APDL Eductation Resources/APDL Eductation Resources.iso/text/books/little_wmn/CHAP30_39

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                  CHAPTER THIRTY

     Mrs. Chester's fair was so very elegant and select that it
was considered a great honor by the young ladies of the neigh-
borhood to be invited to take a table, and everyone was much
interest in the matter. Amy was asked, but Jo was not, which
was fortunate for all parties, as her elbows were decidedly
akimbo at this period of her life, and it took a good many hard
knocks to teach her how to get on easily.  The `haughty, unin-
teresting creature' was let severely alone, but Amy's talent and
taste were duly complimented by the offer of the art table, and
she exerted herself to prepare and secure appropriate and valu-
able contributions to it.

     Everything went on smoothly till the day before the fair
opened, then there occurred one of the little skirmishes which
it is almost impossible to avoid, when some five-and-twenty
women, old and young, with all their private piques and preju-
dices, try to work together.

     May Chester was rather jealous of Amy because the latter
was a greater favorite than herself, and just at this time
several trifling circumstances occurred to increase the feeling.
Amy's dainty pen-and-ink work entirely eclipsed May's painted
vases--that was one thorn.  Then the all conquering Tudor had
danced four times with Amy at a late party and only once with
May--that was thorn number two.  But the chief grievance that
rankled in her soul, and gave an excuse for her unfriendly con-
duct, was a rumor which some obliging gossip had whispered to
her, that the March girls had made fun of her at the Lambs'.
All the blame of this should have fallen upon Jo, for her
naughty imitation had been too lifelike to escape detection,
and the frolicsome Lambs had permitted the joke to escape. No
hint of this had reached the culprits, however, and Amy's dismay
can be imagined,when, the very evening before the fair, as she
was putting the last touches to her pretty table, Mrs. Chester,
who, of course, resented the supposed ridicule of her daughter,
said, in a bland tone, but with a cold look . . .

     "I find, dear, that there is some feeling among the young
ladies about my giving this table to anyone but my girls.  As
this is the most prominent, and some say the most attractive
table of all, and they are the chief getters-up of the fair, it
is thought best for them to take this place.  I'm sorry, but I
know you are too sincerely interested in the cause to mind a
little personal disappointment, and you shall have another table
if you like."

     Mrs. Chester fancied beforehand that it would be easy to
deliver this little speech, but when the time came, she found
it rather difficult to utter it naturally, with Amy's unsuspic-
ious eyes looking straight at her full of surprise and trouble.

     "Amy felt that there was something behind this, but would
not guess what, and said quietly, feeling hurt, and showing that
she did, "Perhaps you had rather I took no table at all?"

      "Now, my dear, don't have any ill feeling, I beg.  It's
merely a matter of expediency, you see, my girls will naturally
take the lead, and this table is considered their proper place.
I think it very appropriate to you, and feel very grateful for
your efforts to make it so pretty, but we must give up our pri-
vate wishes, of course, and I will see that you have a good place
elsewhere.  Wouldn't you like the flower table?  The little girls
undertook it, but they are discouraged.  You could make a charm-
ing thing of it, and the flower table is always attractive you
know."

     "Especially to gentlemen," added May, with a look which en-
lightened Amy as to one cause of her sudden fall from favor.  She
colored angrily, but took no other notice of that girlish sarcasm,
and answered with unexpected amiability . . .

     "It shall be as you please, Mrs. Chester.  I'll give up my
place here at once, and attend to the flowers, if you like."

     "You can put your own things on your own table, if you
prefer," began May, feeling a little conscience-stricken, as she
looked at the pretty racks, the painted shells, and quaint ill-
uminations Amy had so carefully made and so gracefully arranged.
She meant it kindly, but Amy mistook her meaning, and said quickly . ..

     "Oh, certainly, if they are in your way," and sweeping her
contributions into her apron, pell-mell, she walked off, feeling
that herself and her works of art had been insulted past forgive-
ness.

     "Now she's mad.  Oh, dear, I wish I hadn't asked you to speak,
Mama," said May, looking disconsolately at the empty spaces on her
table.

     "Girls' quarrels are soon over,"  returned her mother, feeling
a trifle ashamed of her own part in this one, as well she might.

     The little girls hailed Amy and her treasures with delight,
which cordial reception somewhat soothed her perturbed spirit, and
she fell to work, determined to succeed florally, if she could not
artistically.  But everything seemed against her.  It was late, and
she was tired.  Everyone was too busy with their own affairs to help
her, and the little girls were only hindrances, for the dears fussed
and chattered like so many magpies, making a great deal of confusion
in their artless efforts to preserve the most perfect order.  The
evergreen arch wouldn't stay firm after she got it up, but wiggled
and threatened to tumble down on her head when the hanging baskets
were filled. Her best tile got a splash of water, which left a sephia
tear on the Cupid's cheek.  She bruised her hands with hammering, and
got cold working in a draft, which last affliction filled her with
apprehensions for the morrow.  Any girl reader who has suffered like
afflictions will sympathize with poor Amy and wish her well through
her task.

     There was great indignation at home when she told her story
that evening.  Her mother said it was a shame, but told her she
had done right.  Beth declared she wouldn't go to the fair at all,
and Jo demanded why she didn't take all her pretty things and leave
those mean people to get on without her.

     "Because they are mean is no reason why i should be.  I hate
such things, and though I think I've a right to be hurt, I don't
intend to show it.  They will feel that more than angry speeches
or huffy actions, won't they, Marmee?"

     "That's the right spirit, my dear.  A kiss for a blow is always
best, though it's not very easy to give it sometimes," said her
mother, with the air of one who had learned the difference between
preaching and practicing.

     In spite of various very natural temptations to resent and
retaliate, Amy adhered to her resolution all the next day, bent
on conquering her enemy by kindness.  She began well, thanks to a
silent reminder that came to her unexpectedly, but most opportunely.
As she arranged her table that morning, while the little girls were
in the anteroom filling the baskets, she took up her pet production,
a little book, the antique cover of which her father had found among
his treasures, and in which on leaves of vellum she had beautifully
illuminated different texts.  As she turned the pages rich in dainty
devices with very pardonable pride, her eye fell upon one verse that
made her stop and think.  Framed in a brilliant scrollwork of scarlet,
blue and gold, with little spirits of good will helping one another
up and down among the thorns and flowers, were the words, "Thou shalt
love thy neighbor as thyself."

     "I ought, but I don't," thought Amy, as her eye went from the
bright page to May's discontented face behind the big vases, that
could not hide the vacancies her pretty work had once filled.  Amy
stood a minute, turning the leaves in her hand, reading on each some
sweet rebuke for all heartburnings and uncharitableness of spirit.
Many wise and true sermons are preached us every day by unconscious
ministers in street, school, office, or home.  Even a fair table
may become a pulpit, if it can offer the good and helpful words
which are never out of season.  Amy's conscience preached her a
little sermon from that text, then and there, and she did what many
of us do not always do, took the sermon to heart, and straightway
put it in practice.

     A group of girls were standing about May's table, admiring
the pretty things, and talking over the change of saleswomen.  They
dropped their voices, but Amy knew they were speaking of her, hear-
ing one side of the story and judging accordingly.  It was not plea-
sant, but a better spirit had come over her, and presently a chance
offered for proving it.  She heard May say sorrowfully . . .

    "It's too bad, for there is no time to make other things, and
I don't want to fill up with odds and ends.  The table was just
complete then.  Now it's spoiled."

     "I dare say she'd put them back if you asked her," suggested
someone.

     "How could I after all the fuss?" began May, but she did not
finish, for Amy's voice came across the hall, saying pleasantly . . .

     "You may have them, and welcome, without asking, if you want
them.  I was just thinking I'd offer to put them back, for they
belong to your table rather than mine.  Here they are, please take
them, and forgive me if I was hasty in carrying them away last night."

     As she spoke, Amy returned her contribution, with a nod and a
smile, and hurried away again, feeling that it was easier to do a
friendly thing than it was to stay and be thanked for it.

     "Now, I call that lovely of her, don't you?" cried one girl.

     May's answer was inaudible, but another young lady, whose
temper was evidently a little soured by making lemonade, added,
with a disagreeable laugh, "Very lovely, for she knew she wouldn't
sell them at her own table."

     Now, that was hard.  When we make little sacrifices we like
to have them appreciated, at least, and for a minute Amy was sorry
she had done it, feeling that virtue was not always its won reward.
But it is, as she presently discovered, for her spirits began to
rise, and her table to blossom under her skillful hands, the girls
were very kind, and that one little act seemed to have cleared the
atmosphere amazingly.

     It was a very long day and a hard one for Amy, as she sat be-
hind her table, often quite alone, for the little girls deserted
very soon.  Few cared to buy flowers in summer, and her bouquets
began to droop long before night.

     The art table was the most attractive in the room.  There was
a crowd about it all day long, and the tenders were constantly fly-
ing to and fro with important faces and rattling money boxes.  Amy
often looked wistfully across, longing to be there, where she felt
at home and happy, instead of in a corner with nothing to do.  It
might seem no hardship to some of us, but to a pretty, blithe young
girl, it was not only tedious, but very trying, and the thought of
Laurie and his friends made it a real martyrdom.

     She did not go home till night, and then she looked so pale
and quiet that they knew the day had been a hard one, though she
made no complaint, and did not even tell what she had done.  Her
mother gave her an extra cordial cup of tea.  Beth helped her dress,
and made a charming little wreath for her hair, while Jo astonished
her family by getting herself up with unusual care, and hinting
darkly that the tables were about to be turned.

     "Don't do anything rude, pray Jo.  I won't have any fuss made,
so let it all pass and behave yourself," begged Amy, as she departed
early, hoping to find a reinforcement of flowers to refresh her poor
little table.

     "I merely intend to make myself entrancingly agreeable to ever
one I know, and to keep them in your corner as long as possible.
Teddy and his boys will lend a hand, and we'll have a good time
yet." returned Jo, leaning over the gate to watch for Laurie.  Pre-
sently the familiar tramp was heard in the dusk, and she ran out to
meet him.

     "Is that my boy?"

     "As sure as this is my girl!"  And Laurie tucked her hand under
his arm with the air of a man whose every wish was gratified.

     "Oh, teddy, such doings!"  And Jo told Amy's wrongs with sisterly
zeal.

     "A flock of our fellows are going to drive over by-and-by, and
I'll be hanged if I don't make them buy every flower she's got, and
camp down before her table afterward," said Laurie, espousing her
cause with warmth.

     "The flowers are not at all nice, Amy says, and the fresh ones
may not arrive in time.  I don't wish to be unjust or suspicious, but
I shouldn't wonder if they never came at all.  When people do one
mean thing they are very likely to do another," observed Jo in a
disgusted tone.

     "Didn't Hayes give you the best out of our gardens? I told
him to."

     "I didn't know that, he forgot, I suppose, and, as your grand-
pa was poorly, I didn't like to worry him by asking, though I did
want some."

     "Now, Jo, how could you think there was any need of asking?
They are just as much yours as mine.  Don't we always go halves in
everything?" began Laurie, in the tone that always made Jo turn
thorny.

     "Gracious, I hope not!  Half of some of your things wouldn't
suit me at all.  But we mustn't stand philandering here.  I've got
to help Amy, so you go and make yourself splendid, and if you'll
be so very kind as to let Hayes take a few nice flowers up to the
Hall, I'll bless you forever."

     "Couldn't you do it now?"  asked Laurie, so suggestively that
Jo shut the gate in his face with inhospitable haste, and called
through the bars, "Go away, Teddy, I'm busy."

     Thanks to the conspirators, the tables were turned that night,
for Hayes sent up a wilderness of flowers, with a loverly basket
arranged in his best manner for a centerpiece.  Then the March family
turned out en masse, and Jo exerted herself to some purpose, for
people not only came, but stayed, laughing at her nonsense, admiring
Amy's taste, and apparently enjoying themselves very much.  Laurie
and his friends gallantly threw themselves into the breach,bought
up the bouquets, encamped before the table, and made that corner
the liveliest spot in the room.  Amy was in her element now, and out
of gratitude, if nothing more, was as spritely and gracious as poss-
ible, coming to the conclusion, about that time, that virtue was
it's own reward, after all.

     Jo behaved herself with exemplary propriety, and when Amy was
happily surrounded by her guard of honor, Jo circulated about the
hall, picking up various bits of gossip, which enlightened her up-
on the subject of the Chester change of base.  She reproached herself
for her share of the ill feeling and resolved to exonerate Amy as
soon as possible.  She also discovered what Amy had done about the
things in the morning,and considered her a model of magnanimity. As
she passed the art table, she glanced over it for her sister's
things, but saw no sign of them.  "Tucked away out of sight, I dare
say," thought Jo, who could forgiver her own wrongs, but hotly re-
sented any insult offered her family.

     "Good evening, Miss Jo.  How does Amy get on?" asked May with
a conciliatory air, for she wanted to show that she also could be
generous.

     "She has sold everything she had that was worth selling, and
now she is enjoying herself.  The flower table is always attractive,
you know, `especially to gentlemen'."

     Jo couldn't resist giving that little slap, but May took it
so meekly she regretted it a minute after, and fell to praising
the great vases, which still remained unsold.

     "Is Amy's illumination anywhere about"  I took a fancy to
buy that for Father," said Jo, very anxious to learn the fate of
her sister's work.

     "Everything of Amy's sold long ago.  I took care that the
right people saw them, and they made a nice little sum of money
for us," returned May, who had overcome sundry small temptations,
as well as Amy had, that day.

     Much gratified, Jo rushed back to tell the good news, and
Amy looked both touched and surprised by the report of May's
word and manner.

    "Now, gentlemen, I want you to go and do your duty by the
other tables as generously as you have by mine, especially the
art table," she said, ordering out `Teddy's own', as the girls
called the college friends.

     "`Charge, Chester, charge!' is the motto for that table, but
do your duty like men, and you'll get your money's worth of art
in every sense of the word," said the irrepressible Jo, as the
devoted phalanx prepared to take the field.

     "To hear is to obey, but March is fairer far than May," said
little Parker, making a frantic effort to be both witty and tender,
and getting promptly quenched by Laurie, who said . . .

     "Very well, my son, for a small boy!" and walked him off, with
a paternal pat on the head.

     "Buy the vases," whispered Amy to Laurie, as a final heaping
of coals of fire on her enemy's head.

     To May's great delight, Mr. Laurence not only bought the vases,
but pervaded the hall with one under each arm.  The other gentlemen
speculated with equal rashness in all sorts of frail trifles, and
wandered helplessly about afterward, burdened with wax flowers,
painted fans, filigree portfolios, and other useful and approp-
riate purchases.

     Aunt Carrol was there, heard the story, looked pleased, and
said something to Mrs. March in a corner, which made the latter
lady beam with satisfaction, and watch Amy with a face full of
mingled pride and anxiety, though she did not betray the cause
of her pleasure till several days later.

     The fair was pronounced a success, and when May bade Amy
goodnight, she did not gush as usual, but gave her an affection-
ate kiss, and a look which said `forgive and forget'. That satis-
fied Amy, and when she got home she found the vases paraded on
the parlor chimney piece with a great bouquet in each.  "The
reward of merit for a magnanimous March," as Laurie announced
with a flourish.

     "You've a deal more principle and generosity and nobleness
of character than I ever gave you credit for, Amy.  You've be-
haved sweetly, and I respect you with all my heart," said Jo
warmly, as they brushed their hair together late that night.

     "Yes, we all do, and love her for being so ready to forgive.
It must have been dreadfully hard, after working so long and set-
ting your heart on selling your own pretty things. I don't believe
I could have done it as kindly as you did," added Beth from her
pillow.

     "Why, girls, you needn't praise me so.  I only did as I'd
be done by.  You laugh at me when I say I want to be a lady, but
I mean a true gentlewoman  in mind and manners, and I try to do
it as far as I know how.  I can't explain exactly, but I want to
be above the little meannesses and follies and faults that spoil
so many women.  I'm far from it now, but I do my best, and hope in
time to be what Mother is."

     Amy spoke earnestly, and Jo said, with a cordial hug, "I
understand now what you mean, and I'll never laugh at you again.
You are getting on faster than you think, and I'll take lessons
of you in true politeness, for you've learned the secret, I be-
lieve.  Try away, deary, you'll get your reward some day, and
no one will be more delighted than I shall."

     A week later Amy did get her reward, and poor Jo found it
hard to be delighted.  A letter came from Aunt Carrol, and Mrs.
March's face was illuminated to such a degree when she read it
that Jo and Beth, who were with her, demanded what the glad
tiding were.

     "Aunt Carrol is going abroad next month, and wants . . ."

     "Me to go with her!" burst in Jo, flying out of her chair
in an uncontrollable rapture.

     "No, dear, not you.  It's Amy."

     "Oh, Mother!  She's too young, it's my turn first.  I've
wanted it so long.  It would do me so much good, and be so alto-
gether splendid.  I must go!"

     "I'm afraid it's impossible, Jo.  Aunt says Amy, decidedly,
and it is not for us to dictate when she offers such a favor."

     "It's always so.  Amy has all the fun and I have all the work.
It isn't fair, oh, it isn't fair!" cried Jo passionately.

     "I'm afraid it's partly your own fault, dear.  When Aunt spoke
to me the other day, she regretted your blunt manners and too in-
dependent spirit, and here she writes, as if quoting something you
had said--`I planned at first to ask Jo, but as `favors burden her',
and she `hates French', I think I won't venture to invite her.  Amy
is more docile, will make a good companion for Flo, and receive
gratefully any help the trip may give her."

     "Oh, my tongue, my abominable tongue!  Why can't I learn to
keep it quiet?'  groaned Jo, remembering words which had been
her undoing.  When she had heard the explanation of the quoted
phrases, Mrs. March said sorrowfully . . .

     "I wish you could have gone, but there is no hope of it this
time, so try to bear it cheerfully, and don't sadden Amy's plea-
sure by reproaches or regrets."

     "I'll try," said Jo, winking hard as she knelt down to pick
up the basket she had joyfully upset.  "I'll take a leaf out of
her book, and try not only to seem glad, but to be so, and not
grudge her one minute of happiness.  But it won't be easy, for
it is a dreadful disappointment."  And poor Jo bedewed the little
fat pincushion she held with several very bitter tears.

     "Jo, dear, I'm very selfish, but I couldn't spare you, and
I'm glad you are not going quite yet," whispered Beth, embracing
her, basket and all, with such a clinging touch and loving face
that Jo felt comforted in spite of the sharp regret that made her
want to box her own ears, and humbly beg Aunt Carrol to burden
her with this favor, and see how gratefully she would bear it.

     By the time Amy came in, Jo was able to take her part in
the family jubilation, not quite as heartily as usual, perhaps,
but without repinings at Amy's good fortune.  The young lady
herself received the news as tidings of great joy, went about
in a solemn sort of rapture, and began to sort her colors and
pack her pencils that evening, leaving such trifles as clothes,
money, and passports to those less absorbed in visions of art
than herself.

     "It isn't a mere pleasure trip to me, girls," she said im-
pressively, as she scraped her best palette.  "It will decide my
career, for if I have any genius, I shall find it out in Rome,
and will do something to prove it."

     "Suppose you haven't?" said Jo, sewing away, with red eyes,
at the new collars which were to be handed over to Amy.

     "Then I shall come home and teach drawing for my living,"
replied the aspirant for fame, with philosophic composure.  But
she made a wry face at the prospect, and scratched away at her
palette as if bent on vigorous measures before she gave up her
hopes.

     "No, you won't.  You hate hard work, and you'll marry some
rich man, and come home to sit in the lap of luxury all your
days," said Jo.

     "Your predictions sometimes come to pass, but I don't be-
lieve that one will.  I'm sure I wish it would, for if I can't be
an artist myself, I should like to be able to help those who are,"
said Amy, smiling, as if the part of Lady Bountiful would suit
her better than that of a poor drawing teacher.

     "Hum!" said Jo, with a sigh.  "If you wish it you'll have it,
for your wishes are always granted--mine never."

     "Would you like to go?" asked Amy, thoughtfully patting her
nose with her knife.

     "Rather!"

     "Well, in a year or two I'll send for you, and we'll dig in
the Forum for relics, and carry out all the plans we've made so
many times."

     "Thank you.  I'll remind you of your promise when that joyful
day comes, if it ever does," returned Jo, accepting the vague but
magnificent offer as gratefully as she could.

     "There was not much time for preparation, and the house was
in a ferment till Amy was off.  Jo bore up very well till the
last flutter of blue ribbon vanished, when she retired to her
refuge, the garret, and cried till she couldn't cry any more.
Amy likewise bore up stoutly till the steamer sailed.  Then
just as the gangway was about to be withdrawn, it suddenly came
over her that a whole ocean was soon to roll between her and
those who loved her best, and she clung to Laurie, the last
lingerer, saying with a sob . . .

     "Oh, take care of them for me, and if anything should
happen. . . "

     "I will, dear, I will, and if anything happens, I'll come
and comfort you," whispered Laurie, little dreaming that he would
be called upon to keep his word.

     So Amy sailed away to find the Old World, which is always
new and beautiful to young eyes, while her father and friend
watched her from the shore, fervently hoping that none but gentle
fortunes would befall the happy-hearted girl, who waved her hand
to them till they could see nothing but the summer sunshine daz-
zling on the sea.


               CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

                                                  London

Dearest People,
     Here I really sit at a front window of the Bath Hotel,
Piccadilly.  It's not a fashionable place, but Uncle stopped
here years ago, and won't go anywhere else.  However, we don't
mean to stay long, so it's no great matter.  Oh, I can't begin
to tell you how I enjoy it all!  I never can, so I'll only give
you bits out of my notebook, for I've done nothing but sketch
and scribble since I started.

     I sent a line from Halifax, when I felt pretty miserable,
but after that I got on delightfully, seldom ill, on deck all
day, with plenty of pleasant people to amuse me.  Everyone was
very kind to me, especially the officers.  Don't laugh, Jo, gent-
lemen really are very necessary aboard ship, to hold on to, or to
wait upon one, and as they have nothing to do, it's a mercy to
make them useful, otherwise they would smoke themselves to death,
I'm afraid.

     Aunt and Flo were poorly all the way, and liked to be let
alone, so when I had done what I could for them, I went and
enjoyed myself.  Such walks on deck, such sunsets, such splendid
air and waves!  It was almost as exciting as riding a fast horse,
when we went rushing on so grandly.  I wish Beth could have come,
it would have done her so much good.  As for Jo, she would have
gone up and sat on the maintop jib, or whatever the high thing
is called, made friends with the engineers, and tooted on the
captain's speaking trumpet, she'd have been in such a state of
rapture.

     It was all heavenly, but I was glad to see the Irish coast,
and found it very lovely, so green and sunny, with brown cabins
here and there, ruins on some of the hills, and gentlemen's
countryseats in the valleys, with deer feeding in the parks.
It was early in the morning, but I didn't regret getting up to
see it, for the bay was full of little boats, the shore so pic-
turesque, and a rosy sky overhead.  I never shall forget it.

     At Queenstown on of my new acquaintances left us, Mr.
Lennox, and when I said something about the Lakes of Killarney,
he sighed and and, with a look at me . . .

         "Oh, have you e'er heard of Kate Kearney?
         She lives on the banks of Killarney;
         From the glance of her eye,
         Shun danger and fly,
         For fatal's the glance of Kate Kearney."

Wasn't that nonsensical?

     We only stopped at Liverpool a few hours.  It's a dirty,
noisy place, and I was glad to leave it.  Uncle rushed out and
bought a pair of dogskin gloves, some ugly, thick shoes, and an
umbrella, and got shaved `a la mutton chop, the first thing.
Then he flattered himself that he looked like a true Briton,
but the first time he had the mud cleaned off his shoes, the
little bootblack knew that an American stood in them, and said,
with a grin, "There yer har, sir.  I've given `em the latest
Yankee shine."  It amused Uncle immensely.  Oh, I must tell you
what that absurd Lennox did!  He got his friend Ward, who came
on with us, to order a bouquet for me, and the first thing I
saw in my room was a lovely one, with "Robert Lennox's compli-
ments," on the card.  Wasn't that fun, girls? I like traveling.

