APDL Eductation Resources/APDL Eductation Resources.iso/text/books/little_wmn/CHAP24_29

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                         LITTLE WOMEN PART 2

                         CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

     In order that we may start afresh and go to Meg's wedding
with free minds, it will be well to begin with a little gossip
about the Marches.  And here let me premise that if any of the
elders think there is too much `lovering' in the story, as I fear
they may (I'm not afraid the young folks will make that objection),
I can only say with Mrs. March, "What can you expect when I have
four gay girls in the house, and a dashing young neighbor over the
way?"

     The three years that have passed have brought but few changes
to the quiet family.  The war is over, and Mr. March safely at
home,busy with his books and the small parish which found in him
a minister by nature as by grace, a quiet, studious man, rich in
the wisdom that is better than learning, the charity which calls
all mankind `brother', the piety that blossoms into character,
making it august and lovely.

     These attributes, in spite of poverty and the strict integrity
which shut him out from the more worldly successes, attracted to
him many admirable persons, as naturally as sweet herbs draw bees,
and as naturally he gave them the honey into which fifty years of
hard experience had distilled no bitter drop.  Earnest young men
found the gray-headed scholar as young at heart as they, thoughtful
or troubled women instinctively brought their doubts to him, sure
of finding the gentlest sympathy, the wisest counsel.  Sinners told
their sins to the pure-hearted old man and were both rebuked and
saved.  Gifted men found a companion in him.  Ambitious men caught
glimpses of nobler ambitions than their own, and even worldlings
confessed that his beliefs were beautiful and true, although `they
wouldn't pay'.

     To outsiders the five energetic women seemed to rule the house,
and so they did in many things, but the quiet scholar, sitting among
his books, was still the head of the family, the household conscience,
anchor, and comforter, for to him the busy, anxious women always
turned in troublous times, finding him, in the truest sense of those
sacred words, husband and father.

     The girls gave their hearts into their mother's keeping, their
souls into their father's, and to both parents, who lived and labored
so faithfully for them, they gave a love that grew with their growth
and bound them tenderly together by the sweetest tie which blesses
life and outlives death.

     Mrs. March is as brisk and cheery, though rather grayer, than
when we saw her last, and just now so absorbed in Meg's affairs that
the hospitals and homes still full of wounded `boys' and soldiers'
widows, decidedly miss the motherly missionary's visits.

     John Brooke did his duty manfully for a year, got wounded, was
sent home, and not allowed to return.  He received no stars or bars,
but he deserved them, for he cheerfully risked all he had, and life
and love are very precious when both are in full bloom.  Perfectly
resigned to his discharge, he devoted himself to getting well, pre-
paring for business, and earning a home for Meg.  With the good
sense and sturdy independence that characterized him, he refused
Mr. Laurence's more generous offers, and accepted the place of book-
keeper, feeling better satisfied to begin with an honestly earned
salary than by running any risks with borrowed money.

     Meg had spent the time in working as well as waiting, growing
womanly in character, wise in housewifely arts, and prettier than
ever, for love is a great beautifier.  She had her girlish ambitions
and hopes, and felt some disappointment at the humble way in which
the new life must begin.  Ned Moffat had just married Sallie Gardi-
ner, and Meg couldn't help contrasting their fine house and carriage,
many gifts, and splendid outfit with her own, and secretly wishing
she could have the same.  But somehow envy and discontent soon van-
ished when she thought of all the patient love and labor John had
put into the little home awaiting her, and when they sat together in
the twilight, talking over their small plans, the future always grew
so beautiful and bright that she forgot Sallie's splendor and felt
herself the richest, happiest girl in Christendom.

     Jo never went back to Aunt March, for the old lady took such
a fancy to AMy that she bribed her with the offer of drawing lessons
from one of the best teachers going, and for the sake of this advan-
tage, Amy would have served a far harder mistress.  So she gave her
mornings to duty, her afternoons to pleasure, and prospered finely.
Jo meantime devoted herself to literature and Beth, who remained
delicate long after the fever was a thing of the past.  Not an in-
valid exactly, but never again the rosy, healthy creature she had
been, yet always hopeful, happy, and serene, and busy with the quiet
duties she loved, everyone's friend, and an angel in the house, long
before those who loved her most had learned to know it.

     As long as THE SPREAD EAGLE paid her a dollar a column for her
`rubbish', as she called it, Jo felt herself a woman of means, and
spun her little romances diligently.  But great plans fermented in
her busy brain and ambitious mind, and the old tin kitchen in the
garret held a slowly increasing pile of blotted manuscript, which
was one day to place the name of March upon the roll of fame.

     Laurie, having dutifully gone to college to please his grand-
father, was now getting through it in the easiest possible manner
to please himself.  A universal favorite, thanks to money, manners,
much talent, and the kindest heart that ever got its owner into
scrapes by trying to get other people out of them, he stood in
great danger of being spoiled, and probably would have been, like
many another promising boy, if he had not possessed a talisman
against evil in the memory of the kind old man who was bound up in
his success, the motherly friend who watched over him as if he were
her son, and last, but not least by any means, the knowledge that
four innocent girls loved, admired, and believed in him with all
their hearts.

     Being only `a glorious human boy', of course he frolicked and
flirted, grew dandified, aquatic, sentimental, or gymnastic, as
college fashions ordained, hazed and was hazed, talked slang, and
more than once came perilously near suspension and expulsion. But
as high spirits and the love of fun were the causes of these pranks,
he always managed to save himself by frank confession, honorable
atonement, or the irresistible power of persuasion which he possessed
in perfection.  In fact, he rather prided himself on his narrow
escapes, and liked to thrill the girls with graphic accounts of his
triumphs over wrathful tutors, dignified professors, and vanquished
enemies.  The `men of my class', were heroes in the eyes of the girls,
who never wearied of the exploits of `our fellows', and were frequently
allowed to bask in the smiles of these great creatures, when Laurie
brought them home with him.

     Amy especially enjoyed this high honor, and became quite a belle
among them, for her ladyship early felt and learned to use the gift
of fascination with which she was endowed.  Meg was too much absorbed
in her private and particular John to care for any other lords of
creation, and Beth too shy to do more than peep at them and wonder
how Amy dared to order them about so, but Jo felt quite in her own
element, and found it very difficult to refrain from imitating the
gentlemanly attitudes, phrases, and feats, which seemed more natural
to her than the decorums prescribed for young ladies.  They all liked
Jo immensely, but never fell in love with her, though very few escaped
without paying the tribute of a sentimental sigh or two at Amy's
shrine.  And speaking of sentiment brings us very naturally to the
`Dovecote'.

     That was the name of the little brown house Mr. Brooke had pre-
pared for Meg's first home.  Laurie had christened it, saying it was
highly appropriate to the gentle lovers who `went on together like a
pair of turtledoves, with first a bill and then a coo'.  It was a
tiny house, with a little garden behind and a lawn about as big as a
pocket handkerchief in the front.  Here Meg meant to have a fountain,
shrubbery, and a profusion of lovely flowers, though just at present
the fountain was represented by a weather-beaten urn, very like a
dilapidated slopbowl, the shrubbery consisted of several young larches,
undecided whether to live or die, and the profusion of flowers was
merely hinted by regiments of sticks to show where seeds were planted.
But inside, it was altogether charming, and the happy bride saw no
fault from garret to cellar.  To be sure, the hall was so narrow it
was fortunate that they had no piano, for one never could have been
got in whole, the dining room was so small that six people were a
tight fit, and the kitchen stairs seemed built for the express pur-
pose of precipitating both servants and china pell-mell into the
coalbin.  But once get used to these slight blemishes and nothing
could be more complete, for good sense and good taste had presided
over the furnishing, and the result was highly satisfactory. There
were no marble-topped tables, long mirrors, or lace curtains in the
little parlor, but simple furniture, plenty of books, a fine picture
or two, a stand of flowers in the bay window, and, scattered all
about, the pretty gifts which came from friendly hands and were the
fairer for the loving messages they brought.

     I don't think the Parian Psyche Laurie gave lost any of its
beauty because John put up the bracket it stood upon, that any
upholsterer could have draped the plain muslin curtains more grace-
fully than Amy's artistic hand, or that any store-room was ever
better provided with good wishes, merry words, and happy hopes
than that in which Jo and her mother put away Meg's few boxes,
barrels, and bundles, and I am morally certain that the spandy new
kitchen never could have looked so cozy and neat if Hannah had not
arranged every pot and pan a dozen times over, and laid the fire
all ready for lighting the minute `Mis. Brooke came home'.  I also
doubt if any young matron ever began life with so rich a supply of
dusters, holders, and piece bags,for Beth made enough to last till
the silver wedding came round, and invented three different kinds
of dishcloths for the express service of the bridal china.

     People who hire all these things done for them never know
what they lose, for the homeliest tasks get beautified if loving
hands do them, and Meg found so many proofs of this that every-
thing in her small nest, from the kitchen roller to the silver
vase on her parlor table, was eloquent of home love and tender
forethought.

     What happy times they had planning together, what solemn
shopping excursions, what funny mistakes they made, and what
shouts of laughter arose over Laurie's ridiculous bargains.  In
his love of jokes, this young gentleman, though nearly through
college, was a much of a boy as ever.  His last whim had been to
bring with him on his weekly visits some new, useful, and ingenious
article for the young housekeeper.  Now a bag of remarkable clothes-
pins, next, a wonderful nutmeg grater which fell to pieces at the
first trial, a knife cleaner that spoiled all the knives, or a
sweeper that picked the nap neatly off the carpet and left the dirt,
labor-saving soap that took the skin off one's hands, infallible
cements which stuck firmly to nothing but the fingers of the de-
luded buyer, and every kind of tinware, from a toy savings bank for
odd pennies, to a wonderful boiler which would wash articles in its
own steam with every prospect of exploding in the process.

     In vain Meg begged him to stop.  John laughed at him, and Jo
called him `Mr. Toodles'.  He was possessed with a mania for pat-
ronizing Yankee ingenuity, and seeing his friends fitly furnished
forth.  So each week beheld some fresh absurdity.

     Everything was done at last, even to Amy's arranging different
colored soaps to match the different colored rooms, and Beth's sett-
ing the table for the first meal.

     "Are you satisfied?  Does it seem like home, and do you feel
as if you should be happy here?" asked Mrs. March, as she and her
daughter went through the new kingdom arm in arm, for just then
they seemed to cling together more tenderly than ever.

     "Yes, Mother, perfectly satisfied, thanks to you all, and so
happy that I can't talk about it," with a look that was far better
than words.

     "If she only had a servant or two it would be all right," said
Amy, coming out of the parlor, where she had been trying to decide
whether the bronze Mercury looked best on the whatnot or the mantle-
piece.

     "Mother and I have talked that over, and I have made up my
mind to try her way first.  There will be so little to do that with
Lotty to run my errands and help me here and there, I shall only
have enough work to keep me from getting lazy or homesick," answered
Meg tranquilly.

     "Sallie Moffat has four," began Amy.

     "If Meg had four, the house wouldn't hold them, and master and
missis would have to camp in the garden," broke in Jo, who, enveloped
in a big blue pinafore, was giving the last polish to the door handles.

     "Sallie isn't a poor man's wife, and many maids are in keeping
with her fine establishment.  Meg and John begin humbly, but I have
a feeling that there will be quite as much happiness in the little
house as in the big one.  It's a great mistake for young girls like
Meg to leave themselves nothing to do but dress, give orders, and
gossip.  When I was first married, I used to long for my new clothes
to wear out or get torn, so that i might have the pleasure of mending
them, for I got heartily sick of doing fancywork and tending my poc-
ket handkerchief."

     "Why didn't you go into the kitchen and make messes, as Sallie
says she does to amuse herself, though they never turn out well and
the servants laugh at her," said Meg.

     "I did after a while, not to `mess' but to learn of Hannah how
things should be done, that my servants need not laugh at me.  It
was play then, but there came a time when I was truly grateful that
I not only possessed the will but the power to cook wholesome food
for my little girls, and help myself when I could no longer afford
to hire help.  You begin at the other end, Meg, dear, but the lessons
you learn now will be of use to you by-and-by when John is a richer
man, for the mistress of a house, however splendid, should know how
work ought to be done, if she wishes to be well and honestly served."

     "Yes, Mother, I'm sure of that," said Meg, listening respect-
fully to the little lecture, for the best of women will hold forth
upon the all absorbing subject of house keeping.  "Do you know I
like this room most of all in my baby house," added Meg, a minute
after, as they went upstairs and she looked into her well-stored
linen closet.

     Beth was there, laying the snowy piles smoothly on the shelves
and exulting over the goodly array.  All three laughed as Meg spoke,
for that linen closet was a joke.  You see, having said that if Meg
married `that Brooke' she shouldn't have a cent of her money, Aunt
March was rather in a quandary when time had appeased her wrath and
made her repent her vow.  She never broke her word, and was much
exercised in her mind how to get round it, and at last devised a
plan whereby she could satisfy herself.  Mrs. Carrol, Florence's
mamma, was ordered to buy, have made, and marked a generous supply
of house and table linen, and send it as her present, all of which
was faithfully done, but the secret leaked out, and was greatly
enjoyed by the family, for Aunt March tried to look utterly uncon-
scious, and insisted that she could give nothing but the old-
fashioned pearls long promised to the first bride.

     "That's a housewifely taste which I am glad to see.  I had a
young friend who set up housekeeping with six sheets, but she had
finger bowls for company and that satisfied her," said Mrs. March,
patting the damask tablecloths, with a truly feminine appreciation
of their fineness.

     "I haven't a single finger bowl, but this is a setout that will
last me all my days, Hannah says."  And Meg looked quite contented,
as well she might.

     A tall, broad-shouldered young fellow, with a cropped head, a
felt basin of a hat, and a flyaway coat, came tramping down the
road at a great pace, walked over the low fence without stopping to
open the gate, straight up to Mrs. March, with both hands out and
a hearty . ..

     "Here I am, Mother!  Yes, it's all right."

     The last words were in answer to the look the elder lady gave
him, a kindly questioning look which the handsome eyes met so
frankly that the little ceremony closed, as usual, with a motherly
kiss.

     "For Mrs. John Brooke, with the maker's congratulations and
compliments.  Bless you, Beth!  What a refreshing spectacle you
are, Jo.  Amy, you are getting altogether too handsome for a
single lady."

     As Laurie spoke, he delivered a brown paper parcel to Meg,
pilled Beth's hair ribbon, stared at Jo's bib pinafore, and fell
into an attitude of mock rapture before Amy, then shook hands all
round, and everyone began to talk.

