left its lovely load to swell the brill-
     iant throng that filled the stately halls of Count
     Adelon.  Knights and ladies, elves and pages, monks
     and flower girls, all mingled gaily in the dance.
     Sweet voices and rich melody filled the air, and so
     with mirth and music the masquerade went on.
          "Has your Highness seen the Lady viola tonight?"
     asked a gallant troubadour of the fairy queen who
     floated down the hall upon his arm.
          "Yes, is she not lovely, though so sad!  Her
     dress is well chosen, too, for in a week she weds
     Count Antonio, whom she passionately hates."
          "By my faith, I envy him.  Yonder he comes,
     arrayed like a bridegroom, except the black mask.
     When that is off we shall see how he regards the
     fair maid whose heart he cannot win, though her
     stern father bestows her hand," returned the troub-
     adour.
          "Tis whispered that she loves the young English
     artist who haunts her steps, and is spurned by the
     old Count," said the lady, as they joined the dance.
          The revel was at its height when a priest
     appeared, and withdrawing the young pair to an alcove,
     hung with purple velvet, he motioned them to kneel.
     Instant silence fell on the gay throng, and not a
     sound, but he dash of fountains or the rustle of
     orange groves sleeping in the moonlight, broke the
     hush, as Count de Adelon spoke thus:
          "My lords and ladies, pardon the ruse by which
     I have gathered you here to witness the marriage of
     my daughter.  Father, we wait your services."
          All eyes turned toward the bridal party, and a
     murmur of amazement went through the throng, for
     neither bride nor groom removed their masks. Curiosity
     and wonder possessed all hearts, but respect restrained
     all tongues till the holy rite was over.  Then the
     eager spectators gathered round the count, demanding
     an explanation.
          "Gladly would I give it if I could, but I only
     know that it was the whim of my timid Viola, and I
     yielded to it.  Now, my children, let the play end.
     Unmask and receive my blessing."
          But neither bent the knee,for the young bride-
     groom replied in a tone that startled all listeners
     as the mask fell, disclosing the noble face of Ferd-
     inand Devereux, the artist lover, and leaning on the
     breast where now flashed the star of an English earl
     was the lovely Viola, radiant with joy and beauty.
          "My lord, you scornfully bade me claim your
     daughter when I could boast as high a name and vast a
     fortune as the Count antonio.  I can do more, for even
     your ambitious soul cannot refuse the Earl of Devereux
     and De Vere, when he gives his ancient name and bound-
     less wealth in return for the beloved hand of this fair
     lady, now my wife.
          The count stood like one changed to stone, and
     turning to the bewildered crowd, Ferdinand added, with
     a gay smile of triumph, "To you, my gallant friends, I
     can only wish that your wooing may prosper as mine has
     done, and that you may all win as fair a bride as I have
     by this masked marriage."
                                               S. PICKWICK

                             ___________

            Why is the P. C. like the Tower of Babel?
            It is full of unruly members.

                              ___________

                         THE HISTORY OF A SQUASH

                                 _____

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

                          _____________

     Mr. Pickwick, Sir:-
          I address you upon the subject of sin the sinner
     I mean is a man named Winkle who makes trouble in his
     club by laughing and sometimes won't write his piece in
     this fine paper I hope you will pardon his badness and
     let him send a French fable because he can't write out
     of his head as he has so many lessons to do and no brains
     in future I will try to take time by the fetlock and
     prepare some work which will be all commy la fo that
     means all right I am in haste as it is nearly school
     time
           Yours respectably,

                                               N. WINKLE

     [The above is a manly and handsome aknowledgment of past
     misdemeanors.  If our young friend studied punctuation, it
     would be well.]

                              _________

                            A SAD ACCIDENT

                              __________

          On Friday last, we were startled by a violent shock
     in our basement, followed by cries of distress. On rush-
     ing in a body to the cellar, we discovered our beloved
     President prostrate upon the floor, having tripped and
     fallen while getting wood for domestic purposes.  A per-
     fect scene of ruin met our eyes, for in his fall Mr.
     Pickwick had plunged his head and shoulders into a tub
     of water, upset a keg of soft soap upon his manly form,
     and torn his garments badly.  On being removed from this
     perilous situation, it was discovered that he had suffered
     no injury but several bruises, and we are happy to add, is
     now doing well.
                                                         ED.

                ______________________________________

                       THE PUBLIC BEREAVEMENT

          It is our painful duty to record the sudden and
     mysterious disappearance of our cherished friend, Mrs.
     Snowball Pat Paw.  This lovely and beloved cat was the
     pet of a large circle of warm and admiring friends; for
     her beauty attracted all eyes, her graces and virtues
     endeared her to all hearts, and her loss is deeply felt
     by the whole community.
          When last seen, she was sitting at the gate, watch-
     ing the butcher's cart, and it is feared that some villain,
     tempted by her charms, basely stole her. Weeks have passed,
     but no trace of her has been discovered, and we relinquish
     all hope, tie a black ribbon to her basket, set aside her
     dish, and weep for her as one lost to us forever.

                               _________

          A sympathizing friend sends the following gem:
                                ________

                                A LAMENT
                           (FOR S. B. PAT PAW)

                We mourn the loss of our little pet,
                  And sigh o'er her hapless fate,
                For never more by the fire she'll sit,
                  Nor play by the old green gate.

                The little grave where her infant sleeps
                  Is 'neath the chestnut tree.
                But o'er her grave we may not weep,
                  We know not where it may be.

                Her empty bed, her idle ball,
                  Will never see her more;
                No gentle tap, no loving purr
                  Is heard at the parlor door.

                Another cat comes after her mice,
                  A cat with a dirty face,
                But she does not hunt as our darling did,
                  Nor play with her airy grace.

                Her stealthy paws tread the very hall
                  Where Snowball used to play,
                But she only spits at the dogs our pet
                  So gallantly drove away.

                She is useful and mild, and does her best,
                  But she is not fair to see,
                And we cannot give her your place dear,
                  Nor worship her as we worship thee.
                                                       A.S.

                 __________________________________________

                               ADVERTISEMENTS
                 __________________________________________

                  Miss Oranthy Bluggage, the accomplished
                  strong-minded lecturer, will deliver her
                  famous lecture on "WOMAN AND HER POSITION"
                  at Pickwick Hall, next Saturday Evening,
                  after the usual performances.

                 ___________________________________________

                  A weekly meeting will be held at Kitchen
                  place, to teach young ladies how to cook.
                  Hannah Brown will preside, and all are
                  invited to attend.

                 ____________________________________________

                  The DUSTPAN SOCIETY will meet on Wednesday
                  next, and parade in the upper story of the
                  Club House.  All members to appear in uniform
                  and shoulder their brooms at nine precisely.

                 ____________________________________________

                  Mrs. Beth Bouncer will open her new assort-
                  ment of Doll's Millinery next week.  The
                  latest Paris fashions have arrived, and
                  orders are respectfully solicited.

                 ____________________________________________

                  A new play will appear at the Barnville
                  Theatre,in the course of a few weeks,which
                  will surpass anything ever seen on the Amer-
                  ican stage.  THE GREEK SLAVE, or CONSTAN-
                  TINE THE AVENGER, is the name of this thrill-
                  ing drama.!!!

                 _____________________________________________

                                     HINTS

                  If S.P. didn't use so much soap on his hands,
                  he wouldn't always be late at breakfast. A.S.
                  is requested not to whistle in the street. T.T
                  please don't forget Amy's napkin.  N.W. must
                  not fret because his dress has not nine tucks.

                 _______________________________________________

                                   WEEKLY REPORT

                                    Meg--Good.
                                    Jo--Bad.
                                    Beth--Very Good.
                                    Amy--Middling.

     ___________________________________________________________________


     As the President finished reading the paper (which I beg
leave to assure my readers is a bona fide copy of one written
by bona fide girls once upon a time), a round of applause
followed, and then Mr. Snodgrass rose to make a proposition.

     "Mr. President and gentlemen," he began, assuming a par-
liamentary attitude and tone, "I wish to propose the admission
of a new member--one who highly deserves the honor, would be
deeply grateful for it, and would add immensely to the spirit
of the club, the literary value of the paper, and be no end
jolly and nice.  I propose Mr. Theodore Laurence as an honorary
member of the P. C.  Come now, do have him."

     Jo's sudden change of tone made the girls laugh, but all
looked rather anxious, and no one said a word as Snodgrass
took his seat.

     "We'll put it to a vote," said the President.  "All in
favor of this motion please to manifest it by saying, `Aye'."

     "Contrary-minded say, `No'."

     Meg and Amy were contrary-minded, and Mr. Winkle rose to
say with great elegance, "We don't wish any boys, they only
joke and bounce about.  This is a ladies' club, and we wish to
be private and proper."

     "I'm afraid he'll laugh at our paper, and make fun of us
afterward," observed Pickwick, pulling the little curl on her
forehead, as she always did when doubtful.

     Up rose Snodgrass, very much in earnest.  "Sir, I give you
my word as a gentleman, Laurie won't do anything of the sort.  He
likes to write, and he'll give a tone to our contributions and
keep us from being sentimental, don't you see?  We can do so little
for him, and he does so much for us, I think the least we can do
is to offer him a place here, and make him welcome if he comes."

     This artful allusion to benefits conferred brought Tupman to
his feet, looking as if he had quite made up his mind.

     "Yes, we ought to do it, even if we are afraid.  I say he may
come, and his grandpa, too, if he likes."

     This spirited burst from Beth electrified the club, and Jo
left her seat to shake hands approvingly.  "Now then, vote again.
Everybody remember it's our Laurie, and say, `Aye!'" cried Snod-
grass excitedly.

     "Aye!  Aye!  Aye!" replied three voices at once.

     "Good!  Bless you!  Now, as there's nothing like `taking time
by the fetlock', as Winkle characteristically observes, allow me
to present the new member."  And, to the dismay of the rest of the
club, Jo threw open the door of the closet, and displayed Laurie
sitting on a rag bag, flushed and twinkling with suppressed laughter.

     "You rogue!  You traitor!  Jo, how could you?" cried the three
girls, as Snodgrass led her friend triumphantly forth, and producing
both a chair and a badge, installed him in a jiffy.

     "The coolness of you two rascals is amazing," began Mr. Pick-
wick, trying to get up an awful frown and only succeeding in pro-
ducing an amiable smile.  But the new member was equal to the
occasion, and rising, with a grateful salutation to the Chair, said
in the most engaging manner, "Mr. President and ladies--I beg pardon,
gentlemen--allow me to introduce myself as Sam Weller, the very
humble servant of the club."

     "Good!  Good!" cried Jo, pounding with the handle of the old
warming pan on which she leaned.

     "My faithful friend and noble patron," continued Laurie with
a wave of the hand, "who has so flatteringly presented me, is not
to be blamed for the base stratagem of tonight.  I planned it, and
she only gave in after lots of teasing."

     "Come now, don't lay it all on yourself.  You know I proposed
the cupboard," broke in Snodgrass, who was enjoying the joke
amazingly.

     "Never mind what she says.  I'm the wretch that did it, sir,"
said the new member, with a Welleresque nod to Mr. Pickwick.  "But
on my honor, I never will do so again, and henceforth devote myself
to the interest of this immortal club."

     "Hear!  Hear!" cried Jo, clashing the lid of the warming pan
like a cymbal.

     "Go on, go on!" added Winkle and Tupman, while the President
bowed benignly.

     "I merely wish to say, that as a slight token of my gratitude
for the honor done me, and as a means of promoting friendly relations
between adjoining nations, I have set up a post office in the hedge
in the lower corner of the garden, a fine, spacious building with
padlocks on the doors and every convenience for the mails, also the
females, if I may be allowed the expression.  It's the old martin
house, but I've stopped up the door and made the roof open, so it
will hold all sorts of things, and save our valuable time.  Letters,
manuscripts, books, and bundles can be passed in there, and as each
nation has a key, it will be uncommonly nice, I fancy.  Allow me to
present the club key, and with many thanks for your favor, take my
seat."

     Great applause as Mr. Weller deposited a little key on the
table and subsided, the warming pan clashed and waved wildly, and
it was some time before order could be restored.  A long discussion
followed, and everyone came out surprising, for everyone did her
best.  So it was an unusually lively meeting, and did not adjourn
till a late hour, when it broke up with three shrill cheers for the
new member.  No one ever regretted the admittance of Sam Weller, for
a more devoted, well-behaved, and jovial member no club could have.
He certainly did add `spirit' to the meetings, and `a tone' to the
paper, for his orations convulsed his hearers and his contributions
were excellent, being patriotic, classical, comical, or dramatic,
but never sentimental.  Jo regarded them as worthy of Bacon, Milton,
or Shakespeare, and remodeled her own works with good effect, she
thought.

     The P. O. was a capital little institution, and flourished
wonderfully, for nearly as many queer things passed through it as
through the real post office.  Tragedies and cravats, poetry and
pickles, garden seeds and long letters, music and gingerbread,
rubbers, invitations, scoldings, and puppies.  The old gentleman
liked the fun, and amused himself by sending odd bundles, mys-
terious messages, and funny telegrams, and his gardener, who was
smitten with Hannah's charms, actually sent a love letter to Jo's
care.  How they laughed when the secret came out, never dreaming
how many love letters that little post office would hold in the
years to come.


                         CHAPTER ELEVEN

     "The first of June!  The Kings are off to the seashore to-
morrow, and I'm free.  Three months' vacation--how I shall enjoy
it!" exclaimed Meg, coming home one warm day to find Jo laid
upon the sofa in an unusual state of exhaustion, while Beth took
off her dusty boots, and Amy made lemonade for the refreshment
of the whole party.

     "Aunt March went today, for which, oh, be joyful!" said
Jo.  "I was mortally afraid she'd ask me to go with her.  If she
had,I should have felt as if I ought to do it, but Plumfield is
about as gay as a churchyard, you know, and I'd rather be excused.
We had a flurry getting the old lady off, and I had a fright every
time she spoke to me, for I was in such a hurry to be through that
I was uncommonly helpful and sweet, and feared she'd find it im-
possible to part from me.  I quaked till she was fairly in the
carriage, and had a final fright, for as it drove of, she popped
out her head, saying, `Josyphine, won't you--?' I didn't hear any
more, for I basely turned and fled.  I did actually run, and
whisked round the corner whee I felt safe."

     "Poor old Jo!  She came in looking as if bears were after her,"
said Beth, as she cuddled her sister's feet with a motherly air.

     "Aunt March is a regular samphire, is she not?" observed Amy,
tasting her mixture critically.

     "She means vampire, not seaweed,but it doesn't matter. It's
too warm to be particular about one's parts of speech," murmured
Jo.

     "What shall you do all your vacation?"  asked Amy, changing
the subject with tact.

     "I shall lie abed late, and do nothing," replied Meg, from
the depths of the rocking chair.  "I've been routed up early all
winter and had to spend my days working for other people, so now
I'm going to rest and revel to my heart's content."

     "No," said Jo, "that dozy way wouldn't suit me.  I've laid
in a heap of books, and I'm going to improve my shining hours
reading on my perch in the old apple tree, when I'm not having
l. . ."

     "Don't say `larks!'" implored Amy, as a return snub for the
samphire' correction.

     "I'll say `nightingales' then, with Laurie.  That's proper
and appropriate, since he's a warbler."

     "Don't let us do any lessons, Beth, for a while, but play
all the time and rest, as the girls mean to," proposed Amy.

     "Well, I will,if Mother doesn't mind.  I want to learn some
new songs, and my children need fitting up for the summer.  They
are dreadfully out of order and really suffering for clothes."

     "May we, Mother?"  asked Meg, turning to Mrs. March, who
sat sewing in what they called `Marmee's corner'.

     "You may try your experiment for a week and see how you like
it.  I think by Saturday night you will find that all play and no
work is as bad as all work and no play."

     "Oh, dear, no!  It will be delicious, I'm sure," said Meg
complacently.

     "I now propose a toast, as my `friend and pardner, Sairy
Gamp', says.  Fun forever, and no grubbing!" cried Jo, rising,
glass in hand, as the lemonade went round.

     They all drank it merrily, and began the experiment by
lounging for the rest of the day.  Next morning, Meg did not
appear till ten o'clock.  Her solitary breakfast did not taste
nice, and the room seemed lonely and untidy, for Jo had not
filled the vases, Beth had not dusted, and Amy's books lay
scattered about.  Nothing was neat and pleasant but `Marmee's
corner', which looked as usual.  And there Meg sat, to `rest and
read', which meant to yawn and imagine what pretty summer dresses
she would get with her salary.  Jo spent the morning on the river
with Laurie and the afternoon reading and crying over THE WIDE,
WIDE WORLD, up in the apple tree.  Beth began by rummaging every-
thing out of the big closet where her family resided, but getting
tired before half done, she left her establishment topsy-turvy
and went to her music, rejoicing that she had no dishes to wash.
Amy arranged her bower, put on her best white frock, smoothed her
curls, and sat down to draw under the honeysuckle, hoping someone
would see and inquire who the young artist was.  As no one appeared
but an inquisitive daddy-longlegs, who examined her work with
interest, she went to walk, got caught in a shower, and came home
dripping.

     At teatime they compared notes, and all agreed that it had
been a delightful, though unusually long day.  Meg, who went shop-
ping in the afternoon and got a `sweet blue muslin, had discovered,
after she had cut the breadths off, that it wouldn't wash, which
mishap made her slightly cross.  Jo had burned the skin off her
nose boating, and got a raging headache by reading too long.  Beth
was worried by the confusion of her closet and the difficulty of
learning three or four songs at once, and Amy deeply regretted the
damage done her frock, for Katy Brown's party was to be the next
day and now like Flora McFlimsey, she had `nothing to wear'.  But
these were mere trifles, and they assured their mother that the
experiment was working finely.  She smiled, said nothing, and with
Hannah's help did their neglected work, keeping home pleasant and
the domestic machinery running smoothly. It was astonishing what
a peculiar and uncomfortable state of things was produced by the
`resting and reveling' process.  The days kept getting longer and
longer, the weather was unusually variable and so were tempers, and
unsettled feeling possessed everyone, and Satan found plenty of
mischief for the idle hands to do.  As the height of luxury, Meg
put out some of her sewing, and then found time hang so heavily that
she fell to snipping and spoiling her clothes in her attempts to
furbish them up a`la Moffat.  Jo read till her eyes gave out and
she was sick of books, got so fidgety that even good-natured Laurie
had a quarrel with her, and so reduced in spirits that she desper-
ately wished she had gone with Aunt March.  Beth got on pretty well,
for she was constantly forgetting that it was to be all play and
no work, and fell back into her old ways now and then.  But something
in the air affected her, and more than once her tranquility was much
disturbed, so much so that on one occasion she actually shook poor
dear Joanna and told her she was a fright'.  Amy fared worst of all,
for her resources were small, and when her sisters left her to amuse
herself, she soon found that accomplished and important little self
a great burden.  She didn't like dolls, fairy tales were childish,
and one couldn't draw all the time.  Tea parties didn't amount to
much neither did picnics unless very well conducted.  "If one could
have a fine house, full of nice girls, or go traveling, the summer
would be delightful, but to stay at home with three selfish sisters
and a grown-up boy was enough to try the patience of a Boaz," com-
plained Miss Malaprop, after several days devoted to pleasure,
fretting, and ennui.

     No one would own that they were tired of the experiment, but
by Friday night each acknowledged to herself that she was glad the
week was nearly done.  Hoping to impress the lesson more deeply,
Mrs. March, who had a good deal of humor, resolved to finish off
the trial in an appropriate manner, so she gave Hannah a holiday and
let the girls enjoy the full effect of the play system.

     When they got up on Saturday morning, there was no fire in
the kitchen, no breakfast in the dining room, and no mother any-
where to be seen.

     "Mercy on us!  What has happened?" cried Jo, staring about
her in dismay.

     Meg ran upstairs and soon came back again, looking relieved
but rather bewildered, and a little ashamed.

     "Mother isn't sick, only very tired, and she says she is
going to stay quietly in her room all day and let us do the best
we can.  It's a very queer thing for her to do, she doesn't act
a bit like herself.  But she says it has been a hard week for
her, so we mustn't grumble but take care of ourselves."

     "That's easy enough, and I like the idea, I'm aching for
something to do, that is, some new amusement, you know," added
Jo quickly.

     In fact it was an immense relief to them all to have a little
work, and they took hold with a will, but soon realized the truth
of Hannah's saying, "Housekeeping ain't no joke."  There was plenty
of food in the larder, and while Beth and Amy set the table, Meg and
Jo got breakfast, wondering as they did why servants ever talked
about hard work.

     "I shall take some up to Mother, though she said we were not
to think of her, for she'd take care of herself," said Meg, who
presided and felt quite matronly behind the teapot.

     So a tray was fitted out before anyone began, and taken up
with the cook's compliments.  The boiled tea was very bitter, the
omelet scorched, and the biscuits speckled with saleratus, but
Mrs. March received her repast with thanks and laughed heartily
over it after Jo was gone.

     "Poor little souls, they will have a hard time, I'm afraid,
but they won't suffer, and it will do them good," she said, pro-
ducing the more palatable viands with which she had provided
herself, and disposing of the bad breakfast, so that their feel-
ings might not be hurt, a motherly  little deception for which
they were grateful.

     Many were the complaints below, and great the chagrin of
the head cook at her failures.  "Never mind, I'll get the dinner
and be servant, you be mistress, keep your hands nice, see
company, and give orders," said Jo, who knew still less than Meg,
about culinary affairs.

     This obliging offer was gladly accepted, and Margaret retired
to the parlor, which she hastily put in order by whisking the
litter under the sofa and shutting the blinds to save the trouble
of dusting.  Jo, with perfect faith in her own powers and a
friendly desire to make up the quarrel, immediately put a note in
the office, inviting Laurie to dinner.