     I never shall get to London if I don't hurry.  The trip was
like riding through a long picture gallery, full of lovely land-
scapes.  The farmhouses were my delight, with thatched roofs,
ivy up to the eaves, latticed windows, and stout women with rosy
children at the doors.  The very cattle looked more tranquil
than ours, as they stood knee-deep in clover, and the hens had
a contented cluck, as if they never got nervous like Yankee
biddies.  Such perfect color I never saw, the grass so green, sky
so blue, grain so yellow, woods so dark, I was in a rapture all
the way.  So was Flo, and we kept bouncing from one side to the
other, trying to see everything while we were whisking along at
the rate of sixty miles an hour.  Aunt was tired and went to sleep,
but Uncle read his guidebook, and wouldn't be astonished at any-
thing.  This is the way we went on.  Amy, flying up--"Oh, that
must be Kenilworth, that gray place among the trees!"  Flo, dart-
ing to my window--"How sweet!  We must go there sometime, won't we
Papa?"  Uncle, calmly admiring his boots--"No, my dear, not unless
you want beer, that's a brewery."

     A pause--then Flo cried out, "Bless me, there's a gallows and
a man going up."  "Where, where?" shrieks Amy, staring out at two
tall posts with a crossbeam and some dangling chains.  "A colliery,"
remarks Uncle, with a twinkle of the eye.  "Here's a lovely flock
of lambs all lying down," says Amy.  "See, Papa, aren't they
pretty?"  added Flo sentimentally.  "Geese, young ladies," returns
Uncle, in a tone that keeps us quiet till Flo settles down to
enjoy the FLIRTATIONS OF CAPTAIN CAVENDISH, and I have the scenery
all to myself.

     Of course it rained when we got to London, and there was
nothing to be seen but fog and umbrellas.  We rested, unpacked,
and shopped a little between the showers.  Aunt Mary got me some
new things, for I came off in such a hurry I wasn't half ready.
A white hat and blue feather, a muslin dress to match, and the
loveliest mantle you ever saw.  Shopping in Regent Street is
perfectly splendid.  Things seem so cheap, nice ribbons only
sixpence a yard.  I laid in a stock, but shall get my gloves
in Paris.  Doesn't that sound sort of elegant and rich?

     Flo and I, for the fun of it, ordered a hansom cab, while
Aunt and Uncle were out, and went for a drive, though we learned
afterward that it wasn't the thing for young ladies to ride in
them alone.  It was so droll!  For when we were shut in by the
wooden apron, the man drove so fast that Flo was frightened, and
told me to stop him.  but he was up outside behind somewhere,
and I couldn't get at him.  He didn't hear me call, nor see me
flap my parasol in front, and there we were, quite helpless,
rattling away, and whirling around corners at a breakneck pace.
At last, in my despair, I saw a little door in the roof, and on
poking it open, a red eye appeared, and a beery voice said . . .

     "Now, then, mum?"

    I gave my order as soberly as I could, and slamming down
the door, with an "Aye, aye, mum," the man made his horse walk,
as if going to a funeral.  I poked again and said, "A little
faster," then off he went, helter-skelter as before, and we
resigned ourselves to our fate.

     Today was fair, and we went to Hyde Park, close by, for we
are more aristocratic than we look. The Duke of Devonshire lives
near.  I often see his footmen lounging at the back gate, and
the Duke of Wellington's house is not far off.  Such sights as I
saw, my dear!  It was as good as Punch, for there were fat dow-
agers rolling about in their red and yellow coaches, with gorgeous
Jeameses in silk stockings and velvet coats, up behind, and pow-
dered coachmen in front.  Smart maids, with the rosiest children
I ever saw, handsome girls, looking half asleep, dandies in queer
English hats and lavender kids lounging about, and tall soldiers,
in short red jackets and muffin caps stuck on one side, looking
so funny I longed to sketch them.

     Rotten Row means `Route de Roi', or the king's way, but
now it's more like a riding school than anything else.  The
horses are splendid, and the men, especially the grooms, ride
well, but the women are stiff, and bounce, which isn't accord-
ing to our rules.  I longed to show them a tearing American
gallop, for they trotted solemnly up and down, in their scant
habits and high hats, looking like the women in a toy Noah's
Ark.  Everyone rides--old men, stout ladies, little children--
and the young folks do a deal of flirting here, I say a pair
exchange rose buds, for it's the thing to wear one in the
button-hole, and I thought it rather a nice little idea.

     In the P.M. to Westminster Abbey, but don't expect me to
describe it, that's impossible, so I'll only say it was sublime!
This evening we are going to see Fechter, which will be an app-
ropriate end to the happiest day of my life.

     It's very late, but I can't let my letter go in the morn-
ing without telling you what happened last evening.  Who do
you think came in, as we were at tea?  Laurie's English friends,
Fred and Frank Vaughn!  I was so surprised, for I shouldn't have
known them but for the cards.  both are tall fellows with whisk-
ers, Fred handsome in the English style, and Frank much better,
for he only limps slightly, and uses no crutches. They had heard
from Laurie where we were to be, and came to ask us to their
house, but Uncle won't go, so we shall return the call, and see
them as we can.  They went to the theater with us, and we did
have such a good time, for Frank devoted himself to Flo, and
Fred and I talked over past, present, and future fun as if we
had know each other all our days.  Tell Beth Frank asked for her,
and was sorry to hear of her ill health.  Fred laughed when I
spoke of Jo, and sent his `respectful compliments to the big hat'.
Neither of them had forgotten Camp Laurence, or the fun we had
there.  What ages ago it seems, doesn't it?

     Aunt is tapping on the wall for the third time, so I must
stop.  I really feel like a dissipated London fine lady, writing
here so late, with my room full of pretty things, and my head
a jumble of parks, theaters, new gowns, and gallant creatures
who say "Ah!" and twirl their blond mustaches with the true
English lordliness.  I long to see you all, and in spite of my
nonsense am, as ever, your loving . . .
                                            AMY

PARIS

     Dear girls,

     In my last I told you about our London visit, how kind the
Vaughns were, and what pleasant parties they made for us.  I en-
joyed the trips to Hampton Court and the Kensington Museum more
than anything else, for at Hampton I saw Raphael's cartoons, and
at the Museum, rooms full of pictures by Turner, Lawrence, Rey-
nolds, Hogarth, and the other great creatures.  The day in Rich-
mond Park was charming, for we had a regular English picnic, and
I had more splendid oaks and groups of deer than I could copy,
also heard a nightingale, and saw larks go up.  We `did' London
to our heart's content, thanks to Fred and Frank, and were sorry
to go away, for though English people are slow to take you in,
when they once make up their minds to do it they cannot be out-
done in hospitality, I think.  The Vaughns hope to meet us in
Rome next winter, and I shall be dreadfully disappointed if they
don't, for Grace and I are great friends, and the boys very
nice fellows, especially Fred.

     Well, we were hardly settled here, when he turned up again,
saying he had come for a holiday, and was going to Switzerland.
Aunt looked sober at first, but he was so cool about it she
couldn't say a word.  And now we get on nicely, and are very
glad he came, for he speaks French like a native, and I don't
know what we should do without him.   Uncle doesn't know ten
words,  and insists on talking English very  loud, as if it
would  make people understand  him.  Aunt's pronunciation  is
old-fashioned, and Flo and I, though we flattered ourselves
that we knew a good deal, find we don't, and are very grateful
to have Fred do the `parley vooing', as Uncle calls it.

     Such delightful times as we are having!  Sight-seeing from
morning till night, stopping for nice lunches in the gay cafes,
and meeting with all sorts of droll adventures. Rainy days I
spend in the Louvre, revelling in pictures.  Jo would turn up
her naughty nose at some of the finest, because she has no
soul for art, but I have, and I'm cultivation eye and taste
as fast as I can.  She would like the relics of great people
better, for I've seen her Napoleon's cocked hat and gray
coat, his baby's cradle and his old toothbrush, also Marie
Antoinette's little shoe, the ring of Saint Denis, Charlemagne's
sword, and many other interesting things.  I'll talk for hours
about them when I come, but haven't time to write.

     The Palais Royale is a heavenly place, so full of bijouterie
and lovely things that I'm nearly distracted because I can't
buy them.  Fred wanted to get me some, but of course I didn't
allow it.  Then the Bois and Champs Elysees are tres magnifique.
I've seen the imperial family several times, the emperor an ugly,
hard-looking man, the empress pale and pretty, but dressed in
bad taste, I thought--purple dress, green hat, and yellow gloves.
Little Nap is a handsome boy, who sits chatting to his tutor,
and kissed his hand to the people as he passes in his four-horse
barouche, with postilions in red satin jackets and a mounted
guard before and behind.

     We often walk in the Tuileries Gardens, for they are
lovely, though the antique Luxembourg Gardens suit me better.
Pere la Chaise is very curious, for many of the tombs are
like small rooms, and looking in, one sees a table, with
images or pictures of the dead, and chairs for the mourners
to sit in when they come to lament.  That is so Frenchy.

     Our rooms are on the Rue de Rivoli, and sitting on the
balcony, we look up and down the long, brilliant street.  It
is so pleasant that we spend our evenings talking there when
too tired with our day's work to go out.  Fred is very enter-
taining, and is altogether the most agreeable young man I
ever knew--except Laurie, whose manners are more charming.  I
wish Fred was dark, for I don't fancy light men, however, the
Vaughns are very rich and come of an excellent family, so I
won't find fault with their yellow hair, as my own is yellower.

     Next week we are off to Germany and Switzerland, and as
we shall travel fast, I shall only be able to give you hasty
letters.  I keep my diary, and try to `remember correctly and
describe clearly all that I see and admire', as Father advised.
It is good practice for me, and with my sketchbook will give
you a better idea of my tour than these scribbles.

     Adieu, I embrace you tenderly.
                                           VOTRE AMIE

    HEIDELBERG

     My dear Mamma,

     Having a quiet hour before we leave for Berne, I'll try to
tell you what has happened, for some of it is very important,
as you will see.

     The sail up the Rhine was perfect, and I just sat and en-
joyed it with all my might.  Get Father's old guidebooks and
read about it.  I haven't words beautiful enough to describe it.
At Coblenz we had a lovely time, for some students from Bonn,
with whom Fred got acquainted on the boat, gave us a serenade.
It was a moonlight night, and about one o'clock Flo and I were
waked by the most delicious music under our windows.  We flew up,
and hid behind the curtains, but sly peeps showed us Fred and
the students singing away down below.  It was the most romantic
thing I ever saw--the river, the bridge of boats, the great fort-
ress opposite, moonlight everywhere, and music fit to melt a
heart of stone.

     When they were done we threw down some flowers, and saw
them scramble for them, kiss their hands to the invisible ladies,
and go laughing away, to smoke and drink beer, I suppose.  Next
morning Fred showed me one of the crumpled flowers in his vest
pocket, and looked very sentimental.  I laughed at him, and said
I didn't throw it, but Flo, which seemed to disgust him, for he
tossed it out of the window, and turned sensible again.  I'm
afraid I'm going to have trouble with that boy, it begins to
look like it.

     The baths at Nassau were very gay, so was Baden-Baden,
where Fred lost some money, and I scolded him.  He needs some-
one to look after him when Frank is not with him.  Kate said
once she hoped he'd marry soon, and I quite agree with her
that it would be well for him.  Frankfurt was delightful. I
saw Goeth's house, Schiller's statue, and Dannecker's famous
ARIADNE.  It was very lovely, but I should have enjoyed it
more if I had known the story better.  I didn't like to ask, as
everyone knew it or pretended they did.  I wish Jo would tell
me all about it.  I ought to have read more, for I find I don't
know anything, and it mortifies me.

     Now comes the serious part, for it happened here, and Fred
has just gone.  He has been so kind and jolly that we all got
quite fond of him.  I never thought of anything but a traveling
friendship till the serenade night.  Since then I've begun to
feel that the moonlight walks, balcony talks, and daily adven-
tures were something more to him than fun.  I haven't flirted,
Mother, truly, but remembered what you said to me, and have done
my very best.  I can't help it if people like me.  I don't try to
make them, and it worries me if I don't care for them, though Jo
says I haven't got any heart.  Now I know Mother will shake her
head, and the girls say, "Oh, the mercenary little wretch!", but
I've made up my mind, and if Fred asks me, I shall accept him,
though I'm not madly in love.  I like him, and we get on comfort-
ably together.  He is handsome, young, clever enough, and very
rich--ever so much richer than the Laurences.  I don't think his
family would object, and I should be very happy, for they are all
kind, well-bred, generous people, and they like me.  Fred, as the
eldest twin, will have the estate, I suppose, and such a splendid
one it is!  A city house in a fashionable street, not so showy
as our big houses, but twice as comfortable and full of solid
luxury, such as English people believe in.  I like it, for it's
genuine. I've seen the plate, the family jewels, the old servants,
and pictures of the country place, with its park, great house,
lovely grounds, and fine horses.  Oh, it would be all I should
ask!  And I'd rather have it than any title such as girls snap
up so readily, and find nothing behind.  I may be mercenary,
but I hate poverty, and don't mean to bear it a minute longer
than I can help.  One of us must marry well.  Meg didn't, Jo
won't, Beth can't yet, so I shall, and make everything okay all
round.  I wouldn't marry a man I hated or despised.  You may be
sure of that, and though Fred is not my model hero, he does very
well, and in time I should get fond enough of him if he was very
fond of me, and let me do just as I liked.  So I've been turning
the matter over in my mind the last week, for it was impossible to
help seeing that Fred liked me.  He said nothing, but little things
showed it.  He never goes with Flo, always gets on my side of the
carriage, table, or promenade, looks sentimental when we are alone,
and frowns at anyone else who ventures to speak tome.  Yesterday
at dinner, when an Austrian officer stared at us and then said
something to his friend, a rakish-looking baron, about `ein wond-
erschones Blondchen', Fred looked as fierce as a lion, and cut his
meat so savagely it nearly flew off his plate.  He isn't one of the
cool, stiff Englishmen, but is rather peppery, for he has Scotch
blood in him, as one might guess from his bonnie blue eyes.

     Well, last evening we went up to the castle about sunset, at
least all of us but Fred, who was to meet us there after going to
the Post Restante for letters.  We had a charming time poking
about the ruins, the vaults where the monster tun is, and the
beautiful gardens made by the elector long ago for his English
wife.  I liked the great terrace best, for the view was divine,
so while the rest went to see the rooms inside, I sat there trying
to sketch the gray stone lion's head on the wall, with scarlet
woodbine sprays hanging round it.  I felt as if I'd got into a
romance, sitting there, watching the Meckar rolling through the
valley, listening to the music of the Austrian band below, and
waiting for my lover, like a real storybook girl.  I had a feeling
that something was going to happen and I was ready for it.  I
didn't feel blushy or quakey, but quite cool and only a little
excited.

     By-and-by I heard Fred's voice, and then he came hurrying
through the great arch to find me.  He looked so troubled that I
forgot all about myself, and asked what the matter was.  He said
he'd just got a letter begging him to come home, for Frank was
very ill.  So he was going at once on the night train and only
had time to say good-by.  I was very sorry for him, and dis-
appointed for myself, but only for a minute because he said, as
he shook hands, and said it in a way that I could not mistake,
"I shall soon come back, you won't forget me, Amy?"

     I didn't promise, but I looked at him, and he seemed satis-
fied, and there was no time for anything but messages and good-
byes, for he was off in an hour, and we all miss him very much.
I know he wanted to speak, but I think, from something he once
hinted, that he had promised his father not to do anything of
the sort yet a while, for is is a rash boy, and the old gentle-
man dreads a foreign daughter-in-law.  We shall soon meet in
Rome, and then, if I don't change my mind, I'll say "Yes, thank
you," when he says "Will you, please?"

     Of course this is all very private, but I wished you to
know what was going on.  Don't be anxious about me, remember I
am your `prudent Amy', and be sure I will do nothing rashly.
Send me as much advice as you like.  I'll use it if I can.  I
wish I could see you for a good talk, Marmee.  Love and trust me.

     Ever your  AMY


                    CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

     "Jo, I'm anxious about Beth."

     "Why, Mother, she has seemed unusually well since the
babies came."

     "It's not her health that troubles me now, it's her spirits.
I'm sure there is something on her mind, and I want you to dis-
cover what it is."

     "What makes you think so, Mother?"

     "She sits alone a good deal, and doesn't talk to her father
as much as she used.  I found her crying over the babies the
other day.  When she sings, the songs are always sad ones, and
now and then I see a look in her face that I don't understand.
This isn't like Beth, and it worries me."

     "Have you asked her about it?'

     "I have tried once or twice, but she either evaded my
questions or looked so distressed that I stopped.  I never
force my children's confidence, and I seldom have to wait
for long."

     Mrs. March glanced at Jo as she spoke, but the face
opposite seemed quite unconscious of any secret disquiet-
ude but Beth's, and after sewing thoughtfully for a minute, Jo
said, "I think she is growing up, and so begins to dream dreams,
and have hopes and fears and fidgets, without knowing why or
being able to explain them.  Why, Mother, Beth's eighteen, but
we don't realize it, and treat her like a child, forgetting
she's a woman."

     "So she is.  Dear heart, how fast you do grow up," re-
turned her mother with a sigh and a smile.

     "Can't be helped, Marmee, so you must resign yourself to
all sorts of worries, and let your birds hop out of the nest,
one by one.  I promise never to hop very far, if that is any
comfort to you."

     "It's a great comfort, Jo.  I always feel strong when you
are at home, now Meg is gone.  Beth is too feeble and Amy too
young to depend upon, but when the tug comes, you are always
ready."

     "Why, you know I don't mind hard jobs much, and there
must always be one scrub in a family.  Amy is splendid in fine
works and I'm not, but I feel in my element when all the car-
pets are to be taken up, or half the family fall sick at once.
Amy is distinguishing herself abroad, but if anything is amiss
at home, I'm your man."

     "I leave Beth to your hands, then, for she will open her
tender little heart to her Jo sooner than to anyone else.  Be
very kind, and don't let her think anyone watches or talks
about; her.  If she only would get quite strong and cheerful
again, I shouldn't have a wish in the world."

     "Happy woman!  I've got heaps."

     "My dear, what are they?"

     "I'll settle Bethy's troubles, and then I'll tell you mine.
They are not very wearing, so they'll keep."  And Jo stitched away,
with a wise nod which set her mother's heart at rest about her for
the present at least.

     While apparently absorbed in her own affairs, Jo watched
Beth, and after many conflicting conjectures, finally settled
upon one which seemed to explain the change in her.  A slight
incident gave Jo the clue to the mystery, she thought, and
lively fancy, loving heart did the rest.  She was affecting
to write busily one Saturday afternoon, when she and Beth were
alone together.  Yet as she scribbled, she kept her eye on her
sister, who seemed unusually quiet.  Sitting at the window, Beth's
work often dropped into her lap, and she leaned her head upon her
hand, in a dejected attitude, while her eyes rested on the dull,
autumnal landscape.  Suddenly some one passed below, whistling
like an operatic blackbird, and a voice called out, "All serene!
Coming in tonight."

     Beth started, leaned forward, smiled and nodded, watched the
passer-by till his quick tramp died away, then said softly as if
to herself, "How strong and well and happy that dear boy looks."

     "Hum!" said Jo, still intent upon her sister's face, for the
bright color faded as quickly as it came, the smile vanished, and
presently a tear lay shining on the window ledge.  Beth whisked
it off, and in her half-averted face read a tender sorrow that
made her own eyes fill.  Fearing to betray herself, she slipped
away, murmuring something about needing more paper.

     "Mercy on me, Beth loves Laurie!" she said, sitting down in
her own room, pale with the shock of the discovery which she
believed she had just made.  "I never dreamed of such a thing.
What will Mother say?  I wonder if her . . ."  there Jo stopped
and turned scarlet with a sudden thought.  "If he shouldn't love
back again, how dreadful it would be.  He must.  I'll make him!"
And she shook her head threateningly at the picture of the mis-
chievous-looking boy laughing at her from the wall.  "Oh dear, we
are growing up with a vengeance.  Here's Meg married and a mamma,
Amy flourishing away at Paris, and Beth in love.  I'm the only
one that has sense enough to keep out of mischief."  Jo thought
intently for a minute with her eyes fixed on the picture, then
she smoothed out her wrinkled forehead and said, with a decided
nod at the face opposite,  "No thank you, sir, you're very
charming, but you've no more stability than a weathercock.  So
you needn't write touching notes and smile in that insinuating
way, for it won't do a bit of good, and I won't have it."

     Then she sighed, and fell into a reverie from which she
did not wake till the early twilight sent her down to take new
observations, which only confirmed her suspicion.  Though
Laurie flirted with Amy and joked with Jo, his manner to Beth
had always been peculiarly kind and gentle, but so was every-
body's.  Therefore, no one thought of imagining that he cared
more for her than for the others.  Indeed, a general impression
had prevailed in the family of late that `our boy' was getting
fonder than ever of Jo, who, however, wouldn't hear a word upon
the subject and scolded violently if anyone dared to suggest it.
If they had known the various tender passages which had been
nipped in the bud, they would have had the immense satisfaction
of saying, "I told you so."  But Jo hated `philandering', and
wouldn't allow it, always having a joke or a smile ready at the
least sign of impending danger.

     When Laurie first went to college, he fell in love about
once a month, but these small flames were as brief as ardent,
did no damage, and much amused Jo, who took great interest in
the alternations of hop, despair, and resignation, which were
confided to her in their weekly conferences.  But there came a
time when Laurie ceased to worship at many shrines, hinted
darkly at one all-absorbing passion, and indulged occasionally
in Byronic fits of gloom.  Then he avoided the tender subject
altogether, wrote philosophical notes to Jo, turned studious,
and gave out that he was going to `dig', intending to graduate
in a blaze of glory.  This suited the young lady better than
twilight confidences, tender pressures of the hand,, and
eloquent glances of the eye, for with Jo, brain developed
earlier than heart, and she preferred imaginary heroes to
real ones, because when tired of them, the former could be
shut up in the tin kitchen till called for, and the latter
were less manageable.

     Things were in this state when the grand discovery was
made, and Jo watched Laurie that night as she had never done
before.  If she had not got the new idea into her head, she
would have seen nothing unusual in the fact that Beth was
very quiet, and Laurie very kind to her.  But having given the
rein to her lively fancy, it galloped away with her at a great
pace, and common sense, being rather weakened by a long course
or romance writing, did not come to the rescue.  As usual Beth
lay on the sofa and Laurie sat in a low chair close by, amusing
her with all sorts of gossip, for she depended on her weekly
`spin', and he never disappointed her.  But that evening Jo
fancied that Beth's eyes rested on the lively, dark face
beside her with peculiar pleasure, and that she listened with
intense interest to an account of some exciting cricket match,
though the phrases, `caught off a tice', `stumped off his ground'',
and `the leg hit for three', were as intelligible to her as
Sanskrit.  She also fancied, having set her heart upon seeing it,
that she saw a certain increase of gentleness in  Laurie's manner,
that he dropped his voice now and then,  laughed less than usual,
was a little absent--minded, and settled the afghan over Beth's
feet with  an assiduity that was really almost tender.

      "Who knows?  Stranger  things have happened," thought Jo,
as she fussed  about the room.  "She will make  quite an angel
of  him, and he will make life delightfully easy and  pleasant
for the dear, if they only love  each other.  I  don't see how he
can help it,and I do believe he would if the rest of us were out of
the way."

    As everyone was out of the way but herself,   Jo began to
feel that she ought to dispose of herself with all speed.  But
where should she  go? And burning to lay herself upon the shrine
of sisterly  devotion, she sat down to settle that point.

     Now, the old sofa was a regular patriarch  of a sofa--long,
broad, well-cushioned, and low, a trifle shabby, as well it might
be, for the  girls had   slept  and sprawled on it as babies,
fished  over the back,  rode on  the arms, and  had menageries
under it  as children, and rested tired heads, dreamed  dreams,
and listened to tender talk  on it as young women. They all loved
it, for it was a family refuge, and one corner had always been
Jo's favorite lounging place.  Among the many pillows that adorned
the venerable couch was one, hard, round, covered with prickly
horsehair, and furnished with a knobby button at each end.  This
repulsive pillow was her especial property, being used as a weapon
of defense, a barricade, or a stern preventive of too much slumber.