     "Where is John?" asked Meg anxiously.

     "Stopped to get the license for tomorrow, ma'am."

     "Which side won the last match, Teddy?" inquired Jo, who per-
sisted in feeling an interest in manly sports despite her nineteen
years.

     "Ours, of course.  Wish you'd been there to see."

     "How is the lovely Miss Randal?" asked Amy with a significant
smile.

     "More cruel than ever.  Don't you see how I'm pining away?"
And Laurie gave his broad chest a sounding slap and heaved a
melodramatic sigh.

     "What's the last joke?  Undo the bundle and see, Meg," said
Beth, eying the knobby parcel with curiosity.

     "It's a useful thing to have in the house in case of fire
or thieves," observed Laurie, as a watchman's rattle appeared,
amid the laughter of the girls.

     "Any time when John is away and you get frightened, Mrs.
Meg, just swing that out of the front window, and it will rouse
the neighborhood in a jiffy.  Nice thing, isn't it?"  And Laurie
gave them a sample of its powers that made them cover up their ears.

     "There's gratitude for you!  And speaking of gratitude reminds
me to mention that you may thank Hannah for saving your wedding cake
from destruction.  I saw it going into your house as I came by, and
if she hadn't defended it manfully I'd have had a pick at it, for it
looked like a remarkably plummy one."

     "I wonder if you will ever grow up, Laurie," said Meg in a
matronly tone.

     "I'm doing my best, ma'am, but can't get much higher, I'm afraid,
as six feet is about all men can do in these degenerate days," res-
ponded the young gentleman, whose head was about level with the little
chandelier.

     "I suppose it would be profanation to eat anything in this spick-
and-span bower, so as I'm tremendously hungry, I propose an adjourn-
ment," he added presently.

     "Mother and I are going to wait for John.  There are some last
things to settle," said Meg, bustling away.

     "Beth and I are going over to Kitty Bryant's to get more flowers
for tomorrow," added Amy, tying a picturesque hat over her picturesque
curls, and enjoying the effect as much as anybody.

     "Come, Jo, don't desert a fellow.  I'm in such a state of exhaus-
tion I can't get home without help.  Don't take off your apron,
whatever you do, it's peculiarly becoming," said Laurie, as Jo bestowed
his especial aversion in her capacious pocket and offered her arm to
support his feeble steps.

     "Now, Teddy, I want to talk seriously to you about tomorrow,"
began Jo, as they strolled away together.  "You must promise to
behave well, and not cut up any pranks, and spoil our plans."

     "Not a prank."

     "And don't say funny things when we ought to be sober."

     "I never do.  You are the one for that."

     "And I implore you not to look at me during the ceremony.  I
shall certainly laugh if you do."

     "You won't see me, you'll be crying so hard that the thick fog
round you will obscure the prospect."

     "I never cry unless for some great affliction."

     "Such as fellows going to college, hey?" cut in Laurie, with
suggestive laugh.

     "Don't be a peacock.  I only moaned a trifle to keep the girls
company."

     "Exactly.  I say, Jo, how is Grandpa this week?  Pretty amiable?"

     "Very.  Why, have you got into a scrape and want to know how
he'll take it?" asked Jo rather sharply.

     "Now, Jo, do you think I'd look your mother in the face and say
`All right', if it wasn't?"  And Laurie stopped short, with an injured
air.

     "No, I don't."

     "Then don't go and be suspicious.  I only want some money," said
Laurie, walking on again, appeased by her hearty tone.

     "You spend a great deal, Teddy."

     "Bless you, I don't spend it, it spends itself somehow, and is
gone before I know it."

     "You are so generous and kind-hearted that you let people borrow,
and can't say `No' to anyone.  We heard about Henshaw and all you did
for him.  If you always spent money in that way, no one would blame
you," said Jo warmly.

     "Oh, he made a mountain out of a molehill.  You wouldn't have me
let that fine fellow work himself to death just for want of a little
help, when he is worth a dozen of us lazy chaps, would you?"

     "Of course not, but I don't see the use of your having seventeen
waistcoats, endless neckties, and a new hat every time you come home.
I thought you'd got over the dandy period, but every now and then it
breaks out in a new spot.  Just now it's the fashion to be hideous,
to make your head look like a scrubbing brush, wear a strait jacket,
orange gloves, and clumping square-toed boots.  If it was cheap
ugliness, I'd say nothing, but it costs as much as the other, and I
don't get any satisfaction out of it."

     Laurie threw back his head, and laughed so heartily at this
attack, that the felt hat fell off, and Jo walked on it, which
insult only afforded him an opportunity for expatiating on the ad-
vantages of a rough-and-ready costume, as he folded up the maltreated
hat, and stuffed it into his pocket.

     "Don't lecture any more, there's a good soul!  I have enough
all through the week, and like to enjoy myself when I come home.
I'll get myself up regardless of expense tomorrow and be a satis-
faction to my friends."

     "I'll leave you in peace if you'll only let your hair grow.
I'm not aristocratic, but I do object to being seen with a person
who looks like a young prize fighter," observed Jo severely.

     "This unassuming style promotes study, that's why we adopt it,"
returned Laurie, who certainly could not be accused of vanity, having
voluntarily sacrificed a handsome curly crop to the demand for quarter-
inch-long stubble.

     "By the way, Jo, I think that little Parker is really getting
desperate about Amy.  He talks of her constantly, writes poetry, and
moons about in a most suspicious manner.  He'd better nip his little
passion in the bud, hadn't he?" added Laurie, in a confidential,
elder brotherly tone, after a minute's silence.

     "Of course he had.  We don't want any more marrying in this
family for years to come.  Mercy on us, what are the children think-
ing of?"  And Jo looked as much scandalized as if Amy and little
Parker were not yet in their teens.

     "It's a fast age, and I don't know what we are coming to, ma'am.
You are a mere infant, but you'll go next, Jo, and we'll be left
lamenting," said Laurie, shaking his head over the degeneracy of the
times.

     "Don't be alarmed.  I'm not one of the agreeable sort.  Nobody
will want me, and it's a mercy, for there should always be one old
maid in a family."

     "You won't give anyone a chance," said Laurie, with a sidelong
glance and a little more color than before in his sunburned face.
"You won't show the soft side of your character, and if a fellow
gets a peep at it by accident and can't help showing that he likes
it, you treat him as Mrs. Gummidge did her sweetheart, throw cold
water over him, and get so thorny no one dares touch or look at you."

     "I don't like that sort of thing.  I'm too busy to be worried
with nonsense, and I think it's dreadful to break up families so.
Now don't say any more  about it.  Meg's wedding has turned all our
heads, and we talk of nothing but lovers and such absurdities.  I
don't wish to get cross, so let's change the subject."  And Jo
looked quite ready to fling cold water on the slightest provocation.

     Whatever his feelings might have been, Laurie found a vent for
them in a long low whistle and the fearful prediction as they parted
at the gate, "Mark my words, Jo, you'll go next."


                         CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

     The June roses over the porch were awake bright and early on
that morning, rejoicing with all their hearts in the cloudless sun-
shine, like friendly little neighbors, as they were.  Quite flushed
with excitement were their ruddy faces, as they swung in the wind,
whispering to one another what they had seen, for some peeped in at
the dining room windows where the feast was spread, some climbed up
to nod and smile at the sisters as they dressed the bride, others
waved a welcome to those who came and went on various errands in
garden, porch, and hall, and all, from the rosiest full-blown
flower to the palest baby bud, offered their tribute of beauty and
fragrance to the gentle mistress who had loved and tended them so
long.

     Meg looked very like a rose herself, for all that was best and
sweetest in heart and soul seemed to bloom into her face that day,
making it fair and tender, with a charm more beautiful than beauty.
Neither silk, lace, nor orange flowers would she have.  "I don't
want a fashionable wedding, but only those about me whom I love,
and to them I wish to look and be my familiar self."

     So she made her wedding gown herself, sewing into it the tender
hopes and innocent romances of a girlish heart.  her sisters braided
up her pretty hair, and the only ornaments she wore were the lilies
of the valley, which `her John' liked best of all the flowers that
grew.

     "You do look just like our own dear Meg, only so very sweet
and lovely that I should hug you if it wouldn't crumple your dress,"
cried Amy, surveying her with delight when all was done.

     "Then I am satisfied.  But please hug and kiss me, everyone,
and don't mind my dress.  I want a great many crumples of this
sort put into it today."  And Meg opened her arms to her sisters,
who clung about her with April faces for a minute, feeling that
the new love had not changed the old.

     "Now I'm going to tie John's cravat for him, and then to stay
a few minutes with Father quietly in the study."  And Meg ran
down to perform these little ceremonies, and then to follow her
mother wherever she went, conscious that in spite of the smiles
on the motherly face, there was a secret sorrow hid in the motherly
heart at the flight of the first bird from the nest.

     As the younger girls stand together, giving the last touches
to their simple toilet, it may be a good time to tell of a few
changes which three years have wrought in their appearance, for
all are looking their best just now.

     Jo's angles are much softened, she has learned to carry her-
self with ease, if not grace.  The curly crop has lengthened into
a thick coil, more becoming to the small head atop of the tall
figure.  There is a fresh color in her brown cheeks, a soft shine
in her eyes, and only gentle words fall from her sharp tongue
today.

     Beth has grown slender, pale, and more quiet than ever.  The
beautiful, kind eyes are larger, and in them lies an expression
that saddens one, although it is not sad itself.  It is the shadow
of pain which touches the young face with such pathetic patience,
but Beth seldom complains and always speaks hopefully of `being
better soon'.

     Amy is with truth considered `the flower of the family', for
at sixteen she has the air and bearing of a full-grown woman, not
beautiful, but possessed of that indescribable charm called grace.
One saw it in the lines of her figure, the make and motion of her
hands, the flow of her dress, the droop of her hair, unconscious
yet harmonious, and as attractive to many as beauty itself.  Amy's
nose still afflicted her, for it never would grow Grecian, so did
her mouth, being too wide,and having a decided chin.  These off-
ending features gave character to her whole face, but she never
could see it, and consoled herself with her wonderfully fair com-
plexion, keen blue eyes, and curls more golden and abundant than
ever.

     All three wore suits of thin silver gray (their best gowns for
the summer), with blush roses in hair and bosom, and all three
looked just what they were, fresh-faced, happy-hearted girls, pausing
a moment in their busy lives to read with wistful eyes the sweetest
chapter in the romance of womanhood.

     There were to be no ceremonious performances, everything was
to be as natural and homelike as possible, so when Aunt March
arrived, she was scandalized to see the bride come running to wel-
come and lead her in, to find the bridegroom fastening up a garland
that had fallen down, and to catch a glimpse of the paternal minister
marching upstairs with a grave countenance and a wine bottle under
each arm.

     "Upon my word, here's a state of things!" cried the old lady,
taking the seat of honor prepared for her, and settling the folds
of her lavender moire with a great rustle.  "You oughtn't to be
seen till the last minute, child."

     "I'm not a show, Aunty, and no one is coming to stare at me,
to criticize my dress, or count the cost of my luncheon.  I'm too
happy to care what anyone says or thinks, and I'm going to have
my little wedding just as I like it.  John, dear, here's your
hammer."  And away went Meg to help `that man' in his highly im-
proper employment.

     Mr. Brooke didn't even say, "Thank you," but as he stooped
for the unromantic tool, he kissed his little bride behind the
folding door, with a look that made Aunt March whisk out her
pocket handkerchief with a sudden dew in her sharp old eyes.

     A crash, a cry, and a laugh from Laurie, accompanied by the
indecorous exclamation, "Jupiter Ammon!  Jo's upset the cake again!"
caused a momentary flurry, which was hardly over when a flock of
cousins arrived, and `the party came in', as Beth used to say when
a child.

     "Don't let that young giant come near me, he worries me worse
than mosquitoes," whispered the old lady to Amy, as the rooms filled
and Laurie's black head towered above the rest.

     "He has promised to be very good today, and he can be perfectly
elegant if he likes," returned Amy, and gliding away to warn Her-
cules to beware of the dragon, which warning caused him to haunt the
old lady with a devotion that nearly distracted her.

     There was no bridal procession, but a sudden silence fell upon
the room as Mr. March and the young couple took their places under
the green arch.  Mother and sisters gathered close, as if loath to
give Meg up.  The fatherly voice broke more than once, which only
seemed to make the service more beautiful and solemn.  The bride-
groom's hand trembled visibly, and no one heard his replies.  But
Meg looked straight up in her husband's eyes, and said, "I will!"
with such tender trust in her own face and voice that her mother's
heart rejoiced and Aunt March sniffed audibly.

     Jo did not cry, though she was very near it once, and was only
saved from a demonstration by the consciousness that Laurie was
staring fixedly at her, with a comical mixture of merriment and
emotion in his wicked black eyes.  Beth kept her face hidden on her
mother's shoulder, but Amy stood like a graceful statue, with a
most becoming ray of sunshine touching her white forehead and the
flower in her hair.

     It wasn't at all the thing, I'm afraid,but the minute she was
fairly married, Meg cried, "The first kiss for Marmee!" and turning,
gave it with her heart on her lips.  During the next fifteen minutes
she looked more like a rose than ever, for everyone availed them-
selves of their privileges to the fullest extent, from Mr. Laurence
to old Hannah, who, adorned with a headdress fearfully and wonder-
fully made, fell upon her in the hall, crying with a sob and a
chuckle, "Bless you, deary, a hundred times!  The cake ain't hurt
a mite, and everything looks lovely."

     Everybody cleared up after that, and said something brilliant,
or tried to, which did just as well, for laughter is ready when
hearts are light.  There was no display of gifts, for they were
already in the little house, nor was there an elaborate breakfast,
but a plentiful lunch of cake and fruit, dressed with flowers. Mr.
Laurence and Aunt March shrugged and smiled at one another when
water, lemonade, and coffee were found to be to only sorts of nec-
tar which the three Hebes carried around.  No one said anything,
till Laurie, who insisted on serving the bride, appeared before her,
with a loaded salver in his hand and a puzzled expression on his
face.

     "Has Jo smashed all the bottles by accident?" he whispered,
"or am I merely laboring under a delusion that I saw some lying
about loose this morning?"

     "No, your grandfather kindly offered us his best, and Aunt
March actually sent some, but Father put away a little for Beth,
and dispatched the rest to the Soldier's Home.  You know he thinks
that wine should be used only in illness, and Mother says that
neither she nor her daughters will ever offer it to any young man
under her roof."