     "You'd better see what you have got before you think of having
company," said Meg, when informed of the hospitable but rash act.

     "Oh, there's corned beef and plenty of poatoes, and I shall
get some asparagus and a lobster, `for a relish', as Hannah says.
We'll have lettuce and make a salad.  I don't know how, but the
book tells.  I'll have blancmange and strawberries for dessert,
and coffee too, if you want to be elegant."

     "Don't try too many messes, Jo, for you can't make anything
but gingerbread and molasses candy fit to eat.  I wash my hands
of the dinner party, and since you have asked Laurie on your own
responsibility, you may just take care of him."

     "I don't want you to do anything but be civil to him and help
to the pudding.  You'll give me your advice if I get in a muddle,
won't you?" asked Jo, rather hurt.

     "Yes, but I don't know much, except about bread and a few
trifles.  You had better ask Mother's leave before you order any-
thing," returned Meg prudently.

     "Of course I shall.  I'm not a fool."  And Jo went off in a
huff at the doubts expressed of her powers.

     "Get what you like, and don't disturb me.  I'm going out to
dinner and can't worry about things at home," said Mrs. March, when
Jo spoke to her.  "I never enjoyed housekeeping, and I'm going to
take a vacation today, and read, write, go visiting, and amuse
myself."

     The unusual spectacle of her busy mother rocking comfortably
and reading early in the morning made Jo feel as if some unnatural
phenomenon had occurred, for an eclipse, an earthquake, or a vol-
canic eruption would hardly have seemed stranger.

     "Everything is out of sorts, somehow," she said to herself,
going downstairs.  "There's Beth crying, that's a sure sign that
something is wrong in this family.  If Amy is bothering, I'll
shake her."

     Feeling very much out of sorts herself, Jo hurried into the
parlor to find Beth sobbing over Pip, the canary, who lay dead in
the cage with his little claws pathetically extended, as if implor-
ing the food for want of which he had died.

     "It's all my fault, I forgot him, there isn't a seed or a
drop left.  Oh, Pip!  Oh, Pip!  How could I be so cruel to you?"
cried Beth, taking the poor thing in her hands and trying to
restore him.

     Jo peeped into his half-open eye, felt his little heart, and
finding him stiff and cold, shook her head, and offered her domino
box for a coffin.

     "Put him in the oven, and maybe his will get warm and revive,"
said Amy hopefully.

     "He's been starved, and he shan't be baked now he's dead. I'll
make him a shroud, and he shall be buried in the garden, and I'll
never have another bird, never, my Pip!  For I am too bad to own
one," murmured Beth, sitting on the floor with her pet folded in
her hands.

     "The funeral shall be this afternoon, and we will all go.  Now,
don't cry, Bethy.  It's a pity, but nothing goes right this week,
and Pip has had the worst of the experiment.  Make the shroud, and
lay him in my box, and after the dinner party, we'll have a nice
little funeral," said Jo, beginning to feel as if she had undertaken
a good deal.

     Leaving the others to console Beth, she departed to the kitchen,
which was in a most discouraging state of confusion.  Putting on a
big apron, she fell to work and got the dishes piled up ready for
washing, when she discovered that the fire was out.

     "Here's a sweet prospect!"  muttered Jo, slamming the stove
door open, and poking vigorously among the cinders.

     Having rekindled the fire, she thought she would go to market
while the water heated.  The walk revived her spirits, and flattering
herself that she had made good bargins, she trudged home again, after
buying a very young lobster, some very old asparagus, and two boxes
of acid strawberries.  By the time she got cleared up, the dinner
arrived and the stove was red-hot.  Hannah had left a pan of bread
to rise, Meg had worked it up early, set it on the hearth for a
second rising, and forgotten it.  Meg was entertaining Sallie
Gardiner in the parlor, when the door flew open and a floury,crocky,
flushed, and disheveled figure appeared, demanding tartly . . .

     "I say, isn't bread `riz' enough when it runs over the pans?"

     Sallie began to laugh, but Meg nodded and lifted her eyebrows
as high as they would go, which caused the apparition to vanish and
put the sour bread into the oven without further delay.  Mrs. March
went out, after peeping here and there to see how matters went, also
saying a word of comfort to Beth, who sat making a winding sheet,
while the dear departed lay in state in the domino box.  A strange
sense of helplessness fell upon the girls as the gray bonnet van-
ished round the corner, and despair seized them when a few minutes
later Miss Crocker appeared, and said she'd come to dinner.  Now
this lady was a thin, yellow spinster, with a sharp nose and
inquisitive eyes, who saw everything and gossiped about all she saw.
They disliked her, but had been taught to be kind to her, simply
because she was old and poor and had few friends.  So Meg gave her
the easy chair and tried to entertain her, while she asked questions,
critsized everything, and told stories of the people whom she knew.

     Language cannot describe the anxieties, experiences, and exertions
which Jo underwent that morning, and the dinner she served up became a
standing joke.  Fearing to ask any more advice, she did her best alone,
and discovered that something more than energy and good will is necess-
ary to make a cook.  She boiled the asparagus for an hour and was
grieved to find the heads cooked off and the stalks harder than ever.
The bread burned black, for the salad dressing so aggravated her that
she could not make it fit to ear.  The lobster was a scarlet mystery to
her, but she hammered and poked till it was unshelled and its meager
proportions concealed in a grove of lettuce leaves. The potatoes had
to be hurried, not to keep the asparagus waiting, and were not done
at the last. The blancmange was lumpy, and the strawberries not as
ripe as they looked, having been skilfully `deaconed'.

     "Well, they can eat beef and bread and butter, if they are
hungry, only it's mortifying to have to spend your whole morning for
nothing," thought Jo, as she rang the bell half an hour later than
usual, and stood, hot, tired, and dispirited, surveying the feast
spread before Laurie, accustomed to all sorts of elegance, and Miss
Crocker, whose tattling tongue would report them far and wide.

     Poor Jo would gladly have gone under the table, as one thing
after another was tasted and left, while Amy giggled, Meg looked
distressed, Miss Crocker pursed her lips, and Laurie talked and
laughed with all his might to give a cheerful tone to the festive
scene.  Jo's one strong point was the fruit,for she had sugared it
well, and had a pitcher of rich cream to eat with it.  Her hot cheeks
cooled a trifle, and she drew a long breath as the pretty glass
plates went round, and everyone looked graciously at the little rosy
islands floating in a sea of cream.  Miss Crocker tasted first, made
a wry face, and drank some water hastily.  Jo, who refused, thinking
there might not be enough, for they dwindled sadly after the picking
over, glanced at Laurie, but he was eating away manfully, though there
was a slight pucker about his mouth and he kept his eye fixed on his
plate. Amy, who was fond of delicate fare, took a heaping spoonful,
choked, hid her face in her napkin, and left the table precipitately.

     "Oh, what is it?" exclaimed Jo, trembling.

     "Salt instead of sugar, and the cream is sour," replied Meg
with a tragic gesture.

     Jo uttered a groan and fell back in her chair, remembering that
she had given a last hasty powdering to the berries out of one of
the two boxes on the kitchen table, and had neglected to put the
milk in the refrigerator.  She turned scarlet and was on the verge
of crying, when she met Laurie's eyes, which would look merry in
spite of his heroic efforts.  The comical side of the affair suddenly
struck her, and she laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks.  So
did everyone else, even `Croaker' as the girls called the old lady,
and the unfortunate dinner ended gaily, with bread and butter, olives
and fun.

     "I haven't strength of mind enough to clear up now, so we will
sober ourselves with a funeral," said Jo, as they rose, and Miss
Crocker made ready to go, being eager to tell the new story at
another friend's dinner table.

     They did sober themselves for Beth's sake.  Laurie dug a grave
under the ferns in the grove, little Pip was laid in, with many tears
by his tender-hearted mistress, and covered with moss, while a wreath
of violets and chickweed was hung on the stone which bore his epitaph,
composed by Jo while she struggled with the dinner.

                     Here lies Pip March,
                     Who died the 7th of June;
                     Loved and lamented sore,
                     And not forgotten soon.

     At the conclusion of the ceremonies, Beth retired to her room,
overcome with emotion and lobster, but there was no place of repose,
for the beds were not made, and she found her grief much assuaged
by beating up the pillows and putting things in order.  Meg helped
Jo clear away the remains of the feast, which took half the afternoon
and left them so tired that they agreed to be contented with tea and
toast for supper.

     Laurie took Amy to drive, which was a deed of charity, for the
sour cream seemed to have had a bad effect upon her temper.  Mrs.
March came home to find the three older girls hard at work in the
middle of the afternoon, and a glance at the closet gave her an idea
of the success of one part of the experiment.

     Before the housewives could rest, several people called, and
there was a scramble to get ready to see them.  Then tea must be got,
errands done, and one or two necessary bits of sewing neglected until
the last minute.  As twilight fell, dewy and still, one by one they
gathered on the porch where the June roses were budding beautifully,
and each groaned or sighed as she sat down, as if tired or troubled.

     "What a dreadful day this has been!" began Jo, usually the first
to speak.

     "It has seemed shorter than usual, but so uncomfortable," said
Meg.

     "Not a bit like home," added Amy.

     "It can't seem so without Marmee and little Pip," sighed Beth,
glancing with full eyes at the empty cage above her head.

     "Here's Mother, dear, and you shall have another bird tomorrow,
if you want it."

     As she spoke, Mrs. March came and took her place among them,
looking as if her holiday had not been much pleasanter than theirs.

     "Are you satisfied with your experiment, girls, or do you want
another week of it?" she asked, as Beth nestled up to her and the
rest turned toward her with brightening faces, as flowers turn
toward the sun.

     "I don't!" cried Jo decidedly.

     "Nor I," echoed the others.

     "You think then, that it is better to have a few duties and
live a little for others, do you?"

     "Lounging and larking doesn't pay," observed Jo, shaking her
head.  "I'm tired of it and mean to go to work at something right
off."

     "Suppose you learn plain cooking.  That's a useful accomplish-
ment, which no woman should be without," said Mrs. March, laughing
inaudibly at the recollection of Jo's dinner party,, for she had
met Miss Crocker and heard her account of it.

     "Mother, did you go away and let everything be, just to see how
we'd get on?" cried Meg, who had had suspicions all day.

     "Yes, I wanted you to see how the comfort of all depends on
each doing her share faithfully.  While Hannah and I did your work,
you got on pretty well, though I don't think you were very happy
or amiable.  So I thought, as a little lesson, I would show you
what happens when everyone thinks only of herself.  Don't you feel
that it is pleasanter to help one another, to have daily duties
which make leisure sweet when it comes, and to bear and forbear,
that home may be comfortable and lovely to us all?"

     "We do, Mother we do!" cried the girls.

     "Then let me advise you to take up your little burdens again,
for though they seem heavy sometimes, they are good for us, and
lighten as we learn to carry them.  Work is wholesome, and there
is plenty for everyone.  It keeps us from ennui and mischief, is
good for health and spirits, and gives us a sense of power and
independence better than money or fashion."

     "We'll work like bees, and love it too, see if we don't,"
said Jo.  "I'll learn plain cooking for my holiday task, and the
dinner party I have shall be a success."

     "I'll make the set of shirts for father, instead of letting
you do it, Marmee.  I can and I will, though I'm not fond of sewing.
That will be better than fussing over my own things, which are plenty
nice enough as they are." said Meg.

     "I'll do my lessons every day, and not spend so much time with
my music and dolls.  I am a stupid thing, and ought to be studying,
not playing," was Beth's resolution, while Amy followed their example
by heroically declaring, "I shall learn to make buttonholes, and
attend to my parts of speech."

     "Very good!  Then I am quite satisfied with the experiment, and
fancy that we shall not have to repeat it, only don't go to the other
extreme and delve like slaves.  Have regular hours for work and play,
make each day both useful and pleasant, and prove that you understand
the worth of time by employing it well.  Then youth will be delightful,
old age will bring few regrets, and life become a beautiful success, in
spite of poverty."

     "We'll remember, Mother!"   And they did.


                          CHAPTER TWELVE

     Beth was postmistress, for, being most at home, she could
attend to it regularly, and dearly liked the daily task of un-
locking the little door and distributing the mail.  One July day
she came in with her hands full, and went about the house leaving
letters and parcels like the penny post.

     "Here's your posy, Mother!  Laurie never forgets that," she
said, putting the fresh nosegay in the vase that stood in `Marmee's
corner', and was kept supplied by the affectionate boy.

     "Miss Meg March, one letter and a glove," continued Beth,
delivering the articles to her sister, who sat near her mother,
stitching wristbands.

     "Why, I left a pair over there, and here is only one," said
Meg, looking at the gray cotton glove.  "Didn't you drop the
other in the garden?"

     "No, I'm sure I didn't, for there was only one in the office."

     "I hate to have odd gloves!  Never mind, the other may be
found.  My letter is only a translation of the German song I
wanted.  I think Mr. Brooke did it, for this isn't Laurie's
writing."

     Mrs. March glanced at Meg, who was looking very pretty in
her gingham morning gown, with the little curls blowing about her
forehead, and very womanly, as she sat sewing at her little work-
table, full of tidy white rolls, so unconscious of the thought in
her mother's mind as she sewed and sang, while her fingers flew
and her thoughts were busied with girlish fancies as innocent
and fresh as the pansies in her belt, that Mrs. March smiled and
was satisfied.

     "Two letters for Doctor Jo, a book, and a funny old hat,
which covered the whole post office and stuck outside," said
Beth, laughing as she went into the study where Jo sat writing.

     "What a sly fellow Laurie is!  I said I wished bigger hats
were the fashion, because I burn my face every hot day.  He said,
`Why mind the fashion?  Wear a big hat, and be comfortable!'  I
said I would if I had one, and he has sent me this to try me. I'll
wear it for fun, and show him I don't care for the fashion."  And
hanging the antique broadbrim on a bust of Plato, Jo read her
letters.

     One from her mother made her cheeks glow and her eyes fill,
for it said to her . . .

     My Dear:

     I write a little word to tell you with how much satisfaction
I watch your efforts to control your temper.  You say nothing
about your trials, failures, or successes, and think, perhaps,
that no one sees them but the Friend whose help you daily ask,
if I may trust the well-worn cover of your guidebook.  I, too,
have seen them all, and heartily believe in the sincerity of
your resolution, since it begins to bear fruit.  Go on, dear,
patiently and bravely, and always believe that no one sympa-
thizes more tenderly with you than your loving  . . .
                                                 Mother

     "That does me good!  That's worth millions of money and
pecks of praise.  Oh, Marmee, I do try!  I will keep on trying,
and not get tired, since I have you to help me."

     Laying her head on her arms, Jo wet her little romance with
a few happy tears. for she had thought that no one saw and appre-
ciated her efforts to be good, and this assurance was doubly
precious, doubly encouraging, because unexpected and from the
person whose commendation she most valued.  Feeling stronger than
ever to meet and subdue her Apollyon, she pinned the note inside her
frock, as a shield and a reminder, lest she be taken unaware, and
proceeded to open her other letter, quite ready for either good or
bad news.  In a big, dashing hand, Laurie wrote . . .

                            Dear Jo,
                            What ho!

     Some english girls and boys are coming to see me tomorrow
and I want to have a jolly time.  If it's fine, I'm going to pitch
my tent in Longmeadow, and row up the whole crew to lunch and
croquet--have a fire, make messes, gypsy fashion, and all sorts
of larks.  They are nice people, and like such things.  Brooke will
go to keep us boys steady, and Kate Vaughn will play propriety for
the girls.  I want you all to come, can't let Beth off at any price,
and nobody shall worry her.  Don't bother about rations, I'll see
to that and everything else, only do come, there's a good fellow!

                        In a tearing hurry,
                        Yours ever, Laurie.

     "Here's richness!" cried Jo, flying in to tell the news to
Meg.

     "Of course we can go, Mother?  It will be such a help to
Laurie, for I can row, and Meg see to the lunch, and the children
be useful in some way."

     "I hope the Vaughns are not fine grown-up people.  Do you
know anything about them, Jo?" asked Meg.

     "Only that there are four of them.  Kate is older than you,
Fred and Frank (twins) about my age, and a little girl (Grace), who
is nine or ten.  Laurie knew them abroad, and liked the boys.  I
fancied, from the way he primmed up his mouth in speaking of her,
that he didn't admire Kate much."

     "I'm so glad my French print is clean, it's just the thing
and so becoming!" observed Meg complacently.  "Have you anything
decent, Jo?"

     "Scarlet and gray boating suit, good enough for me.  I shall
row and tramp about, so I don't want any starch to think of. You'll
come, Betty?"

     "If you won't let any boys talk to me."

     "Not a boy!"

     "I like to please Laurie, and I'm not afraid of Mr. Brooke,
he is so kind.  But I don't want to play, or sing, or say anything.
I'll work hard and not trouble anyone, and you'll take care of me,
Jo, so I'll go."

     "That's my good girl.  You do try to fight off your shyness,
and I love you for it. Fighting faults isn't easy, as I know, and
a cheery word kind of gives a lift.  Thank you, Mother," And Jo
gave the thin cheek a grateful kiss, more precious to Mrs. March
than if it had given back the rosy roundness of her youth.

     "I had a box of chocolate drops, and the picture I wanted to
copy," said Amy, showing her mail.

     "And I got a note from Mr. Laurence, asking me to come over
and play to him tonight, before the lamps are lighted, and I shall
go," added Beth, whose friendship with the old gentleman prospered
finely.

     "Now let's fly round, and do double duty today, so that we can
play tomorrow with free minds," said Jo, preparing to replace her
pen with a broom.

     When the sun peeped into the girls' room early next morning
to promise them a fine day, he saw a comical sight.  Each had
made such preparation for the fete as seemed necessary and proper.
Meg had an extra row of little curlpapers across her forehead, Jo
had copiously anointed her afflicted face with cold cream, Beth
had taken Joanna to bed with her to atone for the approaching
separation, and Amy had capped the climax by putting a colthespin
on her nose to uplift the offending feature.  It was one of the
kind artists use to hold the paper on their drawing boards,there-
fore quite appropriate and effective for the purpose it was now
being put.  This funny spectacle appeared to amuse the sun, for
he burst out with such radiance that Jo woke up and roused her
sisters by a hearty laugh at Amy's ornament.

     Sunshine and laughter were good omens for a pleasure party,
and soon a lively bustle began in both houses. Beth, who was
ready first, kept reporting what went on next door, and enlivened
her sisters' toilets by frequent telegrams from the window.

     "There goes the man with the tent!  I see Mrs. Barker doing
up the lunch in a hamper and a great basket.  Now Mr. Laurence is
looking up at the sky and the weathercock.  I wish he would go
too.  There's Laurie, looking like a sailor, nice boy!  Oh, mercy
me!  Here's a carriage full of people, a tall lady, a little girl,
and two dreadful boys.  One is lame, poor thing, he's got a crutch.
Laurie didn't tell us that.  Be quick, girls!  It's getting late.
Why, there is Ned Moffat, I do declare.  Meg, isn't that the man
who bowed to you one day when we were shopping?"

     "So it is.  How queer that he should come.  I thought he was
at the mountains.  There is Sallie.  I'm glad she got back in time.
Am I all right, Jo?" cried Meg  in a flutter.

     "A regular daisy.  Hold up your dress and put your hat on
straight, it looks sentimental tipped that way and will fly off
at the first puff.  Now then, come on!"

     "Oh, Jo, you are not going to wear that awful hat?  It's too
absurd!  You shall not make a guy  of yourself," remonstrated Meg,
as Jo tied down with a red ribbon the broad-brimmed, old-fashioned
leghorn Laurie had sent for a joke.

     "I just will, though, for it's capital, so shady, light, and
big.  It will make fun, and I don't mind being a guy if I'm comfor-
table."  With that Jo marched straight away and the rest followed,
a bright little band of sisters, all looking their best in summer
suits, with happy faces under the jaunty hatbrims.

     Laurie ran to meet and present them to his friends in the
most cordial manner.  The lawn was the reception room, and for
several minutes a lively scene was enacted there.  Meg was
grateful to see that Miss Kate, though twenty, was dressed with
a simplicity which American girls would do well to imitate, and
who was much flattered by Mr. Ned's assurances that he came
especially to see her.  Jo understood why Laurie `primmed up his
mouth' when speaking of Kate, for that young lady had a stand-
off-don't-touch-me air, which contrasted strongly with the free
and easy demeanor of the other girls.  Beth took an observation
of the new boys and decided that the lame one was not `dreadful',
but gentle and feeble, and she would be kind to him on that
account.  Amy found Grace a well-mannered, merry, little person,
and after staring dumbly at one another for a few minutes, they
suddenly became very good friends.

     Tents, lunch, and croquet utensils having been sent on
beforehand, the party was soon embarked, and the two boats
pushed off together, leaving Mr. Laurence waving his hat on the
shore.  Laurie and Jo rowed one boat, Mr. Brooke and Ned the
other, while Fred Vaughn, the riotous twin, did his best to
upset both by paddling about in a wherry like a disturbed water
bug.  Jo's funny hat deserved a vote of thanks, for it was of
general utility.  It broke the ice in the beginning by producing
a laugh, it created quite a refreshing breeze, flapping to and
fro as she rowed, and would make an excellent umbrella for the
whole party, if a shower came up, she said.  Miss Kate decided
that she was `odd', but rather clever, and smiled upon her from
afar.