     Laurie knew this pillow well, and had cause to regard it with
deep aversion, having been unmercifully pummeled with it in former
days when romping was allowed, and now frequently debarred by it
from the seat he most coveted next ot Jo in the sofa corner.  If
`the sausage' as the called it, stood on end, it was a sign that
he might approach and repose, but if it lay flat across the sofa,
woe to man, woman, or child who dared disturb it!  That evening
Jo forgot to barricade her corner, and had not been in her seat
five minutes, before a massive form appeared beside her, and with
both arms spread over the sofa back, both long legs stretched out
before him, Laurie exclaimed, with a sigh of satisfaction . . .

     "Now, this is filling at the price."

     "No slang," snapped Jo, slamming down the pillow.  But it was
too late, there was no room for it, and coasting onto the floor,
it disappeared in a most mysterious manner.

     "Come, Jo, don't be thorny.  After studying himself to a
skeleton all the week, a fellow deserves petting and ought to get
it."

     "Beth will pet you.  I'm busy."

     "No, she's not to be bothered with me, but you like that sort
of thing, unless you've suddenly lost your taste for it.  Have you?
Do you hate your boy, and want to fire pillows at him?"

     Anything more wheedlesome than that touching appeal was seldom
heard, but Jo quenched `her boy' by turning on him with a stern
query, "How many bouquets have you sent Miss Randal this week?"

     "Not one, upon my word.  She's engaged.  Now then."

     "I'm glad of it, that's one of your foolish extravagances,
sending flowers and things to girls for whom you don't care two
pins," continued Jo reprovingly.

     "Sensible girls for whom I do care whole papers of pins won't
let me send them `flowers and things', so what can I do?  My feel-
ings need a` vent'."

     "Mother doesn't approve of flirting even in fun, and you do
flirt desperately, Teddy."

     "I'd give anything if I could answer, `So do you'. As I can't,
I'll merely say that I don't see any harm in that pleasant little
game, if all parties understand that it's only play."

     "Well, it does look pleasant, but I can't learn how it's done.
I've tried, because one feels awkward in company not to do as
everybody else id doing, but I don't seem to get on", said Jo,
forgetting to play mentor.

     "Take lessons of Amy, she has a regular talent for it."

     "Yes, she does it very prettily, and never seems to go too
far.  I suppose it's natural to some people to please without
trying, and others to always say and do the wrong thing in the
wrong place."

     "I'm glad you can't flirt.  It's really refreshing to see a
sensible, straightforward girl, who can be jolly and kind without
making a fool of herself.  Between ourselves, Jo, some of the
girls I know really do go on at such a rate I'm ashamed of them.
They don't mean any harm, I'm sure, but if they knew how we
fellows talked about them afterward, they'd mend their ways, I
fancy."

     "They do the same, and as their tongues are the sharpest,
you fellows get the worst of it, for you are as silly as they,
every bit.  If you behaved properly, they would, but knowing
you like their nonsense, they keep it up, and then you blame
them."

     "Much you know about it, ma'am," said Laurie in a super-
ior tone.  "We don't like romps and flirts, though we may act
as if we did sometimes.  The pretty, modest girls are never
talked about, except respectfully, among gentleman.  Bless
your innocent soul!  If you could be in my place for a month
you'd see things that would astonish you a trifle.  Upon my
word, when I see one of those harum-scarum girls, I always
want to say with our friend Cock Robin . . .

                "Out upon you, fie upon you,
                 Bold-faced jig!"

     It was impossible to help laughing at the funny conflict
between Laurie's chivalrous reluctance to speak ill of woman-
kind, and his very natural dislike of the unfeminine folly of
which fashionable society showed him many samples.  Jo knew
that `young Laurence' was regarded as a most eligible parti
by worldly mamas, was much smiled upon by their daughters,
and flattered enough by ladies of all ages to make a cox-
comb of him, so she watched him rather jealously, fearing
he would be spoiled, and rejoiced more than she confessed
to find that he still believed in modest girls.  Returning
suddenly  to her admonitory tone, she said, dropping her
voice, "If you must have a `went', Teddy, go and devote
yourself to one of the `pretty, modest girls' whom you do
respect, and not waste your time with the silly ones."

     "You really advise it?"  And Laurie looked at her with
an odd mixture of anxiety and merriment in his face.

     "Yes, I do, but you'd better wait till you are through
college, on the whole, and be fitting yourself for the place
meantime.  You're not half good enough for--well, whoever
the modest girl may be."  And Jo looked a little queer like-
wise, for a name had almost escaped her.

     "That I'm not!" acquiesced Laurie, with an expression of
humility quite new to him, as he dropped his eyes and absently
wound Jo's apron tassel round his finger.

     "Mercy on us, this will never do," thought Jo, adding
aloud, "Go and sing to me.  I'm dying for some music, and
always like yours."

     "I'd rather stay here, thank you."

     "Well, you can't, there isn't room.  Go and make yourself
useful, since you are too big to be ornamental.  I thought you
hated to be tied to a woman's apron string?"  retorted Jo,
quoting certain rebellious words of his own.

     "Ah, that depends on who wears the apron!" and Laurie
gave an audacious tweak at the tassel.

     "Are you going?" demanded Jo, diving for the pillow.

     He fled at once, and the minute it was well, "Up with the
bonnets of bonnie Dundee," she slipped away to return no more
till the young gentleman departed in high dudgeon.

     Jo lay long awake that night, and was just dropping off
when the sound of a stifled sob made her fly to Beth's bed-
side, with the anxious inquiry, "What is it, dear?"

     "I thought you were asleep," sobbed Beth.

     "Is it the old pain, my precious?'

     "No, it's a new one, but I can bear it."  And Beth tried
to check her tears.

     "Tell me all about it, and let me cure it as I often did
the other."

     "You can't, there is no cure."  There Beth's voice gave
way, and clinging to her sister, she cried so despairingly
that Jo was frightened.

     "Where is it?  Shall I call Mother?"

     "No, no, don't call her, don't tell her.  I shall be
better soon.  Lie down here and `poor' my head.  I'll be
quiet and go to sleep, indeed I will."

     Jo obeyed, but as her hand went softly to and fro across
Beth's hot forehead and wet eyelids, her heart was very full
and she longed to speak.  But young as she was, Jo had learned
that hearts, like flowers, cannot be rudely handled, but must
open naturally, so though she believed she knew the cause of
Beth's new pain, she only said, in her tenderest tone, "Does
anything trouble you, deary?"

     "Yes, Jo," after a long pause.

     "Wouldn't it comfort you to tell me what it is?"

     "not now, not yet."

     "Then I won't ask, but remember, Bethy,that Mother and
Jo are always glad to hear and help you, if they can."

     "I know it.  I'll tell you by-and-by."

     "Is the pain better now?"

     "Oh, yes, much better, you are so comfortable, Jo."

     "Go to sleep, dear.  I'll stay with you."

     So cheek to cheek they fell asleep, and on the morrow
Beth seemed quite herself again, for at eighteen neither heads
nor hearts ache long, and a loving word can medicine most ills.

     But Jo had made up her mind, and after pondering over a
project for some days, she confided it to her mother.

     "You asked me the other day what my wishes were.  I'll
tell you one of them, Marmee," she began, as they sat along
together.  "I want to go away somewhere this winter for a
change."

     "Why, Jo?" And her mother looked up quickly, as if the
words suggested a double meaning.

     With her eyes on her work Jo answered soberly, "I want
something new.  I feel restless and anxious to be seeing,
doing, and learning more than I am.  I brood too much over
my own small affairs, and need stirring up, so as I can be
spared this winter, I'd like to hop a little way and try my
wings."

     "Where will you hop?"

     "To New York.  I had a bright idea yesterday, and this is
it.  You know Mrs. Kirke wrote to you for some respectable
young person to teach her children and sew.  It's rather hard
to find just the thing, but I think I should suit if I tried."

     "My dear, go out to service in that great boarding house!"
And Mrs. March looked surprised, but not displeased.

     "It's not exactly going out to service, for Mrs. Kirke is
your friend--the kindest soul that ever lived--and would make
things pleasant for me, I know.  Her family is separate from
the rest, and no one knows me there.  Don't care if they do.
It's honest work, and I'm not ashamed of it."

     "Nor I.  But your writing?"

     "All the better for the change.  I shall see and hear new
things, get new ideas, and even if I haven't much time there,
I shall bring home quantities of material for my rubbish."

     "I have no doubt of it, but are these your only reasons for
this sudden fancy?'

     "No, Mother."

     "May I know the others?"

     Jo looked up and Jo looked down, then said slowly, with
sudden color in her cheeks.  "It may be vain and wrong to
say it, but--I'm afraid--Laurie is getting too fond of me."

     "Then you don't care for him in the way it is evident he
begins to care for you?' And Mrs. March looked anxious as she
put the question.

     "Mercy, no!  I love the dear boy, as I always have, and
am immensely proud of him, but as for anything more, it's out
of the question."

     "I'm glad of that, Jo."

     "Why, please?'

     "Because, dear, I don't think you suited to one another.  As
friends you are very happy, and your frequent quarrels soon blow
over, but I fear you would both rebel if you were mated for life.
You are too much alike and too fond of freedom, not to mention
hot tempers and strong wills, to get on happily together, in a
relation which needs infinite patience and forbearance, as well
as love."

     "That's just the feeling I had, though I couldn't express it.
I'm glad you think he is only beginning to care for me.  It would
trouble me sadly to make him unhappy, for I couldn't fall in love
with the dear old fellow merely out of gratitude, could I?"

     "You are sure of his feeling for you?"

     The color deepened in Jo's cheeks as she answered, with
the look of mingled pleasure, pride, and pain which young
girls wear when speaking of first lovers, "I'm afraid it is
so, Mother.  He hasn't said anything, but he looks a great deal.
I think I had better go away before it comes to anything."

     "I agree with you, and if it can be managed you shall go."

     Jo looked relieved, and after a pause, said, smiling, "How
Mrs. Moffat would wonder at your want of management, if she
knew, and how she will rejoice that Annie may still hope."

     "AH, Jo, mothers may differ in their management, but the
hope is the same in all--the desire to see their children happy.
Meg is so, and I am content with her success.  You I leave to
enjoy your liberty till you tire of it, for only then will you
find that there is something sweeter.  Amy is my chief care
now, but her good sense will help ;her.  For Beth, I indulge
no hopes except that she may be well.  By the way, she seems
brighter this last day or two.  Have you spoken to her?'

     "Yes, she owned she had a trouble, and promised to tell
me by-and-by.  I said no more, for I think I know it,"  And
Jo told her little story.

     Mrs. March shook her head, and did not take so romantic
a view of the case, but looked grave, and repeated her opinion
that for Laurie's sake Jo should go away for a time.

     "Let us say nothing about it to him till the plan is settled,
then I'll run away before he can collect his wits and be tragic.
Beth must think I'm going to please myself, as I am, for I can't
talk about Laurie to her.  But she can pet and comfort him after
I'm gone, and so cure him of this romantic notion.  He's been
through so many little trials of the sort, he's used to it, and
will soon get over his lovelornity."

     Jo spoke hopefully, but could not rid herself of the fore-
boding fear that this `little trial' would be harder than the
others, and that Laurie would not get over his `lovelornity'
as easily as heretofore.

     The plan was talked over in a family council and agreed
upon, for Mrs. Kirke gladly accepted Jo, and promised to
make a pleasant home for her.  The teaching would render
her independent, and such leisure as she got might be made
profitable by writing, while the new scenes and society would
be both useful and agreeable.  Jo liked the prospect and was
eager to be gone, for the home nest was growing too narrow
for her restless nature and adventurous spirit.  When all was
settled, with fear and trembling she told Laurie, but to her
surprise he took it very quietly.  He had been graver than
usual of late, but very pleasant, and when jokingly accused
of turning over a new leaf, he answered soberly, "So I am,
and I mean this one shall stay turned."

     Jo was very much relieved that  one of his virtuous fits
should come on just then, and made her preparations with a
lightened heart, for Beth seemed more cheerful, and hoped
she  was doing the best for all.

      "One thing I leave in your especial care," she said, the
night before she left.

     "You mean your papers?" asked Beth.

     "No, my boy.  Be very good to him, won't you?"

     "Of course I will, but I can't fill your place, and he'll
miss you sadly."

     "It won't hurt him, so remember, I leave him in your
charge, to plague, pet, and keep in order."

     "I'll do my best, for your sake," promised Beth, wondering
why Jo looked at her so queerly.

     When Laurie said good-by, he whispered significantly, "It
won't do a bit of good, Jo.  My eye is on you, so mind what you
do, or I'll come and bring you home."


                   CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

                             New York, November

     Dear Marmee and Beth,

     I'm going to write you a regular volume, for I've got heaps
to tell, though I'm not a fine young lady traveling on the con-
tinent.  When I lost sight of Father's dear old face, I felt a
trifle blue, and might have shed a briny drop or two, if an
Irish lady with four small children, all crying more or less,
hadn't diverted my mind, for I amused myself by dropping ginger-
bread nuts over the seat every time they opened their mouths
to roar.

     Soon the sun came out, and taking it as a good omen, I
cleared up likewise and enjoyed my journey with all my heart.

     Mrs. Kirke welcomed me so kindly I felt at home at once,
even in that big house full of strangers.  She gave me a funny
little sky parlor--all she had, but there is a stove in it, and a
nice table in a sunny window, so I can sit here and write when-
ever I like.  A fine view and a church tower opposite atone for
the many stairs, and I took a fancy to my den on the spot.  The
nursery, where I am to teach and sew, is a pleasant room next
Mrs. Kirke's private parlor, and the two little girls are pretty
children, rather spoiled, I fancy, but they took to me after
telling them THE SEVEN BAD PIGS, and I've no doubt I shall make
a model governess.

     I am to have my meals with the children, if I prefer it to
the great table, and for the present I do, for I am bashful,
though no one will believe it.

     "Now, my dear, make yourself at home," said Mrs. K. in her
motherly way,  "I'm on the drive from morning to night, as you
may suppose with such a family, but a great anxiety will be off
my mind if I know the children are safe with you.  My rooms are
always open to you, and your own shall be as comfortable as I
can make it.  There are some pleasant people in the house if you
feel sociable, and your evenings are always free.  Come to me
if anything goes wrong, and be as happy as you can.  There's the
tea bell, I must run and change my cap."  And off she bustled,
leaving me to settle myself in my new nest.

     As I went downstairs soon after, I saw something I liked.
The flights are very long in this tall house, and as I stood
waiting at the head of the third one for a little servant girl
to lumber up, I saw a gentleman come along behind her, take the
heavy hod of coal out of her hand, carry it all the way up, put
it down at a door near by, and walk away, saying, with a kind
nod and a foreign accent, "It goes better so.  The little back
is too young to haf such heaviness."

     Wasn't it good of him?  I like such things, for as Father
says, trifles show character.  When I mentioned it to Mrs. K.,
that evening, she laughed, and said, "That must have been
Professor Bhaer, he's always doing things of that sort."

     Mrs. K. told me he was from Berlin, very learned and good,
but poor as a church mouse, and gives lessons to support himself
and two little orphan nephews whom he is educating here, accord-
ing to the wishes of his sister, who married an American.  Not
a very romantic story, but it interested me, and I was glad to
hear that Mrs. K. lends him her parlor for some of his scholars.
There is a glass door between it and the nursery, and I mean to
peep at him, and then I'll tell you how he looks.  He's almost
forty, so it's no harm, Marmee.

     After tea and a go-to-bed romp with the little girls, I
attacked the big workbasket, and had a quiet evening chatting
with my new friend.  I shall keep a journal-letter, and send it
once a week, so goodnight, and more tomorrow.

                                                 Tuesday Eve

     Had a lively time in my seminary this morning, for the
children acted like Sancho, and at one time I really thought I
should shake them all round. Some good angel inspired me to
try gymnastics,and I kept it up till they were glad to sit down
and keep still.  After luncheon, the girl took them out for a
walk, and I went to my needlework like little Mabel `with a
willing mind'.  I was thanking my stars that I'd learned to
make nice buttonholes, when the parlor door opened and shut,
and someone began to hum, KENNST DU DAS LAND, like a big bum-
blebee.  It was dreadfully improper, I know, but I couldn't
resist the temptation, and lifting one end of the curtain
before the glass door, I peeped in.  Professor Bhaer was there,
and while he arranged his books, I took a good look at him.  A
regular German--rather stout, with brown hair tumbled all over
his head, a bushy beard, good nose, the kindest eyes I ever
saw, and a splendid big voice that does one's ears good, after
our sharp or slipshod American gabble.  His clothes were rusty,
his hands were large, and he hadn't a really handsome feature
in his face, except his beautiful teeth, yet I liked him, for
he had a fine head, his linen was very nice, and he looked
like a gentleman, though two buttons were off his coat and
there was a patch on one shoe.  He looked sober in spite of
his humming, till he went to the window to turn the hyacinth
bulbs toward the sun, and stroke the cat, who received him
like an old friend.  Then he smiled, and when a tap came at
the door, called out in a loud, brisk tone, "Herein!"

     I was just going to run, when I caught sight of a morsel of
a child carrying a big book, and stopped, to see what was going
on.

     "Me wants me Bhaer," said the mite, slamming down her book
and running to meet him.

     "Thou shalt haf thy Bhaer.  Come, then, and take a goot
hug from him, my Tina," said the Professor, catching her up
with a laugh, and holding her so high over his head that she
had to stoop her little face to kiss him.

     "Now me mus tuddy my lessin," went on the funny little
thing.  So he put her up at the table, opened the great dic-
tionary she had brought, and gave her a paper and pencil, and
she scribbled away, turning a leaf now and then, and passing
her little fat finger down the page, as if finding a word,
so soberly that I nearly betrayed myself by a laugh, while
Mr. Bhaer stood stroking her pretty hair with a fatherly look
that made me think she must be his own, though she looked more
French than German.

     Another knock and the appearance of two young ladies sent
me back to my work, and there I virtuously remained through all
the noise and gabbling that went on next door.  One of the girls
kept laughing affectedly, and saying, "Now Professor," in a
coquettish tone, and the other pronounced her German with an
accent that must have made it hard for him to keep sober.

     Both seemed to try his patience sorely, for more than once
I heard him say emphatically, "No, no, it is not so, you haf
not attend to what I say,"" and once there was a loud rap, as
if he struck the table with his book, followed by the despair-
ing exclamation, ""Prut!  It all goes bad this day."

     Poor man, I pitied him, and when the girls were gone, took
just one more peep to see if he survived it.  He seemed to have
thrown himself back in his chair, tired out, and sat there with
his eyes shut till the clock struck two, when he jumped up, put
his books in his pocket, as if ready for another lesson, and
taking little Tina who had fallen asleep on the sofa in his
arms, he carried her quietly away.  I fancy he has a hard life
of it.  Mrs. Kirke asked me if I wouldn't go down to the five
o'clock dinner, and feeling a little bit homesick, I thought
I would, just to see what sort of people are under the same
roof with me.  So I made myself respectable and tried to slip
in behind Mrs. Kirke, but as she is short and I'm tall, my
efforts at concealment were rather a failure.  She gave me a
seat by her, and after my face cooled off, I plucked up cour-
age and looked about me.  The long table was full, and every--
one intent on getting their dinner, the gentlemen especially,
who seemed to be eating on time, for they bolted in every
sense of the word, vanishing as soon as they were done.  There
was the usual assortment of young men absorbed in themselves,
young couples absorbed in each other, married ladies in their
babies, and old gentlemen in politics. I don't think I shall
care to have much to do with any of them, except one sweet-
faced maiden lady, who looks as if she had something in her.

     Cast away at the very bottom of the table was the Pro-
fessor, shouting answers to the questions of a very inquisitive,
deaf old gentleman on one side, and talking philosophy with
a Frenchman on the other.  If Amy had been here, she'd have
turned her back on him forever because, sad to relate, he had
a great appetite, and shoveled in his dinner in a manner which
would have horrified `her ladyship'.  I didn't mind, for I like
`to see folks eat with a relish', as Hannah says, and the poor
man must have needed a deal of food after teaching idiots all
day.

     As I went upstairs after dinner, two of the young men
were settling their hats before the hall mirror, and I heard
one say low to the other, ""Who's the new party?""

     "Governess, or something of that sort."

     "What the deuce is she at our table for?"

     "Friend of the old lady's."

     "Handsome head, but no style."

     "Not a bit of it.  Give us a light and come on."

     I felt angry at first, and then I didn't care, for a gov-
erness is as good as a clerk, and I've got sense, if I haven't
style, which is more than some people have, judging from the
remarks of the elegant beings who clattered away, smoking like
bad chimneys.  I hate ordinary people!

                                                     Thursday

     Yesterday was a quiet day spent in teaching, sewing, and
writing in my little room, which is very cozy, with a light and
fire.  I picked up a few bits of news and was introduced to the
Professor.  It seems that Tina is the child of the Frenchwoman
who does the fine ironing in the laundry here.  The little thing
has lost her heart to Mr. Bhaer, and follows him about the house
like a dog whenever he is at home, which delights him, as he is
very fond of children, though a `bacheldore'.  Kitty and Minnie
Kirk likewise regard him with affection, and tell all sorts of
stories about the plays he invents, the presents he brings, and
the splendid tales he tells.  The younger men quiz him, it seems,
call him Old Fritz, Lager Beer, Ursa Major, and make all manner
of jokes on his name.  But he enjoys it like a boy, Mrs. Kirke
says, and takes it so good-naturedly that they all like him in
spite of his foreign ways.

     The maiden lady is a Miss Norton, rich, cultivated, and
kind.  She spoke to me at dinner today (for I went to table
again, it's such fun to watch people), and asked me to come
and see her at her room.  She has fine books and pictures,
knows interesting persons, and seems friendly, so I shall make
myself agreeable, for I do want to get into good society, only
it isn't the same sort that Amy likes.

     I was in our parlor last evening when Mr. Bhaer came in
with some newspapers for Mrs. Kirke.  She wasn't there, but
Minnie, who is a little old woman, introduced me very prettily.
"This is Mamma's friend, Miss March."

     "Yes, and she's jolly and we like her lots," added Kitty,
who is and `enfant terrible'.

     We both bowed, and then we laughed, for the prim intro-
duction and the blunt addition were rather a comical contrast.

     ""Ah, yes, I hear these naughty ones go to vex you, Mees
Marsch.  If so again, call at me and I come," he said, with a
threatening frown that delighted the little wretches.

     I promised I would, and he departed, but it seems as if I
was doomed to see a good deal of him, for today  as I passed
his door on my way out, by accident I knocked against it with
my umbrella.  It flew open, and there he stood in his dressing
gown, with a big blue sock on one hand and a darning needle
in the other.  He didn't seem at all ashamed of it, for when
I explained and hurried on, he waved his hand, sock and all,
saying in his loud, cheerful way . . .

     ""You haf a fine day to make your walk.  Bon voyage,
Mademoiselle.""

     I laughed all the way downstairs, but it was a little path-
etic, also to think of the poor man having to mend his own clothes.
The German gentlemen embroider, I know, but darning hose is
another thing and not so pretty.

     Nothing has happened to write about, except a call on Miss
Norton, who has a room full of pretty things, and who was very
charming, for she showed me all her treasures, and asked me if
I would  sometimes go with her to lectures and concerts, as her
escort, if I enjoyed them.  She put it as a favor, but I'm sure
Mrs. Kirke has told her about us, and she does it out of kind-
ness to me.  I'm as proud as Lucifer, but such favors from such
people don't burden me, and I accepted gratefully.

     When I got back to the nursery there was such an uproar
in the parlor that I looked in, and there was Mr. Bhaer down
on his hands and knees, with Tina on his back, Kitty leading
him with a jump rope, and Minnie feeding two small boys with
seedcakes, as they roared and ramped in  cages built of chairs.

     "We are playing nargerie,"" explained Kitty.

     "Dis is mine effalunt!"  added Tina, holding on by the
Professor's hair.