     Meg spoke seriously and expected to see Laurie frown or laugh,
but he did neither, for after a quick look at her, he said, in
his impetuous way,  "I like that!  For I've seen enough harm done
to wish other women would think as you do."

     "You are not made wise by experience, I hope?"  And there was
an anxious accent in Meg's voice.

     "No.  I give you my word for it.  Don't think too well of me,
either, this is not one of my temptations.  Being brought up where
wine is as common as water and almost as harmless, I don't care for
it, but when a pretty girl offers it, one doesn't like to refuse,
you see."

     "But you will, for the sake of others, if not for your own.
Come, Laurie, promise, and give me one more reason to call this the
happiest day of my life."

     A demand so sudden and so serious made the young man hesitate
a moment, for ridicule is often harder to bear than self-denial.
Meg knew that if he gave the promise he would keep it at all costs,
and feeling her power, used it as a woman may for her friend's good.
She did not speak, but she looked up at him with a face made very
eloquent by happiness, and a smile which said, "No one can refuse
me anything today."

     Laurie certainly could not, and with an answering smile, he
gave her his hand, saying heartily, "I promise, Mrs. Brooke!"

     "I thank you, very, very much."

     "And I drink `long life to your resolution', Teddy," cried Jo,
baptizing him with a splash of lemonade, as she waved her glass and
beamed approvingly upon him.

     So the toast was drunk, the pledge made and loyally kept in
spite of many temptations, for with instinctive wisdom, the girls
seized a happy moment to do their friend a service, for which he
thanked them all his life.

     After lunch, people strolled about, by twos and threes, through
the house and garden, enjoying the sunshine without and within.  Meg
and John happened to be standing together in the middle of the grass
plot, when Laurie was seized with an inspiration which put the finish-
ing touch to this unfashionable wedding.

     "All the married people take hands and dance round the new-made
husband and wife, as the Germans do, while we bachelors and spinsters
prance in couples outside!" cried Laurie, promenading down the path
with Amy, with such infectious spirit and skill that everyone else
followed their example without a murmur.  Mr. and Mrs. March, Aunt
and Uncle Carrol began it, others rapidly joined in, even Sallie
Moffat, after a moment's hesitation, threw her train over her arm
and whisked Ned into the ring.  But the crowning joke was Mr. Laur-
ence and Aunt March, for when the stately old gentleman chass'ed
solemnly up to the old lady, she just tucked her cane under arm, and
hopped briskly away to join hands with the rest and dance about the
bridal pair, while the young folks pervaded the garden like butter-
flies on a midsummer day.

     Want of breath brought the impromptu ball to a close, and then
people began to go.

     "I wish you well, my dear, I heartily wish you well, but I think
you'll be sorry for it," said Aunt March to Meg, adding to the bride-
groom, as he led her to the carriage, "You've got a treasure, young
man, see that you deserve it."

     "That is the prettiest wedding I've been to for an age, Ned, and
I don't see why, for there wasn't a bit of style about it," observed
Mrs. Moffat to her husband, as they drove away.

     "Laurie, my lad, if you ever want to indulge in this sort of
thing, get one of those little girls to help you, and I shall be
perfectly satisfied," said Mr. Laurence, settling himself in his
easy chair to rest after the excitement of the morning.

     "I'll do my best to gratify you, Sir," was Laurie's unusually
dutiful reply, as he carefully unpinned the posy Jo had put in his
buttonhole.

     The little house was not far away, and the only bridal journey
Meg had was the quiet walk with John from the old home to the new.
When she came down, looking like a pretty Quakeress in her dove-
colored suit and straw bonnet tied with white, they all gathered
about her to say goodby, as tenderly as if she had been going to
make the grand tour.

     "Don't feel that I am separated from you, Marmee dear, or that
I love you any the less for loving John so much," she said, clinging
to her mother, with full eyes for a moment.  "I shall come every day,
Father, and expect to keep my old place in all your hearts, though I
am married.  Beth is going to be with me a great deal, and the other
girls will drop in now and then to laugh at my housekeeping struggles.
Thank you all for my happy wedding day.  Goodby, goodby!"

     They stood watching her, with faces full of love and hope and
tender pride as she walked away, leaning on her husband's arm, with
her hands full of flowers and the June sunshine brightening her happy
face--and so Meg's married life began.


               CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

     It takes people a long time to learn the difference between
talent and genius, especially ambitious young men and women. Amy
was learning this distinction through much tribulation, for mis-
taking enthusiasm for inspiration, she attempted every branch of
art with youthful audacity.  For a long time there was a lull in
the `mud-pie' business, and she devoted herself to the finest
pen-and-ink drawing, in which she showed such taste and skill that
her graceful handiwork proved both pleasant and profitable.  But
over-strained eyes caused pen and ink to be laid aside for a bold
attempt at poker sketching.

     While this attack lasted, the family lived in constant fear
of a conflagration, for the odor of burning wood pervaded the
house at all hours, smoke issued from attic and shed with alarm-
ing frequency, red-hot pokers lay about promiscuously, and Hannah
never went to bed without a pail of water and the dinner bell at
her door in case of fire.  Raphael's face was found boldly executed
on the underside of the moulding board,and Bacchus on the head of a
beer barrel.  A chanting cherub adorned the cover of the sugar bucket,
and attempts to portray Romeo and Juliet supplied kindling for some
time.

     From fire to oil was a natural transition for burned fingers,
and Amy fell to painting with undiminished ardor.  An artist friend
fitted her out with his castoff palettes, brushes, and colors, and
she daubed away, producing pastoral and marine views such as were
never seen on land or sea.  Her monstrosities in the way of cattle
would have taken prizes at an agricultural fair, and the perilous
pitching of her vessels would have produced seasickness in the most
nautical observer, if the utter disregard to all known rules of
shipbuilding and rigging had not convulsed him with laughter at the
first glance.  Swarthy boys and dark-eyed Madonnas, staring at you
from one corner of the studio, suggested Murillo.  Oily brown shadows
of faces with a lurid streak in the wrong place, meant Rembrandt.
Buxom ladies and dropiscal infants, Rubens, and Turner appeared in
tempests of blue thunder, orange lightning, brown rain, and purple
clouds, with a tomato-colored splash in the middle, which might be
the sun or a bouy,a sailor's shirt or a king's robe, as the spec-
tator pleased.

     Charcoal portraits came next, and the entire family hung in a
row, looking as wild and crocky as if just evoked from a coalbin.
Softened into crayon sketches, they did better, for the likenesses
were good, and Amy's hair, Jo's nose, Meg's mouth, and Laurie's
eyes were pronounced `wonderfully fine'.  A return to clay and
plaster followed, and ghostly casts of her acquaintances haunted
corners of the house, or tumbled off closet shelves onto people's
heads.  Children were enticed in as models, till their incoherent
accounts of her mysterious doings caused Miss Amy to be regarded in
the light of a young ogress.  Her efforts in this line, however,
were brought to an abrupt close by an untoward accident, which
quenched her ardor.  Other models failing her for a time, she under-
took to cast her own pretty foot, and the family were one day alarmed
by an unearthly bumping and screaming and running to the rescue,
found the young enthusiast hopping wildly about the shed with her
foot held fast in a pan full of plaster, which had hardened with
unexpected rapidity.  With much difficulty and some danger she was
dug out, for Jo was so overcome with laughter while she excavated
that her knife went too far, cut the poor foot, and left a lasting
memorial of one artistic attempt, at least.

     After this Amy subsided, till a mania for sketching from nature
set her to haunting river, field, and wood, for picturesque studies,
and sighing for ruins to copy.  She caught endless colds sitting on
damp grass to book `delicious bit', composed of a stone, a stump, one
mushroom, and a broken mullein stalk, or `a heavenly mass of clouds',
that looked like a choice display of featherbeds when done.  She sac-
rificed her complexion floating on the river in the midsummer sun to
study light and shade, and got a wrinkle over her nose trying after
`points of sight', or whatever the squint-and-string performance is
called.

     If `genius is eternal patience', as Michelangelo affirms, Amy
had some claim to the divine attribute, for she persevered in spite
of all obstacles, failures, and discouragements, firmly believing
that in time she should do something worthy to be called `high art'.

     She was learning, doing, and enjoying other things, meanwhile,
for she had resolved to be an attractive and accomplished woman,
even if she never became a great artist.  Here she succeeded better,
for she was one of those happily created beings who please without
effort, make friends everywhere, and take life so gracefully and
easily that less fortunate souls are tempted to believe that such
are born under a lucky star.  Everybody liked her, for among her
good gifts was tact.  She had an instinctive sense of what was
pleasing and proper, always said the right thing to the right person,
did just what suited the time and place, and was so self-possessed
that her sisters used to say, "If Amy went to court without any
rehearsal beforehand, she'd know exactly what to do."

     One of her weaknesses was a desire to move in `our best society',
without being quite sure what the best really was.  Money, position,
fashionable accomplishments, and elegant manners were most desirable
things in her eyes, and she liked to associate with those who poss-
essed them, often mistaking the false for the true, and admiring what
was not admirable.  Never forgetting that by birth she was a gentle-
woman, she cultivated her aristocratic tastes and feelings, so that
when the opportunity came she might be ready to take the place from
which poverty now excluded her.

     "My lady," as her friends called her, sincerely desired to be
a genuine lady, and was so at heart, but had yet to learn that money
cannot buy refinement of nature, that rank does not always confer
nobility, and that true breeding makes itself felt in spite of ex-
ternal drawbacks.

     "I want to ask a favor of you, Mamma," Amy said, coming in
with an important air one day.

     "Well, little girl, what is it?" replied her mother, in whose
eyes the stately young lady still remained `the baby'.

     "Our drawing class breaks up next week, and before the girls
separate for the summer, I want to ask them out here for a day. They
are wild to see the river, sketch the broken bridge, and copy some
of the things they admire in my book.  They have been very kind to
me in many ways, and I am grateful, for they are all rich and I know
I am poor, yet they never made any difference."

     "Why should they?"  And Mrs. March put the question with what
the girls called her `Maria Theresa air'.

     "You know as well as I that it does make a difference with
nearly everyone, so don't ruffle up like a dear, motherly hen, when
your chickens get pecked by smarter birds.  The ugly duckling turned
out a swan, you know."  And Amy smiled without bitterness, for she
possessed a happy temper and hopeful spirit.

     Mrs. March laughed, and smoothed down her maternal pride as
she asked, "Well, my swan, what is your plan?"

     "I should like to ask the girls out to lunch next week, to take
them for a drive to the places they want to see, a row on the river,
perhaps, and make a little artistic fete for them."

     "That looks feasible.  What do you want for lunch?  Cake, sand-
wiches, fruit, and coffee will be all that is necessary, I suppose?"

     "Oh, dear, no!  We must have cold tongue and chicken, French
chocolate and ice cream, besides.  The girls are used to such things,
and I want my lunch to be proper and elegant, though I do work for
my living."

     "How many young ladies are there?" asked her mother, beginning
to look sober.

     "Twelve or fourteen in the class, but I dare say they won't all
come."

     "Bless me, child, you will have to charter an omnibus to carry
them about."

     "Why, Mother, how can you think of such a thing?  Not more than
six or eight will probably come, so I shall hire a beach wagon and
borrow Mr. Laurence's cherry-bounce." (Hannah's pronunciation of
charabanc.)

     "All of this will be expensive, Amy."

     "Not very.  I've calculated the cost, and I'll pay for it myself."

     "Don't you think, dear, that as these girls are used to such
things, and the best we can do will be nothing new, that some simpler
plan would be pleasanter to them, as a change if nothing more, and
much better for us than buying or borrowing what we don't need, and
attempting a style not in keeping with our circumstances?"

     "If I can't have it as I like, I don't care to have it at all.
I know that I can carry it out perfectly well, if you and the girls
will help a little, and I don't see why I can't if I'm willing to pay
for it," said Amy, with the decision which opposition was apt to
change into obstinacy.

     Mrs. March knew that experience was an excellent teacher, and
when it was possible she left her children to learn alone the lessons
which she would gladly have made easier, if they had not objected to
taking advice as much as they did salts and senna.

     "Very well, Amy, if your heart is set upon it, and you see your
way through without too great an outlay of money, time, and temper,
I'll say no more.  Talk it over with the girls, and whichever way
you decide, I'll do my best to help you."

     "Thanks, Mother, you are always so kind."  And away went Amy to
lay her plan before her sisters.

     Meg agreed at once, and promised to her aid, gladly offering
anything she possessed, from her little house itself to her very
best saltspoons.  But Jo frowned upon the whole project and would
have nothing to do with it at first.

     "Why in the world should you spend your money, worry your family,
and turn the house upside down for a parcel of girls who don't care a
sixpence for you?  I thought you had too much pride and sense to
truckle to any mortal woman just because she wears French boots and
rides in a coupe," said Jo, who, being called from the tragic climax
of her novel, was not in the best mood for social enterprises.

     "I don't truckle, and I hate being patronized as much as you do!"
returned Amy indignantly, for the two still jangled when such ques-
tions arose.  "The girls do care for me, and I for them, and there's a
great deal of kindness and sense and talent among them, in spite of
what you call fashionable nonsense.  You don't care to make people
like you, to go into good society, and cultivate your manners and
tastes.  I do, and I mean to make the most of every chance that comes.
You can go through the world with your elbows out and your nose in the
air, and call it independence, if you like.  That's not my way."

     When Amy had whetted her tongue and freed her mind she usually
got the best of it, for she seldom failed to have common sense on her
side, while Jo carried her love of liberty and hate of conventional-
ities to such an unlimited extent that she naturally found herself
worsted in an argument.  Amy's definition of Jo's  idea of independ-
ence was such a good hit that both burst out laughing, and the dis-
cussion took a more amiable turn.  Much against her will, Jo at length
consented to sacrifice a day to Mrs. Grundy, and help her sister
through what she regarded as `a nonsensical business'.

     The invitations were sent, nearly all accepted, and the follow-
ing Monday was set apart for the grand event.  Hannah was out of
humor because her week's work was deranged, and prophesied that "ef
the washin' and ironin' warn't done reg'lar, nothin' would go well
anywheres".  This hitch in the mainspring of the domestic machinery
had a bad effect upon the whole concern, but Amy's motto was `Nil
desperandum', and having made up her mind what to do, she proceeded
to do it in spite of all obstacles.  To begin with, Hannah's cooking
didn't  turn out well.  The chicken was tough, the tongue too salt,
and the chocolate wouldn't froth properly.  Then the cake and ice cost
more than Amy expected, so did the wagon, and various other expenses,
which seemed trifling at the outset, counted up rather alarmingly
afterward.  Beth got a cold and took to her bed.  Meg had an unusual
number of callers to keep her at home, and Jo was in such a divided
state of mind that her breakages, accidents, and mistakes were un-
commonly numerous, serious, and trying.