     Meg, in the other boat, was delightfully situated, face to
face with the rowers, who both admired the prospect and feathered
their oars with uncommon `skill and dexterity'.  Mr. Brooke was
a grave, silent young man, with handsome brown eyes and a pleasant
voice. Meg liked his quiet manners and considered him a walking
encyclopedia of useful knowledge.  He never talked to her much, but
he looked at her a good deal, and she felt sure that he did not
regard her with aversion.  Ned, being in college, of course put
on all the airs which freshmen think it their bounden duty to
assume.  He was not very wise, but very good-natured, and altogether
an excellent person to carry on a picnic.  Sallie Gardiner was
absorbed in keeping her white pique dress clean and chattering with
the ubiquitous Fred, who kept Beth in constant terror by his pranks.

     It was not far to Longmeadow, but the tent was pitched and
the wickets down by the time they arrived.  A pleasant green field,
with three wide-spreading oaks in the middle and a smooth strip of
turf for croquet.

     "Welcome to Camp Laurence!" said the young host, as they
landed with exclamations of delight.

     "Brooke is commander in chief, I am commissary general, the
other fellows are staff officers, and you, ladies, are company.
The tent is for your especial benefit and that oak is your drawing
room, this is the messroom and the third is the camp kitchen. Now,
let's have a game before it gets hot, and then we'll see about
dinner."

     Frank, Beth, Amy, and Grace sat down to watch the game
played by the other eight.  Mr. Brooke chose Meg, Kate, and Fred.
Laurie took Sallie, Jo, and Ned.  The English played well, but
the Americans played better, and contested every inch of the
ground as strongly as if the spirit of `76 inspired them.  Jo and
Fred had several skirmishes and once narrowly escaped high words.
Jo was through the last wicket and had missed the stroke, which
failure ruffled her a good deal.  Fred was close behind her and
his turn came before hers.  He gave a stroke, his ball hit the
wicket, and stopped an inch on the wrong side.  No one was very
near, and running up to examine, he gave it a sly nudge with his
toe, which put it just an inch on the right side.

     "I'm through!  Now, Miss Jo, I'll settle you, and get in
first," cried the young gentleman, swinging his mallet for another
blow.

     "You pushed it.  I saw you.  It's my turn now," said Jo
sharply.

     "Upon my word, I didn't move it.  It rolled a bit, perhaps,
but that is allowed.  So, stand off please, and let me have a go
at the stake."

     "We don't cheat in America, but you can, if you choose," said
Jo angrily.

     "Yankees are a deal the most tricky, everybody knows.  There
you go!" returned Fred, croqueting her ball far away.

     Jo opened her lips to say something rude, but checked herself
in time, colored up to her forehead and stood a minute, hammering
down a wicket with all her might, while Fred hit the stake and
declared himself out with much exultation.  She went off to get her
ball, and was a long time finding it among the bushes, but she came
back, looking cool and quiet, and waited her turn patiently.  It
took several strokes to regain the place she had lost, and when she
got there, the other side had nearly won, for Kate's ball was the
last but one and lay near the stake.

     "By George, it's all up with us!  Goodbye, Kate.  Miss Jo
owes me one, so you are finished," cried Fred excitedly, as they
all drew near to see the finish.

     "Yankees have a trick of being generous to their enemies,"
said Jo, with a look that made the lad redden, "especially when
they beat them," she added, as, leaving Kate's ball untouched, she
won the game by a clever stroke.

     Laurie threw up his hat, then remembered that it wouldn't do
to exult over the defeat of his guests, and stopped in the middle
of the cheer to whisper to his friend, "Good for you, Jo!  He did
cheat, I saw him.  We can't tell him so,but he won't do it again,
take my word for it."

     Meg drew her aside, under pretense of pinning up a loose
braid, and said approvingly, "It was dreadfully provoking, but you
kept your temper, and I'm so glad, Jo."

     "Don't praise me, Meg, for I could box his ears this minute.
I should certainly have boiled over if I hadn't stayed among the
nettles till I got my rage under control enough to hold my tongue..
It's simmering now, so I hope he'll keep out of my way," returned
Jo, biting her lips as she glowered at Fred from under her big hat.

     "Time for lunch," said Mr. Brooke, looking at his watch.
"Commissary general, will you make the fire and get water, while
Miss March, Miss Sallie, and I spread the table?  Who can make good
coffee?"

     "Jo can," said Meg, glad to recommend her sister.  So Jo,
feeling that her late lessons in cookery were to do her honor, went
to preside over the coffeepot, while the children collected dry
sticks, and the boys made a fire and got water from a spring near
by.  Miss Kate sketched and Frank talked to Beth, who was making
little mats of braided rushes to serve as plates.

     The commander in chief and his aides soon spread the table-
cloth with an inviting array of eatables and drinkables, prettily
decorated with green leaves.  Jo announced that the coffee was
ready, and everyone settled themselves to a hearty meal, for youth
is seldom dyspeptic, and exercise develops wholesome appetites.  A
very merry lunch it was, for everything seemed fresh and funny, and
frequent peals of laughter startled a venerable horse who fed near
by.  There was a pleasing inequality in the table, which produced
many mishaps to cups and plates, acorns dropped in the milk, little
black ants partook of the refreshments without being invited, and
fuzzy caterpillars swung down from the tree to see what was going
on.  Three white-headed children peeped over the fence, and an
objectionable dog barked at them from the other side of the river
with all his might and main.

     "There's salt here," said Laurie, as he handed Jo a saucer
of berries.

     "Thank you, I prefer spiders," she replied, fishing up two
unwary little ones who had gone to a creamy death.  "How dare
you remind me of that horrid dinner party, when your's is so
nice in every way?' added Jo, as they both laughed and ate out
of one plate, the china having run short.

     "I had an uncommonly good time that day, and haven't got
over it yet.  This is no credit to me, you know, I don't do
anything.  It's you and Meg and Brooke who make it all go, and
I'm no end obliged to you.  what shall we do when we can't eat
anymore?" asked Laurie, feeling that his trump card had been
played when lunch was over.

     "Have games till it's cooler.  I brought Authors, and I dare
say Miss Kate knows something new and nice.  Go and ask her.  She's
company, and you ought to stay with her more."

     "Aren't you company too?  I thought she'd suit Brooke, but
he keeps talking to Meg, and Kate just stares at them through that
ridiculous glass of hers'.  I'm going, so you needn't try to preach
propriety, for you can't do it, Jo."

     Miss Kate did know several new games, and as the girls would
not, and the boys could not, eat any more, they all adjourned to
the drawing room to play Rig-marole.

     "One person begins a story, any nonsense you like, and tells
as long as he pleases, only taking care to stop short at some
exciting point, when the next takes it up and does the same. It's
very funny when well done, and makes a perfect jumble of tragical
comical stuff to laugh over.  Please start it, Mr. Brooke," said
Kate, with a commanding air, which surprised Meg, who treated the
tutor with as much respect as any other gentleman.

     Lying on the grass at the feet of the two young ladies, Mr.
Brooke obediently began the story, with the handsome brown eyes
steadily fixed upon the sunshiny river.

     "Once on a time, a knight went out into the world to seek
his fortune, for he had nothing but his sword and his shield.
He traveled a long while, nearly eight-and-twenty years, and
had a hard time of it, till he came to the palace of a good old
king, who had offered a reward to anyone who could tame and train
a fine but unbroken colt, of which he was very fond.  The knight
agreed to try, and got on slowly but surely, for the colt was a
gallant fellow, and soon learned to love his new master, though
he was freakish and wild.  Every day, when he gave his lessons to
this pet of the king's, the knight rode him through the city, and
as he rode, he looked everywhere for a certain beautiful face,
which he had seen many times in his dreams, but never found.  One
day, as he went prancing down a quiet street, he saw at the window
of a ruinous castle the lovely face.  He was delighted, inquired
who lived in this old castle, and was told that several captive
princesses were kept there by a spell, and spun all day to lay
up money to buy their liberty.  The knight wished intensely that
he could free them, but he was poor and could only go by each
day, watching for the sweet face and longing to see it out in
the sunshine.  At last he resolved to get into the castle and
ask how he could help them.  He went and knocked.  The great
door flew open, and he beheld . .."

     "A ravishingly lovely lady, who exclaimed, with a cry of
rapture, `At last!  At last!'" continued Kate, who had read
French novels, and admired the style.  "`Tis she!' cried Count
Gustave, and fell at her feet in an ecstasy of joy.  `Oh, rise!'
she said, extending a hand of marble fairness. `Never! Till you
tell me how I may rescue you,' swore the knight, still kneeling.
`Alas, my cruel fate condemns me to remain here till my tyrant
is destroyed.'  `Where is the villain?' `In the mauve salon.  Go,
brave heart, and save me from despair.' `I obey, and return
victorious or dead!'  With these thrilling words he rushed away,
and flinging open the door of the mauve salon, was about to enter,
when he received . . ."

     "A stunning blow from the big Greek lexicon, which an old
fellow in a black gown fired at him," said Ned.  "Instantly, Sir
What's-his-name recovered himself, pitched the tyrant out of the
window, and turned to join the lady, victorious, but with a bump
on his brow, found the door locked, tore up the curtains, made a
rope ladder, got halfway down when the ladder broke, and he went
headfirst into the moat, sixty feet below.  Could swim like a
duck, paddled round the castle till he came to a little door
guarded by two stout fellows, knocked their heads together till
they cracked like a couple of nuts, then, by a trifling exertion
of his prodigious strength, he smashed in the door, went up a
pair of stone steps covered with dust a foot thick, toads as big
as your fist, and spiders that would frighten you into hysterics,
MIss March.  At the top of these steps he came plump upon a sight
that took his breath away and chilled his blood . . ."

     "A tall figure, all in white with a veil over its face and a
lamp in its wasted hand," went on Meg.  "It beckoned, gliding
noiselessly before him down a corridor as dark and cold as any
tomb.  Shadowy effigies in armor stood on either side,a dead
silence reigned, the lamp burned blue, and the ghostly figure ever
and anon turned its face toward him, showing the glitter of awful
eyes through its white veil.  They reached a curtained door, behind
which sounded lovely music.  He sprang forward to enter, but the
specter plucked him back, and waved threateningly before him a . . ."

     "Snuffbox," said Jo, in a sepulchral tone, which convulsed the
audience.  "`Thankee,' said the knight politely, as he took a pinch
and sneezed seven times so violently that his head fell off.  `Ha!
Ha!' laughed the ghost, and having peeped through the keyhole at the
princesses spinning away for dear life, the evil spirit picked up
her victim and put him in a large tin box, where there were eleven
other knights packed together without their heads, like sardines,
who all rose and began to . . ."

     "Dance a hornpipe," cut in Fred, as Jo paused for breath, "and,
as they danced, the rubbishy old castle turned to a man-of-war in
full sail. `Up with the jib, reef the tops'l halliards, helm hard
alee, and man the guns!' roared the captain, as a Portuguese pirate
hove in sight, with a flag black as ink flying from her foremast.
`Go in and win, my hearties!' says the captain, and a tremendous
fight began.  Of course the British beat, they always do."

     "No, they don't!" cried Jo, aside.

     "Having taken the pirate captain prisoner, sailed slap over
the schooner, whose decks were piled high with dead and whose
lee scuppers ran blood, for the order had been `Cutlasses, and
die hard!' `Bosun's mate, take a bight of the flying-jib sheet,
and start this villain if he doesn't confess his sins double
quick,' said the British captain.  The Portuguese held his tongue
like a brick, and walked the plank, while the jolly tars cheered
like mad.  But the sly dog dived, came up under the man-of-war,
scuttled her, and down she went, with all sail set, `To the
bottom  of the sea, sea, sea' where . . ."

     "Oh, gracious!  What shall I say?" cried Sallie, as Fred
ended his rigmarole, in which he had jumbled together pell-mell
nautical phrases and facts out of one of his favorite books.
"Well, they went to the bottom, and a nice mermaid welcomed them,
but was much grieved on finding the box of headless knights, and
kindly pickled them in brine, hoping to discover the mystery
about them, for being a woman, she was curious.  By-and-by a diver
came down, and the mermaid said, `I'll give you a box of pearls
if you can take it up,' for she wanted to restore the poor things
to life, and couldn't raise the heavy load herself.  So the diver
hoisted it up, and was much disappointed on opening it to find
no pearls.  He left it in a great lonely field, where it was
found by a . . ."

     "Little goose girl, who kept a hundred fat geese in the field,"
said Amy, when Sallie's invention gave out.  "The little girl was
sorry for them, and asked an old woman what she should do to help
them.  `Your geese will tell you, they know everything.' said the
old woman.  So she asked what she should use for new heads, since
the old ones were lost, and all the geese opened their hundred
mouths and screamed . . ."

     "`Cabbages!'" continued Laurie promptly.  "`Just the thing,'
said the girl, and ran to get twelve fine ones from her garden.
She put them on, the knights revived at once, thanked her, and
went on their way rejoicing, never knowing the difference, for
there were so many other heads like them in the world that no one
thought anything of it.  The knight in whom I'm interest went back
to find the pretty face, and learned that the princesses had spun
themselves free and  all gone and married, but one.  He was in a
great state of mind at that, and mounting the colt, who stood by
him through thick and thin, rushed to the castle to see which was
left.  Peeping over the hedge, he saw the queen of his affections
picking flowers in her garden.  `Will you give me a rose?' said
he.  `You must come and get it.  I can't come to you, it isn't
proper,' said she, as sweet as honey.  He tried to climb over
the hedge, but it seemed to grow higher and higher.  Then he
tried to push through, but it grew thicker and thicker, and he
was in despair.  So he patiently broke twig after twig till he
had made a little hole through which he peeped, saying implor-
ingly, `Let me in!  Let me in!' But the pretty princess did not
seem to understand, for she picked her roses quietly, and left
him to fight his way in. Whether he did or not, Frank will tell
you."

     "I can't.  I'm not playing, I never do," said Frank, dismayed
at the sentimental predicament out of which he was to rescue the
absurd couple.  Beth had disappeared behind Jo, and Grace was
asleep.

     "So the poor knight is to be left sticking in the hedge, is
he?"  asked Mr. Brooke, still watching the river, and playing
with the wild rose in his buttonhole.

     "I guess the princess gave him a posy, and opened the gate
after a while," said Laurie, smiling to himself, as he threw
acorns at his tutor.

     "What a piece of nonsense we have made!  With practice we
might do something quite clever.  Do you know Truth?"

     "I hope so," said Meg soberly.

     "The game, I mean?"

     "what is it?" said Fred.

     "Why, you pile up your hands, choose a number, and draw out
in turn, and the person who draws at the number has to answer
truly any question put by the rest.  It's great fun."

     "Let's try it," said Jo, who liked new experiments.

     Miss Kate and Mr. Booke, Meg, and Ned declined, but Fred,
Sallie, Jo, and Laurie piled and drew, and the lot fell to Laurie.

     "Who are your heroes?" asked Jo.

     "Grandfather and Napoleon."

     "Which lady here do you think prettiest?" said Sallie.

     "Margaret."

     "Which do you like best?" from Fred.

     "Jo, of course."

     "What silly questions you ask!"  And Jo gave a disdainful
shrug as the rest laughed at Laurie's matter-of-fact tone.

     "Try again.  Truth isn't a bad game," said Fred.

     "It's a very good one for you," retorted Jo in a low voice.
Her turn came next.

     "What is your greatest fault?' asked Fred, by way of testing
in her the virtue he lacked himself.

     "A quick temper."

     "What do you most wish for?" said Laurie.

     "A pair of boot lacings," returned Jo, guessing and defeat-
ing his purpose.

     "Not a true answer.  You must say what you really do want
most."

     "Genius.  Don't you wish you could give it to me, Laurie?"
And she slyly smiled in his disappointed face.

     "What virtues do you most admire in a man?" asked Sallie.

     "Courage and honesty."

     "Now my turn," said Fred, as his hand came last.

     "Let's give it to him," whispered Laurie to Jo, who nodded
and asked at once . . .

     "Didn't you cheat at croquet?'

     "Well, yes, a little bit."

     "Good!  Didn't you take your story out of THE SEA LION?"
said Laurie.

     "Rather."

     "Don't you think the English nation perfect in every respect?"
asked Sallie.

     "I should be ashamed of myself if I didn't."

     "He's a true John Bull.  Now, Miss Sallie, you shall have
a chance without waiting to draw.  I'll harrrow up your feelings
first by asking if you don't think you are something of a flirt,"
said Laurie, as Jo nodded to Fred as a sign that peace was declared.

     "You impertinent boy!  Of course I'm not," exclaimed Sallie,
with an air that proved the contrary.

     "What do you hate most?" asked Fred.

     "Spiders and rice pudding."

     "What do you like best?" asked Jo.

     "Dancing and French gloves."

     "Well, I think Truth is a very silly play.  Let's have a
sensible game of Authors to refresh our minds," proposed Jo.

     Ned, frank, and the little girls joined in this, and while it
went on, the three elders sat apart, talking.  Miss Kate took out
her sketch again, and Margaret watched her, while Mr. Brooke lay
on the grass with a book, which he did not read.

     "How beautifully you do it!  I wish I could draw," said Meg,
with mingled admiration and regret in her voice.

     "Why don't you learn?  I should think you had taste and talent
for it," replied Miss Kate graciously.

     "I haven't time."

     "Your mamma prefers other accomplishments, I fancy.  So did
mine, but I proved to her that I had talent by taking a few lessons
privately, and then she was quite willing I should go on.  Can't
you do the same with your governess?"

     "I have none."

     "I forgot young ladies in America go to school more than with
us.  Very fine schools they are, too, Papa says.  You go to a
private one, I suppose?"

     "I don't go at all.  I am a governess myself."

     "Oh. indeed!" said Miss Kate, but she might as well have said,
"Dear me, how dreadful!" for her tone implied it, and something in
her face made Meg color, and wish she had not been so frank.

     Mr. Brooke looked up and said quickly, Young ladies in America
love independence as much as their ancestors did, and are admired
and respected for supporting themselves."

     "Oh, yes, of course it's very nice and proper in them to do
so.  We have many most respectable and worthy young women who do
the same and are employed by the nobility, because, being the
daughters of gentlemen, they are both well bred and accomplished,
you know," said Miss Kate in a patronizing tone that hurt Meg's
pride, and made her work seem not only more distasteful, but
degrading.

     "Did the German song suit, Miss March?" inquired Mr. Brooke,
breaking an awkward pause.

     "Oh, yes!  It was very sweet, and I'm much obliged to who-
ever translated it for me." And Meg's downcast face brightened as
she spoke.

     "Don't you read German?" asked Miss Kate with a look of sur-
prise.

     "Not very well.  My father, who taught me, is away, and I
don't get on very fast alone, for I've no one to correct my
pronunciation."

     "Try a little now.  Here is Schiller's MARY STUART and a
tutor who loves to teach."  And Mr. Brooke laid his book on her
lap with an inviting smile.

     "It's so hard I'm afraid to try," said Meg, grateful, but
bashful in the presence of the accomplished young lady beside
her.

     "I'll read a bit to encourage you." And Miss Kate read one
of the most beautiful passages in a perfectly correct but per-
fectly expressionless manner.

     Mr. Brooke made no comment as she returned the book to Meg,
who said innocently, "I thought it was poetry."

     "Some of it is.  Try this passage."

     There was a queer smile about Mr. Brooke's mouth as he
opened at poor Mary's lament.

     Meg obediently following the long grass-blade which her new
tutor used to point with, read slowly and timidly, unconsciously
making poetry of the hard words by the soft intonation of her
musical voice.  Down the page went the green guide, and presently,
forgetting her listener in the beauty of the sad scene, Meg read
as if alone, giving a little touch of tragedy to the words of the
unhappy queen.  If she had seen the brown eyes then, she would
have stopped short, but she never looked up, and the lesson was
not spoiled for her.

     "Very well indeed!" said Mr. Brooke, as she paused, quite
ignoring her many mistakes, and looking as if he did indeed love
to teach.

     Miss Kate put up her glass, and, having taken a survey of
the little tableau before her, shut her sketch book, saying with
condescension, "You've a nice accent and in time will be a clever
reader.  I advise you to learn, for German is a valuable accom-
plishment to teachers.  I must look after Grace, she is romping."
And Miss Kate strolled away, adding to herself with a shrug, "I
didn't come to chaperone a governess, though she is young and
pretty.  What odd people these Yankees are.  I'm afraid Laurie
will be quite spoiled among them."

     "I forgot that English people rather turn up their noses at
governesses and don't treat them as we do," said Meg, looking
after the retreating figure with an annoyed expression.

     "Tutors also have rather a hard time of it there, as I know
to my sorrow.  There's no place like America for us workers, Miss
Margaret."  And Mr. Brooke looked so contented and cheerful that
Meg was ashamed to lament her hard lot.

     "I'm glad I live in it then.  I don't like my work, but I get
a good deal of satisfaction out of it after all, so I won't com-
plain.  I only wished I liked teaching as you do."

     "I think you would if you had Laurie for a pupil.  I shall
be very sorry to lose him next year," said Mr. Brooke, busily
punching holes in the turf.

     "Going to college, I suppose?" Meg's lips asked the question,
but her eyes added, "And what becomes of you?"

     "Yes, it's high time he went, for he is ready, and as soon as
he is off, I shall turn soldier.  I am needed."

     "I am glad of that!" exclaimed Meg.  "I should think every
young man would want to go, though it is hard for the mothers
and sisters who stay at home," she added sorrowfully.

     "I have neither, and very few friends to care whether I live
or die," said Mr. Brooke rather bitterly as he absently put the
dead rose in the hole he had made and covered it up, like a
little grave.

     "Laurie and his grandfather would care a great deal, and we
should all be very sorry to have any harm happen to you," said
Meg heartily.

     "Thank you, that sounds pleasant," began Mr. Brooke, looking
cheerful again, but before he could finish his speech, Ned, mounted
on the old horse, came lumbering up to display his equestrian skill
before the young ladies, and there was no more quiet that day.

     "Don't you love to ride?" asked Grace of Amy, as they stood
resting after a race round the field with the others, led by Ned.