     "Mamma always allows us to do what we like Saturday aft-
ernoon,  when Franz and Emil come, doesn't she, Mr. Bhaer?"
said Minnie.

    The `effalunt' sat up, looking as much in earnest as any
of them, and said soberly to me, "I gif you my wort it is so,
if we make too large a noise you shall say Hush! to us, and we
go more softly."

     I promised to do so, but left the door open and enjoyed the
fun as much as they did, for a more glorious frolic I never wit-
nessed.  they played tag and soldiers, danced and sang, and when
it began to grow dark they all piled onto the sofa about the
Professor, while he told charming fairy stories of the storks
on the chimney tops, and the little `koblods', who ride the
snowflakes as they fall.  I wish Americans were as simple and
natural as Germans, don't you?

     I'm so fond of writing, I should go spinning on forever if
motives of economy didn't stop me, for though I've used thin
paper and written fine, I tremble to think of the stamps this
long letter will need.  Pray forward Amy's as soon as you can
spare them.  My small news will sound very flat after her
splendors, but you will like them, I know.  Is Teddy studying
so hard that he can't find time to write to his friends?  Take
good care of him for me, Beth, and tell me all about the babies,
and give heaps of love to everyone.  From your faithful Jo.

     P.S.  On reading over my letter, it strikes me as rather
Bhaery, but I am always interested in odd people, and I really
had nothing else to write about.  Bless you!

                                                   DECEMBER

     My Precious Betsey,

     As this is to be a scribble-scrabble letter, I direct it to
you, for it may amuse you, and give you some idea of my goings
on, for though quiet, they are rather amusing, for which, oh,
be joyful!  After what Amy would call Herculaneum efforts, in
the way of mental and moral agriculture, my young ideas begin
to shoot and my little twigs to bend as I could wish. They are
not so interesting tome as Tina and the boys, but I do my duty
by them, and they are fond of me.  Franz and Emil are jolly
little lads, quite after my own heart, for the mixture of
German and American spirit in the produces a constant state of
effervescence.  Saturday afternoons are riotous times, whether
spent in the house or out, for on pleasant days they all go to
walk, like a seminary, with the Professor and myself to keep
order, and then such fun!

     We are very good friends now, and I've begun to take
lessons.  I really couldn't help it, and it all came about in
such a droll way that I must tell you.  To begin at the begin-
ning, Mrs. Kirke called to me one day as I passed Mr. Bhaer's
room where she was rummaging.

     "Did you ever see such a den, my dear?  Just come and
help me put these books to rights, for I've turned everything
upside down, trying to discover what he has done with the six
new handkerchiefs I gave him not long ago."

     I went in, and while we worked I looked about me, for it
was `a den' to be sure.  Books and papers everywhere, a broken
meerschaum, and an old flute over the mantlepiece as if done
with, a ragged bird without any tail chirped on one window
seat, and a box of white mice adorned the other.  Half-finished
boats and bits of string lay among the manuscripts.  Dirty
little boots stood drying before the fire, and traces of the
dearly beloved boys, for whom he makes a slave of himself,
were to be seen all over the room.  After a grand rummage
three of the missing articles were found, one over the bird
cage, one covered with ink, and a third burned brown, having
been used as a holder.

     "Such a man!" laughed good-natured Mrs. K., as she put the
relics in the rag bay.  "I suppose the others are torn up to
rig ships, bandage cut fingers, or make kite tails.  It's
dreadful, but I can't scold him.  He's so absent-minded and good-
natured, he lets those boys ride over him roughshod.  I agreed
to do his washing and mending, but he forgets to give out his
things and I forget to look them over, so he comes to a sad pass
sometimes."

     "Let me mend them," said I.  "I don't mind it, and he needn't
know.  I'd like to, he's so kind to me about bringing my letters
and lending books."

     So I have got his things in order, and knit heels into two
pairs of the socks, for they were boggled out of shape with his
queer darns.  Nothing was said, and I hoped he wouldn't find it
out, but one day last week he caught me at it.  Hearing the
lessons he gives to others has interested and amused me so much
that I took a fancy to lear, for Tina runs in and out, leaving
the door open, and I can hear.  I had been sitting near this
door, finishing off the last sock, and trying to understand what
he said to a new scholar, who is as stupid as I am.  The girl
had gone, and I thought he had also, it was so still, and I was
busily gabbling over a verb, and rocking to and fro in a most
absurd way, when a little crow made me look up, and there was
Mr. Bhaer looking and laughing quietly, while he made signs to
Tina not to betray him.

     "So!" he said, as I stopped and stared like a goose, "you
peep at me, I peep at you, and this is not bad, but see, I am
not pleasanting when I say, haf you a wish for German?"

     "Yes, but you are too busy.  I am too stupid to learn," I
blundered out, as red as a peony.

     "Prut!  We will make the time, and we fail not to find the
sense.  At efening I shall gif a little lesson with much glad-
ness, for look you, Mees Marsch, I haf this debt to pay."  And
he pointed to my work  `Yes,' they say to one another, these so
kind ladies, `he is a stupid old fellow, he will see not what we
do, he will never observe that his sock heels go not in holes
any more, he will think his buttons grow out new when they fall,
and believe that strings make theirselves.' "Ah!  But I haf an
eye, and I see much.  I haf a heart, and I feel thanks for this.
Come, a little lesson then and now, or no more good fairy works
for me and mine."

     Of course I couldn't say anything after that, and as it
really is a splendid opportunity, I made the bargain, and we
began.  I took four lessons, and then I stuck fast in a gram-
matical bog.  The Professor was very patient with me, but it
must have been torment to him, and now and then he'd look at me
with such an expression of mild despair that it was a toss-up
with me whether to laugh or cry.  I tried both ways, and when
it came to a sniff or utter mortification and woe, he just
threw the grammar on to the floor and marched out of the room.
I felt myself disgraced and deserted forever, but didn't blame
him a particle, and was scrambling my papers together, meaning
to rush upstairs and shake myself hard, when in he came, as
brisk and beaming as if I'd covered myself in glory.

     "Now we shall try a new way. You and I will read these
pleasant little MARCHEN together, and dig no more in that dry
book, that goes in the corner for making us trouble."

     He spoke so kindly, and opened Hans Andersons's fairy
tales so invitingly before me, that I was  more ashamed than
ever, and went at my lesson in a neck-or-nothing style that
seemed to amuse him immensely.  I forgot my bashfulness, and
pegged away (no other word will express it) with all my might,
tumbling over long words, pronouncing according to inspiration
of the minute, and doing my very best.  When I finished reading
my first page, and stopped for breath, he clapped his hands and
cried out in his hearty way, "Das ist gut!'  Now we go well!  My
turn.  I do him in German, gif me your ear."  And away he went,
rumbling out the words with his strong voice and a relish which
was good to see as well as hear.  Fortunately the story was the
CONSTANT TIN SOLDIER, which is droll, you know, so I could laugh,
and I did, though I didn't understand half he read, for I couldn't
help it, he was so earnest, I so excited, and the whole thing so
comical.

     After that we got on better, and now I read my lessons
pretty well, for this way of studying suits me, and I can see
that the grammar gets tucked into the tales and poetry as one
gives pills in jelly.  I like it very much, and he doesn't seem
tired of it yet, which is very good of him, isn't it?  I mean
to give him something on Christmas, for I dare not offer money.
Tell me something nice, Marmee.

     I'm glad Laurie seems so happy and busy, that he has given
up smoking and lets his hair grow.  You see Beth manages him
better than I did.  I'm not jealous, dear, do your best, only
don't make a saint of him.  I'm afraid I couldn't like him
without a spice of human naughtiness.  Read him bits of my
letters.  I haven't time to write much, and that will do just
as well.  Thank Heaven Beth continues so comfortable.

                                                    JANUARY

     A Happy New Year to you all, my dearest family, which of
course includes Mr. L. and a young man by the name of Teddy.
I can't tell you how much I enjoyed your Christmas bundle,
for i didn't get it till night and had given up hoping. Your
letter came in the morning, but you said nothing about a
parcel, meaning it for a surprise, so I was disappointed,
for I'd had a `kind of feeling' that you wouldn't forget me.
I felt a little low in my mind as I sat up in my room after
tea, and when the big, muddy, battered-looking bundle was
brought to me, I just hugged it and pranced.  It was so
homey and refreshing that I sat down on the floor and read
and looked and ate and laughed and cried, in my usual absurd
way.  The things were just what I wanted, and all the better
for being made instead of bought.  Beth's new `ink bib' was
capital, and Hannah's box of hard gingerbread will be a
treasure.  I'll be sure and wear the nice flannels you sent,
Marmee, and read carefully the books Father has marked.  Thank
you all, heaps and heaps!

     Speaking of books reminds me that I'm getting rich in that
line, for on New Year's Day Mr. Bhaer gave me a fine Shakes-
peare.  It is one he values much, and I've often admired it,
set up in the place of honor with his German Bible, Plato,
Homer, and Milton, so you may imagine how I felt when he brought
it down, without its cover, and showed me my own name in it,
"from my friend Friedrich Bhaer".

     "You say often you wish a library.  Here I gif you one, for
between these lids (he meant covers) is many books in one.  Read
him well, and he will help you much, for the study of character
in this book will help you to read it in the world and paint it
with your pen."

     I thanked him as well as I could, and talk now about `my
library', as if I had a hundred books.  I never knew how much
there was in Shakespeare before, but then I never had a Bhaer
to explain it to me.  Now don't laugh at his horrid name.  It
isn't pronounced either Bear or Beer, as people will say it,
but something between the two, as only Germans can give it.
I'm glad you both like what I tell you about him, and hope you
will know him some day.  Mother would admire his warm heart,
Father his wise head.  I admire both, and feel rich in my new
`friend Friedrich Bhaer'.

     Not having much money, or knowing what he'd like, I got
several little things, and put them about the room, where he
would find them unexpectedly.  They were useful, pretty, or
funny, a new standish on his table, a little vase for his
flower, he always has one, or a bit of green in a glass, to
keep him fresh, he says, and a holder for his blower, so
that he needn't burn up what Amy calls `mouchoirs'.  I made
it like those Beth invented, a big butterfly with a fat body,
and black and yellow wings, worsted feelers, and bead eyes.
It took his fancy immensely, and he put it on his mantlepiece
as an article of virtue, so it was rather a failure after all.
Poor as he is, he didn't forget a servant or a child in the
house, and not a soul here, from the French laundrywoman to
Miss Norton forgot him.  I was so glad of that.

     They got up a masquerade, and had a gay time New Year's
Eve.  I didn't mean to go down, having no dress.  But at the
last minute, Mrs. Kirke remembered some old brocades, and Miss
Norton lent me lace and feathers.  So I dressed up as Mrs.
Malaprop, and sailed in with a mask on.  No one knew me, for I
disguised my voice, and no one dreamed of the silent, haughty
Miss March (for they think I am very stiff and cool, most of
them, and so I am to whippersnappers) could dance and dress,
and burst out into a `nice derangement of epitaphs, like an
allegory on the banks of the Nile'. I enjoyed it very much,
and when we unmasked it was fun to see them stare at me.  I
heard one of the young men tell another that he knew I'd been
an actress, in fact, he thought he remembered seeing me at
one of the minor theaters.  Meg will relish that joke.  Mr.
Bhaer was Nick Bottom, and Tina was Titania, a perfect little
fairy in his arms.  To see them dance was `quite a landscape',
to use a Teddyism.

     I had a very happy New Year, after all, and when I thought
it over in my room, I felt as if I was getting on a little in
spite of my many failures, for I'm cheerful all the time now,
work with a will, and take more interest in other people than
I used to, which is satisfactory.  Bless you all!  Ever your
loving . . . Jo


                    CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

     Though very happy in the social atmosphere about her, and
very busy with the daily work that earned her bread and made it
sweeter for the effort, Jo still found time for literary labors.
The purpose which now took possession of her was a natural one
to a poor and ambitious girl, but the means she took to gain
her end were not the best.  She saw that money conferred power,
therefore, she resolved to have, not to be used for herself alone,
but for those whom she loved more than life.

     The dream of filling home with comforts, giving Beth every-
thing she wanted,from strawberries in winter to an organ in her
bedroom, going abroad herself, and always having more than enough,
so that she might indulge in the luxury of charity, had been for
years Jo's most cherished castle in the air.

     The prize-story experience had seemed to open a way which
might, after long traveling and much uphill work, lead to this
delightful chateau en Espagne.  But the novel disaster quenched
her courage for a time, for public opinion is a giant which has
frightened stouter-hearted Jacks on bigger beanstalks than hers.
Like that immortal hero, she reposed awhile after the first
attempt, which resulted in a tumble and the least lovely of the
giant's treasures, if I remember rightly.  But the `up again
and take another' spirit was as strong in Jo as in Jack, so
she scrambled up on the shady side this time and got more
booty, but nearly left behind her what was far more precious
than the moneybags.

     She took to writing sensation stories, for in those dark
ages, even all-perfect America read rubbish.  She told no one,
but concocted a `thrilling tale', and boldly carried it her-
self to Mr. Dashwood, editor of the WEEKLY VOLCANO.  She had
never read SARTOR RESARTUS, but she had a womanly instinct
that clothes possess an influence more powerful over many
than the worth of character or the magic of manners.  So she
dressed herself in her best, and trying to persuade herself
that she was neither excited nor nervous, bravely climbed two
pairs of dark and dirty stairs to find herself in a disorderly
room, a cloud of cigar smoke, and the presence of three gen-
tlemen, sitting with their heels rather higher than their hats,
which articles of dress none of them took the trouble to remove
on her appearance.  somewhat daunted by this reception, Jo hes-
itated on the threshold, murmuring in much embarrassment . . .

     "Excuse me, I was looking for the WEEKLY VOLCANO office.
I wished to see Mr. Dashwood."

     Down went the highest pair of heels, up rose the smokiest
gentleman, and carefully cherishing his cigar between his
fingers, he advanced with a nod and a countenance expressive
of nothing but sleep.  Feeling that she must get through the
matter somehow, Jo produced her manuscript and, blushing
redder and redder with each sentence, blundered out fragments
of the little speech carefully prepared for the occasion.

     "A friend of mine desired me to offer--a story--just as
an experiment--would like your opinion--be glad to write more
if this suits."

     While she blushed and blundered, Mr. Dashwood had taken
the manuscript, and was turning over the leaves with a pair
of rather dirty fingers, and casting critical glances up and
down the neat pages.

     "Not a first attempt, I take it?"  observing that the
pages were numbered, covered only on one side, and not tied
up with a ribbon--sure sign of a novice.

     "No, sir.  She has had some experience, and got a prize
for a tale in the BLARNEYSTONE BANNER."

     "Oh, did she?"  And Mr. Dashwood gave JO a quick look,
which seemed to take note of everything she had on, from the
bow in her bonnet to the buttons on her boots.  "Well, you
can leave it, if you like.  We've more of this sort of thing
on hand than we know what to do with at present, but I'll run
my eye over it, and give you an answer next week."

     Now, Jo did not like to leave it, for Mr. Dashwood didn't
suit her at all, but, under the circumstances, there was nothing
for her to do but bow and walk away, looking particularly tall
and dignified, as she was apt to do when nettled or abashed.
Just then she was both, for it was perfectly evident from the
knowing glances exchanged among the gentlemen that her little
fiction of `my friend' was considered a good joke, and a
laugh, produced by some inaudible remark of the editor, as
he closed the door, completed her discomfiture.  Half re-
solving never to return, she went home, and worked off her
irritation by stitching pinafores vigorously, and in an
hour or two was cool enough to laugh over the scene and long
for next week.

     When she went again, Mr. Dashwood was alone, whereat she
rejoiced.  Mr. Dashwood was much wider awake than before,
which was agreeable and Mr. Dashwood was not too deeply ab-
sorbed in a cigar to remember his manners, so the second
interview was much more comfortable than the first.

     "We'll take this (editors never say I), if you don't
object to a few alterations.  It's too long, but omitting
the passages I've marked will make it just the right length,"
he said, in a businesslike tone.

     Jo hardly knew her own MS again, so crumpled and under-
scored were its pages and paragraphs, but feeling as a tender
patent might on being asked to cut off her baby's legs in
order that it might fit into a new cradle, she looked at the
marked passages and was surprised to find that all the moral
reflections--which she had carefully put in as ballast for
much romance--had been stricken out.

     "But, Sir, I thought every story should have some sort of
a moral, so I took care to have a few of my sinners repent."

     Mr. Dashwoods's editorial gravity relaxed into a smile, for
Jo had forgotten her `friend', and spoken as only an author
could.

     "People want to be amused, not preached at, you know. Morals
don't sell nowadays."  Which was not quite a correct statement,
by the way.

     "You think it would do with these alterations, then?"

     "Yes, it's a new plot, and pretty well worked up--language
good, and so on," was Mr. Dashwood's affable reply.

     "What do you--that is, what compensation--" began Jo, not
exactly knowing how to express herself.

     "Oh, yes, well, we give from twenty-five to thirty for
things of this sort.  Pay when it comes out," returned Mr. Dash-
wood, as if that point had escaped him.  Such trifles do escape
the editorial mind, it is said.

     "Very well, you can have it," said Jo, handing back the
story with a satisfied air, for after the dollar-a-column work,
even twenty-five seemed good pay.

     "Shall I tell my friend you will take another if she has one
better than this?" asked Jo, unconscious of her little slip of
the tongue, and emboldened by her success.

     "Well, we'll look at it.  Can't promise to take it.  Tell her
to make it short and spicy, and never mind the moral.  What name
would your friend like to put on it?" in a careless tone.

     "None at all, if you please, she doesn't wish her name to
appear and has no nom de plume," said Jo, blushing in spite of
herself.

     "Just as she likes, of course.  The tale will be out next week.
Will you call for the money, or shall I send it?" asked Mr. Dashwood,
who felt a natural desire to know who his new contributor might be.

     "I'll call.  Good morning, Sir."

     As she departed, Mr. Dashwood put up his feet, with the grace-
ful remark, "Poor and proud, as usual, but she'll do."

     Following Mr. Dashwood's directions, and making Mrs. Northbury
her model, Jo rashly took a plunge into the frothy sea of sensa-
tional literature, but thanks to the life preserver thrown her by
a friend, she came up again not much the worse for her ducking.

     Like most young scribblers, she went abroad for her charac-
ters and scenery, and banditti, counts, gypsies, nuns, and duch-
esses appeared upon her stage, and played their parts with as
much accuracy and spirit as could be expected.  Her readers
were not particular about such trifles as grammar, punctuation,
and probability, and Mr. Dashwood graciously permitted her to
fill his columns at the lowest prices, not thinking it necess-
ary to tell her that the real cause of his hospitality was the
fact that one of his hacks, on being offered higher wages, had
basely left him in the lurch.

     She soon became interested in her work, for her emaciated
purse grew stout, and the little hoard she was making to take
Beth to the mountains next summer grew slowly but surely as
the weeks passed.  One thing disturbed her satisfaction, and
that was that she did not tell them at home.  She had a feeling
that Father and Mother would not approve, and preferred to have
her own way first, and beg pardon afterward.  It was easy to
keep her secret, for no name appeared with her stories.  Mr.
Dashwood had of course found it out very soon, but promised
to be dumb, and for a wonder kept his word.

     She thought it would do her no harm, for she sincerely
meant to write nothing of which she would be ashamed, and
quieted all pricks of conscience by anticipations of the
happy minute when she should show her earnings and laugh over
her well-kept secret.

     But Mr. Dashwood rejected any but thrilling tales, and as
thrills could not be produced except by harrowing up the souls
of the readers, history and romance, land and sea, science and
art, police records and lunatic asylums, had to be ransacked
for the purpose.  Jo soon found that her innocent experience
had given her but few glimpses of the tragic world which
underlies society, so regarding it in a business light, she set
about supplying her deficiencies with characteristic energy.
Eager to find material for stories, and bent on making them
original in plot, if not masterly in execution, she searched
newspapers for accidents, incidents, and crimes.  She excited
the suspicions of public librarians by asking for works on
poisons.  She studied faces in the street, and characters,
good, bad, and indifferent, all about her.  She delved in
the dust of ancient times for facts or fictions so old that
they were as good as new, and introduced herself to folly, sin,
and misery, as well as her limited opportunities allowed.  She
thought she was prospering finely, but unconsciously she was
beginning to desecrate some of the womanliest attributes of a
woman's character.  She was living in bad society, and imagin-
ary though it was, its influence affected her, for she was
feeding heart and fancy on dangerous and unsubstantial food,
and was fast brushing the innocent bloom from her nature by
a premature acquaintance with the darker side of life, which
comes soon enough to all of us.

     She was beginning to feel rather than see this, for much
describing of other people's passions and feelings set her
to studying and speculating about her own. a morbid amusement
in which healthy young minds do not voluntarily indulge.  Wrong-
doing always brings its own punishment, and when Jo most
needed hers, she got it.

     I don't know whether the study of Shakespeare helped her
to read character, or the natural instinct of a woman for what
was honest, brave, and strong, but while endowing her imaginary
heroes with every perfection under the sun, Jo was discovering
a live hero, who interested her in spite of many human imper-
fections.  Mr. Bhaer, in one of their conversations, had advised
her to study simple, true, and lovely characters, wherever she
found them, as good training for a writer.  Jo took him at his
word, for she coolly turned round and studied him--a proceeding
which would have much surprised him, had he know it, for the
worthy Professor was very humble in his own conceit.

     Why everybody liked him was what puzzled Jo, at first.  He
was neither rich nor great, young nor handsome, in no respect
what is called fascinating, imposing, or brilliant, and yet
he was as attractive as a genial fire, and people seemed to
gather about him as naturally as about a warm hearth.  He was
poor, yet always appeared to be giving something away; a
stranger, yet everyone was his friend; no longer young, but
as happy-hearted as a boy; plain and peculiar, yet his face
looked beautiful to many, and his oddities were freely for-
given for his sake.  Jo often watched him, trying to discover
the charm, and at last decided that it was benevolence which
worked the miracle.  If he had any sorrow, `it sat with its
head under its wing', and he turned only his sunny side to the
world.  There were lines upon his forehead, but Time seemed
to have touched him gently, remembering how kind he was to
others.  The pleasant curves about his mouth were the mem-
orials of many friendly words and cheery laughs, his eyes
were never cold or hard, and his big hand had a warm, strong
grasp that was more expressive than words.

     His very clothes seemed to partake of the hospitable nature
of the wearer.  They looked as if they were at ease, and liked
to make him comfortable.  His capacious waistcoat was sugges-
tive of a large heart underneath.  His rusty coat had a social
air, and the baggy pockets plainly proved that little hands
often went in empty and came out full.  His very boots were
benevolent, and his collars never stiff and raspy like other
people's.

     "That's it!" said Jo to herself, when she at length dis-
covered that genuine good will toward one's fellow men could
beautify and dignify even a stout German teacher, who shoveled
in his dinner, darned his own socks, and was burdened with the
name of Bhaer.

     Jo valued goodness highly, but she also possessed a most
feminine respect for intellect, and a little discovery which
she made about the Professor added much to her regard for him.
He never spoke of himself, and no one ever knew that in his
native city he had been a man much honored and esteemed for
learning and integrity, till a countryman came to see him.
He never spoke of himself, and in a conversation with Miss
Norton divulged the pleasing fact. From her Jo learned it,
and liked it all the better because Mr. Bhaer had never told
it.  She felt proud to know that he was an honored Professor
in Berlin, though only a poor language-master in America,
and his homely, hard-working life was much beautified by the
spice of romance which this discovery gave it.

     Another and a better gift than intellect was shown her in
a most unexpected manner.  Miss Norton had the entree into
most society, which Jo would have had no chance of seeing but
for her.  The solitary woman felt an interest in the ambitious
girl, and kindly conferred many favors of this sort both on Jo
and the Professor.  She took them with her one night to a select
symposium, held in honor of several celebrities.