     It it was not fair on Monday, the young ladies were to come on
Tuesday, and arrangement which aggravated Jo and Hannah to the last
degree.  On Monday morning the weather was in that undecided state
which is more exasperating than a steady pour.  It drizzled a little,
shone a little, blew a little, and didn't make up its mind till it
was too late for anyone else to make up theirs.  Amy was up at dawn,
hustling people out of their beds and through their breakfasts, that
the house might be got in order.  The parlor struck her as looking
uncommonly shabby, but without stopping to sigh for what she had not,
she skillfully made the best of what she had, arranging chairs over
the worn places in the carpet, covering stains on the walls with home-
made statuary, which gave an artistic air to the room, as did the
lovely vases of flowers Jo scattered about.

     The lunch looked charming, and as she surveyed it, she sincerely
hoped it would taste well, and that the borrowed glass, china, and
silver would get safely home again.  The carriages were promised, Meg
and Mother were all ready to do the honors, Beth was able to help
Hannah behind the scenes, Jo had engaged to be as lively and amiable
as an absent mind, and aching head, and a very decided disapproval of
everybody and everything would allow, and as she wearily dressed, Amy
cheered herself with anticipations of the happy moment when, lunch
safely over, she should drive away with her friends for an afternoon
of artistic delights, for the `cherry bounce' and the broken bridge
were her strong points.

     Then came the hours of suspense, during which she vibrated from
parlor to porch, while public opinion varied like the weathercock. A
smart shower at eleven had evidently quenched the enthusiasm of the
young ladies who were to arrive at twelve, for nobody came, and at two
the exhausted family sat down in a blaze of sunshine to consume the
perishable portions of the feast, that nothing might be lost.

     "No doubt about the weather today, they will certainly come, so
we must fly round and be ready for them," said Amy, as the sun woke
her next morning.  She spoke briskly, but in her secret soul she wished
she had said nothing about Tuesday, for her interest like her cake was
getting a little stale.

     "I can't get any lobsters, so you will have to do without salad
today," said Mr. March, coming in half an hour later, with an express-
ion of placid despair.

     "Use the chicken then, the toughness won't matter in a salad," ad-
vised his wife.

     "Hannah left it on the kitchen table a minute, and the kittens got
at it.  I'm very sorry, amy," added Beth, who was still a patroness of
cats.

     "Then I must have a lobster, for tongue alone won't do," said Amy
decidedly.

     "Shall I rush into town and demand one?" asked Jo, with the mag-
nanimity of a martyr.

     "You'd come bringing it home under your arm without any paper,
just to try me.  I'll go myself," answered Amy, whose temper was be-
ginning to fail.

     Shrouded in a thick veil and armed with a genteel traveling basket,
she departed, feeling that a cool drive would soothe her ruffled spirit
and fit her for the labors of the day.  After some delay, the object of
her desire was procured, likewise a bottle of dressing to prevent fur-
ther loss of time at home, and off she drove again, well pleased with
her own forethought.

     As the omnibus contained only one other passenger, a sleepy old
lady, Amy pocketed her veil and beguiled the tedium of the way by
trying to find out where all her money had gone to.  So busy was she
with her card full of refractory figures that she did not observe a
newcomer, who entered without stopping the vehicle, till a masculine
voice said, "Good morning, Miss March," and, looking up, she beheld
one of Laurie's most elegant college friends.  Fervently hoping that
he would get out before she did, Amy utterly ignored the basket at her
feet, and congratulating herself that she had on her new traveling
dress, returned the young man's greeting with her usual suavity and
spirit.

     They got on excellently, for Amy's chief care was soon set at
rest by learning that the gentleman would leave first, and she was
chatting away in a peculiarly lofty strain, when the old lady got out.
In stumbling to the door, she upset the basket, and--oh horror!--the
lobster, in all its vulgar size and brilliancy, was revealed to the
highborn eyes of a Tudor.

     "By Jove, she's forgotten her dinner!" cried the unconscious
youth, poking the scarlet monster into its place with his cane, and
preparing to hand out the basket after the old lady.

     "Please don't--it's--it's mine," murmured Amy, with a face nearly
as red as her fish.

     "Oh, really, I beg pardon.  It's an uncommonly fine one, isn't it?"
said Tudor, with great presence of mind, and an air of sober interest
that did credit to his breeding.

     Amy recovered herself in a breath, set her basket boldly on the
seat, and said, laughing, "Don't you wish you were to have some of the
salad he's going to make, and to see the charming young ladies who are
to eat it?"

     Now that was tact, for two of the ruling foibles of the masculine
mind were touched.  The lobster was instantly surrounded by a halo of
pleasing reminiscences, and curiosity about `the charming young ladies'
diverted his mind from the comical mishap.

     "I suppose he'll laugh and joke over it with Laurie, but I shan't
see them, that's a comfort," thought Amy, as Tudor bowed and departed.

     She did not mention this meeting at home (though she discovered
that, thanks to the upset, her new dress was much damaged by the riv-
ulets of dressing that meandered down the skirt), but went through
with the preparations which now seemed more irksome than before, and
at twelve o'clock all was ready again.  feeling that the neighbors
were interested in her movements, she wished to efface the memory of
yesterday's failure by a grand success today, so she ordered the
`cherry bounce', and drove away in state to meet and escort her guests
to the banquet.

     "There's the rumble, they're coming!  I'll go onto the porch and
meet them.  It looks hospitable, and I want the poor child to have a
good time after all her trouble," said Mrs. March, suiting the action
to the word.  But after one glance, she retired, with an indescribable
expression, for looking quite lost in the big carriage, sat Amy and
one young lady.

     "Run, Beth, and help Hannah clear half the things off the table.
It will be too absurd to put a luncheon for twelve before a single
girl," cried Jo, hurrying away to the lower regions, too excited to
stop even for a laugh.

     In came Amy, quite calm and delightfully cordial to the one
guest who had kept her promise.  The rest of the family, being of
a dramatic turn, played their parts equally well, and Miss Eliott
found them a most hilarious set, for it was impossible to control
entirely the merriment which possessed them.  The remodeled lunch
being gaily partaken of, the studio and garden visited, and art
discussed with enthusiasm, Amy ordered a buggy (alas for the elegant
cherry-bounce), and drove her friend quietly about the neighborhood
till sunset, when `the party went out'.

     As she came walking in, looking very tired but as composed as
ever, she observed that every vestige of the unfortunate fete had
disappeared, except a suspicious pucker about the corners of Jo's
mouth.

     "You've had a loverly afternoon for your drive, dear," said
her mother, as respectfully as if the whole twelve had come.

     "Miss Eliott is a very sweet girl, and seemed to enjoy herself,
I thought," observed Beth, with unusual warmth.

     "Could you spare me some of your cake?  I really need some, I
have so much company, and I can't make such delicious stuff as yours,"
asked Meg soberly.

     "Take it all.  I'm the only one here who likes sweet things, and
it will mold before I can dispose of it," answered Amy, thinking with
a sigh of the generous store she had laid in for such an end as this.

     "It's a pity Laurie isn't here to help us," began Jo, as they sat
down to ice cream and salad for the second time in two days.

     A warning look from her mother checked any further remarks, and
the whole family ate in heroic silence, till Mr. March mildly observed,
"salad was one of the favorite dishes of the ancients, and Evelyn . . ."
Here a general explosion of laughter cut short the `history of salads',
to the great surprise of the learned gentleman.

     "Bundle everything into a basket and send it to the Hummels. Germans
like messes.  I'm sick of the sight of this, and there's no reason you
should all die of a surfeit because I've been a fool," cried Amy, wiping
her eyes.

     "I thought I should have died when I saw you two girls rattling
about in the what-you-call-it, like two little kernels in a very big
nutshell, and Mother waiting in state to receive the throng," sighed
Jo, quite spent with laughter.

     "I'm very sorry you were disappointed, dear, but we all did our
best to satisfy you," said Mrs. March, in a tone full of motherly
regret.

     "I am satisfied.  I've done what I undertook, and it's not my
fault that it failed.  I comfort myself with that," said Amy with a
little quiver in her voice.  "I thank you all very much for helping
me, and I'll thank you still more if you won't allude to it for a
month, at least."

     No one did for several months, but the word `fete' always pro-
duced a general smile, and Laurie's birthday gift to Amy was a tiny
coral lobster in the shape of a charm for her watch guard.


                  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

     Fortune suddenly smiled upon Jo, and dropped a good luck
penny in her path.  Not a golden penny, exactly, but I doubt
if half a million would have given more real happiness then did
the little sum that came to her in this wise.

     Every few weeks she would shut herself up in her room, put
on her scribbling suit, and `fall into a vortex', as she expressed
it, writing away at her novel with all her heart and soul, for till
that was finished she could find no peace.  Her `scribbling suit'
consisted of a black woolen pinafore on which she could wipe her
pen at will, and a cap of the same material, adorned with a cheer-
ful red bow, into which she bundled her hair when the decks were
cleared for action.  This cap was a beacon to the inquiring eyes of
her family, who during these periods kept their distance, merely
popping in their heads semi-occasionally to ask, with interest,
"Does genius burn, Jo?"  They did not always venture even to ask
this question, but took an observation of the cap, and judged
accordingly.  If this expressive article of dress was drawn low
upon the forehead, it was a sign that hard work was going on, in
exciting moments it was pushed rakishly askew, and when despair
seized the author it was plucked wholly off, and cast upon the
floor, and cast upon the floor. At such times the intruder silently
withdrew, and not until the red bow was seen gaily erect upon the
gifted brow, did anyone dare address Jo.

     She did not think herself a genius by any means, but when the
writing fit came on, she gave herself up to it with entire abandon,
and led a blissful life, unconscious of want, care, or bad weather,
while she sat safe and happy in an imaginary world, full of friends
almost as real and dear to her as any in the flesh.  Sleep forsook
her eyes, meals stood untasted, day and night were all too short to
enjoy the happiness which blessed her only at such times, and made
these hours worth living, even if they bore no other fruit.  The de-
vine afflatus usually lasted a week or two, and then she emerged
from her `vortex', hungry, sleepy, cross, or despondent.

     She was just recovering from one of these attacks when she was
prevailed upon to escort Miss Crocker to a lecture, and in return
for her virtue was rewarded with a new idea.  It was a People's
Course, the lecture on the Pyramids, and Jo rather wondered at the
choice of such a subject for such an audience, but took it for grant-
ed that some great social evil would be remedied or some great want
supplied by unfolding the glories of the Pharaohs to an audience
whose thoughts were busy with the price of coal and flour, and whose
lives were spent in trying to solve harder riddles than that of the
Sphinx.

     They were early, and while Miss Crocker set the heel of her
stocking, Jo amused herself by examining the faces of the people who
occupied the seat with them.  On her left were two matrons, with
massive foreheads and bonnets to match, discussing Women's Rights and
making tatting.  Beyond sat a pair of humble lovers, artlessly hold-
ing each other by the hand, a somber spinster eating peppermints out
of a paper bag, and an old gentleman taking his preparatory nap be-
hind a yellow bandanna.  On her right, her only neighbor was a stud-
ious looking lad absorbed in a newspaper.

     It was a pictorial sheet, and Jo examined the work of art nearest
her, idly wondering what fortuitous concatenation of circumstances
needed the melodramatic illustration of an Indian in full war costume,
tumbling over a precipice with a wolf at his throat, while two infur-
iated young gentlemen, with unnaturally small feet and big eyes, were
stabbing each other close by, and a disheveled female was flying away
in the background with her mouth wide open.  Pausing to turn a page,
the lad saw her looking and, with boyish good nature offered half his
paper, saying bluntly, "want to read it? That's a first-rate story."

     Jo accepted it with a smile, for she had never outgrown her lik-
ing for lads, and soon found herself involved in the usual labyrinth
of love, mystery, and murder, for the story belonged to that class of
light literature in which the passions have a holiday, and when the
author's invention fails, a grand catastrophe clears the stage of one
half the dramatis personae, leaving the other half to exult over their
downfall.

     "Prime, isn't it?" asked the boy, as her eye went down the last
paragraph of her portion.

     "I think you and I could do as well as that if we tried," return-
ed Jo, amused at his admiration of the trash.

     "I should think I was a pretty lucky chap if I could.  She makes
a good living out of such stories,  they say."  And he pointed to the
name of Mrs. S.L.A.N.G. Northbury, under the title of the tale.

     "Do you know her?" asked Jo, with sudden interest.

     "No, but I read all her pieces, and I know a fellow who works in
the office where this paper is printed."

     "Do you say she makes a good living out of stories like this?"
And Jo looked more respectfully at the agitated group and thickly
sprinkled exclamation points that adorned the page.

     "Guess she does!  She knows just what folks like, and gets paid
well for writing it."

     Here the lecture began, but Jo heard very little of it, for while
Professor Sands was prosing away about Belzoni, Cheops, scarabei, and
hieroglyphics, she was covertly taking down the address of the paper,
and boldly resolving to try for the hundred-dollar prize offered in
its columns for a sensational story.  By the time the lecture ended
and the audience awoke, she had built up a splendid fortune for her-
self (not the first founded on paper), and was already deep in the
concoction of her story, being unable to decide whether the duel
should come before the elopement or after the murder.

     she said nothing of her plan at home, but fell to work next day,
much to the disquiet of her mother, who always looked a little anxious
when `genius took to burning'.  Jo had never tried this style before,
contenting herself with very mild romances for THE SPREAD EAGLE.  Her
experience and miscellaneous reading were of service now, for they
gave her some idea of dramatic effect, and supplied plot, language,
and costumes.  Her story was as full of desperation and despair as her
limited acquaintance with those uncomfortable emotions enabled her to
make it, and having located it in Lisbon, she wound up with an earth-
quake, as a striking and appropriate denouement.  The manuscript was
privately dispatched, accompanied by a note, modestly saying that if
the tale didn't get the prize, which the writer hardly dared expect,
she would be very glad to receive any sum it might be considered worth.