     "I dote upon it.  My sister, Meg, used to ride when Papa was
rich, but we don't keep any horses now, except Ellen Tree," added
Amy, laughing.

     "Tell me about Ellen Tree.  Is it a donkey?" asked Grace
curiously.

     "Why, you see, Jo is crazy about horses and so am I, but
we've only got an old sidesaddle and no horse.  Out in our
garden is an apple tree that has a nice low branch, so Jo put
the saddle on it, fixed some reins on the part that turns up,
and we bounce away on Ellen Tree whenever we like."

     "How funny!" laughed Grace.  "I have a pony at home, and
ride nearly every day in the park with Fred and Kate.  It's very
nice, for my friends go too, and the Row is full of ladies and
gentlemen."

     "Dear, how charming!  I hope I shall go abroad some day,
but I'd rather go to Rome than the row," said Amy, who had
not the remotest idea what the Row was and wouldn't have asked
for the world.

     Frank, sitting just behind the little girls, heard what they
were saying, and pushed his crutch away from him with an impatient
gesture as he watched the active lads going through all sorts of
comical gymnastics.  Beth, who was collecting the scattered
Author cards, looked up and said, in her shy yet friendly way,
"I'm afraid you are tired.  Can I do anything for you?"

     "Talk to me, please.  It's dull, sitting by myself," answered
Frank, who had evidently been used to being made much of at home.

     If he asked her to deliver a Latin oration, it would not
have seemed a more impossible task to bashful Beth, but there
was no place to run to, no Jo to hide behind now, and the poor
boy looked so wistfully at her that she bravely resolved to try.

     "What do you like to talk about?" she asked, fumbling over
the cards and dropping half as she tried to tie them up.

     "Well, I like to hear about cricket and boating and hunting,"
said Frank, who had not yet learned to suit his amusements to
his strength.

     My heart!  What shall I do?  I don't know anything about them,
thought Beth, and forgetting the boy's misfortune in her flurry,
she said, hoping to make him talk, "I never saw any hunting, but
I suppose you know all about it."

     "I did once, but I can never hunt again, for I got hurt leap-
ing a confounded five-barred gate, so there are no more horses and
hounds for me," said Frank with a sigh that made Beth hate herself
for her innocent blunder.

     "Your deer are much prettier than our ugly buffaloes," she
said, turning to the prairies for help and feeling glad that she
had read one of the boys' books in which Jo delighted.

     Buffaloes proved soothing and satisfactory, and in her eager-
ness to amuse another, Beth forgot herself, and was quite uncon-
scious of her sisters' surprise and delight at the unusual spectacle
of Beth talking away to one of the dreadful boys, against whom she
had begged protection.

     "Bless her heart!  She pities him, so she is good to him,"
said Jo, beaming at her from the croquet ground.

     "I always said she was a little saint," added Meg, as if
there could be no further doubt of it.

     "I haven't heard Frank laugh so much for ever so long," said
Grace to Amy, as they sat discussing dolls and making tea sets
out of the acorn cups.

     "My sister Beth is a very fastidious girl, when she likes to
be," said Amy, well pleased at Beth's success.  She meant `facin-
ating', but as Grace didn't know the exact meaning of either word,
fastidious sounded well and made a good impression.

     An impromptu circus, fox and geese, and an amicable game of
croquet finished the afternoon.  At sunset the tent was struck,
hampers packed, wickets pulled up, boats loaded, and the whole
party floated down the river, singing at the tops of their voices.
Ned, getting sentimental, warbled a serenade with the pensive
refrain . . .

                 Alone, alone, ah! Woe, alone,

and at the lines . . .

                 We each are young, we each have a heart,
                 Oh, why should we stand thus coldly apart?

he looked at Meg with such a lackadiasical expression that she
laughed outright and spoiled his song.

     "How can you be so cruel to me?" he whispered, under cover
of a lively chorus.  "You've kept close to that starched-up
Englishwoman all day, and now you snub me."

     "I didn't mean to, but you looked so funny I really couldn't
help it," replied Meg, passing over the first part of his reproach,
for it was quite true that she had shunned him, remembering the
Moffat party and the talk after it.

     Ned was offended and turned to Sallie for consolation, saying
to her rather pettishly, "There isn't a bit of flirt in that girl,
is there?"

     "Not a particle, but she's a dear," returned Sallie, defending
her friend even while confessing her shortcomings.

     "She's not a stricken deer anyway," said Ned, trying to be
witty, and succeeding as well as very young gentlemen usually do.

     On the lawn where it had gathered, the little party separated
with cordial good nights and good-bys, for the Vaughns were going
to Canada.  As the four sisters went home through the garden, Miss
Kate looked after them, saying, without the patronizing tone in
her voice, "In spite of their demonstrative manners, American girls
are very nice when one knows them."

     "I quite agree with you," said Mr. Brooke.


                      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

     Laurie lay luxuriously swinging to and fro in his hammock
one warm September afternoon, wondering what his neighbors were
about, but too lazy to go and find out.  He was in one of his
moods, for the day had been both unprofitable and unsatisfactory,
and he was wishing he could live it over again.  The hot weather
made him indolent, and he had shirked his studies, tried Mr.
Brooke's patience to the utmost, displeased his grandfather by
practicing half the afternoon, frightened the maidservants half
out of their wits by mischievously hinting that one of his dogs
was going mad, and, after high words with the stableman about
some fancied neglect of his horse, he had flung himself into
his hammock to fume over the stupidity of the world in general,
till the peace of the lovely day quieted him in spite of himself.
Staring up into the green gloom of the horse-chestnut trees above
him, he dreamed dreams of all sorts, and was just imagining him-
self tossing on the ocean in a voyage round the world, when the
sound of voices brought him ashore in a flash.  Peeping through
the meshes of the hammock, he saw the Marches coming out, as if
bound on some expedition.

     "What in the world are those girls about now?" thought
Laurie, opening his sleepy eyes to take a good look, for there
was something rather peculiar in the appearance of his neigh-
bors.  Each wore a large, flapping hat, a brown linen pouch
slung over one shoulder, and carried a long staff.  Meg had a
cushion, Jo a book, Beth a basket, and Amy a portfolio.  All
walked quietly through the garden, out at the little back gate,
and began to climb the hill that lay between the house and river.

     "Well, that's cool," said Laurie to himself, "to have a picnic
and never ask me!  They can't be going in the boat, for they
haven't got the key.  Perhaps they forgot it.  I'll take it to them,
and see what's going on."

     Though possessed of half a dozen hats, it took him some time
to find one, then there was a hunt for the key, which was at last
discovered in his pocket, so that the girls were quite out of sight
when leaped the fence and ran after them.  Taking the shortest way
to the boathouse, he waited for them to appear, but no one came,
and he went up the hill to take an observation.  A grove of pines
covered one part of it, and from the heart of this green spot came
a clearer sound than the soft sigh of the pines or the drowsy chirp
of the crickets.

     "Here's a landscape!" thought Laurie, peeping through the
bushes, and looking wide-awake and good-natured already.

     It was a rather pretty little picture, for the sisters sat
together in the shady nook, with sun and shadow flickering over
them, the aromatic wind lifting their hair and cooling their hot
cheeks, and all the little wood people going on with their affairs
as if these were no strangers but old friends.  Meg sat upon her
cushion, sewing daintily with her white hands, and looking as fresh
and sweet as a rose in her pink dress among the green.  Beth was
sorting the cones that lay thick under the hemlock near by, for
she made pretty things with them.  Amy was sketching a group of
ferns, and Jo was knitting as she read aloud.  A shadow passed
over the boy's face as he watched them, feeling that he ought to
go away because uninvited, yet lingering because home seemed very
lonely and this quiet party in the woods most attractive to his
restless spirit. He stood so still that a squirrel, busy with it's
harvesting, ran dawn a pine close beside him, saw him suddenly
and skipped back, scolding so shrilly that Beth looked up, espied
the wistful face behind the birches,and beckoned with a reassuring
smile.

     "May I come in, please?  Or shall I be a bother?" he asked,
advancing slowly.

     Meg lifted her eyebrows, but Jo scowled at her defiantly and
said at once, "Of course you may.  We should have asked you before,
only we thought you wouldn't care for such a girl's game as this."

     "I always like your games, but if Meg doesn't want me, I'll
go away."

     "I've no objection, if you do something.  It's against the
rules to be idle here," replied Meg gravely but graciously.

     "Much obliged.  I'll do anything if you'll let me stop a bit,
for it's as dull as the Desert of Sahara down there.  Shall I sew,
read, cone, draw, or do all at once? Bring on your bears.   I'm
ready."  And Laurie sat down with a submissive expression delight-
ful to behold.

     "Finish this story while I set my heel," said Jo, handing him
the book.

     "Yes'm." was the meek answer, as he began, doing his best to
prove his gratitude for the favor of admission into the `Busy Bee
Society'.

     The story was not a long one, and when it was finished, he
ventured to ask a few questions as a reward of merit.

     "Please, ma'am, could I inquire if this highly instructive
and charming institution is a new one?"

     "Would you tell him?" asked Meg of her sisters.

     "He'll laugh," said Amy warningly.

     "Who cares?" said Jo.

     "I guess he'll like it," added Beth.

     "Of course I shall!  I give you my word I won't laugh.  Tell
away, Jo, and don't be afraid."

     "The idea of being afraid of you!  Well, you see we used to
play Pilgrim's Progress, and we have been going on with it in
earnest, all winter and summer."

     "Yes, I know," said Laurie, nodding wisely.

     "Who told you?" demanded Jo.

     "Spirits."

     "No, I did.  I wanted to amuse him one night when you were
all away, and he was rather dismal.  He did like it, so don't
scold, Jo," said Beth meekly.

     "You can't keep a secret.  Never mind, it saves trouble now."

     "Go on, please," said Laurie, as Jo became absorbed in her
work, looking a trifle displeased.

     "Oh, didn't she tell you about this new plan of ours?  Well,
we have tried not to waste our holiday, but each has had a task
and worked at it with a will.  The vacation is nearly over, the
stints are all done, and we are ever so glad that we didn't dawdle."

     "Yes, I should think so," and Laurie thought regretfully of
his own idle days.

     "Mother likes to have us out-of-doors as much as possible, so
we bring our work here and have nice times.  For the fun of it we
bring our things in these bags, wear the old hats, use poles to
climb the hill, and play pilgrims, as we used to do years ago.  We
call this hill the Delectable Mountain, for we can look far away
and see the country where we hope to live some time."

     Jo pointed, and Laurie sat up to examine, for through an
opening in the wood one could look cross the wide, blue river,
the meadows on the other side, far over the outskirts of the
great city, to the green hills that rose to meet the sky.  The
sun was low, and the heavens glowed with the splendor of an
autumn sunset.  Gold and purple clouds lay on the hilltops,
and rising high into the ruddy light were silvery white peaks
that shone like the airy spires of some Celestial City.

     "How beautiful that is!" said Laurie softly, for he was quick
to see and feel beauty of any kind.

     "It's often so, and we like to watch it, for it is never the
same, but always splendid," replied Amy, wishing she could paint it.

     "Jo talks about the country where we hope to live some time--
the real country, she means, with pigs and chickens and haymaking.
It would be nice, but I wish the beautiful country up there was real,
and we could ever go to it," said Beth musingly.

     "There is a lovelier country even than that, where we shall go,
by-and-by, when we are good enough," answered Meg with her sweetest
voice.

     "It seems so long to wait, so hard to do.  I want to fly away
at once, as those swallows fly, and go in at that splendid gate."

     "You'll get there, Beth, sooner or later, no fear of that,"
said Jo.  "I'm the one that will have to fight and work, and climb
and wait, and maybe never get in after all."

     "you'll have me for company, if that's any comfort.  I shall
have to do a deal of traveling before I come in sight of your
Celestial City.  If I arrive late, you'll say a good word for me,
won't you, Beth?"

     Something in the boy's face troubled his little friend, but
she said cheerfully, with her quiet eyes on the changing clouds,
"If people really want to go, and really try all their lives, I
think they will get in, for I don't believe there are any locks
on that door or any guards at the gate.  I always imagine it is
as it is in the picture, where the shining ones stretch out their
hands to welcome poor Christian as he comes up from the river.

     "Wouldn't it be fun if all the castles in the air which we
make could come true, and we could live in them?" said Jo, after
a little pause.

     "I've made such quantities it would be hard to choose which
I'd have," said Laurie, lying flat and throwing cones at the
squirrel who had betrayed him.

     "You'd have to take your favorite one.  What is it?" asked
Meg.

     "If I tell mine, will you tell yours?"

     "Yes, if the girls will too."

     "We will.  Now, Laurie."

     "After I'd seen as much of the world as I want to, I'd like
to settle in Germany and have just as much music as I choose.  I'm
to be a famous musician myself, and all creation is to rush to hear
me.  And I'm never to be bothered about money or business, but just
enjoy myself and live for what I like.  That's my favorite castle.
What's yours, Meg?"

     Margaret seemed to find it a little hard to tell hers, and
waved a brake before her face, as if to disperse imaginary gnats,
while she said slowly, "I should like a lovely house, full of all
sorts of luxurious things--nice food, pretty clothes, handsome
furniture, pleasant people, and heaps of money.  I am to be
mistress of it, and manage it as I like, with plenty of servants,
so I never need work a bit.  How I should enjoy it!  For I wouldn't
be idle, but do good, and make everyone love me dearly."

     "Wouldn't you have a master for your castle in the air?" asked
Laurie slyly.

     "I said `pleasant people', you know," And Meg carefully tied
up her shoe as she spoke, so that no one saw her face.

     "Why don't you say you'd have a splendid, wise, good husband
and some angelic little children?  You know your castle wouldn't
be perfect without," said blunt Jo, who had no tender fancies yet,
and rather scorned romance, except in books.

     "You'd have nothing but horses, inkstands, and novels in
yours," answered Meg petulantly.

     "Wouldn't I though?  I'd have a stable full of Arabian steeds,
rooms piled high with books, and I'd write out of a magic inkstand,
so that my works should be as famous as Laurie's music.  I want to
do something splendid before I go into my castle, something heroic
or wonderful that won't be forgotten after I'm dead.  I don't know
what, but I'm on the watch for it, and mean to astonish you all
some day.  I think I shall write books, and get rich and famous,
that would suit me, so that is my favorite dream."

     "Mine is to stay at home safe with Father and Mother, and
help take care of the family," said Beth contentedly.

     "Don't you wish for anything else?" asked Laurie.

     "Since I had my little piano, I am perfectly satisfied.  I
only wish we may all keep well and be together, nothing else."

     "I have ever so many wishes, but the pet one is to be an
artist, and go to Rome, and do fine pictures, and be the best
artist in the whole world," was Amy's modest desire.

     "We're an ambitious set, aren't we?  Every one of us, but
Beth, wants to be rich and famous, and gorgeous in every respect.
I do wonder if any of us will ever get our wishes," said Laurie,
chewing grass like a meditative calf.

     "I've got the key to my castle in the air, but whether I can
unlock the door remains to be seen," observed Jo mysteriously.

     "I've got the key to mine, but I'm not allowed to try it.
Hang college!" muttered Laurie with an impatient sigh.

     "Here's mine!" and Amy waved her pencil.

     "I haven't got any," said Meg forlornly.

     "Yes, you have," said Laurie at once.

     "Where?"

     "In your face."

     "Nonsense, that's of no use."

     "Wait and see if it doesn't bring you something worth having,"
replied the boy, laughing at the thought of a charming little
secret which he fancied he knew.

     Meg colored behind the brake, but asked no questions and
looked across the river with the same expectant expression which
Mr. Brooke had worn when he told the story of the knight.

     "If we are all alive ten years hence, let's meet, and see how
many of us have got our wishes, or how much nearer we are then than
now," said Jo, always ready with a plan.

     "Bless me!  How old I shall be, twenty-seven!" exclaimed Meg,
who felt grown up already, having just reached seventeen.

     "You and I will be twenty-six, Teddy, Beth twenty-four, and
Amy twenty-two.  What a venerable party!" said Jo.

     "I hope I shall have done something to be proud of by that
time, but I'm such a lazy dog, I'm afraid I shall dawdle, Jo."

     "You need a motive, Mother says, and when you get it, she is
sure you'll work splendidly."

     "Is she?  By Jupiter, I will, if I only get the chance!" cried
Laurie, sitting up with sudden energy.  "I ought to be satisfied to
please Grandfather, and I do try, but it's working against the grain,
you see, and comes hard.  He wants me to be an India merchant, as he
was, and I'd rather be shot.  I hate tea and sild and spices, and
every sort of rubbish his old ships bring, and I don't care how soon
they go to the bottom when I own them.  Going to college ought to
satisfy him, for if I give him four years he ought to let me off
from the business.  But he's set, and I've got to do just as he did,
unless I break away and please myself, as my father did.  If there
was anyone left to stay with the old gentleman, I'd do it tomorrow."

     Laurie spoke excitedly, and looked ready to carry his threat
into execution on the slightest provocation, for he was growing up
very fast and, in spite of his indolent ways, had a young man's
hatred of subjection, a young man's restless longing to try the
world for himself.

     "I advise you to sail away in one of your ships, and never
come home again till you have tried your own way," said Jo, whose
imagination was fired by the thought of such a daring exploit, and
whose sympathy was excited by what she called `Teddy's Wrongs'.

     "That's not right, Jo.  You mustn't talk in that way, and Laurie
mustn't take your bad advice.  You should do just what your grand-
father wishes, my dear boy," said Meg in her most maternal tone.  "do
your best at college, and when he sees that you try to please him,
I'm sure he won't be hard on you or unjust to you.  As you say, there
is no one else to stay with and love him, and you'd never forgive
yourself if you left him without his permission.  Don't be dismal or
fret, but do your duty and you'll get your reward, as good Mr. Brooke
has, by being respected and loved."

     "What do you know about him?" asked Laurie, grateful for the
good advice, but objecting to the lecture, and glad to turn the
conversation from himself after his unusual outbreak.

     "Only what your grandpa told us about him, how he took good
care of his own mother till she died, and wouldn't go abroad as
tutor to some nice person because he wouldn't leave her.  And how
he provides now for an old woman who nursed his mother, and never
tells anyone, but is just as generous and patient and good as he
can be."

     "So he is, dear old fellow!" said Laurie heartily, as Meg
paused, looking flushed and earnest with her story.  "It's like
Grandpa to find out all about him without letting him know, and
to tell all his goodness to others, so that they might like him.
Brooke couldn't understand why your mother was so kind to him,
asking him over with me and treating him in her beautiful friendly
way.  He thought she was just perfect, and talked about it for
days and days, and went on about you all in flaming style.  If ever
I do get my wish, you see what I'll do for Booke."

     "Begin to do something now by not plaguing his life out,"
said Meg sharply.

     "How do you know I do, Miss?"

     "I can always tell by his face when he goes away.  If you
have been good, he looks satisfied and walks briskly.  If you
have plagued him, he's sober and walks slowly, as if he wanted
to go back and do his work better."

     "Well, I like that?  So you keep an account of my good and
bad marks in Brooke's face, do you?  I see him bow and smile as
he passes your window, but I didn't know you'd got up a telegraph."

     "We haven't.  Don't be angry, and oh, don't tell him I said
anything!  It was only to show that I cared how you get on, and
what is said here is said in confidence, you know," cried Meg,
much alarmed at the thought of what might follow from her care-
less speech.

     "I don't tell tales," replied Laurie, with his `high and mighty'
air, as Jo called a certain expression which he occasionally wore.
"Only if Brooke is going to be a thermometer, I must mind and have
fair weather for him to report."

     "Please don't be offended.  I didn't meant to preach or tell
tales or be silly.  I only thought Jo was encouraging you in a
feeling which you'd be sorry for by-and-by.  You are so kind to
us, we feel as if you were our brother and say just what we think.
Forgive me, I meant it kindly."  And Meg offered her hand with a
gesture both affectionate and timid.

     Ashamed of his momentary pique, Laurie squeezed the kind
little hand, and said frankly, "I'm the one to be forgiven. I'm
cross and have been out of sorts all day.  I like to have you
tell me my faults and be sisterly, so don't mind if I am grumpy
sometimes.  I thank you all the same."

     Bent on showing that he was not offended, he made himself as
agreeable as possible, wound cotton for Meg, recited poetry to
please Jo, shook down cones for Beth, and helped Amy with her
ferns, proving himself a fit person to belong to the `Busy Bee
Society'.  In the midst of an animated discussion on the domestic
habits of turtles (one of those amiable creatures having strolled
up from the river), the faint sound of a bell warned them that
Hannah had put the tea `to draw', and they would just have time
to get home to supper.

     "May I come again?" asked Laurie.

     "Yes, if your are good, and love your book, as the boys in
the primer are told to do," said Meg, smiling.

     "i'll try."

     "Then you may come, and I'll teach you to knit as the Scotch-
men do.  There's a demand for socks just now," added Jo, waving
hers like a big blue worsted banner as they parted at the gate.

     That night, when Beth played to Mr. Laurence in the twilight,
Laurie, standing in the shadow of the curtain, listened to the
little David, whose simple music always quieted his moody spirit,
and watched the old man, who sat with his gray head on his hand,
thinking tender thoughts of the dead child he had loved so much.
Remembering the conversation of the afternoon, the boy said to
himself, with the resolve to make the sacrifice cheerfully, "I'll
let my castle go, and stay with the dear old gentleman while he
needs me, for I am all he has."


                             CHAPTER FOURTEEN

     Jo was very busy in the garret, for the October days began
to grow chilly, and the afternoons were short.  For two or three
hours the sun lay warmly in the high window, showing Jo seated
on the old sofa, writing busily, with her papers spread out
upon a trunk before her, while Scrabble, the pet rat, promen-
aded the beams overhead, accompanied by his oldest son, a fine
young fellow, who was evidently very proud of his whiskers.
Quite absorbed in her work, Jo scribbled away till the last
page was filled, when she signed her name with a flourish and
threw down her pen, exclaiming . . .