     Jo went prepared to bow down and adore the mighty ones
whom she had worshiped with youthful enthusiasm afar off. But
her reverence for genius received a severe shock that night,
and it took her some time to recover from the discovery that
the great creatures were only men and women after all.  Imagine
her dismay, on stealing a glance of timid admiration at the
poet whose lines suggested an ethereal being fed on `spirit,
fire, and dew', to behold him devouring his supper with an
ardor which flushed his intellectual countenance.  Turning
as from a fallen idol, she made other discoveries which
rapidly dispelled her romantic illusions.  The great novelist
vibrated between two decanters with the regularity of a pen-
dulum; the famous divine flirted openly with one of the
Madame de Staels of the age, who looked daggers at another
Corinne, who was amiably satirizing her, after outmaneuvering
her in efforts to absorb the profound philosopher, who imbibed
tea Johnsonianly and appeared to slumber, the loquacity of the
lady rendering speech impossible.  The scientific celebrities,
forgetting their mollusks and glacial periods, gossiped about
art, while devoting themselves to oysters and ices with char-
acteristic energy; the young musician, who was charming the
city like a second Orpheus, talked horses; and the specimen
of the British nobility present happened to be the most ordi-
nary man of the party.

     Before the evening was half over, Jo felt so completely
disillusioned, that she sat down in a corner to recover herself.
Mr. Bhaer soon joined her, looking rather out of his element,
and presently several of the philosophers, each mounted on his
hobby, came ambling up to hold an intellectual tournament in
the recess.  The conversations were miles beyond Jo's compre-
hension, but she enjoyed it, though Kant and Hegel were unknown
gods, the Subjective and Objective unintelligible terms, and
the only thing `evolved from her inner consciousness' was a
bad headache after it was all over.  It dawned upon her gradually
that the world was being picked to pieces, and put together on
new and, according to the talkers, on infinitely better princ-
iples than before, that religion was in a fair way to be
reasoned into nothingness, and intellect was to be the only
God.  Jo knew nothing about philosophy or metaphysics of any
sort, but a curious excitement, half pleasurable, half pain-
ful, came over her as she listened with a sense of being turned
adrift into time and space, like a young balloon out on a hol-
iday.

     She looked round to see how the Professor liked it, and
found him looking at her with the grimest expression she had
ever seen him wear.  He shook his head and beckoned her to
come away, but she was fascinated just then by the freedom
of Speculative Philosophy, and kept her seat, trying to find
out what the wise gentlemen intended  to rely upon after
they had annihilated all the old beliefs.

     Now, Mr. Bhaer was a diffident man and slow to offer his
own opinions, not because they were unsettled, but too sin-
cere and earnest to be lightly spoken.  As he glanced from Jo
to several other young people, attracted by the brilliancy
of the philosophic pyrotechnics,he knit his brows and longed
to speak, fearing that some inflammable young soul would be
led astray by the rockets, to find when the display was over
that they had only an empty stick or a scorched hand.

     He bore it as long as he could, but when he was appealed
to for an opinion, he blazed up with honest indignation and
defended religion with all the eloquence of truth--an elo-
quence which made his broken English musical and his plain
face beautiful.  He had a hard fight, for the wise men argued
well, but he didn't know when he was beaten and stood to his
colors like a man.  Somehow, as he talked, the world got
right again to Jo.  The old beliefs, that had lasted so long,
seemed better than the new.  God was not a blind force, and
immortality was not a pretty fable, but a blessed fact. She
felt as if she had solid ground under her feet again, and
when Mr. Bhaer paused, outtalked but not one whit convinced,
Jo wanted to clap her hands and thank him.

     She did neither, but she remembered the scene, and gave
the Professor her heartiest respect, for she knew it cost him
an effort to speak out then and there, because his conscience
would not let him be silent.  She began to see that character
is a better possession than money, rank, intellect, or beauty,
and to feel that if greatness is what a wise man has defined
it to be, `truth, reverence, and good will', then her friend
friedrich Bhaer was not only good, but great.

     This belief strengthened daily.  She valued his esteem,
she coveted his respect, she wanted to be worthy of his friend-
ship, and just when the wish was sincerest, she came near to
losing everything.  It all grew out of a cocked hat, for one
evening the Professor came in to give Jo her lesson with a
paper soldier cap on his head, which Tina had put there and
he had forgotten to take off.

     "It's evident he doesn't look in his glass before coming
down," thought Jo, with a smile, as he said "Goot efening,"
and sat soberly down, quite unconscious of the ludicrous
contrast between his subject and his headgear, for he was
going to read her the DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN.

     She said nothing at first, for she liked to hear him laugh
out his big, hearty laugh when anything funny happened, so she
left him to discover it for himself, and presently forgot all
about it, for to hear a German read Schiller is rather an ab-
sorbing occupation.  After the reading came the lesson, which
was a lively one, for Jo was in a gay mood that night, and
the cocked hat kept her eyes dancing with merriment.   The
Professor didn't know what to make of her, and stopped at
last to ask with an air of mild surprise that was irre-
sistible . . .

     "Mees Marsch, for what do you laugh in your master's
face?  Haf you no respect for me, that you go on so bad?"

     "How can I be respectful, Sir, when you forget to take
your hat off?" said Jo.

     Lifting his hand to his head, the absent-minded Professor
gravely felt and removed the little cocked hat, looked at it a
minute, and then threw back his head and laughed like a merry
bass viol.

     "Ah!  I see him now, it is that imp Tina who makes me a
fool with my cap.  Well,it is nothing, but see you, if this
lesson goes not well, you too shall wear him."

     But the lesson did not go at all for a few minutes be-
cause Mr. Bhaer caught sight of a picture on the hat, and
unfolding it, said with great disgust, "I wish these papers
did not come in the house.  They are not for children to see,
nor young people to read.  It is not well, and I haf no pat-
ience with those who make this harm."

     Jo glanced at the sheet and saw a pleasing illustration
composed of a lunatic, a corpse, a villian, and a viper. She
did not like it, but the impulse that made her turn it over
was not one of displeasure but fear, because for a minute
she fancied the paper was the VOLCANO.  It was not, however,
and her panic subsided as she remembered that even if it
had been and one of her own tales in it, there would have
been no name to betray her.  She had betrayed herself, how-
ever, by a look and a blush, for though an absent man, the
Professor saw a good deal more than people fancied.  He
knew that Jo wrote, and had met her down among the news-
paper offices more than once, but as she never spoke of it,
he asked no questions in spite of a strong desire to see her
work.  Now it occurred to him that she was doing what she
was ashamed to own, and it troubled him.  He did not say to
himself, "It is none of my business.  I've no right to say
anything," as many people would have done.  He only remem-
bered that she was young and poor, a girl far away from
mother's love and father's care, and he was moved to help
her with an impulse as quick and natural as that which
would prompt him to put out his hand to save a baby from
a puddle.  All this flashed through his mind in a minute,
but not a trace of it appeared in his face, and by the
time the paper was turned, and Jo's needle threaded, he
was ready to say quite naturally, but very gravely . . .

     "Yes, you are right to put it from you.  I do not think
that good young girls should see such things.  They are made
pleasant to some, but I would more rather give my boys gun-
powder to play with than this bad trash."

     "All may not be bad, only silly, you know, and if there
is a demand for it, I don't see any harm in supplying it.
Many very respectable people make an honest living out of
what are called sensation stories," said Jo, scratching
gathers so energetically that a row of little slits followed
her pin.

     "There is a demand for whisky, but I think you and I do
not care to sell it.  If the respectable people knew what harm
they did, they would not feel that the living was honest. They
haf no right to put poison in the sugarplum, and let the small
ones eat it.  No, they should think a little, and sweep mud in
the street before they do this thing."

     Mr. Bhaer spoke warmly, and walked to the fire, crumpling
the paper in his hands.  Jo sat still, looking as if the fire
had come to her, for her cheeks burned long after the cocked
hat had turned to smoke and gone harmlessly up the chimney.

     "I should like much to send all the rest after him," mut-
tered the Professor, coming back with a relieved air.

     Jo thought what a blaze her pile of papers upstairs would
make, and her hard-earned money lay rather heavily on her con-
science at that minute.  Then she thought consolingly to her-
self, "Mine are not like that, they are only silly, never
bad, so I won't be worried," and taking up her book, she said,
with a studious face, "Shall we go on, Sir?  I'll be very
good and proper now."

     "I shall hope so," was all he said, but he meant more than
she imagined, and the grave, kind look he gave her made her
feel as if the words WEEKLY VOLCANO were printed in large
type on her forehead.

     As soon as she went to her room, she got out her papers,
and carefully reread every one of her stories.  Being a little
shortsighted, Mr. Bhaer sometimes used eye glasses, and Jo
had tried them once, smiling to see how they magnified the
fine print of her book.  Now she seemed to have on the Pro-
fessor's mental or moral spectacles also, for the faults of
these poor stories glared at her dreadfully and filled her
with dismay.

     "They are trash, and will soon be worse trash if I go
on, for each is more sensational than the last.  I've gone
blindly on, hurting myself and other people, for the sake of
money.  I know it's so, for I can't read this stuff in sober
earnest without being horribly ashamed of it, and what should
I do if they were seen at home or Mr. Bhaer got hold of them?"

     Jo turned hot at the bare idea, and stuffed the whole bun-
dle into her stove, nearly setting the chimney afire with the
blaze.

     "Yes, that's the best place for such inflammable nonsense.
I'd better burn the house down, I suppose, than let other
people blow themselves up with my gunpowder," she thought as
she watched the DEMON OF THE JURA whisk away, a little black
cinder with fiery eyes.

     But when nothing remained of all her three month's work
except a heap of ashes and the money in her lap, Jo looked
sober, as she sat on the floor, wondering what she ought to
do about her wages.

     "I think I haven't done much harm yet, and may keep this
to pay for my time," she said, after a long meditation, adding
impatiently, "I almost wish I hadn't any conscience, it's so
inconvenient.  If I didn't care about doing right, and didn't
feel uncomfortable when doing wrong, I should get on capitally.
I can't help wishing sometimes, that Mother and Father hadn't
been so particular about such things."

     Ah, Jo, instead of wishing that, thank God that `Father
and Mother were particular'. and pity from your heart those
who have no such guardians to hedge them round with prin-
ciples which may seem like prison walls to impatient youth,
but which will prove sure foundations to build character upon
in womanhood.

     Jo wrote no more sensational stories, deciding that the
money did not pay for her share of the sensation, but going
to the other extreme, as is the way with people of her stamp,
she took a course of Mrs. Sherwood, Miss Edgeworth, and Han-
nah More, and then produced a tale which might have been
more properly called an essay or a sermon, so intensely moral
was it.  She had her doubts about it from the beginning, for
her lively fancy and girlish romance felt as ill at ease in the
new style as she would have done masquerading in the stiff
and cumbrous costume of the last century.  She sent this di-
dactic gem to several markets, but it found no purchaser,
and she was inclined to agree with Mr. Dashwood that morals
didn't sell.

     Then she tried a child's story, which she could easily have
disposed of if she had not been mercenary enough to demand filthy
lucre for it.  The only person who offered enough to make it
worth her while to try juvenile literature was a worthy gentle-
man who felt it his mission to convert all the world to his
particular belief.  But much as she liked to write for child-
ren, Jo could not consent to depict all her naughty boys as
being eaten by bears or tossed by mad bulls because they did
not go to a particular Sabbath school, nor all the good infants
who did go as rewarded by every kind of bliss, from gilded
gingerbread to escorts of angels when they departed this life
with psalms or sermons on their lisping tongues.  So nothing
came of these trials, land Jo corked up her inkstand, and
said in a fit of very wholesome humility . . .

     "I don't know anything.  I'll wait until I do before I try
again, and meantime, `sweep mud in the street' if I can't do
better, that's honest, at least."  Which decision proved that
her second tumble down the beanstalk had done her some good.

     While these internal revolutions were going on, her ex-
ternal life had been as busy and uneventful as usual, and if
she sometimes looked serious or a little sad no one observed
it but Professor Bhaer.  He did it so quietly that Jo never
knew he was watching to see if she would accept and profit by
his reproof, but she stood the test, and he was satisfied, for
though no words passed between them, he knew that she had
given up writing.  Not only did he guess it by the fact that
the second finger of her right hand was no longer inky, but
she spent her evenings downstairs now, was met no more among
newspaper offices, and studied with a dogged patience, which
assured him that she was bent on occupying her mind with
something useful, if not pleasant.

     He helped her in many ways, proving himself a true friend,
and Jo was happy, for while her pen lay idle, she was learning
other lessons besides German, and laying a foundation for the
sensation story of her own life.

     It was a pleasant winter and a long one, for she did not
leave Mrs. Kirke till June.  Everyone seemed sorry when the time
came.  The children were inconsolable, and Mr. Bhaer's hair
stuck straight up all over his head, for he always rumpled it
wildly when disturbed in mind.

     "Going home?  Ah, you are happy that you haf a home to go
in," he said, when she told him, and sat silently pulling his
beard in the corner, while she held a little levee on that last
evening.

     She was going early, so she bade them all goodbye overnight,
and when his turn came, she said warmly, "Now, Sir, you won't
forget to come and see us, if you ever travel our way, will you?
I'll never forgive you if you do, for I want them all to know my
friend."

     "Do you?  Shall I come?" he asked, looking down at her with
an eager expression which she did not see.

     "Yes, come next month.  Laurie graduates then, and you'd
enjoy commencement as something new."

     "That is your best friend, of whom you speak?" he said in
an altered tone.

     "Yes, my boy Teddy.  I'm very proud of him and should like
you to see him."

     Jo looked up then, quite unconscious of anything but her
own pleasure in the prospect of showing them to one another.
Something in Mr. Bhaer's face suddenly recalled the fact that
she might find Laurie more than a `best friend', and simply
because she particularly wished not to look as if anything was
the matter, she involuntarily began to blush, and the more she
tried not to, the redder she grew.  If it had not been for Tina
on her knee.  She didn't know what would have become of her.
Fortunately the child was moved to hug her, so she managed to
hide her face an instant, hoping the Professor did not see it.
But he did, and his own changed again from that momentary anx-
iety to its usual expression, as he said cordially . . .

     "I fear I shall not make the time for that, but I wish the
friend much success, and you all happiness.  Gott bless you!" And
with that, he shook hands warmly, shouldered Tina, and went away.

     But after the boys were abed, he sat long before his fire
with the tired look on his face and the `heimweh', or home-
sickness, lying heavy at his heart.  Once, when he remembered
Jo as she sat with the little child in her lap and that new
softness in her face, he leaned his head on his hands a minute,
and then roamed about the room, as if in search of something
that he could not find.

     "It is not for me, I must not hope it now," he said to him-
self, with a sigh that was almost a groan.  Then, as if reproach-
ing himself for the longing that he could not repress, he went
and kissed the two tousled heads upon the pillow, took down his
seldom-used meerschaum, and opened his Plato.

     He did his best and did it manfully, but I don't think he
found that a pair of rampant boys, a pipe, or even the divine
Plato, were very satisfactory substitutes for wife and child
at home.

     Early as it was, he was at the station next morning to see
Jo off, and thanks to him, she began her solitary journey with
the pleasant memory of a familiar face smiling its farewell, a
bunch of violets to keep her company, and best of all, the happy
thought, "Well, the winter's gone, and I've written no books,
earned no fortune, but I've made a friend worth having and I'll
try to keep him all my life."


                    CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

     Whatever his motive might have been, Laurie studied to
some purpose that year, for he graduated with honor, and
gave the Latin oration with the grace of a Phillips and the
eloquence of a Demosthenes, so his friends said.  They were
all there, his grandfather--oh, so proud--Mr. and Mrs. March,
John and Meg, Jo and Beth, and all exulted over him with the
sincere admiration which boys make light of at the time, but
fail to win from the world by any after-triumphs.

     "I've got to stay for this confounded supper, but I shall
be home early tomorrow.  You'll come and meet me as usual,
girls?" Laurie said, as he put the sisters into the carriage
after the joys of the day were over.  He said `girls', but he
meant Jo, for she was the only one who kept up the old custom.
She had not the heart to refuse her splendid, successful boy
anything, and answered warmly . . .

     "I'll come, Teddy, rain or shine, and march before you,
playing `Hail the conquering hero comes' on a jew's-harp."

     Laurie thanked her with a look that made her think in a
sudden panic, "Oh, deary me!  I know he'll say something, and
then what shall I do?"

     Evening meditation and morning work somewhat allayed her
fears, and having decided that she wouldn't be vain enough
to think people were going to propose when she had given them
every reason to know what her answer would be, she set forth
at the appointed time, hoping Teddy wouldn't do anything to
make her hurt his poor feelings.  A call at Meg's, and a
refreshing sniff and sip at the Daisy and Demijohn, still
further fortified her for the tete-a-tete, but when she saw
a stalwart figure looming in the distance, she had a strong
desire to turn about and run away.

     "Where's the jew's-harp, Jo?" cried Laurie, as soon as
he was within speaking distance.

     "I forgot it." And Jo took heart again, for that salutation
could not be called loverlike.

     She always used to take his arm on these occasions, now
she did not, and he made no complaint, which was a bad sign,
but talked on rapidly about all sorts of faraway subjects,
till they turned from the road into the little path that led
homeward through the grove.  Then he walked more slowly, sudd-
enly lost his fine flow of language, and now and then a dread-
ful pause occurred.  To rescue the conversation from one of
the wells of silence into which it kept falling, Jo said
hastily, "Now you must have a good long holiday!"

     "I intend to."

     Something in his resolute tone made Jo look up quickly to
find him looking down at her with an expression that assured
her the dreaded moment had come, and made her put out her hand
with an imploring, "No, Teddy.  Please don't!"

     "I will, and you must hear me.  It's no use, Jo, we've got
to have it out, and the sooner the better for both of us," he
answered, getting flushed and excited all at once.

     "Say what you like then.  I'll listen," said Jo, with a
desperate sort of patience.

     Laurie was a young lover, but he was in earnest, and meant
to `have it out', if he died in the attempt, so he plunged into
the subject with characteristic impetuousity, saying in a voice
that would get choky now and then, in spite of manful efforts to
keep it steady . ..

     "I've loved you ever since I've known you, Jo, couldn't help
it, you've been so good to me.  I've tried to show it, but you
wouldn't let me. Now I'm going to make you hear, and give me an
answer, for I can't go on so any longer."

     "I wanted to save you this.  I thought you'd understand . . .
began Jo, finding it a great deal harder than she expected.

     "I know you did, but the girls are so queer you never know
what they mean.  They say no when they mean yes, and drive a
man out of his wits just for the fun of it," returned Laurie,
entrenching himself behind an undeniable fact.

     "I don't. I never wanted to make you care for me so, and
I went away to keep you from it if I could."

     "I thought so.  It was like you, but it was no use.  I
only loved you all the more, and I worked hard to please you,
and I gave up billiards and everything you didn't like, and
waited and never complained, for I hoped you'd love me, though
I'm not half good enough . . ." Here there was a choke that
couldn't be controlled, so he decapitated buttercups while he
cleared his `confounded throat'.

     "You, you are, you're a great deal too good for me, and
I'm so grateful to you, and so proud and fond of you, I don't
know why I can't love you as you want me to.  I've tried, but
I can't change the feeling, and it would be a lie to say I do
when I don't."

     "Really, truly, Jo?"

     He stopped short, and caught both her hands as he put
his question with a look that she did not soon forget.

     "Really, truly, dear.""

     They were in the grove now, close by the stile, and when
the last words fell reluctantly from Jo's lips, Laurie dropped
her hands and turned as if to go on, but for once in his life
the fence was too much for him.  So he just laid his head down
on the mossy post, and stood so still that Jo was frightened.

     "Oh, Teddy, I'm sorry, so desperately sorry, I could kill
myself if it would do any good!  I wish you wouldn't take it
so hard, I can't help it.  You know it's impossible for people
to make themselves love other people if they don't," cried Jo
inelegantly but remorsefully, as she softly patted his shoul-
der, remembering the time when he had comforted her so long
ago.

     "They do sometimes," said a muffled voice from the post.

     "I don't believe it's the right sort of love, and I'd
rather not try it," was the decided answer.

     There was a long pause, while a blackbird sung blithely on
the willow by the river, and the tall grass rustled in the wind.
Presently Jo said very soberly, as she sat down on the step of
the stile, "Laurie, I want to tell you something."

     He started as if he had been shot, threw up his head, and
cried out in a fierce tone, "Don't tell me that, Jo, I can't bear
it now!"

     "Tell what?" she asked, wondering at his violence.

     "That you love that old man."

     "What old man?"  demanded Jo, thinking he must mean his
grandfather.

     "That devilish Professor you were always writing about.
If you say you love him, I know I shall do something desper-
ate." And he looked as if he would keep his word, as he clenched
his hands with a wrathful spark in his eyes.

     Jo wanted to laugh, but restrained herself and said warmly,
for she too, was getting excited with all this, "Don't swear,
Teddy!  He isn't old, nor anything bad, but good and kind, and
the best friend I've got, next to you.  Pray, don't fly into
a passion.  I want to be kind, but I know I shall get angry if
you abuse my Professor.  I haven't the least idea of loving
him or anybody else."

     "But you will after a while, and then what will become of
me?"

     "You'll love someone else too, like a sensible boy, and
forget all this trouble."

     "I can't love anyone else, and I'll never forget you, Jo,
Never! Never!"  with a stamp to emphasize his passionate words.

     "What shall I do with him?" sighed Jo, finding that emotions
were more unmanagable than she expected.  "You haven't heard
what I wanted to tell you.  Sit down and listen, for indeed I
want to do right and make you happy," she said, hoping to soothe
him with a little reason, which proved that she knew nothing
about love.

     Seeing a ray of hope in that last speech, Laurie threw him-
self down on the grass at her feet, leaned his arm on the lower
step of the stile, and looked up at her with an expectant face.
Now that arrangement was not conducive to calm speech or clear
thought on Jo's part, for how could she say hard things to her
boy while he watched her with eyes full of love and longing,
and lashes still wet with the bitter drop or two her hardness
of heart had wrung from him?  She gently turned his head away,
saying, as she stroked the wavy hair which had been allowed to
grow for her sake--how touching that was, to be sure!

     "I agree with Mother that you and I are not suited to each
other, because our quick tempers and strong wills would prob-
ably make us very miserable, if we were so foolish as to . . ."
Jo paused a little over the last word, but Laurie uttered it
with a rapturous expression.

     "Marry--no we shouldn't!  If you loved me, Jo, I should
be a perfect saint, for you could make me anything you like."

     "No, I can't.  I've tried and failed, and I won't risk
our happiness by such a serious experiment.  We don't agree and
we never shall, so we'll be good friends all our lives, but we
won't go and do anything rash."

     "Yes, we will if we get the chance," muttered Laurie re-
belliously.

     "Now do be reasonable, and take a sensible view of the
case," implored Jo, almost at her wit's end.

     "I won't be reasonable.  I don't want to take what you
call `a sensible view'. It won't help me, and it only makes
it harder.  I don't believe you've got any heart."

     "I wish I hadn't."

     There was a little quiver in Jo's voice, and thinking it a
good omen, Laurie turned round, bringing all his persuasive
powers to bear as he said, in the wheedlesome tone that had
never been so dangerously wheedlesome before, "Don't disappoint
us, dear!  Everyone expects it.  Grandpa has set his heart upon
it, your people like it, and I can't get on without you.  Say
you will, and let's be happy.  Do, do!"

     Not until months afterward did Jo understand how she had
the strength of mind to hold fast to the resolution she had
made when she decided that she did not love her boy, and
never could.  It was very hard to do, but she did it, knowing
that delay was both useless and cruel.

     "I can't say `yes' truly, so I won't say it at all.  You'll
see that I'm right, by-and-by, and thank me for it . . ." she
began solemnly.

     "I'll be hanged if I do!" And Laurie  bounced up off the
grass, burning with indignation at the very idea.

     "Yes, you will!" persisted Jo.  "You'll get over this after
a while, and find some lovely accomplished girl, who will adore
you, and make a fine mistress for your fine house.  I shouldn't.
I'm homely and awkward and odd and old, and you'd be ashamed
of me, and we should quarrel--we can't help it even now, you see--
and I shouldn't like elegant society and you would, and you'd
hate my scribbling, and I couldn't get on without it, and we
should be unhappy, and wish we hadn't done it, and everything
would be horrid!"