     Six weeks is a long time to wait, and a still longer time
for a girl to keep a secret, but Jo did both, and was just begin-
ning to give up all hope of ever seeing her manuscript again,
when a letter arrived which almost took her breath away, for on
opening it, a check for a hundred dollars fell into her lap.  For
a minute she stared at it as if it had been a snake, then she read
her letter and began to cry.  If the amiable gentleman who wrote
that kindly note could have known what intense happiness he was
giving a fellow creature, I think he would devote his leisure hours,
if he has any, to that amusement, for Jo valued the letter more than
the money, because it was encouraging, and after years of effort it
was so pleasant to find that she had learned to do something, though
it was only to write a sensation story.

     A prouder young woman was seldom seen than she, when, having
composed herself, she electrified the family by appearing before them
with the letter in one hand, the check in the other, announcing that
she had won the prize.  Of course there was a great jubilee, and when
the story came everyone read and praised it, though after her father
had told her that the language was good, the romance fresh and hearty,
and the tragedy quite thrilling, he shook his head, and said in his
unworldly way . . .

     "You can do better than this, Jo.  Aim at the highest, and never
mind the money."

     "I think the money is the best part of it.  What will you do with
such a fortune?" asked Amy, regarding the magic slip of paper with a
reverential eye.

     "Send Beth and Mother to the seaside for a month or two," answered
Jo promptly.

     To the seaside they went, after much discussion, and though Beth
didn't come home as plump and rosy as could be desired, she was much
better, while Mrs. March declared she felt ten years younger.  So Jo
was satisfied with the investment of her prize money, and fell to work
with a cheery spirit, bent on earning more of those delightful checks.
She did earn several that year, and began to feel herself a power in
the house, for by the magic of a pen, her `rubbish' turned into com-
forts for them all.  THE DUKE'S DAUGHTER paid the butcher's bill, A
PHANTOM HAND put down a new carpet, and the CURSE OF THE COVENTRYS
proved the blessing of the Marches in the way of groceries and gowns.

     Wealth is certainly a most desirable thing, but poverty has its
sunny side, and one of the sweet uses of adversity is the genuine sat-
isfaction which comes from hearty work of head or hand, and to the
inspiration of necessity, we owe half the wise, beautiful, and useful
blessings  of the world.  Jo enjoyed a taste of this satisfaction,
and ceased to envy richer girls, taking great comfort in the knowledge
that she could supply her own wants, and need ask no one for a penny.

     Little notice was taken of her stories, but they found a market,
and encouraged by this fact, she resolved to make a bold stroke for
fame and fortune.  Having copied her novel for the fourth time, read
it to all her confidential friends, and submitted it with fear and
trembling to three publishers, she at last disposed of it, on condi-
tion that she would cut it down one third, and omit all the parts
which she particularly admired.

     "Now I must either bundle it back in to my tin kitchen to mold,
pay for printing it myself, or chop it up to suit purchasers and get
what I can for it.  Fame is a very good thing to have in the house,
but cash is more convenient, so I wish to take the sense of the meet-
ing on this important subject," said Jo, calling a family council.

     "Don't spoil your book, my girl, for there is more in it than
you know, and the idea is well worked out.  Let it wait and ripen,"
was her father's advice, and he practiced what he preached, having
waited patiently thirty years for fruit of his own to ripen, and
being in no haste to gather it even now when it was sweet and mellow.

     "It seems to me that Jo will profit more by taking the trial
than by waiting," said Mrs. March.  "Criticism is the best test of
such work, for it will show her both unsuspected merits and faults,
and help her to do better next time.  We are too partial, but the
praise and blame of outsiders will prove useful, even if she gets
but little money."

     "Yes," said Jo, knitting her brows, "that's just it.  I've been
fussing over the thing so long, I really don't know whether it's good,
bad, or indifferent.  It will be a great help to have cool, impartial
persons take a look at it, and tell me what they think of it."

     "I wouldn't leave a word out of it.  You'll spoil it if you do,
for the interest of the story is more in the minds than in the actions
of the people, and it will be all a muddle if you don't explain as you
go on," said Meg, who firmly believed that this book was the most re-
markable novel ever written.

     "But Mr. Allen says, `Leave out the explanations, make it brief
and dramatic, and let the characters tell the story'," interrupted
Jo, turning to the publisher's note.

     "Do as he tells you.  He knows what will sale, and we don't.
Make a good, popular book, and get as much money as you can.  By-and-
by, when you've got a name, you can afford to digress, and have
philosophical and metaphysical people in your novels," said Amy, who
took a strictly practical view of the subject.

     "Well," said Jo, laughing, "if my people are `philosophical and
metaphysical', it isn't my fault, for I know nothing about such
things, except what I hear father say;, sometimes.  If I've got some
of his wise ideas jumbled up with my romance, so much the better for
me.  Now, Beth, what do you say?"

     "I should so like to see it printed soon," was all Beth said,
and smiled in saying it. But there was an unconscious emphasis on
the last word, and a wistful look in the eyes that never lost their
childlike candor, which chilled Jo's heart for a minute with a for-
boding fear, and decided her to make her little venture `soon'.

     So, with Spartan firmness, the young authoress laid her first-
born on her table, and chopped it up as ruthlessly as any ogre.  In
the hope of pleasing everyone, she took everyone's advice, and like
the old man and his donkey in the fable suited nobody.

     Her father liked the metaphysical streak which had unconscious-
ly got into it, so that was allowed to remain though she had her
doubts about it. Her mother thought that there was a trifle too much
description.  Out, therefore it came, and with it many necessary
links in the story.  Meg admired the tragedy, so Jo piled up the
agony to suit her, while Amy objected to the fun, and, with the
best intentions in life, Jo quenched the spritly scenes which
relieved the somber character of the story.  Then, to complicate
the ruin, she cut it down one third, and confidingly sent the
poor little romance, like a picked robin, out into the big, busy
world to try its fate.

     Well, it was printed, and she got three hundred dollars for
it, likewise plenty of praise and blame, both so much greater than
she expected that she was thrown into a state of bewilderment from
which it took her some time to recover.

     "You said, Mother, that criticism would help me.  But how can
it,when it's so contradictory that I don't know whether I've written
a promising book or broken all the ten commandments?" cried poor
Jo, turning over a heap of notices, the perusal of which filled her
with pride and joy one minute, wrath and dismay the next.  "This
man says, `An exquisite book, full of truth, beauty, and earnest-
ness.  All is sweet, pure, and healthy.'" continued the perplexed
authoress.  "The next, `The theory of the book is bad, full of
morbid fancies, spiritualistic ideas, and unnatural characters.'
Now, as I had no theory of any kind, don't believe in Spiritualism,
and copied my characters from life, I don't see how this critic can
be right.  Another says, `It's one of the best American novels which
has appeared for years.' (I know better than that), and the next
asserts that `Though it is original, and written with great force
and feeling, it is a dangerous book.' 'Tisn't!  Some make fun of it,
some overpraise, and nearly all insist that I had a deep theory to
expound, when I only wrote it for the pleasure and the money.  I
wish I'd printed the whole or not at all, for I do hate to be so
misjudged."

    Her family and friends administered comfort and commendation
liberally.  Yet it was a hard time for sensitive, high-spirited Jo,
who meant so well and had apparently done so ill.  But it did her
good, for those whose opinion had real value gave her the critism
which is an author's best education, and when the first soreness
was over,she could laugh at her poor little book, yet believe in
it still, and feel herself the wiser and stronger for the buffet-
ing she had received.

     "Not being a genius, like Keats, it won't kill me," she said
stoutly, "and I've got the joke on my side, after all, for the parts
that were taken straight out of real life are denounced as impossible
and absurd, and the scenes that I made up out of my own silly head
are pronounced `charmingly natural, tender, and true'.  So I'll
comfort myself with that, and when I'm ready, I'll up again and take
another."


                   CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

     Like most other young matrons, Meg began her married life
with the determination to be a model housekeeper.  John should
find home a paradise, he should always see a smiling face,
should fare sumptuously every day, and never know the loss of
a button.  She brought so much love, energy, and cheerfulness
to the work that she could not but succeed, in spite of some
obstacles.  Her paradise was not a tranquil one, for the little
woman fussed, was over-anxious to please, and bustled about like
a true Martha, cumbered with many cares.  She was too tired, some-
times, even to smile, John grew dyspeptic after a course of dainty
dishes and ungratefully demanded plain fare.  As for buttons, she
soon learned to wonder where they went, to shake her head over the
carelessness of men, and to threaten to make him sew them on him-
self, and see if his work would stand impatient and clumsy fingers
any better than hers.

     They were very happy, even after they discovered that they
couldn't live on love alone.  John did not find Meg's beauty dimin-
ished, though she beamed at him from behind the familiar coffee pot.
Nor did Meg miss any of the romance from the daily parting, when her
husband followed up his kiss with the tender inquiry, "Shall I send
some veal or mutton for dinner, darling?"  The little house ceased
to be a glorified bower, but it became a home, and the young couple
soon felt that it was a change for the better.  At first they play-
ed keep-house, and frolicked over it like children.  Then John took
steadily to business, feeling the cares of the head of a family upon
his shoulders, and Meg laid by her cambric wrappers, put on a big
apron, and fell to work, as before said, with more energy than dis-
cretion.

     While the cooking mania lasted she went through Mrs. Cornelius's
Receipt Book as if it were a mathematical exercise, working out the
problems with patience and care.  Sometimes her family were invited
in to help eat up a too bounteous feast of successes, or Lotty would
be privately dispatched with a batch of failures, which were to be
concealed from all eyes in the convenient stomachs of the little
Hummels. An evening with John over the account books usually pro-
duced a temporary lull in the culinary enthusiasm, and a frugal fit
would ensue, during which the poor man was put through a course of
bread pudding, hash, and warmed-over coffee, which tried his soul,
although he bore it with praiseworthy fortitude.  Before the golden
mean was found, however, Meg added to her domestic possessions what
young couples seldom get on long without, a family jar.

     Fired a with housewifely wish to see her storeroom stocked with
homemade preserves, she undertook to put up her own currant jelly.
John was requested to order home a dozen or so of little pots and an
extra quantity of sugar, for their own currants were ripe and were
to be attended to at once.  As John firmly believed that `my wife'
was equal to anything, and took a natural pride in her skill, he
resolved that she should be gratified, and their only crop of fruit
laid by in a most pleasing form for winter use.  Home came four
dozen delightful little pots, half a barrel of sugar, and a small
boy to pick the currants for her. With her pretty hair tucked into
a little cap, arms bared to the elbow, and a checked apron which
had a coquettish look in spite of the bib, the young housewife fell
to work, feeling no doubts about her success, for hadn't she seen
Hannah do it hundreds of times?  The array of pots rather amazed her
at first, but John was so fond of jelly, and the nice little jars
would look so well on the top shelf, that Meg resolved to fill them
all, and spend a long day picking, boiling, straining, and fussing
over her jelly.  She did her best, she asked advice of Mrs. Corne-
lius, she racked her brain to remember what Hannah did that she left
undone, she reboiled, resugared, and restrained, but that dreadful
stuff wouldn't `jell'.

     She longed to run home, bib and all, and ask Mother to lend her
a hand, but John and she had agreed that they would never annoy any-
one with their private worries, experiments, or quarrels.  They had
laughed over that last word as if the idea it suggested was a most
preposterous one, but they had held to their resolve, and whenever
they could get on without help they did so, and no one interfered,
for Mrs. March had advised the plan.  So Meg wrestled alone with the
refractory sweetmeats all that hot summer day, and at five o'clock
sat down in her topsy-turvey kitchen, wrung her bedaubed hands,
lifted up her voice and wept.

     Now, in the first flush of the new life, she had often said,
"My husband shall always feel free to bring a friend home whenever
he likes.  I shall always be prepared. There shall be no flurry, no
scolding, no discomfort, but a neat house, a cheerful wife, and a
good dinner.  John, dear, never stop to ask my leave, invite whom
you please, and be sure of a welcome from me."

     How charming that was, to be sure!  John quite glowed with
pride to hear her say it, and felt what a blessed thing it was to
have a superior wife.  But, although they had had company from time
to time, it never happened to be unexpected, and Meg had never had
an opportunity to distinguish herself till now.  It always happens
so in this vale of tears, there is an inevitability about such things
which we can only wonder at, deplore, and bear as we best can.

     If John had not forgotten all about the jelly, it really would
have been unpardonable in him to choose that day, of all the days in
the year, to bring a friend home to dinner unexpectedly.  Congratu-
lating himself that a handsome repast had been ordered that morning,
feeling sure that it would be ready to the minute, and indulging in
pleasant anticipations of the charming effect it would produce, when
his pretty wife came running out to meet him, he escorted his friend
to his mansion, with the irrepressible satisfaction of a young host
and husband.

     It is a world of disappointments, as John discovered when he
reached the Dovecote.  the front door usually stood hospitably open.
Now it was not only shut, but locked, and yesterday's mud still
adorned the steps.  The parlor windows were closed and curtained,
no picture of the pretty wife sewing on the piazza, in white, with
a distracting little bow in her hair, or a bright-eyed hostess,
smiling a shy welcome as she greeted her guest.  Nothing of the sort,
for not a soul appeared but a sanginary-looking boy asleep under the
current bushes.

     "I'm afraid something has happened.  Step into the garden, Scott,
while I look up Mrs. Brooke," said John, alarmed at the silence and
solitude.

     Round the house he hurried, led by a pungent smell of burned
sugar, and Mr. Scott strolled after him, with a queer look on his
face.  He paused discreetly at a distance when Brooke disappeared,
but he could both see and hear, and being a bachelor, enjoyed the
prospect mightily.

     In the kitchen reigned confusion and despair.  One edition of
jelly was trickled from pot to pot, another lay upon the floor,
and a third was burning gaily on the stove.  Lotty, with Teutonic
phlegm, was calmly eating bread and currant wine, for the jelly was
still in a hopelessly liquid state, while Mrs. Brooke, with her apron
over her head, sat sobbing dismally.

     "My dearest girl, what is the matter?" cried John, rushing in,
with awful visions of scalded hands, sudden news of affliction, and
secret consternation at the thought of the guest in the garden.

     "Oh, John, I am so tired and hot and cross and worried!  I've
been at it till I'm all worn out.  Do come and help me or I shall
die!"  And the exhausted housewife cast herself upon his breast,
giving him a sweet welcome in every sense of the word, for her
pinafore had been baptized at the same time as the floor.

     "What worries you dear?  Has anything dreadful happened?"
asked the anxious John, tenderly kissing the crown of the little
cap, which was all askew.

     "Yes," sobbed Meg despairingly.

     "Tell me quick, then.  Don't cry. I can bear anything better
than that.  Out with it, love."

     "The . . .The jelly won't jell and I don't know what to do!"