     "There, I've done my best!  If this won't suit I shall have
to wait till I can do better."

     Lying back on the sofa, she read the manuscript carefully
through, making dashes here and there, and putting in many
exclamation points, which looked like little balloons.  Then she
tied it up with a smart red ribbon, and sat a minute looking at
it with a sober, wistful expression, which plainly showed how
ernest her work had been.  Jo's desk up here was an old tin
kitchen which hung against the wall.  It it she kept her papers,
and a few books, safely shut away from Scrabble, who, being
likewise of a literary turn,was fond of making a circulating
library of such books as were left in his way by eating the
leaves.  From this tin receptacle Jo produced another manuscript,
and putting both in her pocket, crept quietly downstairs, leaving
her friends to nibble on her pens and taste her ink.

     She put on her hat and jacket as noiselessly as possible, and
going to the back entry window, got out upon the roof of a low
porch, swung herself down to the grassy bank, and took a roundabout
way to the road.  Once there, she composed herself, hailed a passing
omnibus, and rolled away to town, looking very merry and mysterious.

     If anyone had been watching her, he would have thought her
movements decidedly peculiar, for on alighting, she went off at a
great pace till she reached a certain number in a certain busy
street.  Having found the place with some difficulty, she went
into the doorway, looked up the dirty stairs, and after standing
stock still a minute, suddenly dived into the street and walked
away as rapidly as she came.  This maneuver she repeated several
times, to the great amusement of a black-eyed young gentleman
lounging in the window of a building opposite.  On returning for
the third time, Jo gave herself a shake, pulled her hat over her
eyes, and walked up the stairs, looking as if she were going to
have all her teeth out.

     There was a dentist's sign, among others, which adorned the
entrance, and after staring a moment at the pair of artificial
jaws which slowly opened and shut to draw attention to a fine
set of teeth, the young gentleman put on his coat, took his hat,
and went down to post himself in the opposite doorway, saying
with a smile and a shiver, "It's like her to come alone, but if
she has a bad time she'll need someone to help her home."

     In ten minutes Jo came running downstairs with a very red
face and the general appearance of a person who had just passed
through a trying ordeal of some sort.  When she saw the young
gentleman she looked anything but pleased, and passed him with a
nod.  But he followed, asking with an air of sympathy, "Did you
have a bad time?"

     "Not very."

     "You got through quickly."

     "Yes, thank goodness!"

     "Why did you go alone?"

     "Didn't want anyone to know."

     "You're the oddest fellow I ever saw.  How many did you
have out?"

     Jo looked at her friend as if she did not understand him, then
began to laugh as if mightily amused at something.

     "There are two which I want to have come out, but I must wait
a week."

     "What are you laughing at?  You are up to some mischief, Jo,"
said Laurie, looking mystified.

     "So are you. What were you doing, sir, up in that billiard
saloon?"

     "Begging your pardon, ma'am, it wasn't a billiard saloon, but
a gymnasium, and I was taking a lesson in fencing."

     "I'm glad of that."

     "why?"

     "You can teach me, and then when we play HAMLET, you can be
Laertes, and we'll make a fine thing of the fencing scene."

     "Laurie burst out with a hearty boy's laugh, which made
several passers-by smile in spite of themselves.

     "I'll teach you whether we play HAMLET or not.  It's grand
fun and will straighten you up capitally.  But I don't believe
that was your only reason for saying `I'm glad' in that decided
way, was it now?"

     "No, I was glad that you were not in the saloon, because I
hope you never go to such places.  Do you?"

     "Not often."

     "I wish you wouldn't."

     "It's no harm, Jo.  I have billiards at home, but it's no fun
unless you have good players, so, as I'm fond of it, I come some-
times and have a game with Ned Moffat or some of the other fellows."

     "Oh, dear, I'm so sorry, for you'll get to liking it better and
better, and will waste time and money, and grow like those dreadful
boys.  I did hope you'd stay respectable and be a satisfaction to
your friends," said Jo, shaking her head.

     "Can't a fellow take a little innocent amusement now and then
without losing his respectability?" asked Laurie, looking nettled.

     "That depends upon how and where he takes it.  I don't like
Ned and his set, and wish you'd keep out of it.  Mother won't let
us have him at our house, though he wants to come.  And if you
grow like him she won't be willing to have us frolic together as
we do now."

     "Won't she?" asked Laurie anxiously.

     "No, she can't bear fashionable young men, and she'd shut us
all up in bandboxes rather than have us associate with them."

     "Well, she needn't get out her bandboxes yet.  I'm not a
fashionable party and don't mean to be, but I do like harmless
larks now and then, don't you?"

     "Yes, nobody minds them, so lark away, but don't get wild,
will you?  Or there will be an end of all our good times."

     "I'll be a double distilled saint."

     "I can't bear saints.  Just be a simple, honest, respectable
boy, and we'll never desert you.  I don't know what I should do
if you acted like Mr. King's son.  He had plenty of money, but
didn't know how to spend it, and got tipsy and gambled, and ran
away, and forged his father's name, I believe, and was altogether
horrid."

     "You think I'm likely to do the same?  Much obliged."

     "No, I don't--oh, dear, no!--but I hear people talking about
money being such a temptation, and I sometimes wish you were poor.
I shouldn't worry then."

     "Do you worry about me, Jo?"

     "A little, when you look moody and discontented, as you some-
times do, for you've got such a strong will, if you once get started
wrong, I'm afraid it would be hard to stop you."

     Laurie walked in silence a few minutes, and Jo watched him,
wishing she had held her tongue, for his eyes looked angry, though
his lips smiled as if at her warnings.

     "Are you going to deliver lectures all the way home?" he
asked presently.

     "Of course not.  Why?"

     "Because if you are, I'll take a bus.  If you're not, I'd like
to walk with you and tell you something very interesting."

     "I won't preach any more, and I'd like to hear the news
immensely."

     "Very well, then, come on.  It's a secret, and if I tell you,
you must tell me yours."

     "I haven't got any," began Jo, but stopped suddenly, remember-
ing that she had.

     "You know you have--you can't hide anything, so up and fess,
or I won't tell," cried Laurie.

     "Is your secret a nice one?"

     "Oh, isn't it!  All about people you know, and such fun!  You
ought to hear it, and I've been aching to tell it this long time.
Come, you begin."

     "You'll not say anything about it at home, will you?"

     "Not a word."

     "And you won't tease me in private?"

     "I never tease."

     "Yes, you do. You get everything you want out of people.  I
don't know how you do it, but you are a born wheedler."

     "Thank you. Fire away."

     "Well, I've left two stories with a newspaperman, and he's to
give his answer next week," whispered Jo, in her confidant's ear.

     "Hurrah for Miss March, the celebrated American authoress!"
cried Laurie, throwing up his hat and catching it again, to the
great delight of two ducks, four cats, five hens, and half a
dozen Irish children, for they were out of the city now.

     "Hush!  It won't come to anything, I dare say, but I couldn't
rest till I had tried, and I said nothing about it because I didn't
want anyone else to be disappointed."

     "It won't fail.  Why, Jo, your stories are works of Shake-
speare compared to half the rubbish that is published every day.
Won't it be fun to see them in print, and shan't we feel proud of
our authoress?"

     Jo's eyes sparkled, for it is always pleasant to be believed
in, and a friend's praise is always sweeter than a dozen newspaper
puffs.

     "Where's your secret?  Play fair, Teddy, or I'll never believe
you again," she said, trying to extinguish the brilliant hopes that
blazed up at a word of encouragement.

     "I may get into a scrape for telling, but I didn't promise
not to, so I will, for I never feel easy in my mind till I've told
you any plummy bit of news I get.  I know where Meg's glove is."

     "Is that all? said Jo, looking disappointed, as Laurie nodded
and twinkled with a face full of mysterious intelligence.

     "It's quite enough for the present, as you'll agree when I
tell you where it is."

     "Tell, then."

     Laurie bent, and whispered three words in Jo's ear, which
produced a comical change.  She stood and stared at him for a
minute, looking both surprised and displeased, then walked on,
saying sharply, "How do you know?"

     "Saw it."

     "Where?'

     "Pocket."

     "All this time?"

     "Yes, isn't that romantic?"

     "No, it's horrid."

     "Don't you like it?"

     "Of course I don't.  It's ridiculous, it won't be allowed. My
patience!  What would Meg say?"

     "You are not to tell anyone.  Mind that."

     "I didn't promise."

     "That was understood, and I trusted you."

     "Well, I won't for the present, anyway, but I'm disgusted, and
wish you hadn't told me."

     "I thought you'd be pleased."

     "At the idea of anybody coming to take Meg away? No, thank you."

     "You'll feel better about it when somebody comes to take you
away."

     "I'd like to see anyone try it," cried Jo fiercely.

     "So should I!"  And Laurie chuckled at the idea.

     "I don't think secrets agree with me, I feel rumpled up in
my mind since you told me that," said Jo rather ungratefully.

     "Race down this hill with me, and you'll be all right,"
suggested Laurie.

     No one was in sight, the smooth road sloped invitingly before
her, and finding the temptation irresistible, Jo darted away, soon
leaving hat and comb behind her and scattering hairpins as she ran.
Laurie reached the goal first and was quite satisfied with the
success of his treatment, for his Atalanta came panting up with
flying hair, bright eyes, ruddy cheeks, and no signs of dissatis-
faction in her face.

     "I wish I was a horse, then I could run for miles in this
splendid air, and not lose my breath.  It was capital, but see
what a guy it's made me.  Go, pick up my things, like a cherub,
as you are," said Jo, dropping down under a maple tree, which
was carpeting the bank with crimson leaves.

     Laurie leisurely departed to recover the lost property, and
Jo bundled up her braids, hoping no one would pass by till she
was tidy again.  But someone did pass, and who should it be but
Meg, looking particularly ladylike in her state and festival
suit, for she had been making calls.

     "What in the world are you doing here?" she asked, regarding
her disheveled sister with well-bred surprise.

     "Getting leaves," meekly answered Jo, sorting the rosy handful
she had just swept up.

     "And hairpins," added Laurie, throwing half a dozen into Jo's
lap.  "They grow on this road, Meg, so do combs and brown straw
hats."

     "You have been running, Jo.  How could you?  When will you stop
such romping ways?" said Meg reprovingly, as she settled her cuffs
and smoothed her hair, with which the wind had taken liberties.

     "Never till I'm stiff and old and have to use a crutch. Don't
try to make me grow up before my time, Meg.  It's hard enough to
have you change all of a sudden.  Let me be a little girl as long
as I can."

     As she spoke, Jo bent over the leaves to hide the trembling
of her lips, for lately she had felt that Margaret was fast getting
to be a woman, and Laurie's secret made her dread the separation
which must surely come some time and now seemed very near.  He saw
the trouble in her face and drew Meg's attention from it by asking
quickly, "Where have you been calling, all so fine?"

     "At the Gardiners', and Sallie has been telling me all about
Belle Moffat's wedding.  It was very splendid, and they have gone
to spend the winter in Paris.  Just think how delightful that
must be!"

     "Do you envy her, Meg?" said Laurie.

     "I'm afraid I do."

     "I'm glad of it!" muttered Jo, tying on her hat with a jerk.

     "Why?" asked Meg, looking surprised.

     "Because if you care much about riches, you will never go and
marry a poor man," said Jo, frowning at Laurie, who was mutely
warning her to mind what she said.

     "I shall never `go and marry' anyone," observed Meg, walking
on with great dignity while the others followed, laughing, whisper-
ing, skipping stones, and `behaving like children', as Meg said to
herself, though she might have been tempted to join them if she
had not had her best dress on.

     For a week or two, Jo behaved so queerly that her sisters
were quite bewildered.  She rushed to the door when the postman
rang, was rude to Mr. Brooke whenever they met, would sit looking
at Meg with a woe-begone face, occasionally jumping up to shake
and then kiss her in a very mysterious manner.  Laurie and she
were always making signs to one another, and talking about
`Spread Eagles' till the girls declared they had both lost their
wits.  On the second Saturday after Jo got out of the window, Meg,
as she sat sewing at her window, was scandalized by the sight of
Laurie chasing Jo all over the garden and finally capturing her
in Amy's bower.  What went on there, Meg could not see, but shrieks
of laughter were heard, followed by the murmur of voices and a
great flapping of newspapers.

     "What shall we do with that girl?  She never will behave like
a young lady," sighed Meg, as she watched the race with a disapprov-
ing face.

     "I hope she won't.  She is so funny and dear as she is," said
Beth, who had never betrayed that she was a little hurt at Jo's
having secrets with anyone but her.

     "It's very trying, but we never can make her commy la fo,"
added Amy, who sat making some new frills for herself, with  her
curls tied up in a very becoming way., two agreeable things that
made her feel unusually elegant and ladylike.

     In a few minutes Jo bounced in, laid herself on the sofa,
and affected to read.

     "Have you anything interesting there?" asked Meg, with cond-
escension.

     "Nothing but a story, won't amount to much, I guess," returned
Jo, carefully keeping the name of the paper out of sight.

     "You'd better read it aloud.  That will amuse us and keep you
out of mischief," said Amy in her most grown-up tone.

     "What's the name?" asked Beth, wondering why Jo kept her face
behind the sheet.

     "The Rival Painters."

     "That sounds well.  Read it," said Meg.

     With a loud "Hem!" and a long breath, Jo began to read very
fast.  The girls listened with interest, for the tale was romantic,
and somewhat pathetic, as most of the characters died in the end.

     "I like that about the splendid picture," was Amy's approving
remark, as Jo paused.

     "I prefer the lovering part.  Viola and Angelo are two of our
favorite names, isn't that queer?" said Meg, wiping her eyes, for
the lovering part was tragical.

     "Who wrote it?" asked Beth, who had caught a glimpse of Jo's
face.

     The reader suddenly sat up, cast away the paper, displaying
a flushed countenance, and with a funny mixture of solemnity and
excitement replied in a loud voice, "Your sister."

     "You?" cried Meg, dropping her work.

     "It's very good," said Amy critically.

     "I knew it!  I knew it! Oh, my Jo, I am so proud!"  And Beth
ran to hug her sister and exult over this splendid success.

     Dear me, how delighted they all were, to be sure!  How Meg
wouldn't believe it till she saw the words.  "Miss Josephine
March," actually printed in the paper.  How graciously Amy
critisized the artistic parts of the story, and offered hints for
a sequel, which unfortunately couldn't be carried out, as the
hero and heroine were dead.  How Beth got excited, and skipped
and sang with joy.  How Hannah came in to exclaim, "Sakes alive,
well I never!" in great astonishment at `that Jo's doin's'.  How
proud Mrs. March was when she knew it.  How Jo laughed, with
tears in her eyes, as she declared she might as well be a peacock
and done with it.  and how th `Spread Eagle' might be said to
flap his wings triumphantly over the House of March, as the
paper passed from hand to hand.

     "Tell us about it."  "When did it come?"  "How much did you
get for it?"  "What will Father say?"  "Won't Laurie laugh?" cried
the family, all in one breath as they clustered about Jo, for
these foolish, affectionate people mad a jubilee of every little
household joy.

     "Stop jabbering, girls, and I'll tell you everything,"
said Jo, wondering if Miss Burney felt any grander over her
EVILINA than she did over her `Rival Painters'.  Having told
how she disposed of her tales, Jo added,  "And when I went to
get my answer, the man said he liked them both, but didn't
pay beginners, only let them print in his paper, and noticed
the stories.  It was good practice, he said, and when the be-
ginners improved, anyone would pay.  So I let him have the two
stories, and today this was sent to me, and Laurie caught me
with it and insisted on seeing it, so I let him.  And he said
it was good, and I shall write more, and he's going to get the
next paid for, and I am so happy, for in time I may be able to
support myself and help the girls."

     Jo's breath gave out here, and wrapping her head in the
paper, she bedewed her little story with a few natural tears,
for to be independent and earn the praise of those she loved
were the dearest wishes of her heart, and this seemed to be the
first step toward that happy end.


                           CHAPTER FIFTEEN

     "November is the most disagreeable month in the whole year,"
said Margaret, standing at the window one dull afternoon, look-
ing out at the frostbitten garden.

     "That's the reason I was born in it," observed Jo pensively,
quite unconscious of the blot on her nose.

     "If something very pleasant should happen now, we should
think it a delightful month," said Beth, who took a hopeful view
of everything, even November.

     "I dare say, but nothing pleasant ever does happen in this
family," said Meg, who was out of sorts.  "We go grubbing along
day after day, without a bit of change, and very little fun. We
might as well be in a treadmill."

     "My patience, how blue we are!" cried Jo.  "I don't much
wonder, poor dear, for you see other girls having splendid times,
while you grind, grind, year in and year out.  Oh, don't I wish
I could manage things for you as I do for my heroines!  You're
pretty enough and good enough already, so I'd have some rich relation
leave you a fortune unexpectedly.  Then you'd dash out as an heiress,
scorn everyone who has slighted you, go abroad, and come home my Lady
Something in a blaze of splendor and elegance."

     "People don't have fortunes left them in that style nowadays,
men have to work and women marry for money.  It's a dreadfully unjust
world," said Meg bitterly.

     "Jo and I are going to make fortunes for you all.  Just wait ten
years, and see if we don't," said Amy, who sat in a corner making mud
pies, as Hannah called her little clay models of birds, fruit, and
faces.

     "Can't wait, and I'm afraid I haven't much faith in ink and dirt,
though I'm grateful for your good intentions.

     Meg sighed, and turned to the frostbitten garden again.  Jo
groaned and leaned both elbows on the table in a despondent attitude,
but Amy spatted away energetically, and Beth, who sat at the other
window, said, smiling,  "Two pleasant things are going to happen
right away.  Marmee is coming down the street, and Laurie is tramping
through the garden as if he had something nice to tell."

     In they both came, Mrs. March with her usual question, "Any letter
from Father, girls?"  and Laurie to say in his persuasive way, "Won't
some of you come for a drive?  I've been working away at mathematics
till my head is in a muddle, and I'm going to freshen my wits by a
brisk turn.  It's a dull day, but the air isn't bad, and I'm going to
take Brooke home, so it will be gay inside, if it isn't out.  Come,
Jo, you and Beth will go, won't you?"

     "Of course we will."

     "Much obliged, but I'm busy."  And Meg whisked out her workbasket,
for she had agreed with her mother that it was best, for her at least,
not to drive too often with the young gentleman.

     "We three will be ready in a minute," cried Amy, running away to
wash her hands.

     "Can I do anything for you, Madam Mother?" asked Laurie, leaning
over Mrs. March's chair with the affectionate look and tone he always
gave her.


     "No, thank you, except call at the office, if you'll be so kind,
dear.  It's our day for a letter, and the postman hasn't been.  Father
is as regular as the sun, but there's some delay on the way, perhaps."

     A sharp ring interrupted her, and a minute after Hannah came in
with a letter.

     "It's one of them horrid telegraph things, mum," she said,
handling it as if she was afraid it would explode and do some damage.

     At the word `telegraph', Mrs. March snatched it, read the two
lines it contained, and dropped back into her chair as white as if
the little paper had sent a bullet to her heart.  Laurie dashed
downstairs for water, while Meg and Hannah supported her, and Jo read
aloud, in a frightened voice . . .

     Mrs. March:
          Your husband is very ill.  Come at once.
                                     S. HALE
                       Blank Hospital, Washington.

     How still the room was as they listened breathlessly, how
strangely the day darkened outside, and how suddenly the whole world
seemed to change, as the girls gathered about their mother, feeling
as if all the happiness and support of their lives was about to be
taken from them.

     Mrs. March was herself again directly, read the message over,
and stretched out her arms to her daughters, saying, in a tone they
never forgot, "I shall go at once, but it may be too late.  Oh,
children, children, help me to bear it!"

     For several minutes there was nothing but the sound of sobbing
in the room, mingled with broken words of comfort, tender assurances
of help, and hopeful whispers that died away in tears.  Poor Hannah
was the first to recover, and with unconscious wisdom she set all the
rest a good example, for with her, work was panacea for most
afflictions.

     "The Lord keep the dear man!  I won't waste no time a-cryin',
but git your things ready right away, mum," she said heartily, as she
wiped her face on her apron, gave her mistress a warm shake of the
hand with her own hard one, and went away to work like three women
in one.

     "She's right, there's no time for tears now.  Be calm, girls,
and let me think."

     They tried to be calm, poor things, as their mother sat up,
looking pale but steady, and put away her grief to think and plan
for them.

     "Where's Laurie?' she asked presently, when she had collected
her thoughts and decided on the first duties to be done.

     "Here, ma'am.  Oh, let me do something!" cried the boy, hurry-
ing from the next room whither he had withdrawn, feeling that their
first sorrow was too sacred for even his friendly eyes to see.

     "Send a telegram saying I will come at once.  The next train
goes early in the morning.  I'll take that."

     "What else?  The horses are ready.  I can go anywhere, do
anything," he said, looking ready to fly to the ends of the earth.

     "Leave a note at Aunt March's.  Jo, give me that pen and paper."

     Tearing off the blank side of one of her newly copied pages,
Jo drew the table before her mother, well knowing that money for the
long, sad journey must be borrowed, and feeling as if she could do
anything to add to a little to the sum for her father.

     "Now go, dear, but don't kill yourself driving at a desperate
pace.  There is no need of that."

     Mrs. March's warning was evidently thrown away, for five minutes
later Laurie tore by the window on his own fleet horse, riding as if
for his life.