     "Anything more?" asked asked Laurie, finding it hard to
listen patiently to this prophetic burst.

     "Nothing more, except that I don't believe I shall ever
marry.  I'm happy as I am, and love my liberty too well to
be in a hurry to give it up for any mortal man."

     "I know better!" broke in Laurie.  "You think so now,
but there'll come a time when you will care for somebody, and
you'll love him tremendously, and live and die for him.  I
know you will, it's your way, and I shall have to stand by
and see it."  And the despairing lover cast his hat upon the
ground with a gesture that would have seemed comical, if his
face had not been so tragic.

     "Yes, I will live and die for him, if her ever comes and
makes me love him in spite of myself, and you must do the best
you can!" cried Jo, losing patience with poor Teddy.  "I've
done my best, but you won't be reasonable, and it's selfish
of you to keep teasing for what I can't give.  I shall always
be fond of you, very fond indeed, as a friend, but I'll never
marry you, and the sooner you believe it the better for both
of us--so now!"

     That speech was like gunpowder.  Laurie looked at her a
minute as if he did not quite know what to do with himself,
then turned sharply away, saying in a desperate sort of tone,
"You'll be sorry some day, Jo."

     "Oh, where are you going?" she cried, for his face fright-
ened her.

     "To the devil!" was the consoling answer.

     For a minute Jo's heart stood still, as he swung himself
down the bank toward the river, but it takes much folly, sin
or misery to send a young man to a violent death, and Laurie
was not one of the weak sort who are conquered by a single
failure.  He had no thought of a melodramatic plunge, but
some blind instinct led him to fling hat and coat into his boat,
and row away with all his might, making better time up the
river than he had done in any race.  Jo drew a long breath and
unclasped her hands as she watched the poor fellow trying to
outstrip the trouble which he carried in his heart.

     "That will do him good, and he'll come home in such a
tender, penitent state of mind, that I shan't dare to see him."
she said, adding, as she went slowly home, feeling as if she
had murdered some innocent thing, and buried it under the
leaves.  "Now I must go and prepare Mr. Laurence to be very
kind to my poor boy.  I wish he'd love Beth, perhaps he may
in time, but I begin to think I was mistaken about her.  Oh
dear!  How can girls like to have lovers and refuse them?  I
think it's dreadful."

     Being sure that no one could do it so well as herself, she
went straight to Mr. Laurence, told the hard story bravely
through, and then broke down, crying so dismally over her own
insensibility that the kind old gentleman, though sorely dis-
appointed, did not utter a reproach.  He found it difficult
to understand how any girl could help loving Laurie, and hoped
she would change her mind, but he knew even better than Jo
that love cannot be forced, so he shook his head sadly and
resolved to carry his boy out of harm's way, for Young Im-
petuosity's parting words to Jo disturbed him more than he
would confess.

     When Laurie came home, dead tired but quite composed, his
grandfather met him as if he knew nothing, and kept up the
delusion very successfully for an hour or two.  But when they
sat together in the twilight, the time they used to enjoy so
much, it was hard work for the old man to ramble on as usual,
and harder still for the young one to listen to praises of
the last year's success, which to him now seemed like love's
labor lost.  He bore it as long as he could, then went to
his piano and began to play.  The window's were open, and Jo,
walking in the garden with Beth, for once understood music
better than her sister, for he played the `SONATA PATHETIQUE',
and played it as he never did before.

     "That's very fine, I dare say, but it's sad enough to make
one cry.  Give us something gayer, lad," said Mr. Laurence,
whose kind old heart was full of sympathy, which he longed to
show but knew not how.

     Laurie dashed into a livelier strain, played stormily for
several minutes, and would have got through bravely, if in a
momentary lull Mrs. March's voice had not been heard calling,
"Jo, dear, come in.  I want you."

     Just what Laurie longed to say, with a different meaning!
As he listened, he lost his place, the music ended with a broken
chord, and the musician sat silent in the dark.

     "I can't stand this," muttered the old gentleman. Up he
got, groped his way to the piano, laid a kind hand on either
of the broad shoulders, and said, as gently as a woman, "I
know, my boy, I know."

     No answer for an instant, then Laurie asked sharply, "Who
told you?"

     "Jo herself."

     "Then there's an end of it!"  And he shook off his grand-
father's hands with an impatient motion, for though grateful
for the sympathy, his man's pride could not bear a man's pity.

     "Not quite.  I want to say one thing, and then there shall
be an end of it," returned Mr. Laurence with unusual mildness.
"You won't care to stay at home now, perhaps?"

     "I don't intend to run away from a girl.  Jo can't prevent
my seeing her, and I shall stay and do it as long as I like,"
interrupted Laurie in a defiant tone.

     "Not if you are the gentleman I think you.  I'm disap-
pointed, but the girl can't help it, and the only thing left
for you to do is to go away for a time.  Where will you go?"

     "Anywhere.  I don't care what becomes of me."  And Laurie
got up with a reckless laugh that grated on his grandfather's
ear.

     "Take it like a man, and don't do anything rash, for God's
sake.  Why not go abroad, as you planned, and forget it?"

     "I can't."

     "But you've been wild to go, and I promised you should
when you got through college."

     "Ah, but I didn't mean to go alone!"  And Laurie walked
fast through the room with an expression which it was well
his grandfather did not see.

     "I don't ask you to go alone.  There's someone ready and
glad to go with you, anywhere in the world."

     "Who, Sir?'  stopping to listen.

     "Myself."

     Laurie came back as quickly as he went, and put out his
hand, saying huskily, "I'm a selfish brute, but--you know--
Grandfather--"

     "Lord help me, yes, I do know, for I've been through it all
before, once in my own young days, and then with your father.
Now, my dear boy, just sit quietly down and hear my plan.  It's
all settled, and can be carried out at once," said Mr. Laurence,
keeping hold of the young man, as if fearful that he would break
away as his father had done before him.

     "Well, sir, what is it?"  And Laurie sat down, without a
sign of interest in face or voice.

     "There is business in London that needs looking after.  I
meant you should attend to it, but I can do it better myself,
and things here will get on very well with Brooke to manage
them.  My partners do almost everything, I'm merely holding
on until you take my place, and can be off at any time."

     "But you hate traveling, Sir.  I can't ask it of you at
your age," began Laurie, who was grateful for the sacrifice,
but much preferred to go alone, if he went at all.

     The old gentleman knew that perfectly well, and particu-
larly desired to prevent it, for the mood in which he found his
grandson assured him that it would not be wise to leave him to
his own devices.  So, stifling a natural regret at the thought
of the home comforts he would leave behind him, he said stoutly,
Bless your soul, I'm not superannuated yet.  I quite enjoy the
idea.  It will do me good, and my old bones won't suffer, for
traveling nowadays is almost as easy as sitting in a chair."

     A restless movement from Laurie suggested that his chair
was not easy, or that he did not like the plan, and made the
old man add hastily, "I don't mean to be a marplot or a bur-
den.  I go because I think you'd feel happier than if I was
left behind.  I don't intend to gad about with you, but leave
you free to go where you like, while I amuse myself in my own
way.  I've friends in London and Paris, and should like to
visit them.  Meantime you can go to Italy, Germany, Switzer-
land, where you will, and enjoy pictures, music, scenery,
and adventures to your heart's content."

     Now, Laurie felt just then that his heart was entirely
broken and the world a howling wilderness, but at the sound
of certain words which the old gentleman artfully introduced
into his closing sentence, the broken heart gave an unexpected
leap, and a green oasis or two suddenly appeared in the howling
wilderness. He sighed, and then said, in a spiritless tone,
"Just as you like, Sir.  It doesn't matter where I go or what
I do."

     "It does to me, remember that, my lad.  I give you entire
liberty, but I trust you to make an honest use of it.  Promise
me that, Laurie."

     "Anything you like, Sir."

     "Good," thought the old gentleman.  "You don't care now,
but there'll come a time when that promise will keep you out
of mischief, or I'm much mistaken."

     Being an energetic individual, Mr. Laurence struck while
the iron was hot, and before the blighted being recovered spirit
enough to rebel, they were off.  During the time necessary for
preparation, Laurie bore himself as young gentleman usually do
in such cases.  He was moody, irritable, and pensive by turns,
lost his appetite, neglected his dress and devoted much time
to playing tempestuously on his piano, avoided Jo, but con-
soled himself by staring at her from his window, with a tragic
face that haunted her dreams by night and oppressed her with a
heavy sense of guilt by day.  Unlike some sufferers, he never
spoke of his unrequited passion, and would allow no one, not
even Mrs. March, to attempt consolation or offer sympathy.  On
some accounts, this was a relief to his friends, but the weeks
before his departure were very uncomfortable, and everyone re-
joiced that the `poor, dear fellow was going away to forget his
trouble, and come home happy'.  Of course, he smiled darkly at
their delusion, but passed it by with the sad superiority of
one who knew that his fidelity like his love was unalterable.

     When the parting came he affected high spirits, to conceal
certain inconvenient emotions which seemed inclined to assert
themselves.  This gaiety did not impose upon anybody, but they
tried to look as if it did for his sake, and he got on very well
till Mrs. March kissed him, whit a whisper full of motherly
solicitude.  Then feeling that he was going very fast, he hastily
embraced them all round, not forgetting the afflicted Hannah, and
ran downstairs as if for his life.  Jo followed a minute after to
wave her hand to him if he looked round.  He did look round, came
back, put his arms about her as she stood on the step above him,
and looked up at her with a face that made his short appeal elo-
quent and pathetic.

     "Oh, Jo, can't you?"

     "Teddy, dear, I wish I could!"

     That was all, except a little pause.  Then Laurie straightened
himself up, said, "It's all right, never mind," and went away with-
out another word.  Ah, but it wasn't all right, and Jo did mind, for
while the curly head lay on her arm a minute after her hard answer,
she felt as if she had stabbed her dearest friend, and when he left
her without a look behind him, she knew that the boy Laurie never
would come again.


                     CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

     When Jo came home that spring, she had been struck with
the change in Beth.  No one spoke of it or seemed aware of it,
for it had come too gradually to startle those who saw her
daily, but to eyes sharpened by absence, it was very plain and
a heavy weight fell on Jo's heart as she saw her sister's face.
It was no paler and but littler thinner than in the autumn, yet
there was a strange, transparent look about it, as if the mortal
was being slowly refined away, and the immortal shining through
the frail flesh with an indescribably pathetic beauty.  Jo saw
and felt it, but said nothing at the time, and soon the first
impression lost much of its power, for Beth seemed happy, no
one appeared to doubt that she was better, and presently in
other cares Jo fora time forgot her fear.

     But when Laurie was gone, and peace prevailed again, the
vague anxiety returned and haunted her.  She had confessed
her sins and been forgiven, but when she showed her savings
and proposed a mountain trip, Beth had thanked her heartily,
but begged not to go so far away from home.  Another little
visit to the seashore would suit her better, and as Grandma
could not be prevailed upon to leave the babies, Jo took Beth
down to the quiet place, where she could live much in the
open air, and let the fresh sea breezes blow a little color
into her pale cheeks.

     It was not a fashionable place, but even among the pleasant
people there, the girls made few friends, preferring to live for
one another.  Beth was too shy to enjoy society, and Jo too
wrapped up in her to care for anyone else.  So they were all in
all to each other, and came and went, quite unconscious of the
interest they exited in those about them, who watched with sym-
pathetic eyes the strong sister and the feeble one, always
together, as if they felt instinctively that a long separation
was not far away.

     They did feel it, yet neither spoke of it, for often between
ourselves and those nearest and dearest to us there exists a re-
serve which it is very hard to overcome. Jo felt as if a veil
had fallen between her heart and Beth's, but when she put out
her hand to lift it up, there seemed something sacred in the
silence, and she waited for Beth to speak. She wondered, and
was thankful also, that her parents did not seem to see what
she saw, and during the quiet weeks when the shadows grew so
plain to her, she said nothing of it to those at home, be-
lieving that it would tell itself when Beth came back no better.
She wondered still more if her sister really guessed the hard
truth, and what thoughts were passing through her mind during
the long hours when she lay on the warm rocks with her head in
Jo's lap, while the winds blew healthfully over her and the sea
made music at her feet.

    One day Beth told her.  Jo thought she was asleep, she lay
so still, and putting down her book, sat looking at her with
wistful eyes, trying to see signs of hope in the faint color on
Beth's cheeks.  But she could not find enough to satisfy her,
for the cheeks were very thin, and the hands seemed too feeble
to hold even the rosy little shells they had been collecting.
It came to her then more bitterly than ever that Beth was
slowly drifting away form her, and her arms instinctively
tightened their hold upon the dearest treasure she possessed.
For a minute her eyes were too dim for seeing, and when they
cleared, Beth was looking up at her so tenderly that there was
hardly any need for her to say, "Jo, dear, I'm glad you know
it.  I've tried to tell you, but I couldn't."

     There was no answer except her sister's cheek against her
own, not even tears, for when most deeply moved, Jo did not
cry.  She was the weaker then,land Beth tried to comfort and
sustain her, with her arms about her and the soothing words
she whispered in her ear.

     "I've known it for a good while, dear, and now I'm used
to it, it isn't hard to think of or to bear.  Try to see it so
and don't be troubled about me, because it's best, indeed it is."

     "Is this what made you so unhappy in the autumn, Beth? You
did not feel it then, land keep it to yourself so long, did you?"
asked Jo, refusing to see or say that it was best, but glad to
know that Laurie had no part in Beth's trouble.

     "Yes, I gave up hoping then, but I didn't like to own it.
I tried to think it was a sick fancy, and would not let it
trouble anyone.  But when I saw you all so well and strong and
full of happy plans, it was hard to feel that I could never be
like you, and then I was miserable, Jo."

     "Oh, Beth, and you didn't tell me, didn't let me comfort and
help you?  How could you shut me out, bear it all alone?"

     Jo's  voice was full of tender reproach, and her heart ached
to think of the solitary struggle that must have gone on while
Beth learned to say goodbye to health, love, and live, and take
up her cross so cheerfully.

     "Perhaps it was wrong, but I tried to do right. I wasn't sure,
no one said anything, and I hoped I was mistaken.  It would have
been selfish to frighten you all when Marmee was so anxious about
Meg, and Amy away, and you so happy with Laurie--at least I thought
so then."

     "And I thought you loved him, Beth, and I went away because
I couldn't," cried Jo, glad to say all the truth.

     Beth looked so amazed at the idea that Jo smiled in spite
of her pain, and added softly, "Then you didn't, dearie? I was
afraid it was so, and imagined your poor little heart full of
lovelornity all that while."

     "Why, Jo, how could I, when he was so fond of you?"  asked
Beth, as innocently as a child.  "I do love him dearly.  He is
so good to me, how can I help It?  But he could never be anything
to me but my brother.  I hope he truly will be, sometime."

     "Not through me," said Jo decidedly. "Amy is left for him,
and they would suit excellently, but I have no heart for such
things, now.  I don't care what becomes of anybody but you, Beth.
You must get well."

     "I want to, oh, so much!  I try, but every day I lose a little,
and feel more sure that I shall never gain it back.  It's like the
tide, Jo, when it turns, it goes slowly, but it can't be stopped.."

     "It shall be stopped, your tide must not turn so soon, nine-
teen is too young, Beth. I can't let you go. I'll work and pray
and fight against it. I'll keep you in spite of everything. There
must be ways, it can't be too late.  God won't be so cruel as to
take you from me," cried poor Jo rebelliously, for her spirit was
far less piously submissive than Beth's.

     Simple, sincere people seldom speak much of their piety. It
shows itself in acts rather than in words, and has more influence
than homilies or protestations.  Beth could not reason upon or
explain the faith that gave her courage and patience to give up
life, and cheerfully wait for death. Like a confiding child, she
asked no questions, but left everything to God and nature, Father
and Mother of us all, feeling sure that they, and they only,
could teach and strengthen heart and spirit for this life and
the life to come.  She did not rebuke Jo with saintly speeches,
only loved her better for her passionate affection, and clung
more closely to the dear human love, from which our Father never
means us to be weaned, but through which He draws us closer to
Himself. She could not say, "I'm glad to go," for life was very
sweet for her.  She could only sob out, "I try to be willing,"
while she held fast to Jo, as the first bitter wave of this
great sorrow broke over them together.

     By and by Beth said, with recovered serenity, "You'll tell
them this when we go home?"

     "I think they will see it without words," sighed Jo, for now
it seemed to her that Beth changed every day.

     "Perhaps not.  I've heard that the people who love best are
often blindest to such things. If they don't see it, you will tell
them for me.  I don't want any secrets, and it's kinder to prepare
them.  Meg has John and the babies to comfort her, but you must
stand by Father and Mother, won't you Jo?"

     "If I can.  But, Beth, I don't give up yet.  I'm going to be-
lieve that it is a sick fancy, and not let you think it's true."
said Jo, trying to speak cheerfully.

     Beth lay a minute thinking, and then said in her quiet way,
"I don't know how to express myself, and shouldn't try to anyone
but you, because I can't speak out except to my Jo.  I only mean
to say that I have a feeling that it never was intended I should
live long.  I'm not like the rest of you.  I never made any plans
about what I'd do when I grew up.  I never thought of being marr-
ied, as you all did.  I couldn't seem to imagine myself anything
but stupid little Beth, trotting about at home, of no use anywhere
but there. I never wanted to go away, and the hard part now is
the leaving you all.  I'm not afraid, but it seems as if I should
be homesick for you even in heaven."

     Jo could not speak, and for several minutes there was no
sound but the sigh of the wind and the lapping of the tide.  A
white-winged gull flew by, with the flash of sunshine on its
silvery breast.  Beth watched it till it vanished, and her eyes
were full of sadness.  A little gray-coated sand bird came trip-
ping over the beach `peeping' softly to itself, as if enjoying
the sun and sea.  It came quite close to Beth, and looked at her
with a friendly eye and sat upon a warm stone, dressing its wet
feathers, quite at home.  Beth smiled and felt comforted, for
the tiny thing seemed to offer its small friendship and remind
her that a pleasant world was still to be enjoyed.

     "Dear little bird!  See, Jo, how tame it is.  I like peeps
better than the gulls.  They are not so wild and handsome, but
they seem happy, confiding little things.  I used to call them
my birds last summer, and Mother said they reminded her of me
--busy, quaker-colored creatures, always near the shore, and
always chirping that contented little song of theirs. You are
the gull, Jo, strong and wild, fond of the storm and the wind,
flying far out to sea, and happy all alone.  Meg is the turtle-
dove, and Amy is like the lark she write about, trying to get
up among the clouds, but always dropping down into its nest
again.  Dear little girl!  She's so ambitious, but her heart is
good and tender, and no matter how high she flies, she never
will forget home.  I hope I shall see her again, but she seems
so far away."

     "She is coming in the spring, and I mean that you shall be
all ready to see and enjoy her.  I'm going to have you well and
rosy by that time." began Jo, feeling that of all the changes
in Beth, the talking change was the greatest, for it seemed to
cost no effort now, and she thought aloud in a way quite unlike
bashful Beth.

     "Jo, dear, don't hope any more.  It won't do any good.  I'm
sure of that.  We won't be miserable, but enjoy being together
while we wait.  We'll have happy times, for I don't suffer much,
and I think the tide will go out easily, if you help me."

     Jo leaned down to kiss the tranquil face, and with that
silent kiss, she dedicated herself soul and body to Beth.

     She was right.  There was no need of any words when they
got home, for Father and Mother saw plainly now what they had
prayed to be saved from seeing.  Tired with her short journey,
Beth went at once to bed, saying how glad she was to be home,
and when Jo went down, she found that she would be spared the
hard task of telling Beth's secret.  Her father stood leaning
his head on the mantelpiece and did not turn as she came in,
but her mother stretched out her arms as if for help, and Jo
went to comfort her without a word.


               CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

     At three o'clock in the afternoon, all the fashionable world
at Nice may be seen on the Promenade des Anglais--a charming place,
for the wide walk, bordered with palms, flowers, and tropical shrubs,
is bounded on one side by the sea, on the other by the grand drive,
lined with hotels and villas, while beyond lie orange orchards and
the hills.  Many nations are represented, many languages spoken, many
costumes worn, and on a sunny day the spectacle is as gay and brill-
iant as a carnival.  Haughty English, lively French, sober Germans,
handsome Spaniards, ugly Russians, meek Jews, free-and-easy Americans,
all drive,sit, or saunter here, chatting over the news, and criti-
czing the latest celebrity who has arrived--Ristori or Dickens, Victor
Emmanuel or the Queen of the Sandwich Islands. The equipages are as
varied as the company and attract as much attention, especially the
low basket barouches in which ladies drive themselves, with a pair
of dashing ponies, gay nets to keep their voluminous  flounces from
overflowing the diminutive vehicles, and little grooms on the perch
behind.

     Along this walk, on Christmas Day, a tall young man walked
slowly, with his hands behind him, and a somewhat absent expression
of countenance.  He looked like an Italian, was dressed like an
Englishman, and had the independent air of an American--a combi-
nation which caused sundry pairs of feminine eyes to look approv-
ingly after him, and sundry dandies in black velvet suits, with
rose-colored neckties, buff gloves, and orange flowers in their
buttonholes, to shrug their shoulders, and then envy him his inches.
There were plenty of pretty faces to admire, but the young man took
little notice of them, except to glance now and then at some blonde
girl in blue.  Presently he strolled out of the promenade and
stood a moment at the crossing, as if undecided whether to go and
listen to the band in the Jardin Publique, or to wander along the
beach toward Castle Hill.  The quick trot of ponies feet made him
look up, as one of the little carriages, containing a single
young lady, came rapidly down the street.  The lady was young,
blonde, and dressed in blue.  He stared a minute, then his whole
face woke up, and, waving his hat like a boy, he hurried forward
to meet her.

     "Oh, Laurie, is it really you?  I thought you'd never come!"
cried Amy, dropping the reins and holding out both hands, to the
great scandalization of a French mamma, who hastened her daughter's
steps, lest she should be demoralized by beholding the free manners
of these `mad English'.

     "I was detained by the way, but I promised to spend Christmas
with you, and here I am."

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

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

     "I have so much to say, I don't know where to begin!  Get
in and we can talk at our ease.  I was going for a drive and
longing for company.  Flo's saving up for tonight."

     "What happens then, a ball?"

     "A Christmas party at out hotel.  There are many Americans
there, and they give it in honor of the day.  You'll go with us,
of course?  Aunt will be charmed."

     "Thank you.  Where now?" asked Laurie, leaning back and
folding his arms, a proceeding which suited Amy, who preferred
to drive, for her parasol whip and blue reins over the white
ponies backs afforded her infinite satisfaction.

     "I'm going to the bankers first for letters, and then to
Castle Hill.  The view is so lovely, and I like to feed the pea-
cocks.  Have you ever been there?"

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

     "Now tell me all about yourself.  The last I heard of you,
your grandfather wrote that he expected you from Berlin."

     "Yes, I spent a month there and then joined him in Paris,
where he has settled for the winter.  He has friends there and
finds plenty to amuse him, so I go and come, and we got on cap-
itally."

     "That's a sociable arrangement," said Amy, missing something
in Laurie's manner, though she couldn't tell what.

     "Why, you see, he hates to travel, and I hate to keep still,
so we each suit ourselves, and there is no trouble.  I am often
with him, and he enjoys my adventures, while I like to feel that
someone is glad to see me when I get back from my wanderings. Dirty
old hole, isn't it?" he added, with a look of disgust as they drove
along the boulevard to the Place Napoleon in the old city.

     "The dirt is picturesque, so I don't mind.  The river and the
hills are delicious, and these glimpses of the narrow cross streets
are my delight.  Now we shall have to wait for that procession to
pass.  It's going to the Church of St. John."

     While Laurie listlessly watched the procession of priests
under their canopies, white-veiled nuns bearing lighted tapers,
and some brotherhood in blue chanting as they walked, Amy watched
him, and felt a new sort of shyness steal over her, for he was
changed,and she could not find the merry-faced boy she left in
the moody-looking man beside her.  He was handsomer than ever and
greatly improved, she thought, but now that the flush of pleasure
at meeting her was over, he  looked tired and spiritless--not sick,
nor exactly unhappy, but older and graver than a year or two of
prosperous life should have made him.  She couldn't understand it
and did not venture to ask questions, so she shook her head and
touched up her ponies, as the procession wound away across the
arches of the Paglioni bridge and vanished in the church.