     John Brooke laughed then as he never dared to laugh afterward,
and the derisive Scott smiled involuntarily as he heard the hearty
peal, which put the finishing stroke to poor Meg's woe.

     "Is that all?  Fling it out of the window, and don't bother any
more about it.  I'll buy you quarts if you want it, but for heaven's
sake don't have hysterics, for I've brought Jack Scott home to dinner,
and . . ."

     John got no further, for Meg cast him off, and clasped her hands
with a tragic gesture as she fell into a chair, exclaiming in a tone
of mingled indignation, reproach, and dismay . . .

     "A man to dinner, and everything in a mess!  John Brooke, how
could you do such a thing?"

     "Hush, he's in the garden!  I forgot the confounded jelly, but
it can't be helped now," said John, surveying the prospect with an
anxious eye.

     "You ought to have sent word, or told me this morning, and you
ought to have remembered how busy I was," continued Meg petulantly,
for even turtledoves will peck when ruffled.

     "I didn't know it this morning, and there was no time to send
word, for I met him on the way out.  I never thought of asking leave,
when you have always told me to do as I liked.  I never tried it
before, and hang me if I ever do again!" added John, with an aggriev-
ed air.

     "I should hope not!  Take him away at once.  I can't see him,
    and there isn't any dinner."

     "Well, I like that!  Where's the beef and vegetables I sent
home, and the pudding you promised?" cried John, rushing to the
larder.

     "I hadn't time to cook anything.  I meant to dine at Mother's.
I'm sorry, but I was so busy," and Meg's tears began again.

     John was a mild man, but he was human, and after a long day's
work to come home tired, hungry, and hopeful, to find a chaotic
house, an empty table, and a cross wife was not exactly conductive
to repose of mind or manner.  He restrained himself however, and the
little squall would have blown over, but for one unlucky word.

     "It's a scrape, I acknowledge, but if you will lend a hand,
we'll pull through and have a good time yet.  Don't cry, dear, but
just exert yourself a bit, and fix us up something to eat.  We're
both as hungry as hunters, so we shan't mind what it is.  Give us
the cold meat, and bread and cheese.  We won't ask for jelly."

     He meant it to be a good-natured joke, but that one word sealed
his fate.  Meg thought it was too cruel to hint about her sad failure,
and the last atom of patience vanished as he spoke.

     "You must get yourself out of the scrape as you can.  I'm too
used up to `exert' myself for anyone.  It's like a man to propose
a bone and vulgar bread and cheese for company.  I won't have any-
thing of the sort in my house.  Take that Scott up to Mother's, and
tell him I'm away, sick, dead, anything.  I won't see him, and you
two can laugh at me and my jelly as much as you like.  You won't
have anything else here."  And having delivered her defiance all
on one breath, Meg cast away her pinafore and precipitately left the
field to bemoan herself in her own room.

     What those two creatures did in her absence, she never knew,
but Mr. scott was not taken `up to Mother's', and when Meg descended,
after they had strolled away together, she found traces of a promis-
cuous lunch which filled her with horror.  Lotty reported that they
had eaten "a much, and greatly laughed, and the master bid her throw
away all the sweet stuff, and hide the pots."

     Meg longed to go and tell Mother, but a sense of shame at her
own short comings, of loyalty to John, "who might be cruel, but
nobody should know it," restrained her, and after a summary cleaning
up, she dressed herself prettily, and sat down to wait for John to
come and be forgiven.

     Unfortunately, John didn't come, not seeing the matter in that
light.  He had carried it off as a good joke with Scott, excused his
little wife as well as he could, and played the host so hospitably
that his friend enjoyed the impromptu dinner, and promised to come
again, but John was angry, though he did not show it, he felt that
Meg had deserted him in his hour of need.  "It wasn't fair to tell
a man to bring folks home any time, with perfect freedom, and when
he took you at your word, to flame up and blame him, and leave him
in the lurch, to be laughed at or pitied. No, by George, it wasn't!
And Meg must know it."

     He had fumed inwardly during the feast, but when the flurry was
over and he strolled home after seeing Scott off, a milder mood came
over him. "Poor little thing!  It was hard upon her when she tried so
heartily to please me.  She was wrong, of course, but then she was
young.  I must be patient and teach her."  He hoped she had not gone
home--he hated gossip and interference.  For a minute he was ruffled
again at the mere thought of it, and then the fear that Meg would cry
herself sick softened his heart, and sent him on at a quicker pace,
resolving to be calm and kind, but firm, quite firm, and show her
where she had failed in her duty to her spouse.

     Meg likewise resolved to be `calm and kind, but firm', and show
him his duty.  She longed to run to meet him, and beg pardon, and be
kissed and comforted, as she was sure of being, but, of course, she
did nothing of the sort, and when she saw John coming, began to hum
quite naturally, as she rocked and sewed, like a lady of leisure in
her best parlor.

     John was a little disappointed not to find a tender Niobe, but
feeling that his dignity demanded the first apology, he made none,
only came leisurely in and laid himself upon the sofa with the sing-
ularly relevant remark, "We are going to have a new moon, my dear."

     "I've no objection," was Meg's equally soothing remark.  A few
other topics of general interest were introduced by Mr. Brooke and
wet-blanketed by Mrs. Brooke, and conversation languished.  John
went to one window, unfolded his paper, and wrapped himself in it,
figuratively speaking.  Meg went to the other window, and sewed as
if new rosettes for slippers were among the necessaries of life.
Neither spoke.  Both looked quite `calm and firm', and both felt
desperately uncomfortable.

     "Oh, dear," thought Meg, "married life is very trying, and
does need infinite patience as well as love, as Mother says."  The
word `Mother' suggested other maternal counsels given long ago, and
received with unbelieving protests.

     "John is a good man, but he has his faults, and you must learn
to see and bear with them, remembering your own.  He is very decided,
but never will be obstinate, if you reason kindly, not oppose impat-
iently.  He is very accurate, and particular about the truth--a good
trait, though you call him `fussy'.  Never deceive him by look or
word, Meg, and he will give you the confidence you deserve, the
support you need.  He has a temper, not like ours--one flash and then
all over--but the white, still anger that is seldom stirred, but
once kindled is hard to quench.  Be careful, be very careful, not to
wake his anger against yourself, for peace and happiness depend on
keeping his respect.  Watch yourself, be the first to ask pardon if
you both err, and guard against the little piques, misunderstandings,
and hasty words that often pave the way for bitter sorrow and regret."

     These words came back to Meg, as she sat sewing in the sunset,
especially the last.  This was the first serious disagreement, her
own hasty speeches sounded both silly and unkind, as she recalled
them, her own anger looked childish now, and thoughts of poor John
coming home to such a scene quite melted her heart.  She glanced at
him with tears in her eyes, but he did not see them. She put down
her work and got up, thinking, "I will be the first to say, `For-
give me', but he did not seem to hear her.  She went very slowly
across the room, for pride was hard to swallow, and stood by him,
but he did not turn his head.  For a minute she felt as if she
really couldn't do it, then came the thought, This is the beginn-
ing.  I'll do my part, and have nothing to reproach myself with,"
and stooping sown, she softly kissed her husband on the forehead.
Of course that settled it.  The penitent kiss was better than a
world of words, and John had her on his knee in a minute, saying
tenderly . . .

     "It was too bad to laugh at the poor little jelly pots.  For-
give me, dear.  I never will again!"

     But he did, oh bless you, yes, hundreds of times, and so did
Meg, both declaring that it was the sweetest jelly they ever made,
for family peace was preserved in that little family jar.

     After this, Meg had Mr. Scott to dinner by special invitation,
and served him up a pleasant feast without a cooked wife for the
first course, on which occasion she was so gay and gracious, and
made everything go off so charmingly, that Mr. Scott told John he
was a lucky fellow, and shook his head over the hardships of bach-
elorhood all the way home.

     In the autumn, new trials and experiences came to Meg.  Sallie
Moffat renewed her friendship, was always running out for a dish of
gossip at the little house, or inviting `that poor dear' to come in
and spend the day at the big house.  It was pleasant, for in dull
weather Meg often felt lonely.  All were busy at home, John absent
till night, and nothing to do but sew, or read, or potter about. So
it naturally fell out that Meg got into the way of gadding and gossip-
ing with her friend.  Seeing Sallie's pretty things made her long for
such, and pity herself because she had not got them.  Sallie was very
kind, and often offered her the coveted trifles, but Meg declined
them, knowing that John wouldn't like it, and then this foolish little
woman went and did what John disliked even worse.

     She knew her husband's income, and she loved to feel that he
trusted her, not only with his happiness, but what some men seem to
value more--his money.  She knew where it was, was free to take what
she liked, and all he asked was that she should keep account of every
penny, pay bills once a month, and remember that she was a poor man's
wife.  Till now she had done well, been prudent and exact, kept her
little account books neatly, and showed them to him monthly without
fear.  But that autumn the serpent got into Meg's paradise, and tempt-
ed her like many a modern Eve, not with apples, but with dress.  Meg
didn't like to be pitied and made to feel poor.  It irritated her,
but she was ashamed to confess it, and now and then she tried to con-
sole herself by buying something pretty, so that Sallie needn't think
she had to economize.  She always felt wicked after it, for the pretty
things were seldom necessaries, but then they cost so little, it wasn't
worth worrying about, so the trifles increased unconsciously, and in
the shopping excursions she was no longer a passive looker-on.

     But the trifles cost more than one would imagine, and when she
cast up her accounts at the end of the month the sum total rather
scared her.  John was busy that month and left the bills to her, the
next month he was absent, but the third he had a grand quarterly
settling up, and Meg never forgot it.  A few days before she had done
a dreadful thing, and it weighed upon her conscience.  Sallie had
been buying silks, and Meg longed for a new one, just a handsome light
one for parties, her black silk was so common, and thin things for
evening wear were only proper for girls.  Aunt March usually gave the
sisters a present of twenty-five dollars apiece at New Year's.  That
was only a month to wait, and here was a lovely violet silk going at
a bargain, and she had the money, if she only dared to take it.  John
always said what was his was hers, but would he think it right to
spend not only the prospective five-and-twenty, but another five-and-
twenty out of the household fund?  That was the question.  Sallie
had urged her to do it, had offered to lend the money, and with the
best intentions in life had tempted Meg beyond her strength.  In an
evil moment the shopman held up the lovely, shimmering folds, and
said,  "A bargain, I assure, you, ma'am." She answered, "I'll take
it,"  and it was cut off and paid for, and Sallie had exulted, and
she had laughed as if it were a thing of no consequence, and driven
away, feeling as if she had stolen something, and the police were
after her.

     When she got home, she tried to assuage the pangs of remorse
by spreading forth the lovely silk, but it looked less silvery now,
didn't become her, after all, and the words `fifty dollars' seemed
stamped like a pattern down each breadth.  She put it away, but it
haunted her, not delightfully as a new dress should, but dreadfully
like the ghost of a folly that was not easily laid.  When John got
out his books that night, Meg's heart sank, and for the first time
in her married life, she was afraid of her husband.  The kind, brown
eyes looked as if they could be stern, and though he was unusually
merry, she fancied he had found her out, but didn't mean to let her
know it.  The house bills were all paid, the books all in order.
John had praised her, and was undoing the old pocketbook which they
called the `bank', when Meg, knowing that it was quite empty, stopped
his hand, saying nervously . . .

     "You haven't seen my private expense book yet."

     John never asked to see it, but she always insisted on his doing
so, and used to enjoy his masculine amazement at the queer things women
wanted, and made him guess what piping was, demand fiercely the mean-
ing of a hug-me-tight, or wonder how a little thing composed of three
rosebuds, a bit of velvet, and a pair of strings, could possibly be
a bonnet, and cost six dollars.  That night he looked as if he would
like the fun of quizzing her figures and pretending to be horrified
at her extravagance, as he often did, being particularly proud of
his prudent wife.

     The little book was brought slowly out and laid down before him.
Meg got behind his chair under pretense of smoothing the wrinkles
out of his tired forehead, and standing there, she said, with her
panic increasing with every word . ..

     "John, dear, I'm ashamed to show you my book, for I've really
been dreadfully extravagant lately.  I go about so much I must have
things, you know, and Sallie advised my getting it, so I did, and
my New Year's money will partly pay for it, but I was sorry after
I had done it, for I knew you'd think it wrong in me."

     John laughed, and drew her round beside him, saying good-
humoredly,  "Don't go and hide.  I won't beat you if you have got
a pair of killing boots.  I'm rather proud of my wife's feet, and
don't mind if she does pay eight or nine dollars for her boots, if
they are good ones."

     That had been one of her last `trifles', and John's eye had
fallen on it as he spoke.  "Oh, what will he say when he comes to
that awful fifty dollars!" thought Meg, with a shiver.

     "It's worse than boots, it's a silk dress," she said, with the
calmness of desperation, for she wanted the worst over.

     "Well, dear, what is the `dem'd total', as Mr. Mantalini says?"

     That didn't sound like John, and she knew he was looking up at
her with the straightforward look that she had always been ready to
meet and answer with one as frank till now.  She turned the page and
her head at the same time, pointing to the sum which would have been
bad enough without the fifty, but which was appalling to her with
that added.  For a minute the room was very still, then John said
slowly--but she could feel it cost him an effort to express no dis-
pleasure-- . . .

     "Well, I don't know that fifty is much for a dress, with all
the furbelows and notions you have to have to finish it off these
days."

     "It isn't made or trimmed," sighed Meg, faintly, for a sudden
recollection of the cost still to be incurred quite overwhelmed her.

     "Twenty-five yards of silk seems a good deal to cover one small
woman, but I've no doubt my wife will look as fine as Ned Moffat's
when she gets it on," said John dryly.

     "I know you are angry, John, but I can't help it.  I don't mean
to waste your money, and I didn't think those little things would
count up so.  I can't resist them when I see Sallie buying all she
wants, and pitying me because I don't.  I try to be contented, but
it is hard, and I'm tired of being poor."

     The last words were spoken so low she thought he did not hear
them, but he did, and they wounded him deeply, for he had denied
himself many pleasures for Meg's sake.  She could have bitten her
tongue out the minute she had said it, for John pushed the books
away and got up, saying with a little quiver in his voice,  "I was
afraid of this.  I do my best, Meg."  If he had scolded her, or
even shaken her, it would not have broken her heart like those few
words.  She ran to him and held him close, crying, with repentant
tears, "Oh, John, my dear, kind, hard-working boy.  I didn't mean
it!  It was so wicked, so untrue and ungrateful, how could I say it!
Oh, how could I say it!"