     "Jo, run to the rooms, and tell Mrs. King that I can't come.
On the way get these things.  I'll put them down, they'll be needed
and I must go prepared for nursing.  Hospital stores are not always
good.  Beth, go and ask Mr. Laurence for a couple of bottles of old
wine.  I'm not too proud to beg for Father.  He shall have the best
of everything.  Amy, tell Hannah to get down the black trunk, and
Meg, come and help me find my things, for I'm half bewildered."

     Writing, thinking, and directing all at once might well be-
wilder the poor lady, and Meg begged her to sit quietly in her
room for a little while, and let them work.  Everyone scattered
like leaves before a gust of wind, and the quiet, happy household
was broken up as suddenly as if the paper had been an evil spell.

     Mr. Laurence came hurrying back with Beth, bringing every
comfort the kind old gentleman could think of for the invalid, and
friendliest promises of protection for the girls during the mother's
absence, which comforted her very much.  There was nothing he didn't
offer, from his own dressing gown to himself as escort.  But the
last was impossible.  Mrs. March would not hear of the old gentle-
man's undertaking the long journey, yet an expression of relief was
visible when he spoke of it, for anxiety ill fits one for traveling.
He saw the look, knit his heavy eyebrows, rubbed his hands, and
marched abruptly away, saying he'd be back directly.  No one had
time to think of him again till, as Meg ran through the entry, with
a pair of rubbers in one hand and a cup of tea in the other, she
came suddenly upon Mr. Brooke.

     "I'm very sorry to hear of this, Miss March," he said, in the
kind, quiet tone which sounded very pleasantly to her perturbed
spirit.  "I came to offer myself as escort to your mother.  Mr.
Laurence has commissions for me in Washington, and it will give me
real satisfaction to be of service to her there."

     Down dropped the rubbers, and the tea was very near following,
as Meg put out her hand, with a face so full of gratitude that Mr.
Brooke would have felt repaid for a much greater sacrifice than
the trifling one of time and comfort which he was about to take.

     "How kind you all are!  Mother will accept, I'm sure, and it
will be such a relief to know that she has someone to take care of
her.  Thank you very, very much!"

     Meg spoke earnestly, and forgot herself entirely till some-
thing in the brown eyes looking down at her made her remember the
cooling tea, and lead the way into the parlor, saying she would
call her mother.

     Everything was arranged by the time Laurie returned with a
note from Aunt March, enclosing the desired sum, and a few lines
repeating what she had often said before, that she had always told
them it was absurd for March to go into the army, always predicted
that no good would come of it, and she hoped they would take her
advice the next time.  Mrs. March put the note in the fire, the
money in her purse, and went on with her preparations, with her
lips folded tightly in a way which Jo would have understood if she
had been there.

     The short afternoon wore away.  All other errands were done,
and Meg and her mother busy at some necessary needlework, while
Beth and Amy goth tea, and Hannah finished her ironing with what
she called a `slap and a bang', but still Jo did not come.  They
began to get anxious, and Laurie went off to find her, for no one
knew what freak Jo might take into her head.  He missed her, how-
ever, and she came walking in with a very queer expression of
countenance, for there was a mixture of fun and fear, satisfaction
and regret in it, which puzzled the family as much as did the roll
of bills she laid before her mother, saying with a little choke in
her voice, "That's my contribution toward making Father comfortable
and bringing him home!"

     "My dear, where did you get it?  Twenty-five dollars!  Jo, I
hope you haven't done anything rash?"

     "No, it's mine honestly.  I didn't beg, borrow, or steal it. I
earned it, and I don't think you'll blame me, for I only sold what
was my own."

     As she spoke, Jo took off her bonnet, and a general outcry arose,
for all her abundant hair was cut short.

     "Your hair!  Your beautiful hair!"  "Oh, Jo, how could you? Your
one beauty."  "My dear girl, there was no need of this."  "She doesn't
look like my Jo any more, but I love her dearly for it!"

     As everyone exclaimed, and Beth hugged the cropped head tenderly,
Jo assumed an indifferent air, which did not deceive anyone a particle,
and said, rumpling up the brown bush and trying to look as if she liked
it, "It doesn't affect the fate of the nation, so don't wail, Beth.  It
will be good for my vanity, I getting too proud of my wig.  It will do
my brains good to have that mop taken off.  My head feels deliciously
light and cool, and the barber said I could soon have a curly crop,
which will be boyish, becoming, and easy to keep in order.  I'm satis-
fied, so please take the money and let's have supper."

     "Tell me all about it, Jo.  I am not quite satisfied, but I can't
blame you, for I know how willingly you sacrificed your vanity, as
you call it, to your love.  But, my dear, it was not necessary, and
I'm afraid you will regret it one of these days," said Mrs. March.

     "No, I won't!" returned Jo stoutly, feeling much relieved that
her prank was not entirely condemned.

     "What made you do it?" asked Amy, who would as soon have thought
of cutting off her head as her pretty hair.

     "Well, I was wild to to something for Father," replied Jo, as
they gathered about the table, for healthy young people can eat even
in the midst of trouble.  "I hate to borrow as much as Mother does,
and I knew Aunt March would croak, she always does, if you ask for
a ninepence.  Meg gave all her quarterly salary toward the rent, and
I only got some clothes with mine, so I felt wicked, and was bound
to have some money, if I sold the nose off my face to get it."

     "You needn't feel wicked, my child! You had no winter things and
got the simplest with your own hard earnings," said Mrs. March with a
look that warmed Jo's heart.

     "I hadn't the least idea of selling my hair at first, but as I
went along I kept thinking what I could do, and feeling as if I'd
like to dive into some of the rich stores and help myself.  In a
barber's window I saw tails of hair with the prices marked, and one
black tail, not so thick as mine, was forty dollars.  It came to me
all of a sudden that I had one thing to make money out of, and with-
out stopping to think, I walked in, asked if they bought hair, and
what they would give for mine."

     "I don't see how you dared to do it," said Beth in a tone of awe.

     "Oh, he was a little man who looked as if he merely lived to oil
his hair.  He rather stared at first, as if he wasn't used to having
girls bounce into his shop and ask him to buy their hair.  He said he
didn't care about mine, it wasn't the fashionable color, and he never
paid much for it in the first place.  The work he put it into it made
it dear, and so on.  It was getting late, and I was afraid if it
wasn't done right away that I shouldn't have it done at all, and you
know when I start to do a thing, I hate to give it up.  So I begged
him to take it, and told him why I was in such a hurry.  It was
silly, I dare say, but it changed his mind, for I got rather excited,
and told the story in my topsy-turvy way, and his wife heard, and
said so kindly, `Take it, Thomas, and oblige the young lady.  I'd do
as much for our Jimmy any day if I had a spire of hair worth selling."

     "Who was Jimmy?" asked Amy, who liked to have things explained
as they went along.

     "Her son, she said, who was in the army.  How friendly such
things make strangers feel, don't they?  She talked away all the
time the man clipped, and diverted my mind nicely."

     "Didn't you feel dreadfully when the first cut came?" asked
Meg, with a shiver.

     "I took a last look at my hair while the man got his things,
and that was the end of it.  I never snivel over trifles like that.
I will confess, though, I felt queer when I saw the dear old hair
laid out on the table, and felt only the short rough ends of my head.
It almost seemed as if I'd an arm or leg off.  The woman saw me look
at it, and picked out a long lock for me to keep.  I'll give it to
you, Marmee, just to remember past glories by, for a crop is so
comfortable I don't think I shall ever have a mane again."

     Mrs. March folded the wavy chestnut lock, and laid it away with
a short gray one in her desk.  She only said, "Thank you, deary,"
but something in her face made the girls change the subject, and
talk as cheerfully as they could about Mr. Brooke's kindness, the
prospect of a fine day tomorrow, and the happy times they would have
when Father came home to be nursed.

     No one wanted to go to bed when at ten o'clock Mrs. March put
by the last finished job, and said, "Come girls."  Beth went to the
piano and played the father's favorite hymn.  All began bravely, but
broke down one by one till Beth was left alone, singing with all her
heart, for to her music was always a sweet consoler.

     "Go to bed and don't talk, for we must be up early and shall
need all the sleep we can get.  Good night, my darlings," said Mrs.
March, as the hymn ended, for no one cared to try another.

     They kissed her quietly, and went to bed as silently as if the
dear invalid lay in the next room. Beth and Amy soon fell asleep in
spite of the great trouble, but Meg lay awake, thinking the most
serious thoughts she had ever known in her short life.  Jo lay motion-
less, and her sister fancied that she was asleep, till a stifled sob
made her exclaim, as she touched a wet cheek . . .

     "Jo, dear, what is it?  Are you crying about father?"

     "No, not now."

     "What then?"

     "My . . . My hair!" burst out poor Jo, trying vainly to smother
her emotion in the pillow.

     It did not seem at all comical to Meg, who kissed and caressed
the afflicted heroine in the tenderest manner.

     "I'm not sorry," protested Jo, with a choke.  "I'd do it again
tomorrow, if I could.  It's only the vain part of me that goes and
cries in this silly way.  Don't tell anyone, it's all over now.  I
thought you were asleep, so I just made a little private moan for my
one beauty.  How came you to be awake?"

     "I can't sleep, I'm so anxious," said Meg.

     "Think about something pleasant, and you'll soon drop off."

     "I tried it, but felt wider awake than ever."

     "What did you think of?"

     "Handsome faces--eyes particularly," answered Meg, smiling to
herself in the dark.

     "What color do you like best?"

     "Brown, that is, sometimes. Blue are lovely."

     Jo, laughed, and Meg sharply ordered her not to talk, then
amiably promised to make her hair curl, and fell asleep to dream of
living in her castle in the air.

     The clocks were striking midnight and the rooms were very still
as a figure glided quietly from bed to bed, smoothing a coverlet here,
settling a pillow there, and pausing to look long and tenderly at each
unconscious face, to kiss each with lips that mutely blessed, and to
pray the fervent prayers which only mothers utter.  As she lifted the
curtain to look out into the dreary night, the moon broke suddenly
from behind the clouds and shone upon her like a bright, benignant
face, which seemed to whisper in the silence," Be comforted, dear
soul!  There is always light behind the clouds."


                           CHAPTER SIXTEEN

     In the cold gray dawn the sisters lit their lamp and read
their chapter with an earnestness never felt before.  For now
the shadow of a real trouble had come, the little books were full
of help and comfort, and as they dressed, they agreed to say good-
bye cheerfully and hopefully, and send their mother on her anxious
journey unsaddened by tears or complaints from them.  Everything
seemed very strange when they went down, so dim and still outside,
so full of light and bustle within.  Breakfast at that early hour
seemed odd, and even Hannah's familiar face looked unnatural as she
flew about her kitchen with her nightcap on.  The big trunk stood
ready in the hall, Mother's cloak and bonnet lay on the sofa, and
Mother herself sat trying to eat, but looking so pale and worn
with sleeplessness and anxiety that the girls found it very hard
to keep their resolution.  Meg's eyes kept filling in spite of
herself, Jo was obliged to hide her face in the kitchen roller
more than once, ant the little girls wore a grave, troubled express-
ion, as if sorrow was a new experience to them.

     Nobody talked much, but as the time drew very near and they
sat waiting for the carriage, Mrs. March said to the girls, who
were all busied about her, one folding her shawl, another smooth-
ing out the strings of her bonnet, a third putting on her overshoes,
and a forth fastening up her travelling bag . . .

     "Children, I leave you to Hannah's care and Mr. Laurence's
protection.  Hannah is faithfulness itself, and our good neighbor
will guard you as if you were his own.  I have no fears for you,
yet I am anxious that you should take this trouble rightly.  Don't
grieve and fret when I am gone, or think that you can be idle and
comfort yourselves by being idle and trying to forget.  Go on
with your work as usual, for work is a blessed solace.  Hope and
keep busy, and whatever happens, remember that you never can be
fatherless."

     "Yes, Mother."

     "Meg, dear, be prudent, watch over your sisters, consult
Hannah, and in any perplexity, go to Mr. Laurence.  Be patient, Jo,
don't get despondent or do rash things, write to me often, and be
my brave girl, ready to help and cheer all.  Beth, comfort yourself
with your music, and be faithful to the little home duties, and You
Amy, help all you can, be obedient, and keep happy safe at home."

     "We will, Mother!  We will!"

     The rattle of an approaching carriage made them all start and
listen.  That was the hard minute, but the girls stood it well.  No
one cried, no one ran away or uttered a lamentation, though their
hearts were very heavy as they sent loving messages to Father, rem-
embering, as they spoke that it might be too late to deliver them.
They kissed their mother quietly, clung about her tenderly, and
tried to wave their hands cheerfully when she drove away.

     Laurie and his grandfather came over to see her off, and Mr.
Brooke looked so strong and sensible and kind that the girls
christened him `Mr. Greatheart' on the spot.

     "Goodby, my darlings!  God bless and keep us all!" whispered
Mrs. March, as she kissed one dear little face after the other,
and hurried into the carriage.

     As she rolled away, the sun came out, and looking back, she
saw it shining on the group at the gate like a good omen.  They
saw it also, and smiled and waved their hands, and the last thing
she beheld as she turned the corner was the four bright faces, and
behind them like a bodyguard, old Mr. Laurence, faithful Hannah,
and devoted Laurie.

     "How kind everyone is to us!" she said, turning to find fresh
proof of it in the respectful sympathy of the young man's face.

     "I don't see how they can help it," returned Mr. Brooke, laugh-
ing so infectiously that Mrs. March could not help smiling.  And so
the journey began with the good omens of sunshine, smiles, and
cheerful words.

     "I feel as if there had been an earthquake," said Jo, as their
neighbors went home to breakfast, leaving them to rest and refresh
themselves.

     "It seems as if half the house was gone," added Meg forlornly.

     Beth opened her lips to say something, but could only point to
the pile of nicely mended hose which lay on Mother's table, showing
that even in her last hurried moments she had thought and worked
for them.  It was a little thing, but it went straight to their
hearts, and in spite of their brave resolutions, they all broke
down and cried bitterly.

     Hannah wisely allowed them to relieve their feelings, and
when the shower showed signs of clearing up, she came to the
rescue, armed with a coffeepot.

     "Now, ny dear young ladies, remember what your ma said, and
don't fret.  Come and have a cup of coffee all round, and then
let's fall to work and be a credit to the family."

     Coffee was a treat, and Hannah showed great tact in making it
that morning.  No one could resist her persuasive nods, or the
fragrant invitation issuing from the nose of the coffee pot.  They
drew up to the table, exchanged their handkerchiefs for napkins,
and in ten minutes were all right again.

     "`Hope and keep busy', that's the motto for us, so let's see
who will remember it best.  I shall go to Aunt March, as usual.
Oh, won't she lecture though!" said Jo, as she sipped with return-
ing spirit.

     "I shall go to my Kings, though I'd much rather stay at home
and attend to things here," said Meg, wishing she hadn't made her
eyes so red.

     "No need of that.  Beth and I can keep house perfectly well,"
put in Amy, with an important air.

     "Hannah will tell us what to do, and we'll have everything
nice when you come home," added Beth, getting out her mop and dish
tub without delay.

     "I think anxiety is very interesting," observed Amy, eating
sugar pensively.

     The girls couldn't help laughing, and felt better for it,
though Meg shook her head at the young lady who could find consol-
ation in  a sugar bowl.

     The sight of the turnovers made Jo sober again, and when the
two went out to their daily tasks, they looked sorrowfully back
at the window where they were accustomed to see their mother's
face.  It was gone, but Beth had remembered the little household
ceremony, and there she was, nodding away at them like a rosy-
faced mandarin.

     "That's so like my Beth!" said Jo, waving her hat, with a
grateful face.  "Goodbye, Meggy, I hope the Kings won't strain
today.  Don't fret about Father, dear," she added, as they parted.

     "And I hope Aunt March won't croak.  Your hair is becoming,
and it looks very boyish and nice," returned Meg, trying not to
smile at the curly head, which looked comically small on her tall
sister's shoulders.

     "That's my only comfort." And, touching her hat a` la Laurie,
away went Jo, feeling like a shorn sheep on a wintry day.

     News from their father comforted the girls very much, for
though dangerously ill, the presence of the best and tenderest of
nurses had already done him good.  Mr. Brooke sent a bulletin every
day, and as the head of the family, Meg insisted on reading the
dispatches, which grew more cheerful as the week passed.  At first,
everyone was eager to write, and plump envelopes were carefully
poked into the letter box by one or other of the sisters, who felt
rather important with their Washington correspondence.  As one of
these packets contained characteristic notes from the party, we will
rob an imaginary mail, and read them.

     My dearest Mother:

     It is impossible to tell you how happy your last letter made
us, for the news was so good we couldn't help laughing and crying
over it.  How very kind Mr. Brooke is, and how fortunate that Mr.
Laurence's business detains him near you so long, since he is so
useful to you and Father.  The girls are all as good as gold.  Jo
helps me with the sewing, and insists on doing all sorts of hard
jobs.  I should be afraid she might overdo, if I didn't know her
`moral fit' wouldn't last long.  Beth is as regular about her tasks
as a clock, and never forgets what you told her.  She grieves about
Father, and looks sober except when she is at her little piano. Amy
minds me nicely, and I take great care of her.  She does her own
hair, and I am teaching her to make buttonholes and mend her stock-
ings.  She tries very hard, and I know you will be pleased with her
improvement when you come.  Mr. Laurence watches over us like a
motherly old hen, as Jo says, and Laurie is very kind and neighborly.
He and Jo keep us merry, for we get pretty blue sometimes, and feel
like orphans, with you so far away.  Hannah is a perfect saint.  She
does not scold at all, and always calls me Miss Margaret, which is
quite proper, you know, and treats me with respect.  We are all
well and busy, but we long, day and night, to have you back.  Give
my dearest love to Father, and believe me, ever your own . . .

                                                            MEG

     This note, prettily written on scented paper, was a great
contrast to the next, which was scribbled on a big sheet of thin
foreign paper, ornamented with blots and all manner of flourishes
and curly-tailed letters.

     My precious Marmee:

     Three cheers for dear Father!  Brooke was a trump to telegraph
right off, and let us know the minute he was better.  I rushed up
garret when the letter came, and tried to thank god for being so
good to us, but I could only cry, and say, "I'm glad!  I'm glad!"
Didn't that do as well as a regular prayer?  For I felt a great
many in my heart.  We have such funny times, and now I can enjoy
them, for everyone is so desperately good, it's like living in a
nest of turtledoves.  You'd laugh to see Meg head the table and
try to be motherish.  She gets prettier every day, and I'm in love
with her sometimes.  The children are regular archangels, and I--
well, I'm Jo, and never shall be anything else.  Oh, I must tell
you that I came near having a quarrel with Laurie.  I freed my mind
about a silly little thing, and he was offended.  I was right, but
didn't speak as I ought, and he marched home, saying he wouldn't
come again till I begged pardon.  I declared I wouldn't and got mad.
It lasted all day.  I felt bad and wanted you very much. Laurie and
I are both so proud, it's hard to beg pardon.  But I thought he'd
come to it, for I was in the right.  He didn't come, and just at
night I remembered what you said when Amy fell into the river.  I
read my little book, felt better, resolved not to let the sun set
on my anger, and ran over to tell Laurie I was sorry.  I met him
at the gate, coming for the same thing.  We both laughed, begged
each other's pardon, and felt all good and comfortable again.

     I made a `pome' yesterday, when I was helping Hannah wash,
and as Father likes my silly little things, I put it in to amuse
him.  Give him my lovingest hug that ever was, and kiss yourself
a dozen times for your . . .

                                                  TOPSY-TURVY JO

                     A SONG FROM THE SUDS

                  Queen of my tub, I merrily sing,
                  While the white foam rises high,
                  And sturdily wash and rinse and wring,
                  And fasten the clothes to dry.
                  Then out in the free fresh air they swing,
                  Under the sunny sky.

                  I wish we could wash from out hearts and souls
                  The stains of the week away,
                  And let water and air by their magic make
                  Ourselves as pure as they.
                  Then on the earth there would be indeed,
                  A glorious washing day!

                  Along the path of a useful life,
                  Will heartsease ever bloom.
                  The busy mind has no time to think
                  Of sorrow or care or gloom.
                  And anxious thoughts may be swept away,
                  As we bravely wield a broom.

                  I am glad a task to me is given,
                  To labor at day by day,
                  For it brings me health and strength and hope,
                  And I cheerfully learn to say,
                  "Head, you may think, Heart, you may feel,
                  But, Hand, you shall work alway!"

     Dear Mother,

     There is only room for me to send my love, and some pressed
pansies from the root I have been keeping safe in the house for
Father to see.  I read every morning, try to be good all day, and
sing myself to sleep with Father's tune.  I can't sing `LAND OF
THE LEAL' now, it makes me cry.  Everyone is very kind, and we are
as happy as we can be without you.  Amy wants the rest of the page,
so I must stop.  I didn't forget to cover the holders, and I wind
the clock and air the rooms every day.

     Kiss dear Father on the cheek he calls mine.  Oh, do come soon
to your loving . ..

                                                       LITTLE BETH

     Ma Chere Mamma,

     We are all well I do my lessons always and never corroberate
the girls--Meg says I mean contradick so I put in both words and
you can take the properest.  Meg is a great comfort to me and lets
me have jelly every night at tea its so good for me Jo says because
it keeps me sweet tempered. Laurie is not as respeckful as he ought
to be now I am almost in my teens, he calls me Chick and hurts my
feelings by talking French to me very fast when I say Merci or Bon
jour as Hattie King does.  The sleeves of my blue dress were all
worn out, and Meg put in new ones, but the full front came wrong
and they are more blue than the dress.  I felt bad but did not fret
I bear my troubles well but I do wish Hannah would put more starch
in my aprons and have buckwheats every day.  Can't she?  Didn't I
make that interrigation point nice?  Meg says my punchtuation and
spelling are disgraceful and I am mortyfied but dear me I have so
many things to do, I can't stop.  Adieu, I send heaps of love to
Papa.  Your affectionate daughter . ..