     "Que pensez-vous?" she said, airing her French, which had
improved in quantity, if not in quality, since she came abroad.

     "That mademoiselle has made good use of her time, and the
result is charming," replied Laurie, bowing with his hand on
his heart and an admiring look.

     She blushed with pleasure, but somehow the compliment did
not satisfy her like the blunt praises he used to give her at
home, when he promenaded round her on festival occasions, and
tole her she was `altogether jolly', with a hearty smile and an
approving pat on the head.  She didn't like the new tone, for
though not blase, it sounded indifferent in spite of the look.

     "If that's the way he's going to grow up, I wish he's stay
a boy," she thought, with a curious sense of disappointment and
discomfort, trying meantime to seem quite easy and gay.

     At Avigdor's she found the precious home letters and, giving
the reins to Laurie,read them luxuriously as they wound up the
shady road between green hedges, where tea roses bloomed as freshly
as in June.

     "Beth is very poorly, Mother says.  I often think I ought to
go home, but they all say `stay'.  So I do, for I shall never have
another chance like this," said Amy, looking sober over one page.

     "I think you are right, there.  You could do nothing at home,
and it is a great comfort to them to know that you are well and
happy, and enjoying so much, my dear."

     He drew a little nearer, and looked more like his old self as
he said that, and the fear that sometimes weighed on Amy's heart
was lightened, for the look, the act, the brotherly `my dear',
seemed to assure her that if any trouble did come, she would not
be alone in a strange land.  Presently she laughed and showed him
a small sketch of Jo in her scribbling suit, with the bow rampantly
erect upon her cap, and issuing from her mouth the words, `Genius
burns!'.

     Laurie smiled, took it, put it in his vest pocket `to keep it
from blowing away', and listened with interest to the lively letter
Amy read him.

     "This will be a regularly merry Christmas to me, with presents
in the morning, you and letters in the afternoon, and a party at
night," said Amy, as they alighted among the ruins of the old fort,
and a flock of splendid peacocks came trooping about them, tamely
waiting to be fed.  While Amy stood laughing on the bank above him
as she scattered crumbs to the brilliant birds, Laurie looked at her
as she had looked at him, with a natural curiosity to see what
changes time and absence had wrought.  He found nothing to perplex
or disappoint, much to admire and approve, for overlooking a few
little affectations of speech and manner, she was as sprightly and
graceful as ever, with the addition of that indescribable something
in dress and bearing which we call elegance.  Always mature for her
age, she had gained a certain aplomb in both carriage and conversation,
which made her seem more of a woman of the world than she was, but
her old petulance now and then showed itself, her strong will still
held its own, and her native frankness was unspoiled by foreign
polish.

     Laurie did not read all this while he watched her feed the pea-
cocks, but he saw enough to satisfy and interest him, and carried
away a pretty little picture of a bright-faced girl standing in the
sunshine, which brought out the soft hue of her dress, the fresh
color of her cheeks, the golden gloss of her hair, and made her a
prominent figure in the pleasant scene.

    As they came up onto the stone plateau that crowns the hill,
Amy waved her hand as if welcoming him to her favorite haunt, and
said, pointing here and there, "Do you remember the Cathedral and
the Corso, the fishermen dragging their nets in the bay, and the
lovely road to Villa Franca, Schubert's Tower, just below, and best
of all, that speck far out to sea which they say ils Corsica?"

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

     "What Jo would give for a sight of that famous speck!" said
Amy, feeling in good spirits and anxious to see him so also.

     "Yes," was all he said,but he turned and strained his eyes to
see the island which a greater usurper than even Napoleon now made
interesting in his sight.

     "Take a good look at it for her sake, and then come and tell
me what you have been doing with yourself all this while," said
Amy, seating herself, ready for a good talk.

     But she did not get it, for though he joined her and answered
all her questions freely, she could only learn that he had roved
about the Continent and been to Greece.  So after idling away an
hour, they drove home again, and having paid his respects to Mrs.
Carrol, Laurie left them, promising to return in the evening.

     It must be recorded of Amy that she deliberately prinked that
night.  Time and absence had done its work on both the young people.
She had seen her old friend in a new light, not as `our boy', but as
a handsome and agreeable man, and she was conscious of a very natural
desire to find favor in his sight.  Amy knew her good points, and
made the most of them with the taste and skill which is a fortune to
a  poor and pretty woman.

     Tarlatan and tulle were cheap at Nice, so she enveloped herself
in them on such occasions, and following the sensible English fashion
of simple dress for young girls, got up charming little toilettes
with fresh flowers, a few trinkets, and all manner of dainty devices,
which were both inexpensive and effective.  It must be confessed
that the artist sometimes got possession of the woman, and indulged
in antique coiffures, statuesque attitudes, and classic draperies.
But, dear heart, we all have out little weaknesses,  and find it
easy to pardon such in the young, who satisfy our eyes with their
comeliness, and keep our  hearts merry with their artless vanities.

     "I do want him to think I look well, and tell them so at home,"
said Amy to herself, as she put on Flo's old white silk ball dress,
and covered it with a cloud of fresh illusion, out of which her
white shoulders and golden head emerged with a most artistic effect.
Her hair she had the sense to let alone, after gathering up the
thick waves and curls into a Hebe-like knot at the back of her head.

     "It's not the fashion, but it's becoming, and I can't afford to
make a fright of myself," she used to say, when advised to frizzle,
puff, or braid, as the latest style commanded.

     Having no ornaments fine enough for this important occasion,
Amy looped her fleecy skirts with rosy clusters of azalea, and
framed the white shoulders in delicate green vines.  Remembering
the painted boots, she surveyed her white satin slippers with
girlish satisfaction, and chassed down the room, admiring her
aristocratic feet all by herself.

     "My new fan just matches my flowers, my gloves fit to a charm,
and the real lace on Aunt's mouchoir gives an air to my whole dress.
If I only had a classical nose and mouth I should be perfectly happy,"
she said, surveying herself with a critical eye and a candle in
each hand.

     In spite of this affliction, she looked unusually gay and
graceful as she glided away.  She seldom ran--it did not suit her
style, she thought, for being tall, the stately and Junoesque was
more appropriate than the sportive or piquante.  She walked up and
down the long saloon while waiting for Laurie, and once arranged
herself under the chandelier, which had a good effect upon her
hair, then she thought better of it, and went away to the other
end of the room, as if ashamed of the girlish desire to have the
first view a propitious one.  It so happened that she could not
have done a better thing, for Laurie came in so quietly she
did not hear him, and as she stood at the distant window, with
her head half turned and one hand gathering up her dress, the
slender, white figure against the red curtains was as effective
as a well-placed statue.

     "Good evening, Diana!" said Laurie, with the look of satis-
faction she liked to see in his eyes when they rested on her.

     "Good evening, Apollo!" she answered, smiling back at
him, for he too looked unusually debonair, and the thought of
entering the ballroom on the arm of such a personable man
caused Amy to pity the four plain Misses Davis from the bottom
of her heart.

     "Here are your flowers. I arranged them myself, remember-
ing that you didn't like what Hannah calls a `sot-bookay', said
Laurie, handing her a delicate nosegay, in a holder that she
had long coveted as she daily passed it in Cardiglia's window.

     "How kind you are!" she exclaimed gratefully.  "If I'd
known you were coming I'd have had something ready for you today,
though not as pretty as this, I'm afraid."

     "Thank you.  It isn't what it should be, but you have im-
proved it," he added, as she snapped the silver bracelet on her
wrist.

     "Please don't."

     "I thought you liked that sort of thing."

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

     "I'm glad of it," he answered, with a look of relief, then
buttoned her gloves for her, and asked if his tie was straight,
just as he used to do when they went to parties together at
home.

     The company assembled in the long salle a manger that
evening was such as one sees nowhere but on the Continent.  The
hospitable Americans had invited every acquaintance they had
in Nice, and having no prejudice against titles, secured a few
to add luster to their Christmas ball.

     A Russian prince condescended to sit in a corner for an
hour and talk with a massive lady, dressed like Hamlet's mother
in  black velvet with a pearl bridle under her chin.  A Polish
count, aged eighteen, devoted himself to the ladies, who pro-
nounced him, `a fascinating dear', and a German Serene Something,
having come to supper alone, roamed vaguely about, seeking what
he might devour.  Baron Rothschild's private secretary, a large-
nosed Jew in tight boots, affably beamed upon  the world, as if
his master's name crowned him with a golden halo.  A stout
Frenchman, who knew the Emperor, came to indulge his mania for
dancing, and Lady de Jones, a British matron, adorned the scene
with her little family of eight.  Of course, there were many
light-footed, shrill-voiced American girls, handsome, lifeless-
looking English ditto, and a few plain but piquante French
demoiselles, likewise the usual set of traveling young gentle-
men who disported themselves gaily, while mammas of all nations
lined the walls and smiled upon them benignly when they danced
with their daughters.

     Any young girl can imagine Amy's state of mind when she
`took the stage' that night, leaning on Laurie's arm.  She
knew she looked well, she loved to dance, she felt that her
foot was on her native heath in a ballroom, and enjoyed the
delightful sense of power which comes when young girls first
discover the new and lovely kingdom they are born to rule by
virtue of beauty, youth, and womanhood.  She did pity the
Davis girls, who were awkward, plain, and destitute of escort,
except a grim papa and three grimmer maiden aunts, and she
bowed to them in her friendliest manner as she passed, which
was good of her, as it permitted them to see her dress, and
burn with curiosity to know who her distinguished-looking
friend might be.  With the first burst of the band, Amy's
color rose, her eyes began to sparkle, and her feet to tap the
floor impatiently, for she danced well and wanted Laurie to
know it.  Therefore the shock she received can better be
imagined than described, when he said in a perfectly tranquil
tone, "Do you care to dance?"

     "One usually does at a ball."

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

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

     "I can give you one if I put off the Count.  He dances
devinely, but he will excuse me, as you are an old friend," said
Amy, hoping that the name would have a good effect, and show
Laurie that she was not to be trifled with.

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

              A daughter of the gods,
              Devinely tall, and most devinely fair,"

was all the satisfaction she got, however.

     The set in which they found themselves was composed of
English, and Amy was compelled to walk decorously through a
cotillion, feeling all the while as if she could dance the
tarantella with relish.  Laurie resigned her to the `nice little
boy', and went to do his duty to Flo, without securing Amy for
the joys to come, which reprehensible want of forethought was
properly punished, for she immediately engaged herself till
supper, meaning to relent if he then gave any signs penitence.
She showed him her ball book with demure satisfaction when he
strolled instead of rushed up to claim her for the next, a
glorious polka redowa.  But his polite regrets didn't impose
upon her, and when she galloped away with the Count, she saw
Laurie sit down by her aunt with an actual expression of relief.

     That was unpardonable, and Amy took no more notice of him
for a long while, except a word now and then when she came to
her chaperon between the dances for a necessary pin or a
moment's rest.  Her anger had a good effect, however, for she
hid it under a smiling face, and seemed unusually blithe and
brilliant.  Laurie's eyes followed her with pleasure, for she
neither romped nor sauntered, but danced with spirit and
grace, making the delightsome pastime what it should be.  He
very naturally fell to studying her from this new point of
view, and before the evening was half over, had decided that
`little Amy was going to make a very charming woman'.

     It was a lively scene, for soon the spirit of the social
season took possession of everyone, and Christmas merriment made
all faces shine, hearts happy, and heels light.  The musicians
fiddled, tooted, and banged as if they enjoyed it, everybody
danced who could, and those who couldn't admired their
neighbors with uncommon warmth.  The air was dark with Davises,
and many Jones gamboled like a flock of young giraffes.  The
golden secretary darted through the room like a meteor with
a dashing frenchwoman who carped the floor with her pink satin
train.  The serene Teuton found the supper table and was happy,
eating steadily through the bill of fare, and dismayed the
garcons by the ravages he committed.  But the Emperor's friend
covered himself with glory, for he danced everything, whether
he knew it or not, and introduced impromptu pirouettes when the
figures bewildered him.  The boyish abandon of that stout man
was charming to behold, for though he `carried weight', he
danced like an India-rubber ball.  He ran, he flew, he pranced,
his face glowed, his bald head shown, his coattails waved wildly,
his pumps actually twinkled in the air, and when the music
stopped, he wiped the drops from his brow, and beamed upon his
fellow men like a French Pickwick without glasses.

     Amy and her Pole distinguished themselves by equal enthu-
siasm but more graceful agility, and Laurie found himself
involuntarily keeping time to the rhythmic rise and fall of the
white slippers as they flew by as indefatigably as if winged.
When little Vladimir finally relinquished her, with assurances
that he was `desolated to leave so early', she was ready to
rest, and see how her recreant knight had borne his punishment.

     It had been successful, for at three-and-twenty, blighted
affections find a balm in friendly society, and young nerves
will thrill, young blood dance, and healthy young spirits rise,
when subjected to the enchantment of beauty, light, music, and
motion.  Laurie had a waked-up look as he rose to give her his
seat, and when he hurried away to bring her some supper, she
said to herself, with a satisfied smile, "Ah, I thought that
would do him good!"

     "You look like Balzac's `FEMME PEINTE PAR ELLE-NENE',"
he said, as he fanned her with one hand and held her coffee
cup in the other.

     "My rouge won't come off." And Amy rubbed her brilliant
cheek, and showed him her white glove with a sober simplicity
that made him laugh outright.

     "What do you call this stuff?" he asked, touching a fold
of her dress that had blown over his knee.

     "Illusion."

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

     "It's as old as the hills.  You have seen it on dozens of
girls, and you never found out that it was pretty till now?
Stupide!"

     "I never saw it on you before, which accounts for the mis-
take, you see."

     "None of that, it is forbidden.  I'd rather take coffee
than compliments just now.  No, don't lounge, it makes me
nervous."

     Laurie sat bold upright, and meekly took her empty plate
feeling an odd sort of pleasure in having `little Amy' order
him about, for she had lost her shyness now, and felt an
irrestible desire to trample on him, as girls have a delightful
way of doing when lords of creation show any signs of subjection.

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

     "As `this sort of thing' is rather a vague expression, would
you kindly explain?" returned Amy, knowing perfectly well what he
meant, but wickedly leaving him to describe what is indescribable.

     "Well--the general air, the style, the self-possession, the--
the--illusion--you know", laughed Laurie, breaking down and help-
ing himself out of his quandary with the new word.

     Amy was gratified, but of course didn't show it, and demurely
answered, "Foreign life polishes one in spite of one's self.  I
study as well as play, and as for this"--with a little gesture
toward her dress--"why, tulle is cheap, posies to be had for
nothing, and I am used to making the most of my poor little things."

     Amy rather regretted that last sentence, fearing it wasn't in
good taste, but Laurie liked her better for it, and found himself
both admiring and respecting the brave patience that made the most
of opportunity, and the cheerful spirit that covered poverty with
flowers.  Amy did not know why he looked at her so kindly, now
why he filled up her book with his own name, and devoted himself
to her for the rest of the evening in the most delightful manner,
but the impulse that wrought this agreeable change was the result
of one of the new impressions which both of them were unconsciously
giving and receiving.


                   CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

     In France the young girls have a dull time of it till they are
married, when `Vive la liberte!' becomes their motto.  In America,
as everyone knows,girls early sign the declaration of independence,
and enjoy their freedom with republican zest, but the young matrons
usually abdicate with the first heir to the throne and go into a
seclusion almost as close as a French nunnery, though by no means
as quiet.  Whether they like it or not, they are virtually put
upon the shelf as soon as the wedding excitement is over, and most
of them might exclaim, as did a very pretty woman the other day,
"I'm as handsome as ever, but no one takes any notice of me be-
cause I'm married."

     Not being a belle or even a fashionable lady, Meg did not
experience this affliction till her babies were a  year old,
for in her little world primitive customs prevailed, and she
found herself more admired and beloved than ever.

     As she was a womanly little woman, the maternal instinct
was very strong, and she was entirely absorbed in her children,
to the utter exclusion of everything and everybody else.  Day
and night she brooded over them with tireless devotion and
anxiety, leaving John to the tender mercies of the help, for
an Irish lady now presided over the kitchen department.  Being
a domestic man, John decidedly missed the wifely attentions he
had been accustomed to receive, but as he adored his babies, he
cheerfully relinquished his comfort for a time, supposing with
masculine ignorance that peace would soon be restored.  But
three months passed, and there was no return of repose.  Meg
looked worn and nervous, the babies absorbed every minute of
her time, the house was neglected, and Kitty, the cook, who took
life `aisy', kept him on short commons.  When he went out in
the morning he was bewildered by small commissions for the cap-
tive mamma, if he came gaily in at night, eager to embrace his
family, he was quenched by a "Hush!  They are just asleep after
worrying all day."  If he proposed a little amusement at home,
"No, it would disturb the babies."  If he hinted at a lecture
or a concert, he was answered with a reproachful look, and a
decided "Leave my children for pleasure, never!"  His sleep was
broken by infant wails and visions of a phantom figure pacing
noiselessly to and fro in the watches of the night.  His meals
were interrupted by the frequent flight of the presiding genius,
who deserted him, half-helped, if a muffled chirp sounded from
the nest above.  And when he read his paper of an evening,
Demi's colic got into the shipping list and Daisy's fall affected
the price of stocks, for Mrs. Brooke was only interested in dom-
estic news.

     The poor man was very uncomfortable, for the children had
bereft him of his wife, home was merely a nursery and the per-
petual `hushing' made him feel like a brutal intruder whenever
he entered the sacred precincts of Babyland.  He bore it very
patiently for six months, and when no signs of amendment appeared,
he did what other paternal exiles do--tried to get a little com-
fort elsewhere.  Scott had married and gone to housekeeping not
far off, and John fell into the way of running over for an hour
or two of an evening, when his own parlor was empty, and his
own wife singing lullabies that seemed to have no end.  Mrs.
Scott was a lively, pretty girl, with nothing to do but be
agreeable, and she performed her mission most successfully.  The
parlor was always bright and attractive,  the chessboard ready,
the piano in tune, plenty of gay gossip, and a nice little supper
set forth in tempting style.

     John would have preferred his own fireside if it had not
been so lonely, but as it was he gratefully took the next best
thing and enjoyed his neighbor's society.

     Meg rather approved of the new arrangement at first, and
found it a relief to know that John was having a good time
instead of dozing in the parlor, or tramping about the house
and waking the children.  But by-and-by, when the teething
worry was over and the idols went to sleep at proper hours,
leaving Mamma time to rest, she began to miss John, and find
her workbasket dull company, when he was not sitting opposite
in his old dressing gown, comfortably scorching his slippers
on the fender.  She would not ask him to stay at home, but felt
injured because he did not know that she wanted him without
being told, entirely forgetting the many evenings he had waited
for her in vain.  She was nervous and worn out with watching
and worry, and in that unreasonable frame of mind which the best
of mothers occasionally experience when domestic cares oppress
them.  Want of exercise robs them of cheerfulness, and too much
devotion to that idol of American women, the teapot, makes them
feel as if they were all nerve and no muscle.

     "Yes," she would say, looking in the glass, "I'm getting
old and ugly.  John doesn't find me interesting any longer, so
he leaves his faded wife and goes to see his pretty neighbor,
who has no incumbrances.  Well, the babies love me, they don't
care if I am thin and pale and haven't time to crimp my hair,
they are my comfort, and some day John will see what I've
gladly sacrificed for them, won't he, my precious?"

     To which pathetic appeal daisy would answer with a coo,
or Demi with a crow, and Meg would put by her lamentations for
a maternal revel, which soothed her solitude for the time being.
But the pain increased as politics absorbed John, who was always
running over to discuss interesting points with Scott, quite
unconscious that Meg missed him.  Not a word did she say, how-
ever, till her mother found her in tears one day, and insisted
on knowing what the matter was,for Meg's drooping spirits had
not escaped her observation.

     "I wouldn't tell anyone except you, Mother, but I really
do need advice, for if John goes on much longer I might as well
be widowed," replied Mrs. Brooke, drying her tears on Daisy's
bib with an injured air.

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

     "He's away all day, and at night when I want to see him,
he is continually going over to the Scotts'.  It isn't fair
that I should have the hardest work, and never any amusement.
Men are very selfish, even the best of them."

     "So are women.  Don't blame John till you see where you
are wrong yourself."

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

     "Don't you neglect him?"

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

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

     "I don't see how."

     "Let me show you.  Did John ever neglect you, as you call it,
while you made it a point to give him your society of an evening,
his only leisure time?"

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

     "I think you could, dear, and I think you ought.  May I
speak quite freely, and will you remember that it's Mother who
blames as well as Mother who sympathizes?"

     "Indeed I will!  Speak to me as if I were little Meg again.
I often feel as if I needed teaching more than ever since these
babies look to me for everything."

     Meg drew her low chair beside her mother's, and with a little
interruption in either lap, the two women rocked and talked loving-
ly together, feeling that the tie of motherhood made them more one
than ever.

     "You have only made the mistake that most young wives make--
forgotten your duty to your husband in your love for your chil-
dren.  A very natural and forgivable mistake, Meg, but one that
had better be remedied before you take to different ways, for
children should draw you nearer than ever, not separate you, as
if they were all yours, and John had nothing to do but support
them.  I've seen it for some weeks, but have not spoken, feeling
sure it would come right in time."

     "I'm afraid it won't.  If I ask him to stay, he'll think I'm
jealous, and I wouldn't insult him by such an idea.  He doesn't
see that I want him, and I don't know how to tell him without
words."

     "Make it so pleasant he won't want to go away.  My dear,
he's longing for his little home, but it isn't home without you,
and you are always in the nursery."

     "Oughtn't I to be there?"

     "Not all the time, too much confinement makes you nervous,
and then you are unfitted for everything.  Besides, you owe
something to John as well as to the babies. Don't neglect hus-
band for children, don't shut him out of the nursery, but teach
him how to help in it.  His place is there as well as yours, and
the children need him.  Let him feel that he has a part to do, and
he will do it gladly and faithfully, and it will be better for you
all."

     "You really think so, Mother?"

     "I know it, Meg, for I've tried it, and I seldom give advice
unless I've proved its practicability.  When you and Jo were little,
I went on just as you are, feeling as if I didn't do my duty unless
I devoted myself wholly to you.  Poor Father took to his books,
after I had refused all offers of help, and left me to try my ex-
periment alone.  I struggled along as well as I could, but Jo was
too much for me.  I nearly spoiled her by indulgence.  You were
poorly, and I worried about you till I fell sick myself.  Then
Father came to the rescue, quietly managed everything, and made
himself so helpful that I saw my mistake, and never have been able
to got on without him since.  That is the secret of our home hap-
piness.  He does not let business wean him from the little cares
and duties that affect us all, and I try not to let domestic worries
destroy my interest in his pursuits.  Each do our part alone in
many things, but at home we work together, always."

     "It is so, Mother, and my great wish is to be to my husband
and children what you have been to yours.  Show me how, I'll do
anything you say."

     "You were always my docile daughter.  Well, dear, if I were
you, I'd let John have more to do with the management of Demi,
for the boy needs training, and it's none too soon to begin.
Then I'd do what I have often proposed,, let Hannah come and
help you.  She is a capital nurse, and you may trust the precious
babies to her while you do more housework.  You need the exercise,
Hannah would enjoy the rest, and John would find his wife again.
Go out more, keep cheerful as well as busy, for you are the
sunshine-maker of the family, and if you get dismal there is no
fair weather.  Then I'd try to take an interest in whatever John
likes--talk with him, let him read to you, exchange ideas, and
help each other in that way.  Don't shut yourself up in a bandbox
because you are a woman, but understand what is going on, and
educate yourself to take your part in the world's work, for it
all affects you and yours."

     "John is so sensible, I'm afraid he will think I'm stupid if
I ask questions about politics and things."

     "I don't believe he would.  Love covers a multitude of sins,
and of whom could you ask more freely than of him?  Try it, and
see if he doesn't find your society far more agreeable than Mrs.
Scott's suppers."