     He was very kind, forgave her readily, and did not utter one
reproach, but Meg knew that she had done and said a thing which
would not be forgotten soon, although he might never allude to it
again.  She had promised to love him for better or worse, and then
she, his wife, had reproached him with his poverty, after spending
his earnings recklessly.  It was dreadful, and the worst of it was
John went on so quietly afterward, just as if nothing had happened,
except that he stayed in town later, and worked at night when she
had gone to cry herself to sleep.  A week or remorse nearly made
Meg sick, and the discovery that John had countermanded the order
for his new greatcoat reduced her to a state of despair which was
pathetic to behold.  He had simply said, in answer to her surprised
inquiries as to the change, "I can't afford it, my dear."

     Meg said no more, but a few minutes after he found her in the
hall with her face buried in the old greatcoat, crying as if her
heart would break.

     They had a long talk that night, and Meg learned to love her
husband better for his poverty, because it seemed to have made a
man of him, given him the strength and courage to fight his own
way, and taught him a tender patience with which to bear and com-
fort the natural longings and failures of those he loved.

     Next day she put her pride in her pocket, went to Sallie, told
the truth, and asked her to buy the silk as a favor.  The good-
natured Mrs. Moffat willingly did so, and had the delicacy not to
make her a present of it immediately afterward.  Then Meg ordered
home the greatcoat, and when John arrived, she put it on, and asked
him how he liked her new silk gown.  One can imagine what answer he
made, how he received his present, and what a blissful state of
things ensued. John came home early, Meg gadded no more, and that
greatcoat was put on in the morning by a very happy husband, and
taken off at night by a most devoted little wife.  So the year
rolled round, and at midsummer there came to Meg a new experience,
the deepest and tenderest of a woman's life.

     Laurie came sneaking into the kitchen of the Dovecote one
Saturday, with an excited face, and was received with the clash
of cymbals, for Hannah clapped her hands with a saucepan in one
and the cover in the other.

     "How's the little mamma?  Where is everybody?  Why didn't
you tell me before I came home?"  began Laurie in a loud whisper.

     "Happy as a queen, the dear!  Every soul of `em is upstairs
a worshipin'.  We didn't want no hurrycanes round. Now you go
into the parlor, and I'll send `em down to you," with which some-
what involved reply Hannah vanished, chuckling ecstatically.

     Presently Jo appeared, proudly bearing a flannel bundle laid
forth upon a large pillow.  Jo's face was very sober, but her eyes
twinkled, and there was an odd sound in her voice of repressed
emotion of some sort.

     "Shut your eyes and hold out your arms,"  she said invitingly.

     Laurie backed precipitately into a corner, and put his hands
behind him with an imploring gesture.  "No, thank you.  I'd rather
not.  I shall drop it or smash it, as sure as fate."

     "Then you shan't see your nevvy," said Jo decidedly, turning
as if to go.

     "I will, I will!  Only you must be responsible for damages."
And obeying orders, Laurie heroically shut his eyes while some-
thing was put into his arms.  A peal of laughter from Jo, Amy,
Mrs. March, Hannah, and John caused him to open them the next
minute, to find himself invested with two babies instead of one.

     No wonder they laughed, for the expression of his face was
droll enough to convulse a Quaker, as he stood and stared wildly
from the unconscious innocents to the hilarious spectators with
such dismay that Jo sat down on the floor and screamed.

     "Twins, by Jupiter!"  was all he said for a minute, then
turning to the women with an appealing look that was comically
piteous, he added,  "Take `em quick, somebody!  I'm going to
laugh, and I shall drop `em."

      Jo rescued his babies, and marched up and down, with one
on each are, as if already initiated into the mysteries of baby-
tending, while Laurie laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.

     "It's the best joke of the season, isn't it?  I wouldn't have
told you, for I set my heart on surprising you, and I flatter my-
self I've done it," said Jo, when she got her breath.

     "I never was more staggered in my life.  Isn't it fun?  Are
they boys?  What are you going to name them?  Let's have another
look.  Hold me up, Jo, for upon my life it's one too many for me,"
returned Laurie, regarding the infants with the air of a big,
benevolent Newfoundland looking at a pair of infantile kittens.

     "Boy and girl.  Aren't they beauties?"  said the proud papa,
beaming upon the little red squirmers as if they were unfledged
angels.

     "Most remarkable children I ever saw.  Which is which?" and
Laurie bent like a well-sweep to examine the prodigies.

     "Amy put a blue ribbon on the boy and a pink on the girl,
French fashion, so you can always tell.  Besides, one has blue
eyes and one brown.  Kiss them, Uncle Teddy," said wicked Jo.

     "I'm afraid they mightn't like it," began Laurie, with un-
usual timidity in such matters.

     "Of course they will, they are used to it now.  Do it this
minute, sir!" commanded JO, fearing he might propose a proxy.

     Laurie screwed up his face and obeyed with a gingerly peck
at each little cheek that produced another laugh, and made the
babies squeal.

     "There, I knew they didn't like it!  That's the boy, see
him kick, he hits out with his fists like a good one.  Now then,
young Brooke, pitch into a man of your own size, will you?" cried
Laurie, delighted with a poke in the face from a tiny fist, flapp-
ing aimlessly about.

     "He's to be named John Laurence, and the girl Margaret, after
mother and grandmother.  We shall call her Daisey, so as not to
have two Megs, and I suppose the mannie will be Jack, unless we
find a better name," said Amy, with aunt-like interest.

     "Name him Demijohn, and call him Demi for short," said Laurie

     "Daisy and Demi, just the thing!  I knew Teddy would do it,"
cried Jo clapping her hands.

     Teddy certainly had done it that time, for the babies were
`Daisy' and `Demi' to the end of the chapter.


               CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

     "Come, Jo, it's time."

     "For what?"

     "You don't mean to say you have forgotten that you promised
to make half a dozen calls with me today?"

     "I've done a good many rash and foolish things in my life,
but I don't think I ever was mad enough to say I'd make six calls
in one day, when a single one upsets me for a week."

     "Yes, you did, it was a bargain between us.  I was to finish
the crayon of Beth for you, and you were to go properly with me,
and return our neighbors' visits."

     "If it was fair, that was in the bond, and I stand to the
letter of my bond, Shylock.  There is a pile of clouds in the east,
it's not fair, and I don't go."

     "Now, that's shirking.  It's a lovely day, no prospect of rain,
and you pride yourself on keeping; promises, so be honorable, come
and do your duty, and then be at peace for another six months."

     At that minute Jo was particularly absorbed in dressmaking,
for she was mantua-maker general to the family, and took especial
credit to herself because she could use a needle as well as a pen.
It was very provoking to be arrested in the act of a first trying-
on, and  ordered out to make calls in her best array on a warm
July day.  She hated calls of the formal sort, and never made any
till Amy compelled her with a bargain, bribe, or promise.  In the
present instance there was no escape, and having clashed her scissors
rebelliously, while protesting that she smelled thunder, she gave in,
put away her work, and taking up her hat and gloves with an air of
resignation, told Amy the victim was ready.

     "Jo March, you are perverse enough to provoke a saint!  You
don't intend to make calls in that state, I hope,: cried Amy, sur-
veying her with amazement.

     "Why not?  I'm neat and cool and comfortable, quite proper
for a dusty walk on a warm day.   If people care more for my
clothes than they do for me, I don't wish to see them.  You can
dress for both, and be as elegant as you please.  It pays for
you to be fine.  It doesn't for me, and furbelows only worry me."

     "Oh, dear!" sighed Amy, "now she's in a contrary fit, and
will drive me distracted before I can get her properly ready.
I'm sure it's no pleasure to me to go today, but it's a debt we
owe society, and there's no one to pay it but you and me.  I'll
do anything for you, Jo, if you'll only dress yourself nicely,
and come and help me do the civil.  You can talk so well, look
so aristocratic in your best things, and behave so beautifully,
if you try, that I'm proud of you.  I'm afraid to go alone, do
come and take care of me."

     "You're an artful little puss to flatter and wheedle your
cross old sister in that way.  The idea of my being aristocratic
and well-bred, and your being afraid to go anywhere alone!  I
don't know which is the most absurd.  Well, I'll go if I must,
and do my best.  You shall be commander of the expedition, and
I'll obey blindly, will that satisfy you?" said Jo, with a sudden
change from perversity to lamblike submission.

     "You're a perfect cherub!  Now put on all your best things,
and I'll tell you how to behave at each place, so that you will
make a good impression.  I want people to like you, and they
would if you'd only try to be a little more agreeable.  Do your
hair the pretty way, and put the pink rose in your bonnet.  It's
becoming, and you look too sober in your plain suit.  Take your
light gloves and the embroidered handkerchief.  We'll stop at
Meg's, and borrow her white sunshade, and then you can have my
dove-colored one."

     While Amy dressed, she issued her orders, and Jo obeyed
them, not without entering her protest, however, for she sighed
as she rustled into her new organdie, frowned darkly at herself
as she tied her bonnet strings in an irreproachable bow, wrest-
led viciously with pins as she put on her collar, wrinkled up
her features generally as she shook out the handkerchief, whose
embroidery was as irritating to her nose as the present mission
was to her feelings, and when she had squeezed her hands into
tight gloves with three buttons and a tassel, as the last touch
of elegance, she turned to Amy with an imbecile expression of
countenance, saying meekly . . .

     "I'm perfectly miserable, but if you consider me presentable,
I die happy."

     "You're highly satisfactory.  turn slowly round, and let me
get a careful view."  Jo revolved, and Amy gave a touch here and
there, then fell back, with her head on one side, observing gra-
ciously, "Yes, you'll do.  Your head is all I could ask, for that
white bonnet with the rose is quite ravishing.  Hold back your
shoulders, and carry your hands easily, no matter if your gloves
do pinch.  There's one thing you can do well, Jo, that is, wear a
shawl.  I can't, but it's very nice to see you, and I'm so glad
Aunt March gave you that lovely one.  It's simple, but handsome,
and those folds over the arm are really artistic. Is the point of
my mantle in the middle, and have I looped my dress evenly?  I like
to show my boots, for my feet are pretty, though my nose isn't."

     "You are a thing of beauty and a joy forever," said Jo, look-
ing through her hand with the air of a connoisseur at the blue feather
against the golden hair.  "Am I to drag my best dress through the
dust, or loop it up, please, ma'am?"

     "Hold it yup when you walk, but drop it in the house.  The
sweeping style suits you best, and you must learn to trail your
skirts gracefully.  You haven't half buttoned one cuff, do it at
once.  You'll never look finished if you are not careful about the
little details, for they make yup the pleasing whole."

     Jo sighed, and proceeded to burst the buttons off her glove,
in doing up her cuff, but at last both were ready, and sailed away,
looking as `pretty as picters', Hannah said, as she hung out of the
upper window to watch them.

     "Now, Jo dear, the Chesters consider themselves very elegant
people, so I want you to put on your best deportment.  Don't make
any of your abrupt remarks, or do anything odd, will you?  Just be
calm, cool, and quiet, that's safe and ladylike, and you can easily
do it for fifteen minutes," said Amy, as they approached the first
place, having borrowed the white parasol and been inspected by Meg,
with a baby on each arm.

     "Let me see.  `Calm, cool, and quiet', yes, I think I can
promise that.  I've played the part of a prim young lady on the
stage, and I'll try it off. My powers are great, as you shall see,
so be easy in your mind, my child."

     Amy looked relieved, but naughty Jo took her at her word, for
during the first call she sat with every limb gracefully composed,
every fold correctly draped, calm as a summer sea, cool as a snow-
bank, and as silent as the sphinx.  In vain Mrs. Chester alluded to
her `charming novel', and the Misses Chester introduced parties,
picnics, the opera, and the fashions.  Each and all were answered
by a smile, a bow, and a demure "Yes" or "No" with the chill on.  In
vain Amy telegraphed the word `talk', tried to draw her out, and
administered covert pokes with her foot.  Jo sat as if blandly uncon-
cious of it all, with deportment like Maud's face, `icily regular,
splendidly null'.

     "What a haughty, uninteresting creature that oldest Miss March
is!" was the unfortunately audible remark of one of the ladies, as
the door closed upon their guests.  Jo laughed noiselessly all
through the hall, but Amy looked disgusted at the failure of her
instructions, and very naturally laid the blame upon Jo.

     "How could you mistake me so?  I merely meant you to be properly
dignified and composed, and you made yourself a perfect stock and
stone.  Try to be sociable at the Lamb's'.  Gossip as other girls do,
and be interested in dress and flirtations and whatever nonsense
comes up.  They move in the best society, are valuable persons for
us to know, and I wouldn't fail to make a good impression there for
anything."

     "I'll be agreeable.  I'll gossip and giggle, and have horrors
and raptures over any trifle you like.  I rather enjoy this, and
now I'll imitate what is called `a charming girl'.  I can do it,
for I have May Chester as a model, and I'll improve upon her.  See
if the Lambs don't say, `What a lively, nice creature that Jo March
is!"

     Amy felt anxious, as well she might, for when Jo turned freak-
ish there was no knowing where she would stop.  Amy's face was a
study when she saw her sister skim into the next drawing room, kiss
all the young ladies with effusion, beam graciously upon the young
gentlemen, and join in the chat with a spirit which amazed the be-
holder.  Amy was taken possession of by Mrs. Lamb, with whom she
was a favorite, and forced to hear a long account of Lucretia's
last attack, while three delightful young gentlemen hovered near,
waiting for a pause when they might rush in and rescue her.  So
situated, she was powerless to check Jo, who seemed possessed by
a spirit of mischief, and talked away as volubly as the lady.  A
knot of heads gathered about her, and Amy strained her ears to hear
what was going on, for broken sentences filled her with curiosity,
and frequent peals of laughter made her wild to share the fun.  One
may imagine her suffering on overhearing fragments of this sort of
conversation.

     "She rides splendidly.  who taught her?"

     "No one.  She used to practice mounting, holding the reins, and
sitting straight on an old saddle in a tree.  Now she rides anything,
for she doesn't know what fear is, and the stableman lets her have
horses cheap because she trains them to carry ladies so well.  She
has such a passion for it, I often tell her if everything else fails,
she can be a horsebreaker, and get her living so."

     At this awful speech Amy contained herself with difficulty, for
the impression was being given that she was rather a fast young lady,
which was her especial aversion.  But what could she do?  For the
old lady was in the middle of her story, and long before it was done,
Jo was off again, make more droll revelations and committing still
more fearful blunders.