                                               AMY CURTIS MARCH

     Dear Mis March,

     I jes drop a line to say we git on fust rate.  The girls is
clever and fly round right smart.  Miss Meg is going to make a
proper good housekeeper.  She hes the liking for it, and gits the
hang of things surprisin quick.  Jo doos beat all for goin ahead,
but she don't stop to cal'k'late fust, and you never know where
she's like to bring up.  She done out a tub of clothes on Monday,
but she starched 'em afore they was wrenched, and blued a pink
calico dress till I thought I should a died a laughin.  Beth is the
best of little creeters, and a sight of help to me, bein so fore-
handed and dependable.  She tries to learn everything, and really
goes to market beyond her years, likewise keeps accounts, with my
help, quite wonderful.  We have got on very economical so fur.  I
don't let the girls hev coffee only once a week, accordin to your
wish, and keep em on plain wholesome vittles.  Amy does well with-
out frettin, wearin her best clothes and eatin sweet stuff.  Mr.
Laurie is as full of didoes as usual, and turns the house upside
down frequent, but he heartens the girls, so I let em hev full
swing.  The old gentleman send heaps of things, and is rather
wearin, but means wal, and it aint my place to say nothin.  My
bread is riz, so no more at this time.  I send my duty to Mr.
March, and hope he's seen the last of his Pewmonia.

    Yours respectful,

                                              HANNAH MULLET

     Head Nurse of Ward No. 2,

     All serene on the Rappahannock, troops in fine condition,
commisary department well conducted, the Home Guard under Colonel
Teddy always on duty, Commander in Chief General Laurence reviews
the army daily, Quartermaster Mullet keeps order in camp, and Major
Lion does picket duty at night.  A salute of twenty-four guns was
fired on reciept of good news from Washington, and a dress parade
took place at headquarters.  Commander in chief sends best wishes,
in which he is heartily joined by . . .

                                                COLONEL TEDDY

     Dear Madam:

     The little girls are all well.  Beth and my boy report daily.
Hannah is a model servant, and guards pretty Meg like a dragon.
Glad the fine weather holds.  Pray make Brooke useful, and draw
on me for funds if expenses exceed your estimate.  Don't let your
husband want anything.  Thank God he is mending.

                                  Your sincere friend and servant,
                                                   JAMES LAURENCE


                          CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

     For a week the amount of virtue in the old house would have
supplied the neighborhood.  It was really amazing, for everyone
seemed in a heavenly frame of mind, and self-denial was all the
fashion.  Relieved of their first anxiety about their father,
girls insensibly relaxed their praiseworthy efforts a little,
and began to fall back into old ways.  They did not forget
their motto, but hoping and keeping busy seemed to grow easier,
and after such tremendous exertions, they felt that Endeavor
deserved a holiday, and gave it a good many.

     Jo caught a bad cold through neglect to cover the shorn
head enough, and was ordered to stay at home till she was better,
for Aunt March didn't like to hear people read with colds in
their heads.  Jo liked this, and after an energetic rummage from
garret to cellar, subsided on the sofa to nurse her cold with
arsenicum and books.  Amy found that housework and art did not
go well together, and returned to her mud pies.  Meg went daily
to her pupils, and sewed, or thought she did, at home, but much
time was spent in writing long letters to her mother, or reading
the Washington dispatches over and over.  Beth kept on, with only
slight relapses into idleness or grieving.

     All the little duties were faithfully done each day, and
many of her sisters' also, for they were forgetful, and the house
seemed like a clock whose pendulum was gone a-visiting.  When her
heart got heavy with longings for Mother or fears for Father, she
went away into a certain closet, hid her face in the folds of a
dear old gown, and made her little moan and prayed her little
prayer quietly by herself.  Nobody knew what cheered her up after
a sober fit, but everyone felt how sweet and helpful Beth was, and
fell into a way of going to her for comfort or advice in their
small affairs.

     All were unconscious that this experience was a test of
character, and when the first excitement was over, felt that they
had done well and deserved praise.  So they did, but their mis-
take was in ceasing to do well, and they learned this lesson
through much anxiety and regret.

     "Meg, I wish you'd go and see the Hummels.  You know Mother
told us not to forget them." said Beth, ten days after Mrs. March's
departure.

     "I'm too tired to go this afternoon," re;lied Meg, rocking
comfortably as she sewed.

     "Can't you, Jo?' asked Beth.

     "Too stormy for me with my cold."

     "I thought it was almost well."

     "It's well enough for me to go out with Laurie, but not well
enough to go to the Hummels'," said Jo, laughing, but looking a
little ashamed of her inconsistency.

     "Why don't you go yourself?" asked Meg.

     "I have been every day, but the baby is sick, and I don't
know what to do for it.  Mrs. Hummel goes away to work, and Lott-
chen takes care of it.  But it gets sicker and sicker, and I think
you or Hannah ought to go."

     Beth spoke earnestly, and Meg promised she would go tomorrow.

     "Ask Hannah for some nice little mess, and take it round, Beth,
the air will do you good,"  said Jo, adding apologetically, "I'd go
but I want to finish my writing."

     "My head aches and I'm tired, so I thought maybe some of you
would go," said Beth.

     "Amy will be in presently, and she will run down for us,
suggested Meg.

     So Beth lay down on the sofa, the others returned to their work,
and the Hummels were forgotten.  An hour passed.  Amy did not come,
Meg went to her room to try on  a new dress, Jo was absorbed in her
story, and Hannah was sound asleep before the kitchen fire,when
Beth quietly put on her hood, filled her basket with odds and ends
for the poor children, and went out into the chilly air with a heavy
head and a grieved look in her patient eyes.  It was late when she
came back, and no one saw her creep upstairs and shut herself into
her mother's room.  Half an hour after, Jo went to `Mother's closet'
for something, and there found little Beth sitting on the medicine
chest, looking very grave, with red eyes and a camphor bottle in
her hand.

     "Christopher Columbus!  What's the matter?" cried Jo, as Beth
put out her hand as if to warn her off, and asked quickly, "You've
had the scarlet fever, havent't you?"

     "Years ago, when Meg did.  Why?'

     "Then I'll tell you.  Oh, Jo, the baby's dead!"

     "What baby?"

     "Mrs. Hummel's.  It died in my lap before she got home," cried
Beth with a sob.

     "My poor dear, how dreadful for you!  I ought to have gone,"
said Jo, taking her sister in her arms as she sat down in her
mother's bit chair, with a remorseful face.

     "It wasn't dreadful, Jo, only so sad!  I saw in a minute it
was sicker, but Lottchen said her mother had gone for a doctor, so
I took Baby and let Lotty rest.  It seemed asleep, but all of a
sudden if gave a little cry and trembled, and then lay very still.
I tried to warm its feet, and Lotty gave it some milk, but it didn't
stir, and I knew it was dead."

     "Don't cry, dear!  What did you do?"

     "I just sat and held it softly till Mrs. Hummel came with the
doctor.  He said it was dead, and looked at Heinrich and Minna, who
have sore throats.  `Scarlet fever, ma'am.  Ought to have called me
before,' he said crossly.  Mrs. Hummel told him she was poor, and
had tried to cure baby herself, but now it was too late, and she
could only ask him to help the others and trust to charity for his
pay.  He smiled then, and was kinder, but it was very sad, and I
cried with them till he turned round all of a sudden, and told me
to go home and take belladonna right away, or I'd have the fever."

     "No, you won't!" cried Jo, hugging her close, with a frightened
look.  "Oh, Beth, if you should be sick I never could forgive myself!
What shall we do?"

     "Don't be frightened, I guess I shan't have it badly.  I looked
in Mother's book, and saw that it begins with headache, sore throat,
and queer feelings like mine, so I did take some belladonna, and I
feel better," said Beth, laying her cold hands on her hot forehead
and trying to look well.

     "If Mother was only at home!" exclaimed Jo, seizing the book,
and feeling that Washington was an immense way off.  She read a page,
looked at Beth, felt her head, peeped into her throat, and then
said gravely, "You've been over the baby every day for more than a
week, and among the others who are going to have it, so I'm afraid
you are going to have it, Beth.  I'll call Hannah, she knows all
about sickness."

     "Don't let Amy come.  She never had it, and I should hate to
give it to her.  Can't you and Meg have it over again?" asked Beth,
anxiously.

     "I guess not.  Don't care if I do.  Serve me right, selfish pig,
to let you go, and stay writing rubbish myself!" muttered Jo, as she
went to consult Hannah.

     The good soul was wide awake in a minute, and took the lead at
once, assuring that there was no need to worry; every one had scarlet
fever, and if rightly treated, nobody died, all of which Jo believed,
and felt much relieved as they went up to call Meg.

     "Now I'll tell you what we'll do," said Hannah, when she had
examined and questioned Beth, "we will have Dr. Bangs, just to take
a look at you, dear, and see that we start right.  Then we'll send
Amy off to Aunt March's for a spell, to keep her out of harm's way,
and one of you girls can stay at home and amuse Beth for a day or two."

     "I shall stay, of course, I'm oldest," began Meg, looking anxious
and self-reproachful.

     "I shall, because it's my fault she is sick.  I told Mother I'd
do the errands, and I haven't," said Jo decidedly.

     "Which will you have, Beth?  There ain't no need of but one,"
said Hannah.

     "Jo, please." And Beth leaned her head against her sister with
a contented look, which effectually settled that point.

     "I'll go and tell Amy," said Meg, feeling a little hurt, yet
rather relieved on the whole, for she did not like nursing, and Jo
did.

     Amy rebelled outright, and passionately declared that she had
rather have the fever than go to Aunt March.  Meg reasoned, pleaded,
and commanded, all in vain.  Amy protested that she would not go,
and Meg left her in despair to ask Hannah what should be done.  Before
she came back, Laurie walked into the parlor to find Amy sobbing, with
her head in the sofa cushions.  She told her story, expecting to be
consoled, but Laurie only put his hands in his pockets and walked
about the room, whistling softly, as he knit his brows in deep
thought.  Presently he sat down beside her, and said, in his most
wheedlesome tone, "Now be a sensible little woman, and do as they say.
No, don't cry, but hear what a jolly plan I've got.  You go to Aunt
March's, and I'll come and take you out every day, driving or walking,
and we'll have capital times. Won't that be better than moping here?"

     "I don't wish to be sent off as if I was in the way," began Amy,
in an injured voice.

     "Bless your heart, child, it's to keep you well.  You don't
want to be sick, do you?"

     "No, I'm sure I don't, but I dare say I shall be, for I've been
with Beth all the time."

     "That's the very reason you ought to go away at once, so that
you may escape it.  Change of air and care will keep you well, I
dare say, or if it does not entirely, you will have the fever more
lightly.  I advise you to be off as soon as you can, for scarlet fever
is no joke, miss."

     "But it's dull at Aunt March's, and she is so cross," said Amy,
looking rather frightened.

     "It won't be dull with me popping; in every day to tell you how
Beth is, and take you out gallivanting.  The old lady likes me, and
I'll be as sweet as possible to her, so she won't peck at us, what-
ever we do."

     "Will you take me out in the trotting wagon with Puck?"

     "On my honor as a gentleman."

     "And come every single day?"

     "See if I don't/"

     "And bring me back the minute Beth is well?"

     "The identical minute."

     "And go to the theater, truly?"

     "A dozen theaters, if we may."

     "Well--I guess I will," said Amy slowly.

     "Good girl!  Call Meg, and tell her you'll give in," said
Laurie, with an approving pat, which annoyed Amy more than the
`giving in'.

     Meg and Jo came running down to behold the miracle which had
been wrought, and Amy, feeling very precious and self-sacrificing,
promised to go, if the doctor said Beth was going to be ill.

     "How is the little dear?" asked Laurie, for Beth was his
especial pet, and he felt more anxious about her than he liked to
show.

     "She is lying down on Mother's bed, and feels better.  The
baby's death troubled her, but I dare say she has only got cold.
Hannah says she thinks so, but she looks worried, and that makes me
fidgety," answered Meg.

     "What a trying world it is!" said Jo, rumpling up her hair in
a fretful way.  "No sooner do we get out of one trouble than down
comes another.  There doesn't seem to be anything to hold on to
when Mother's gone, so I'm all at sea."

      "Well, don't make a porcupine of yourself, it isn't becoming.
Settle your wig, Jo, and tell me if I shall telegraph to your mother,
or do anything?" asked Laurie, who never had been reconciled to the
loss of his friend's one beauty.

     "That is what troubles me," said Meg.  "I think we ought to tell
her if Beth is really ill, but Hannah says we mustn't, for Mother
can't leave Father, and it will only make them anxious.  Beth won't
be sick long, and Hannah knows just what to do, and Mother said we
were to mind her, so I suppose we must, but it doesn't seem quite
right to me."

     "Hum, well, I can't say.  Suppose you ask Grandfather after
the doctor has been."

     "We will.  Jo, go and get Dr. Bangs at once," commanded Meg.
"We can't decide anything till he has been."

     "Stay where you are, Jo.  I'm errand boy to this establish-
ment," said Laurie, taking up his cap.

     "I'm afraid you are busy," began Meg.

     "No, I've done my lessons for the day."

     "Do you study in vacation time?" asked Jo.

     "I follow the good example my neighbors set me," was Laurie's
answer, as he swung himself out of the room.

     "I have great hopes for my boy," observed Jo, watching him
fly over the fence with an approving smile.

     "He does very well, for a boy," was Meg's somewhat ungracious
answer, for the subject did not interest her.

     Dr. Bangs  came, said Beth had symptoms of the fever, but he
thought she would have it lightly, though he looked sober over the
Hummel story.  Amy was ordered off at once, and provided with some-
thing to ward off danger, she departed in great state, with Jo and
Laurie as escort.

     Aunt March received them with her usual hospitality.

     "What do you want now?" she asked, looking sharply over her
spectacles, while the parrot, sitting on the back of her chair,
called out . . .

     "Go away.  No boys allowed her."

     Laurie retired to the window, and Jo told her story.

     "No more than I expected, if you are allowed to go poking
about among poor folks.  Amy can stay and make herself useful
if she isn't sick, which I've no doubt she will be, looks like
it now.  Don't cry, child, it worries me to hear people sniff."

     Amy was on the point of crying, but Laurie slyly pulled the
parrot's tail, which caused Polly to utter an astonished croak and
call out, "Bless my boots!" in such a funny way, that she laughed
instead.

     "What do you hear from your mother?" asked the old lady
gruffly.

     "Father is much better," replied Jo, trying to keep sober.

     "Oh, is her?  Well, that won't last long, I fancy.  March
never had any stamina," was the cheerful reply.

     "Ha, ha!  Never say die, take a pinch of snuff, goodbye, good-
bye!" squalled Polly, dancing on her perch, and clawing at the old
lady's cap as Laurie tweaked him in the rear.

     "Hold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird!  And, Jo, you'd
better go at once.  It isn't proper to be gadding about so late with
a rattlepated boy like . . ."

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

     "I don't think I can bear it, but I'll try," thought Amy, as
she was left alone with Aunt March.

     "Get along, you fright!" screamed Polly, and at that rude speech
Amy could not restrain a sniff.


                           CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

     Beth did have the fever, and was much sicker than anyone but
Hannah and the doctor suspected.  The girls knew nothing about ill-
ness, and Mr. Laurence was not allowed to see her, so Hannah had
everything her own way, and busy Dr. Bangs did his best, but left a
good deal to the excellent nurse.  Meg stayed at home, lest she
should infect the Kings, and kept house, feeling very anxious and a
little guilty when she wrote letters in which no mention was made of
Beth's illness.  She could not think it right to deceive her mother,
but she had been bidden to mind Hannah, and Hannah wouldn't hear of
`Mrs. March bein' told, and worried just for sech a trifle.'

     Jo devoted herself to Beth day and night, not a hard task, for
Beth was very patient, and bore her pain uncomplainingly as long as
she could control herself.  But there came a time when during the
fever fits she began to talk in a hoarse, broken voice, to play on
the coverlet as if on her beloved little piano, and try to sing with
a throat so swollen that there was no music left, a time when she
did not know the familiar faces around her, but addressed them by
wrong names, and called imploringly for her mother.  Then Jo grew
frightened, Meg begged to be allowed to write the truth, and even
Hannah said she `would think of it, though there was no danger
yet'.  A letter from Washington added to their trouble, for Mr.
March had had a relapse, and could not think of coming home for a
long while.

     How dark the days seemed now, how sad and lonely the house,
and how heavy were the hearts of the sisters as they worked and
waited, while the shadow of death hovered over the once happy home.
Then it was that Margaret, sitting alone with tears dropping often
on her work, felt how rich she had been in things more precious
than any luxuries money could buy--in love, protection,, peace, and
health, the real blessings of life.  Then it was that Jo, living in
the darkened room, with that suffering little sister always before
her eyes and that pathetic voice sounding in her ears, learned to
see the beauty and to sweetness of Beth's nature, to feel how deep
and tender a place she filled in all hearts, and to acknowledge the
worth of Beth's unselfish ambition to live for others, and make
home happy by that exercise of those simple virtues which all may
possess, and which all should love and value more than talent, wealth,
or beauty.  And Amy, in her exile, longed eagerly to be at home, that
she might work for Beth, feeling now that no service would be hard or
irksome, and remembering, with regretful grief, how many neglected
tasks those willing hands had done for her.  Laurie haunted the house
like a restless ghost, and Mr. Laurence locke the grand piano, because
he could not bear to be reminded of the young neighbor who used to
make the twilight pleasant for him.  Everyone missed Beth.  The milk-
man, baker, grocer, and butcher inquired how she did, poor Mrs.
Hummel came to beg pardon for her thoughtlessness and to get a shroud
for Minna, the neighbors sent all sorts of comforts and good wishes,
and even those who knew her best were surprised to find how many
friends shy little Beth had made.

     Meanwhile she lay on her bed with old Joanna at her side, for
even in her wanderings she did not forget her forlorn protege.  She
longed for her cats, but would not have them brought, lest they
should get sick, and in her quiet hours she was full of anxiety
about Jo.  She sent loving messages to Amy, bade them tell her mother
that she would write soon, and often begged for pencil and paper to
try to say a word, that Father might not think she had neglected him.
But soon even these intervals of consciousness ended, and she lay
hour after hour, tossing to and fro, with incoherent words on her
lips, or sank into a heavy sleep which brought her no refreshment.
Dr. Bangs came twice a day, Hannah sat up at night, Meg kept a
telegram in her desk all ready to send off at any minute, and Jo
never stirred from Beth's side.

     The first of December was a wintry day indeed to them, for a
bitter wind blew, snow fell fast, and the year seemed getting ready
for its death.  When Dr. Bangs came that morning, he looked long at
Beth, held the hot hand in both his own for a minute, and laid it
gently down, saying, in a low voice to Hannah, "If Mrs. March can
leave her husband she'd better be sent for."

     Hannah nodded without speaking, for her lips twitched nervously,
Meg dropped down into a chair as the strength seemed to go out of
her limbs at the sound of those words, and Jo, standing with a pale
face for a minute, ran to the parlor, snatched up the telegram, and
throwing on her things, rushed out into the storm.  She was soon
back, and while noiselessly taking off her cloak, Laurie came in
with a letter, saying that Mr. March was mending again.  Jo read
it thankfully, but the heavy weight did not seem lifted off her
heart, and her face was so full of misery that Laurie asked quickly,
"What is it?  Is Beth worse?"

     "I've sent for Mother," said Jo, tugging at her rubber boots
with a tragic expression.

     "Good for you, Jo!  Did you do it on your own responsibility?"
asked Laurie, as he seated her in the hall chair and took off the
rebellious boots, seeing how her hands shook.

     "No. The doctor told us to."

     "Oh, Jo, it's not so bad as that?" cried Laurie, with a
     startled face.

     "Yes, it is.  She doesn't know us, she doesn't even talk about
the flocks of green doves, as she calls the vine leaves on the wall.
She doesn't look like my Beth, and there's nobody to help us bear it.
Mother and father both gone, and God seems so far away I can't find
Him."

     As the tears streamed fast down poor Jo's cheeks, she stretched
out her hand in a helpless sort of way, as if groping in the dark,
and Laurie took it in his, whispering as well as he could with a
lump in his throat, "I'm here.  Hold on tome, Jo, dear!"

     She could not speak, but she did `hold on', and the warm grasp
of the friendly human hand comforted her sore heart, and seemed to
lead her nearer to the Divine arm which alone could uphold her in
her trouble.

      Laurie longed to say something tender and comfortable, but no
fitting words came to him, so he stood silent, gently stroking her
bent head as her mother used to do.  It was the best thing he could
have done, far more soothing than the most eloquent words, for Jo
felt the unspoken sympathy, and in the silence learned the sweet
solace which affection administers to sorrow.  Soon she dried the
tears which had relieved her, and looked up with a grateful face.

     "Thank you, Teddy, I'm better now.  I don't feel so forlorn,
and will try to bear it if it comes."

     "Keep hoping for the best, that will help you, Jo.  Soon your
mother will be here, and then everything will be all right."

     "I'm so glad Father is better.  Now she won't feel so bad about
leaving him.  Oh, me!  It does seem as if all the troubles came in
a heap, and I got the heaviest part on my shoulders," sighed Jo,
spreading her wet handkerchief over her knees to dry.

     "Doesn't Meg pull fair?" asked Laurie, looking indignant.

     "Oh, yes, she tries to, but she can't love Bethy as I do, and
she won't miss her as I shall.  Beth is my conscience, and I can't
give her up.  I can't!  I can't!"