     "Yes, Amy was in despair that day, for all the good beasts were
gone, and of three left, one was lame, one blind, and the other so
balky that you had to put dirt in his mouth before he would start.
Nice animal for a pleasure party, wasn't it?"

     "Which did she choose?" asked one of the laughing gentlemen,
who enjoyed the subject.

     "None of them.  She heard of a young horse at the farm house
over the river, and though a lady had never ridden him, she re-
solved to try, because he was handsome and spirited.  Her struggles
were really pathetic.  There was no one to bring the horse to the
saddle, so she took the saddle to the horse.  My dear creature, she
actually rowed it over the river, put it on her head, and marched
up to the barn to the utter amazement of the old man!"

     "Did she ride the horse?'

     "Of course she did, and had a capital time.  I expected to see
her brought home in fragments, but she managed him perfectly, and
was the life of the party."

     "Well, I call that plucky!" And young Mr. Lamb turned an approv-
ing glance upon Amy, wondering what his mother could be saying to
make the girl look so red and uncomfortable.

     She was still redder and more uncomfortable a moment after,
when a sudden turn in the conversation introduced the subject of
dress.  One of the young ladies asked Jo where she got the pretty
drab hat she wore to the picnic and stupid Jo, instead of mention-
ing the place where it was bought two years ago, must needs answer
with unnecessary frankness, "Oh, Amy painted it.  You can't buy
those soft shades, so we paint ours any color we like.  It's a great
comfort to have an artistic sister."

     "Isn't that an original idea?" cried Miss Lamb, who found Jo
great fun.

     "That's nothing compared to some of her brilliant performances.
There's nothing the child can't do.  Why, she wanted a pair of blue
boots for Sallie's party, so she just painted her soiled white ones
the loveliest shade of sky blue you ever saw, and they looked exactly
like satin," added Jo, with an air of pride in her sister's accom-
plishments that exasperated Amy till she felt that it would be a relief
to throw her cardcase at her.

     "We read a story of yours the other day, and enjoyed it very
much," observed the elder Miss Lamb, wishing to compliment the lit-
erary lady, who did not look the character just then, it must be
confessed.

     Any mention of her `works' always had a bad effect upon Jo,
who either grew rigid and looked offended, or changed the subject
with a brusque remark, as now. "Sorry you could find nothing better
to read.  I write that rubbish because it sells, and ordinary people
like it.  Are you going to New York this winter?'

     As Miss Lamb had `enjoyed' the story, this speech was not
exactly grateful or complimentary.  The minute it was made Jo saw
her mistake, but fearing to make the matter worse, suddenly remem-
bered that it was for her to make the first move toward departure,
and did so with an abruptness that left three people with half-
finished sentences in their mouths.

     "Amy, we must go.  Good-by, dear, do come and see us.  We are
pining for a visit.  I don't dare to ask you, Mr. Lamb, but if you
should come, I don't think I shall have the heart to send you away."

     Jo said this with such a droll imitation of May Chester's
gushing style that Amy got out of the room as rapidly as poss-
ible, feeling a strong desire to laugh and cry at the same time.

     "Didn't I do well?" asked Jo, with a satisfied air as they
walked away.

     "Nothing could have been worse," was Amy's crushing reply.
"What possessed you to tell those stories about my saddle, and
the hats and boots, and all the rest of it?"

     "Why, it's funny, and amuses people.  They know we are
poor, so it's no use pretending that we have grooms, buy three
or four hats a season, and have things as easy and fine as they
do."

     "You needn't go and tell them all our little shifts, and
expose our; poverty in that perfectly unnecessary way.  You haven't
a bit of proper pride, and never will learn when to hold your
tongue and when to speak," said Amy despairingly.

     Poor Jo looked abashed, and silently chafed the end of her
nose with the stiff handkerchief, as if performing a penance for
her misdemeanors.

     "How shall I behave here?"  she asked, as they approached the
third mansion.

     "Just as you please.  I wash my hands of you," was Amy's short
answer.

     "Then I'll enjoy myself.  The boys are at home, and we'll have
a comfortable time.  Goodness knows I need a little change, for
elegance has a bad effect upon my constitution," returned Jo gruffly,
being disturbed by her failure to suit.

     An enthusiastic welcome from three big boys and several pretty
children speedily soothed her ruffled feelings, and leaving Amy to
entertain the hostess and Mr. Tudor, who happened to be calling
likewise, Jo devoted herself to the young folks and found the
change refreshing.  She listened to college stories with deep int-
erest, caressed pointers and poodles without a murmur, agreed
heartily that "Tom Brown was a brick," regardless of the improper
form of praise, and when one lad proposed a visit to his turtle tank,
she went with an alacrity which caused Mamma to smile upon her, as
that motherly lady settled the cap which was left in a ruinous con-
dition by filial hugs, bearlike but affectionate, and dearer to
her than the most faultless coiffure from the hands of an inspired
Frenchwoman.

     Leaving her sister to her own devices, Amy proceeded to enjoy
herself to her heart's content.  Mr. Tudor's uncle had married an
English lady who was third cousin to a living lord, and Amy regarded
the whole family with great respect, for in spite of her American
birth and breeding, she possessed that reverence for titles which
haunts the best of us--that unacknowledged loyalty to the early
faith in kings which set the most democratic nation under the sun
in ferment at the coming of a royal yellow-haired laddie, some years
ago, and which still has something to do with the love the young
country bears the old, like that of a big son for an imperious little
mother, who held him while she could, and let him go with a farewell
scolding when he rebelled.  But even the satisfaction of talking with
a distant connection of the British nobility did not render Amy for-
getful of time, and when the proper number of minutes had passed, she
reluctantly tore herself from this aristocratic society, and looked
about for Jo, fervently hoping that her incorrigible sister would not
be found in any position which should bring disgrace upon the name
of March.

     It might have been worse, but Amy considered it bad.  For Jo
sat on the grass, with an encampment of boys about her, and a dirty-
footed dog reposing on the skirt of her state and festival dress, as
she related one of Laurie's pranks to her admiring audience.  One
small child was poking turtles with Amy's cherished parasol, a sec-
ond was eating gingerbread over Jo's best bonnet, and a third playing
ball with her gloves.  but all were enjoying themselves, and when Jo
collected her damaged property to go, her escort accompanied her,
begging her to come again, "It was such fun to hear about Laurie's
larks."

     "Capital boys, aren't they?  I feel quite young and brisk again
after that." said Jo, strolling along with her hands behind her,
partly from habit, partly to conceal the bespattered parasol.

     "Why do you always avoid Mr. Tudor?" asked Amy, wisely refrain-
ing from any comment upon Jo's dilapidated appearance.

     "Don't like him, he puts on airs, snubs his sisters, worries
his father, a nd doesn't speak respectfully of his mother.  Laurie
says he is fast, and I don't consider him a desirable acquaintance,
so I let him alone."

     "You might treat him civilly, at least. You gave him a cool
nod, and just now you bowed and smiled in the politest way to
Tommy Chamberlain, whose father keeps a grocery store.  If you
had just reversed the nod and the bow, it would have been right,"
said Amy reprovingly.

     "No, it wouldn't," returned Jo, "I neither like, respect, nor
admire Tudor, though his grandfather's uncle's nephew's niece was
a third cousin to a lord.  Tommy is poor and bashful and good and
very clever.  I think well of him, and like to show that I do, for
he is a gentleman in spite of the brown paper parcels."

     "It's no use trying to argue with you," began Amy.

     "Not the least, my dear," interrupted Jo, "so let us look
amiable, and drop a card here, as the Kings are evidently out,
for which I'm deeply grateful."

     The family cardcase having done its duty the girls walked
on, and Jo uttered another thanksgiving on reaching the fifth
house, and being told that the young ladies were engaged.

     "now let us go home, and never mind Aunt March today.  We
can run down there any time, and it's really a pity to trail
through the dust in our best bibs and tuckers, when we are
tired and cross."

     "Speak for yourself, if you please.  Aunt March likes to have us
pay her the compliment of coming in style, and making a formal call.
It's a little thing to do, but it gives her pleasure, and I don't
believe it will hurt your things half so much as letting dirty dogs
and clumping boys spoil them.  Stoop down, and let me take the
crumbs off of your bonnet."

     "What a good girl you are, Amy!"  said Jo, with a repentant
glance from her own damaged costume to that of her sister, which
was fresh and spotless still.  "I wish it was as easy for me to do
little things to please people as it is for you.  I think of them,
but it takes too much time to do them, so I wait for a chance to
confer a great favor, and let the small ones slip, but they tell
best in the end, I fancy."

     Amy smiled and was mollified at once, saying with a maternal
air, "Women should learn to be agreeable, particularly poor ones,
for they have no other way of repaying the kindnesses they receive.
If you'd remember that, and practice it, you'd be better liked
than I am, because there is more of you."

     "I'm a crotchety old thing, and always shall be, but I'm
willing to own that you are right, only it's easier for me to
risk my life for a person than to be pleasant to him when I don't
feel like it.  It's a great misfortune to have such strong likes
and dislikes, isn't it?"

     "It's a greater not to be able to hide them.  I don't mind
saying that I don't approve of Tudor any more than you do, but I'm
not called upon to tell him so.  Neither are you, and there is no
use in making yourself disagreeable because he is."

     "But I think girls ought to show when they disapprove of
young men, and how can they do it except by their manners?
Preaching does not do any good, as I know to my sorrow, since I've
had Teddie to manage.  But there are many little ways in which I can
influence him without a word, and I say we ought to do it to others
if we can."

     "Teddy is a remarkable boy, and can't be taken as a sample
of other boys," said Amy, in a tone of solemn conviction, which
would have convulsed the `remarkable boy' if he had heard it. "If
we were belles, or women of wealth and position, we might do some-
thing, perhaps, but for us to frown at one set of young gentlemen
because we don't approve of them, and smile upon another set be-
cause we do, wouldn't have a particle of effect, and we should
only be considered odd and puritanical."

     "So we are to countenance things and people which we detest,
merely because we are not belles and millionaires, are we?  That's
a nice sort of morality."

     "I can't argue about it, I only know that it's the way of
the world, and people who set themselves against it only get
laughed at for their pains.  I don't like reformers, and I hope
you never try to be one."

     "I do like them, and I shall be one if I can, for in spite of
the laughing the world would never get on without them.  We can't
agree about that. for you belong to the old set, and I to the new.
You will get on the best, but I shall have the liveliest time of it.
I should rather enjoy the brickbats and hooting, I think."

     "Well, compose yourself now, and don't worry Aunt with your
new ideas."

     "I'll try not to, but I'm always possessed to burst out with
some particularly blunt speech or revolutionary sentiment before
her.  It's my doom, and I can't help it."

     They found Aunt Carrol with the old lady, both absorbed in
some very interesting subject, but they dropped it as the girls
came in, with a conscious look which betrayed that they had been
talking about their nieces.  Jo was not in a good humor, and the
perverse fit returned, but Amy, who had virtuously done her duty,
kept her temper and pleased everybody, was in a most angelic frame
of mind.  This amiable spirit was felt at once, and both aunts `my
deared' her affectionately, looking what they afterward said emphat-
ically, "That child improves every day."

     "Are you going to help about the fair, dear?" asked Mrs. Carrol,
as Amy sat down beside her with the confiding air elderly people like
so well in the young.

     "Yes, aunt.  Mrs. Chester asked me if I would, and I offered to
tend a table, as I have nothing but my time to give."

     "I'm not," put in Jo decidedly.  "I hate to be patronized, and
the Chesters think it's a great favor to allow us to help with their
highly connected fair.  I wonder you consented, Amy, they only want
you to work."

     "I am willing to work.  It's for the freedmen as well as the
Chesters, and I think it very kind of them to let me share the
labor and the fun.  Patronage does not trouble me when it is well
meant."

     "Quite right and proper.  I like your grateful spirit, my dear.
It's a pleasure to help people who appreciate our efforts.  Some do
not, and that is trying," observed Aunt March, looking over her
spectacles at Jo, who sat apart, rocking herself, with a somewhat
morose expression.

     If Jo had only known what a great happiness was wavering in
the balance for one of them, she would have turned dove-like in a
minute, but unfortunately, we don't have windows in our breasts,
and cannot see what goes on in the minds of our friends.  Better
for us that we cannot as a general thing, but now and then it
would be such a comfort, such a saving of time and temper.  By her
next speech, Jo deprived herself of several years of pleasure, and
received a timely lesson in the art of holding her tongue.

     "I don't like favors, they oppress and make me feel like a
slave.  I'd rather do everything for myself, and be perfectly
independent."

     "Ahem!" coughed Aunt Carrol softly, with a look at Aunt
March.

     "I told you so," said Aunt March, with a decided nod to Aunt
Carrol.

     Mercifully unconscious of what she had done, Jo sat with her
nose in the air, and a revolutionary aspect which  was anything but
inviting.

     "Do you speak French, dear?"  asked Mrs. Carrol, laying a
hand on Amy's.

     "Pretty well, thanks to Aunt March, who lets Esther talk to
me as often as I like," replied amy, with a grateful look, which
caused the old lady to smile affably.

     "How are you about languages?" asked Mrs. Carrol of JO.

     "Don't know a word.  I'm very stupid about studying anything,
can't bear French, it's such a slippery, silly sort of language,"
was the brusque reply.

     Another look passed between the ladies, and Aunt March said
to Amy, 'You are quite strong and well no, dear, I believe?  Eyes
don't trouble you any more, do they?"

     "Not at all, thank you, ma'am.  I'm very well, and mean to do
great things next winter, so that I may be ready for Rome, whenever
that joyful time arrives."

     "Good girl!  You deserve to go, and I'm sure you will some
day," said Aunt March, with an approving; pat on the head, as Amy
picked up her ball for her.

                     Crosspatch, draw the latch,
                     Sit by the fire and spin,

squalled Polly, bending down from his perch on the back of her
chair to peep into Jo's face, with such a comical air of imper-
tinent inquiry that it was impossible to help laughing.

     "Most observing bird," said the old lady.

     "Come and take a walk, my dear?" cried Polly, hopping toward
the china closet, with a look suggestive of a lump of sugar.

     "Thank you, I will.  Come Amy."  And Jo brought the visit to
an end, feeling more strongly than ever that calls did have a bad
effect upon her constitution.  She shook hands in a gentlemanly
manner, but Amy kissed both the aunts, and the girls departed,
leaving behind them the impression of shadow and sunshine, which
impression caused Aunt March to say, as they vanished . . .

     "You'd better do it, Mary.  I'll supply the money.  And Aunt
Carrol to reply decidedly, "I certainly will, if her father and
mother consent."