     Down went Jo's face into the wet handkerchief, and she cried
despairingly, for she had kept up bravely till now and never shed
a tear.  Laurie drew his hand across his eyes, but could not speak
till he had subdued the choky feeling in his throat and steadied his
lips.  It might be unmanly, but he couldn't help it, and I am glad
of it.  Presently, as Jo's sobs quieted, he said hopefully, "I
don't think she will die.  She's so good, and we all love her so
much, I don't believe God will take her away yet."

     "The good and dear people always do die," groaned Jo, but she
stopped crying, for her friend's words cheered her up in spite of
her own doubts and fears.

     "Poor girl, you're worn out.  It isn't like you to be forlorn.
Stop a bit.  I'll hearten you up in a jiffy."

     Laurie went off two stairs at a time, and Jo laid her wearied
head down on Beth's little brown hood, which no one had thought of
moving from the table where she left it.  It must have possessed
some magic, for the submissive spirit of its gentle owner seemed
to enter into Jo, and when Laurie came running down with a glass
of wine, she took it with a smile, and said bravely, "I drink--
Health to my Beth!  You are a good doctor, Teddy, and such a comfort-
able friend.  How can I ever pay you?"  she added, as the wine
refreshed her body, as the kind words had done her troubled mind.

     "I'll send my bill, by-and-by, and tonight I'll give you some-
thing that will warm the cockles of your heart better than quarts
of wine," said Laurie, beaming at her with a face of suppressed
satisfaction at something.

     "what is it?" cried Jo, forgetting her woes for a minute in
her wonder.

     "I telegraphed to your mother yesterday, and Brooke answered
she'd come at once, and she'll be here tonight, and everything will
be all right.  Aren't you glad I did it?"

     Laurie spoke very fast, and turned red and excited all in a
minute, for he had kept his plot a secret, for fear of disappoint-
ing the girls or harming Beth.  Jo grew quite white, flew out of
her chair, and the moment he stopped speaking she electrified him
by throwing her arms round his neck, and crying out, with a joyful
cry, "Oh, Laurie!  Oh, Mother!  I am so glad!"  She did not weep
again, but laughed hysterically, and trembled and clung to her
friend as if she was a little bewildered by the sudden news.

     Laurie, though decidedly amazed, behaved with great pres-
ence of mind.  He patted her back soothingly, and finding that she
was recovering, followed it up by a bashful kiss or two, which
brought Jo round at once.  Holding on to the banisters, she put
him gently away, saying breathlessly, "Oh, don't!  I didn't  mean
to, it was dreadful of me, but you were such a dear to go and do
it in spite of Hannah that I couldn't help flying at you.  Tell
me all about it, and don't give me wine again, it makes me act so."

     "I don't mind," laughed Laurie, as he settled his tie.  "Why,
you see I got fidgety, and so did Grandpa.  We thought Hannah was
overdoing the authority business, and your mother ought to know.
She'd never forgive us if Beth . . .  Well, if anything happened,
you know.  So I got grandpa to say it was high time we did something,
and off I pelted to the office yesterday, for the doctor looked sober,
and Hannah most took my head off when I proposed a telegram.  I never
can bear to be `lorded over', so that settled my mind, and I did it.
Your mother will come, I know, and the late train is in at two A.M.
I shall go for her, and you've only got to bottle up your rapture,
and keep Beth quiet till that blessed lady gets here."

     "Laurie, you're an angel!  How shall I ever thank you?"

     "Fly at me again.  I rather liked it," said Laurie, looking
mischievous, a thing he had not done for a fortnight.

     "No, thank you.  I'll do it by proxy, when your grandpa comes.
Don't tease, but go home and rest, for you'll be up half the night.
Bless you, Teddy, bless you!"

     Jo had backed into a corner, and as she finished her speech,
she vanished precipitately into the kitchen, where she sat down
upon a dresser and told the assembled cats that she was "happy,
oh, so happy!" while Laurie departed, feeling that he had made a
rather neat thing of it.

     "That's the interferingest chap I ever see, but I forgive
him and do hope Mrs. March is coming right away," said Hannah,
with an air of relief, when Jo told the good news.

     Meg had a quiet rapture, and then brooded over the letter,
while Jo set the sickroom in order, and Hannah `knocked up a
couple of pies in case of company unexpected".  A breath of
fresh air seemed to blow through the house, and something better
than sunshine brightened the quiet rooms.  Everything appeared
to feel the hopeful change.  Beth's bird began to chirp again,
and a half-blown rose was discovered on Amy's bush in the window.
The fires seemed to burn with unusual cheeriness, and every time
the girls met, their pale faces broke into smiles as they hugged
one another, whispering encouragingly, "Mother's coming, dear!
Mother's coming!"  Every one rejoiced but Beth.  She lay in that
heavy stupor, alike unconscious of hope and joy, doubt and danger.
It was a piteous sight, the once rosy face so changed and vacant,
the once busy hands so weak and wasted, the once smiling lips
quite dumb, and the once pretty, well-kept hair scattered rough
and tangled on the pillow.  All day she say so, only rousing now
and then to mutter, "Water!" with lips so parched they could
hardly shape the word.  All day Jo and Meg hovered over her,
watching, waiting, hoping, and trusting in God and Mother, and
all day the snow fell, the bitter wind raged, and the hours
dragged slowly by.  But night came at last, and every time
the clock struck, the sisters, still sitting on either side of
the bed, looked at each other with brightening eyes, for each
hour brought help nearer.  The doctor had been in to say that
some change, for better or worse, would probably take place
about midnight, at which time he would return.

     Hannah, quite worn out, lay down on the sofa at the bed's
foot and fell fast asleep, Mr. Laurence marched to and fro in the
parlor, feeling that he would rather face a rebel battery than
Mrs. March's countenance as she entered.  Laurie lay on the rug,
pretending to rest, but staring into the fire with the thoughtful
look which made his black eyes beautifully soft and clear.

     The girls never forgot that night, for no sleep came to them
as they kept their watch, with that dreadful sense of powerless-
ness which comes to us in hours like those.

     "If God spares Beth, I never will complain again," whispered
Meg earnestly.

     "If god spares Beth, I'll try to love and serve Him all my
life," answered Jo, with equal fervor.

     "I wish I had no heart, it aches so," sighed Meg, after a
pause.

     "If life is often as hard as this, I don't see how we ever
shall get through it," added her sister despondently.

     Here the clock struck twelve, and both forgot themselves in
watching Beth, for they fancied a change passed over her wan face.
The house was still as death, and nothing but the wailing of the
wind broke the deep hush.  Weary Hannah slept on, and no one but
the sisters saw the pale shadow which seemed to fall upon the
little bed.  An hour went by, and nothing happened except Laurie's
quiet departure for the station.  Another hour, still no one came,
and anxious fears of delay in the storm, or accidents by the way,
or, worst of all, a great grief at Washington, haunted the girls.

     It was past two, when Jo, who stood at the window thinking
how dreary the world looked in its winding sheet of snow, heard
a movement by the bed, and turning quickly, saw Meg kneeling
before their mother's easy chair with her face hidden.  A dreadful
fear passed coldly over Jo, as she thought, "Beth is dead, and Meg
is afraid to tell me."

     She was back at her post in an instant, and to her excited
eyes a great change seemed to have taken place.  The fever flush
and the look of pain were gone, and the beloved little face looked
so pale and peaceful in its utter repose that Jo felt no desire to
weep or to lament.  Leaning low over this dearest of her sisters,
she kissed the damp forehead with her heart on her lips, and softly
whispered, "Goodby, my Beth. Goodby!"

     As if awaked by the stir, Hannah started out of her sleep,
hurried to the bed, looked at Beth, felt her hands, listened at
her lips, and then, throwing her apron over her head, sat down
to rock to and fro, exclaiming, under her breath, "The fever's
turned, she's sleepin' nat'ral, her skin's damp, and she breathes
easy.  Praise be given!  Oh, my goodness me!"

     Before the girls could believe the happy truth, the doctor
came to confirm it.  He was a homely man, but they thought his
face quite heavenly when he smiled and said, with a fatherly look
at them, "Yes, my dears, I think the little girl will pull through
this time.  Keep the house quiet, let her sleep, and when she wakes,
give her . . ."

     What they were to give, neither heard, for both crept into
the dark hall, and, sitting on the stairs, held each other close,
rejoicing with hearts too full for words.  When they went back to
be kissed and cuddled by faithful Hannah, they found Beth lying,,
as she used to do, with her cheek pillowed on her hand, the
dreadful pallor gone, and breathing quietly, as if just fallen
asleep.

     "If Mother would only come now!" said Jo, as the winter night
began to wane.

     "See," said Meg, coming up with a white, half-opened rose,
"I thought this would hardly be ready to lay in Beth's hand to-
morrow if she--went away from us.  But it has blossomed in the
night, and now I mean to put it in my vase here, so that when
the darling wakes, the first thing she sees will be the little
rose, and Mother's face."

     Never had the sun risen so beautifully, and never had the
world seemed so lovely as it did to the heavy eyes of Meg and Jo,
as they looked out in the early morning, when their long, sad
vigil was done.

     "It looks like a fairy world," said Meg, smiling to herself,
as she stood behind the curtain, watching the dazzling sight.

     "Hark!" cried Jo, starting to her feet.

     Yes, there was a sound of bells at the door below, a cry
from Hannah, and then Laurie's voice saying in a joyful whisper,
"Girls, she's come!  She's come!"


                           CHAPTER NINETEEN

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

     She had to wash the cups every morning, and polish up the
old-fashioned spoons, the fat silver teapot, and the glasses till
they shone.  Then she must dust the room, and what a trying job
that was.  Not a speck escaped Aunt March's eye, and all the
furniture had claw legs and much carving, which was never dusted
to suit.  Then Polly had to be fed, the lap dog combed, and a
dozen trips upstairs and down to get things or deliver orders,
for the old lady was very lame and seldom left her big chair. After
these tiresome labors, she must do her lessons, which was a daily
trial of every virtue she possessed.  Then she was allowed one
hour for exercise or play, and didn't she enjoy it?

     Laurie came every day, and wheedled Aunt March till Amy was
allowed to go out with him, when they walked and rode and had
capital times.  After dinner, she had to read aloud, and sit still
while the old lady slept, which she usually did for an hour, as
she dropped off over the first page.  Then patchwork or towels
appeared, and Amy sewed with outward meekness and inward rebell-
ion till dusk, when she was allowed to amuse herself as she liked
till teatime.  The evenings were the worst of all, for Aunt March
fell to telling long stories about her youth, which were so un-
utterably dull that Amy was always ready to go to be, intending
to cry over her hard fate, but usually going to sleep before
she had squeezed out more than a tear or two.

     If it had not been for Laurie, and old Esther, the maid,
she felt  that she never could have got through that dreadful
time.  The parrot alone was enough to drive her distracted, for
he soon felt that she did not admire him, and revenged himself
by being as mischievous as possible.  He pulled her hair when-
ever she came near him, upset his bread and milk to plague her
when she had newly cleaned his cage, made Mop bark by pecking
at him while Madam dozed, called her names before company, and
behaved in all respects like an reprehensible old bird.  Then she
could not endure the dog, a fat, cross beast who snarled and
yelped at her when she made his toilet, and who lay on his back
with all his legs in the air and a most idiotic expression of
countenance when he wanted something to eat, which was about a
dozen times a day.  The cook was bad-tempered, the old coachman
was deaf, and Esther the only one who ever took any notice of
the young lady.

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

     "Which would Mademoiselle choose if she had her will?" asked
Esther, wo always sat near to watch over and lock up the valuables.

     "I like the diamonds best, but there is no necklace among them,
and I'm fond of necklaces, they are so becoming.  I should choose
this if I might," replied Amy, looking with great admiration at a
string of gold and ebony beads from which hung a heavy cross of
the same.

     "I, too, covet that, but not as a necklace.  Ah, no!  To me it
is a rosary, and as such I should use it like a good catholic," said
Esther, eyeing the handsome thing wistfully.

     "Is it meant to use as you use the string of good-smelling
wooden beads hanging over your glass?" asked Amy.

     "Truly, yes, to pray with.  It would be pleasing to the saints
if one used so fine a rosary as this, instead of wearing it as a
vain bijou."

     "You seem to take a great deal of comfort in your prayers,
Esther, and always come down looking quiet and satisfied.  I wish
I could."

     "If Mademoiselle was a Catholic, she would find true comfort,
but as that is not to be, it would be well if you went apart each
day to meditate and pray, as did the good mistress whom I served
before Madame.  She had a little chapel, and in it found solace-
ment for much trouble."

     "Would it be right for me to do so too?"  asked Amy, who in
her loneliness felt the need of help of some sort, and found that
she was apt to forget her little book, now that Beth was not there
to remind her of it.

     "It would be excellent and charming, and I shall gladly
arrange the little dressing room for you if you like it.  Say
nothing to Madame, but when she sleeps go you and sit alone a
while to think good thoughts, and pray the dear God preserve
your sister."

     Esther was truly pious, and quite sincere in her advice, for
she had an affectionate heart, and felt much for the sisters in
their anxiety.  Amy liked the idea, and gave her leave to arrange
the light closet next her room, hoping it would do her good.

     "I wish I knew where all these pretty things would go when
Aunt March dies," she said, as she slowly replaced the shining
rosary and shut the jewel cases one by one.

     "To you and your sisters.  I know it, Madame confides in me.
I witnessed her will, and it is to be so," whispered Esther smiling.


     "How nice!  But I wish she'd let us have them now.  Procras-
tination is not agreeable," observed Amy, taking a last look at
the diamonds.

     "It is too soon yet for the young ladies to wear these things.
The first one who is affianced will have the pearls, Madame has said
it, and I have a fancy that the little turquoise ring will be given
to you when you go, for Madame approves your good behavior and
charming manners."

     "Do you think so?  Oh, I'll be a lamb, if I can only have that
lovely ring!  It's ever so much prettier than Kitty Bryant's.  I do
like Aunt March after all." And Amy tried on the blue ring with a
delighted face and a firm resolve to earn it.

     From that day she was a model of obedience, and the old lady
complacently admired the success of her training.  Esther  fitted
up the closet with a little table, placed a footstool before it,
and over it a picture taken from one of the shut-up rooms.  She
thought it was of no great value, but, being appropriate, she
borrowed it, well knowing that Madame would never know it, nor
care if she did.  It was, however, a very valuable copy of one of
the famous pictures of the world, and Amy's beauty-loving eyes were
never tired of looking up at the sweet face of the Divine Mother,
while her tender thoughts of her own were busy at her heart.  On
the table she laid her little testament and hymnbook, kept a vase
always full of the best flowers Laurie brought her, and came every
day to `sit alone' thinking good thoughts, and praying the dear
God to preserve her sister.  Esther had given her a rosary of black
beads with a silver cross, but Amy hung it up and did not use it,
feeling doubtful as to its fitness for Protestant prayers.

     The little girl was very sincere in all this, for being left
alone outside the safe home nest, she felt the need of some kind
hand to hold by so sorely that she instinctively turned to the
strong and tender Friend, whose fatherly love most closely surr-
ounds His little children.  She missed her mother's help to under-
stand and rule herself, but having been taught where to look,
she did her best to find the way and walk in it confidingly.  But
Amy was a young pilgrim, and just now her burden seemed very heavy.
She tried to forget herself, to keep cheerful, and be satisfied with
doing right, though no one saw or praised her for it.  In her first
effort  at being very, very good, she decided to make her will, as
Aunt March had done, so that if she did fall ill and die, her poss-
essions might be justly and generously divided.  It cost her a pang
even to think of giving up the little treasures which in her eyes
were as precious as the old lady's jewels.

     During one of her play hours she wrote out the important
document as well as she could, with some help from Esther as
to certain legal terms, and when the good-natured Frenchwoman
had signed her name, Amy felt relieved and laid it by to show
Laurie, whom she wanted as a second witness.  As it was a rainy
day, she went upstairs to amuse herself in one of the large
chambers, and took Polly with her for company.  In this room
there was a wardrobe full of old-fashioned costumes with which
Esther allowed her to play, and it was her favorite amusement to
array herself in the faded brocades, and parade up and down before
the long mirror, making stately curtsies, and sweeping her train
about with a rustle which delighted her ears.  So busy was she on
this day that she did not hear Laurie's ring nor see his face
peeping in at her as she gravely promenaded to and fro, flirting
her fan and tossing her head, on which she wore a great pink turban,
contrasting oddly with her blue brocade dress and yellow quilted
petticoat.  She was obliged to walk carefully, for she had on high-
heeled shoes, and, as Laurie told Jo afterward, it was a comical
sight to see her mince along in her gay suit, with Polly sidilng
and bridling just behind her, imitating her as well as he could,
and occasionally stopping to laugh or exclaim,  "Ain't we fine?
Get along, you fright!  Hold your tongue!  Kiss me, dear!  Ha! Ha!"

     Having with difficulty restrained an explosion of merriment,
lest it should offend her majesty, Laurie tapped and was graciously
received.

     "Sit down and rest while I put these things away, then I want
to consult you about a very serious matter," said Amy, when she
had shown her splendor and driven Polly into a corner.  "That bird
is the trial of my life," she continued, removing the pink mountain
from her head, while Laurie seated himself astride a chair.  "Yes-
terday, when Aunt was asleep and I was trying to be as still as a
mouse, Polly began to squall and flap about in his cage, so I went
to let him out, and found a big spider there.  I poked it out, and
it ran under the bookcase.  Polly marched straight after it, stooped
down and peeped under the bookcase, saying, in his funny way, with a
cock of his eye, `Come out and take a walk, my dear.' I couldn't
help laughing, which made Poll swear, and Aunt woke up and scolded
us both."

     "Did the spider accept the old fellow's invitation?" asked Laurie,
yawning.

     "Yes, out it came, and away ran Polly, frightened to death, and
scrambled up on Aunt's chair, calling out, `Catch her! Catch her!
Catch her!' as I chased the spider."

     "That's a lie!  Oh, lor!" cried the parrot, pecking at Laurie's
toes.

     "I'd wring your neck if you were mine, you old torment," cried
Laurie, shaking his fist at the bird, who put his head on one side
and gravely croaked, "Allyluyer!  Bless your buttons, dear!"

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

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

                     MY LAST WILL AND TESTIMENT

     I, Amy Curtis March, being in my sane mind, go give and
bequeethe all my earthly property--viz.to wit:--namely

     To my father, my best pictures, sketches, maps, and works
of art, including frames.  Also my $100, to do what he likes with.

     To my mother, all my clothes, except the blue apron with
     pockets--also my likeness, and my medal, with much love.

     To my dear sister Margaret, I give my turkquoise ring (if I
get it), also my green box with the doves on it, also my; piece
of real lace for her neck, and my sketch of her as a memorial of
her 'little girl'.

     To Jo I leave my breastpin, the one mended with sealing wax,
also my bronze inkstand--she lost the cover--and my most precious
plaster rabbit, because I am sorry I burned up her story.

     To Beth (if she lives after me) I give my dolls and the
little bureau, my fan, my linen collars and my new slippers if
she can wear them being thin when she gets well.  And I herewith
also leave her my regret that I ever made fun of old Joanna.

     To my friend and neighbor Theodore Laurence I bequeethe my
paper mashay portfolio, my clay model of a horse though he did
say it hadn't any neck.  Also in return for his great kindness
in the hour of affliction any one of my artistic works he likes,
Noter Dame is the best.

     To our venerable benefactor Mr. Laurence I leave my purple
box with a looking glass in the cover which will be nice for
his pens and remind him of the departed girl who thanks him
for his favors to her family, especially Beth.

     I wish my favorite playmate Kitty Bryant to have the blue
silk apron and my gold-bead ring with a kiss.

     To Hannah I give the bandbox she wanted and all the patch-
work I leave hoping she `will remember me, when it you see'.

     And now having disposed of my most valuable property I hope
all will be satisfied and not blame the dead.  I forgive every-
one, and trust we may all meet when the trump shall sound.  Amen.

     To this will and testiment I set my hand and seal on this
20th day of Nov. Anni Domino 1861.

                                              AMY CURTIS MARCH

     WITNESSES:

         ESTELLE VALNOR,
         THEODORE LAURENCE.

     The last name was written in pencil, and Amy explained
that he was to rewrite it in ink and seal it up for her properly.

     "What put it into your head?  Did anyone tell you about Beth's
giving away her things?" asked Laurie soberly, as Amy laid a bit
of red tape, with sealing wax, a taper, and a standish before him.

     She explained and then asked anxiously, "What about Beth?"

     "I'm sorry I spoke, but as I did, I'll tell you.  She felt so
ill one day that she told Jo she wanted to give her piano to Meg,
her cats to you, and the poor old doll to Jo, who would love it for
her sake.  She was sorry she had so little to give, and left locks
of hair to the rest of us, and her best love to Grandpa.  She never
thought of a will."

     Laurie was signing and sealing as he spoke, and did not look
up till a great tear dropped on the paper.  Amy's face was full
of trouble, but she only said, "Don't people put sort of post-
scripts to their wills, sometimes?"

     "Yes, `codicils', they call them."

     "Put one in mine then, that I wish all my curls cut off, and
given round to my friends.  I forgot it, but I want it done though
it will spoil my looks."

     Laurie added it, smiling at Amy's last and greatest sacrifice.
Then he amused her for an hour, and was much  interested in all her
trials.  But when he came to go, Amy held him back to whisper with
trembling lips, "Is there really any danger about Beth?"

     "I'm afraid there is, but we must hope for the best, so don't
cry, dear."  And Laurie put his arm about her with a brotherly
gesture which was very comforting.

     When he had gone, she went to her little chapel, and sitting
in the twilight, prayed for Beth, with streaming tears and an
aching heart, feeling that a million turquoise rings would not
console her for the loss of her gentle little sister.