     "I will.  Poor John!  I'm afraid I have neglected him sadly,
but I thought I was right, and he never said anything."

     "He tried not to be selfish, but he has felt rather forlorn,
I fancy.  This is just the time, Meg, when young married people
are apt to grow apart, and the very time when they ought to be
most together, for the first tenderness soon wears off, unless
care is taken to preserve it.  And no time is so beautiful and
precious to parents as the first years of the little lives
given to them to train.  Don't let John be a stranger to the
babies, for they will do more to keep him safe and happy in
this world of trial and temptation than anything else, and
through them you will learn to know and love one another as
you should.  Now, dear, good-by.  Think over Mother's preach-
ment, act upon it if it seems good, and God bless you all."

     Meg did think it over, found it good, and acted upon it,
though the first attempt was not made exactly as she planned
to have it.  Of course the children tyrannized over her, and
ruled the house as soon as they found out that kicking and
squalling brought them whatever they wanted.  Mamma was an
abject slave to their caprices, but Papa was not so easily
subjugated, and occasionally afflicted his tender spouse by
an attempt at paternal discipline with his obstreperous son.
For Demi inherited a trifle of his sire's firmness of char-
acter, we won't call it obstinacy, and when he made up his
little to have or to do anything, all the king's horses and
all the king's men could not change that pertinacious little
mind.  Mamma thought the dear too young to be taught to con-
quer his prejudices, but Papa believed that it never was too
soon to learn obedience.  So Master Demi early discovered that
when he undertook to `wrastle' with `Parpar', he always got
the worst of it, yet like the Englishman, baby respected the
man who conquered him, and loved the father whose grave "No,
no," was more impressive than all Mamma's love pats.

     A few days after the talk with her mother, Meg resolved
to try a social evening with John, so she ordered a nice
supper, set the parlor in order, dressed herself prettily, and
put the children to bed early, that nothing should interfere
with her experiment.  But unfortunately Demi's most uncon-
querable prejudice was against going to bed, and that night
he decided to go on a rampage.  So poor Meg sang and rocked,
told stories and tried every sleep-prevoking wile she could
devise, but all in vain, the big eyes wouldn't shut, and long
after Daisy had gone to byelow, like the chubby little bunch
of good nature she was, naughty Demi lay staring at the light,
with the most discouragingly wide-awake expression of counten-
ance.

     "Will Demi lie still like a good boy, while Mamma runs
down and gives poor Papa his tea?" asked Meg, as the hall
door softly closed, and the well-known step went tip-toeing
into the dining room.

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

     "No, but I'll save you some little cakies for breakfast,
if you'll go bye-by like Daisy.  Will you, lovey?"

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

     Taking advantage of the propitious moment, Meg slipped
away and ran down to greet her husband with a smiling face
and the little blue bow in her hair which was his especial
admiration.  He saw it at once and said with pleased surprise,
"Why, little mother, how gay we are tonight.   Do you expect
company?"

     "Only you, dear."

     "No, I'm tired of being dowdy, so I dressed up as a
change.  You always make yourself  nice for table, no matter
how tired you are, so why shouldn't I when I have the time?'

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

     "Ditto, ditto, Mr. Brooke," laughed Meg, looking young
and pretty again, as she nodded to him over the teapot.

     "Well, it's altogether delightful, and like old times.  This
tastes right.  I drink your health, dear."  And John sipped his
tea with an air of reposeful rapture, which was of very short
duration however, for as he put down his cup, the door handle
rattled mysteriously, and a little voice was heard, saying im-
patiently . . .

     "Opy doy.  Me's tummin!"

     "It's that naughty boy.  I told him to go to sleep alone,
and here he is, downstairs, getting his death a-cold pattering
over that canvas," said Meg, answering the call.

     "Mornin' now," announced Demi in joyful tone as he entered,
with his long nightgown gracefully festooned over his arm and
every curl bobbing gayly as he pranced about the table, eyeing
the `cakies' with loving glances.

     "No, it isn't morning yet.  You must go to bed, and not
trouble poor Mamma.  Then you can have the little cake with
sugar on it."

     "Me loves Parpar," said the artful one, preparing to climb
the paternal knee and revel in forbidden joys.  But John shook
his head, and said to Meg. . .

     "If you told him to stay up there, and go to sleep alone,
make him do it, or he will never learn to mind you."

     "Yes, of course.  Come, Demi."  And Meg led her son away,
feeling a strong desire to spank the little marplot who hopped
beside her, laboring under the delusion that the bribe was to
be administered as soon as they reached the nursery.

     Nor was he disappointed, for that shortsighted woman
actually gave him a lump of sugar, tucked him into his bed,
and forbade any more promenades till morning.

     "Iss!" said Demi the perjured, blissfully sucking his sugar,
and regarding his first attempt as eminently successful.

     Meg returned to her place, and supper was progressing
pleasantly, when the little ghost walked again and exposed
the maternal delinquencies by boldly demanding, "More sudar,
Marmar."

     "Now this won't do," said John, hardening his heart against
the engaging little sinner.  "We shall never know any peace till
that child learns togo to bed properly.  You have made a slave of
yourself long enough.  Give him one lesson, and  then there will
be an end of it.  Put him in his bed and leave him, Meg."

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

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

     "S'ant!" replied the young rebel, helping himself to the
coveted `cakie', and beginning to eat the same with calm aud-
acity.

     "You must never say that to Papa.  I shall carry you if you
don't go yourself."

     "Go 'way, me don't love Parpar."  And Demi retired to his
mother's skirts for protection.

     But even that refuge proved unavailing, for he was de-
livered over to the enemy, with a "Be gentle with him, John,"
which struck the culprit with dismay, for when Mamma deserted
him, then the judgment day was at hand.  Bereft of his cake,
defrauded of his frolic, and borne away by a strong hand to
that detested bed, poor Demi could not restrain his wrath, but
openly defied Papa, and kicked and screamed lustily all the
way upstairs.  The minute he was put into bed on one side, he
rolled out on the other, and made for the door, only to be
ignominiously caught up by the tail of his little toga and
put back again, which lively performance was kept up till the
young man's strength gave out, when he devoted himself to
roaring at the top of his voice.  This vocal exercise usually
conquered Meg, but John sat as unmoved as the post which is
popularly believed to be deaf.  No coaxing, no sugar, no
lullaby, no story, even the light was put out and only the
red glow of the fire enlivened the `big dark' which Demi
regarded with curiosity rather than fear.  This new order
of things disgusted him, and he howled dismally for `Marmar',
as his angry passions subsided, and recollections of his
tender bondwoman returned to the captive autocrat.  The
plaintive wail which succeeded the passionate roar went to
Meg's heart, and she ran up to say beseechingly . . .

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

     "No, my dear.  I've told him he must go to sleep, as you
bid him, and he must, if I stay here all night."

     "But he'll cry himself sick," pleaded Meg, reproaching her-
self for deserting her boy.

     "No, he won't, he's so tired he will soon drop off and then
the matter is settled, for he will understand that he has got to
mind.  Don't interfere, I'll manage him."

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

     "He's my child, and I won't have his temper spoiled by
indulgence.  Go down, my dear, and leave the boy to me."

     When John spoke in that masterful tone, Meg always obeyed,
and never regretted her docility.

     "Please let me kiss him once, John?"

     "Certainly.  Demi, say good night to Mamma, and let her
go and rest, for she is very tired with taking care of you all
day."

     Meg always insisted upon it that the kiss won the victory,
for after it was given, Demi sobbed more quietly, and lay quite
still at the bottom of the bed, whither he had wriggled in his
anguish of mind.

     "Poor little man, he's worn out with sleep and crying.  I'll
cover him up, and then go and set Meg's heart at rest." thought
John, creeping to the bedside, hoping to find his rebellious
heir asleep.

     But he wasn't, for the moment his father peeped at him,
Demi's eyes opened, his little chin began to quiver, and he put
up his arms, saying with a penitent hiccough, "Me's dood, now."

     Sitting on the stairs outside Meg wondered at the long
silence which followed the uproar, and after imagining all
sorts of impossible accidents, she slipped into the room to
set her fears at rest.  Demi lay fast asleep, not in his usual
spreadeagle attitude, but in a subdued bunch, cuddled close in
the circle of his father's arm and holding his father's finger,
as if he felt that justice was tempered with mercy, and had
gone to sleep a sadder and wiser baby.  So held, John had waited
with a womanly patience till the little hand relaxed its hold,
and while waiting had fallen asleep, more tired by that tussle
with his son than with his whole day's work.

     As Meg stood watching the two faces on the pillow, she
smiled to herself, and then slipped away again, saying in a
satisfied tone, "I never need fear that John will be too harsh
with my babies.  He does know how to manage them, and will be
a great help, for Demi is getting too much for me."

     When John came down at last, expecting to find a pensive
or reproachful wife, he was agreeably surprised to find Meg
placidly trimming a bonnet, and to be greeted with the re-
quest to read something about the election, if he was not
too tired.  John saw in a minute that a revolution of some
kind was going on, but wisely asked no questions, knowing
that Meg was such a transparent little person, she couldn't
keep a secret to save her life, and therefore the clue would
soon appear.  He read a long debate with the most amiable
readiness and then explained it in his most lucid manner,
while Meg tried to look deeply interested, to ask intelli-
gent questions, and keep her thoughts from wandering from the
state of the nation to the state of her bonnet.  In her secret
soul, however, she decided that politics were as bad as mathe-
matics, and the the mission of politicians seemed to be calling
each other names, but she kept these feminine ideas to herself,
and when John paused, shook her head and said with what she
thought diplomatic ambiguity, "Well, I really don't see what
we are coming to."

     John laughed, and watched her for a minute, as she poised
a pretty little preparation of lace and flowers on her hand,
and regarded it with the genuine interest which his harangue
had failed to waken.

     "She is trying to like politics for my sake, so I'll try and
like millinery for hers, that's only fair," thought John the Just,
adding aloud, "That's very pretty.  Is it what you call a break-
fast cap?"

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

     "I beg your pardon, it was so small, I naturally mistook it
for one of the flyaway things you sometimes wear.  How do you
keep it on?"

     "these bits of lace are fastened under the chin with a rose-
bud, so."  And Meg illustrated by putting on the bonnet and re-
garding him with an air of calm satisfaction that was irresistible.

     "It's a love of a bonnet, but I prefer the face inside, for
it looks young and happy again."  And John kissed the smiling
face, to the great detriment of the rosebud under the chin.

     "I'm glad you like it, for I want you to take me to one
of the new concerts some night.  I really need some music to
put me in tune.  Will you, please?"

     "Of course I will, with all my heart, or anywhere else you
like.  You have been shut up so long, it will do you no end of
good, and I shall enjoy it, of all things.  What put it into
your head, little mother?"

     "Well, I had a talk with Marmee the other day, and told
her how nervous and cross and out of sorts I felt, and she
said I needed change and less care, so Hannah is to help me
with the children, and I'm to see to things about the house more,
and now and then have a little fun, just to keep me from getting
to be a fidgety, broken-down old woman before my time.  It's
only an experiment, John, and I want to try it for your sake
as much as for mine, because I've neglected you shamefully
lately, and I'm going to make home what it used to be, if I
can.  You don't object, I hope?"

     Never mind what John said, or what a very narrow escape
the little bonnet had from utter ruin.  All that we have any
business to know is that John did not appear to object, judg-
ing from the changes which gradually took place in the house
and its inmates.  It was not all Paradise by any means, but
everyone was better for the division of labor system.  The
children throve under the paternal rule, for accurate, sted-
fast John brought order and obedience into Babydom, while Meg
recovered her spirits and composed her nerves by plenty of
wholesome exercise, a little pleasure, and much confidential
conversation with her sensible husband.  Home grew homelike
again, and John had no wish to leave it, unless he took Meg
with him.  The Scotts came to the Brookes' now, and everyone
found the little house a cheerful place, full of happiness,
content, and family love.  Even Sallie Moffatt liked to go
there.  "It is always so quiet and pleasant here, it does me
good, Meg," she used to say, looking about her with wistful
eyes, as if trying to discover the charm, that she might use
it in her great house, full of splendid lonliness, for there
were no riotous, sunny-faced babies there, and Ned lived in
a world of lis own, where there was no place for her.

     This household happiness did not come all at once, but
John and Meg had found the key to it, and each year of Marr-
ied life taught them how to use it, unlocking the treasuries
of real home love and mutual helpfulness, which the poorest
may possess, and the richest cannot buy.  This is the sort
of shelf on which young wives and mothers may consent to be
laid, safe from the restless fret and fever of the world,
finding loyal lovers in the little sons and daughters who
cling to them, undaunted by sorrow, poverty, or age, walking
side by side, through fair and stormy weather, with a faithful
friend, who is, in the true sense of the good old Saxon word,
the `house-band', and learning, as Meg learned, that a woman's
happiest kingdom is home, her highest honor the art of ruling
it not as a queen, but as a wise wife and mother.


                   CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

     Laurie went to Nice intending to stay a week, and remained
a month.  He was tired of wandering about alone, and Amy's
familiar presence seemed to give a homelike charm to the
foreign scenes in which she bore a part.  He rather missed the
`petting' he used to receive, and enjoyed a taste of it again,
for no attentions, however flattering, from strangers, were half
so pleasant as the sisterly adoration of the girls at home.  Amy
never would pet him like the others, but she was very glad to
see him now, and quite clung to him, feeling that he was the
representative of the dear family for whom she longed more
than she would confess.  They naturally took comfort in each
other's society and were much together, riding, walking, dancing,
or dawdling, for at Nice no one can be very industrious during
the gay season.  But, while apparently amusing themselves in
the most careless fashion, they were half-consciously making
discoveries and forming opinions about each other.  Amy rose
daily in the estimation of her friend, but he sank in hers,
and each felt the truth before a word was spoken.  Amy tried
to please, and succeeded, for she was grateful for the many
pleasures he gave her, and repaid him with the little ser-
vices to which womanly women know how to lend an indescrib-
able charm.  Laurie made no effort of any kind, but just let
himself drift along as comfortably as possible, trying to
forget, and feeling that all women owed him a kind word be-
cause one had been cold to him.  It cost him no effort to be
generous, and he would have given Amy all the trinkets in
Nice if she would have taken them, but at the same time he
felt that he could not change the opinion she was forming of
him, and he rather dreaded the keen blue eyes that seemed to
watch him with such half-sorrowful, half-scornful surprise.

     "All the rest have gone to Monaco for the day.  I pre-
ferred to stay at home and write letters.  They are done now,
and I am going to Valrosa to sketch, will you come?'  said Amy,
as she joined Laurie one lovely day when he lounged in as usual
about noon.

     "Well, yes, but isn't it rather warm for such a long walk?"
he answered slowly, for the shaded salon looked inviting after
the glare without.

     "I'm going to have the little carriage, and Baptiste can
drive, so you'll have nothing to do but hold your umbrella,
and keep your gloves nice," returned Amy, with a sarcastic
glance at the immaculate kids, which were a weak point with
Laurie.

     "Then I'll go with pleasure."  And he put out his hand for
her sketchbook.  But she tucked it under her arm with a sharp . . .

     "Don't trouble yourself.  It's no exertion to me, but you
don't look equal to it."

     Laurie lifted his eyebrows and followed at a leisurely pace
as she ran downstairs, but when they got into the carriage he took
the reins himself, and left little Baptiste nothing to do but fold
his arms and fall asleep on his perch.

     The two never quarreled.  Amy was too well-bred, and just now
Laurie was too lazy, so in a minute he peeped under her hatbrim
with an inquiring air.  She answered him with a smile, and they
went on together in the most amicable manner.

     It was a lovely drive, along winding roads rich in the pic-
turesque scenes that delight beauty-loving eyes.  Here an ancient
monastery, whence the solemn chanting of the monks came down to
them.  There a bare-legged shepherd, in wooden shoes, pointed hat,
and rough jacket over one shoulder, sat piping on a stone while
his goats skipped among the rocks or lay at his feet.  Meek,
mouse-colored donkeys, laden with panniers of freshly cut grass
passed by, with a pretty girl in a capaline sitting between the
green piles, or an old woman spinning with a distaff as she went.
Brown, soft-eyed children ran out from the quaint stone hovels
to offer nosegays, or bunches of oranges still on the bough.
Gnarled olive trees covered the hills with their dusky foliage,
fruit hung golden in the orchard, and great scarlet anemones
fringed the roadside, while beyond green slopes and craggy heights,
the Maritime Alps rose sharp and white against the blue Italian sky.

     Valrosa well deserved its name, for in that climate of per-
petual summer roses blossomed everywhere.  They overhung the
archway, thrust themselves between the bars of the great gate
with a sweet welcome to passers-by, and lined the avenue, winding
through lemon trees and feathery palms up to the villa on the hill.
Every shadowy nook, where seats invited one to stop and rest, was
a mass of bloom, every cool grotto had its marble nymph smiling
from a veil of flowers and every fountain reflected crimson, white,
or pale pink roses, leaning down to smile at their own beauty.
Roses covered the walls of the house, draped the cornices, climbed
the pillars, and ran riot over the balustrade of the wide terrace,
whence one looked down on the sunny Mediterranean, and the white-
walled city on its shore.

     "This is a regular honeymoon paradise, isn't it?  Did you
ever see such roses?"  asked Amy, pausing on the terrace to en-
joy the view, and a luxurious whiff of perfume that came wander-
ing by.

     "No, nor felt such thorns," returned Laurie, with his thumb
in his mouth, after a vain attempt to capture a solitary scarlet
flower that grew just beyond his reach.

     "Try lower down, and pick those that have no thorns," said
Amy, gathering three of the tiny cream-colored ones that starred
the wall behind her. She put them in his buttonhole as a peace
offering, and he stood a minute looking down at them with a
curious expression, for in the Italian part of his nature there
was a touch of superstition, and he was just then in that state
of half-sweet, half-bitter melancholy, when imaginative young
men find significance in trifles and food for romance everywhere.
He had thought of Jo in reaching after the thorny red rose, for
vivid flowers became her, and she had often worn ones like that
from the greenhouse at home.  The pale roses Amy gave him were
the sort that the Italians lay in dead hands, never in bridal
wreaths, and for a moment he wondered if the omen was for Jo or
for himself, but the next instant his American common sense got
the better of sentimentality, and he laughed a heartier laugh
than Amy had heard since he came.

     "It's good advice, you'd better take it and save your fingers,"
she said, thinking her speech amused him.

     "Thank you, I will," he answered in jest, and a few months
later he did it in earnest.

     "Laurie, when are you going to your grandfather?" she asked
presently, as she settled herself on a rustic seat.

     "Very soon."

     "You have said that a dozen times within the last three
weeks."

     "I dare say, short answers save trouble."

     "He expects you, and you really ought to go."

     "Hospitable creature!  I know it."

     "Then why don't you do it?"

     "Natural depravity, I suppose."

     "Natural indolence, you mean.  It's really dreadful!"  And
Amy looked severe.

     "Not so bad as it seems, for I should only plague him if I
went, so I might as well stay and plague you a little longer,
you can bear it better, in fact I think it agrees with you ex-
cellently."  And Laurie composed himself for a lounge on the
broad ledge of the balustrade.

     Amy shook her head and opened her sketchbook with an
air of resignation, but she had made up her mind to lecture
`that boy' and in a minute she began again.

     "What are you doing just now?"

     "Watching lizards."

     "No, no.  I mean what do you intend and wish to do?"

     "Smoke a cigarette, if you'll allow me."

     "How provoking you are!  I don't approve of cigars and I
will only allow it on condition that you let me put you into my
sketch.  I need a figure."

     "With all the pleasure in life.  How will you have me, full-
length or three-quarters, on my head or my heels?  I should
respectfully suggest a recumbent posture, then put yourself in
also and call it `Dolce far niente'."

     "Stay as you are, and go to sleep if you like.  I intend to
work hard," said Amy in her most energetic tone.

     "What delightful enthusiasm!"  And he leaned against a tall
urn with an ir of entire satisfaction.

     "What would Jo say if she saw you now?"  asked  Amy impat-
iently, hoping to stir him up by the mention of her still more
energetic sister's name.

     "As usual, `Go away, Teddy.  I'm busy!'"  He laughed as he
spoke, but the laugh was not natural, and a shade passed over
his face, for the utterance of the familiar name touched the
wound that was not healed yet.  Both tone and shadow struck Amy,
for she had seen and heard them before, and now she looked up
in time to catch a new expression on Laurie's face--a hard bitter
look, full of pain, dissatisfaction, and regret. It was gone be-
fore she could study it and the listless expression back again.
She watched him for a moment with artistic pleasure, thinking
how like an Italian he looked, as he lay basking in the sun
with uncovered head and eyes full of southern dreaminess, for
he seemed to have forgotten her and fallen into a reverie.

     "You look like the effigy of a young knight asleep on his
tomb," she said, carefully tracing the well-cut profile defined
against the dark stone.

     "Wish I was!"

     "That's a foolish wish, unless you have spoiled your life.
You are so changed, I sometimes think--" There Amy stopped,
with a half-timid, half-wistful look, more significant than her
unfinished speech.

     Laurie saw and understood the affectionate anxiety which
she hesitated to express, and looking straight into her eyes,
said, just as he used to say it to her mother, "It's all right,
ma'am."

     That satisfied her and set at rest the doubts that had be-
gun to worry her lately.  It also touched her, and she showed
that it did, by the cordial tone in which she said . . .

     "I'm glad of that!  I didn't think you'd been a very bad
boy, but I fancied you might have wasted money at that wicked
Baden-Baden, lost your heart to some charming Frenchwoman
with a husband, or got into some of the scrapes that young men
seem to consider a necessary part of a foreign tour.  Don't
stay out there in the sun, come and lie on the grass here and
`let us be friendly', as Jo used to say when we got in the sofa
corner and told secrets."

     Laurie obediently threw himself down on the turf, and
began to amuse himself by sticking daisies into the ribbons of
Amy's hat, that lay there.

     "I'm all ready for the secrets."  And he glanced up with
a decided expression of interest in his eyes.

     "I've none to tell.  You may begin."

     "Haven't one to bless myself with.  I thought perhaps you'd
had some news from home.."

     "You have heard all that has come lately.  Don't you hear
often?  I fancied Jo would send you volumes."

     "She's very busy.  I'm roving about so, it's impossible to
be regular, you know.  When do you begin your great work of art,
Raphaella?'  he asked. changing the subject abruptly after
another pause, in which he had been wondering if Amy knew his
secret and wanted to talk about it.

     "Never," she answered, with a despondent but decided air.
"Rome took all the vanity out of me, for after seeing the
wonders there, I felt too insignificant to live and gave up
all my foolish hopes in despair."

     "Why should you, with so much energy and talent?"

     "That's just why, because talent isn't genius, and no
amount of energy can make it so.   I want to be great,or noth-
ing.  I won't be a common-place dauber, so I don't intend to
try any more."

     "And what are you going to do with yourself now, if I
may ask?"

     "Polish up my other talents, and be an ornament to society,
if I get the chance."

     It was a characteristic speech, and sounded daring, but
audacity becomes young people, and Amy's ambition had a good
foundation.  Laurie smiled, but he liked the spirit with
which she took up a new purpose when a long-cherished one
died, and spent no time lamenting.

     "Good!  And here is where Fred Vaughn comes in, I fancy."

     Amy preserved a discreet silence, but there was a con-
scious look in her downcast face that made Laurie sit up and
say gravely, "Now I'm going to play brother, and ask questions.
May I?"

     "I don't promise to answer."

     "Your face will, if your tongue won't.  You aren't woman of
the world enough yet to hide your feelings, my dear.  I heard
rumors about Fred and you last year, and it's my private op-
inion that if he had not been called home so suddenly and
detained so long, something would have come of it, hey?"

     "That's not for me to say," was Amy's grim reply, but her
lips would smile, and there was a traitorous sparkle of the
eye which betrayed that she knew her power and enjoyed the
knowledge.

     "You are not engaged, I hope?"  And Laurie looked very
elder-brotherly and grave all of a sudden.

     "No."

     "But you will be, if he comes back and goes properly down
on his knees, won't you?"

     "Very likely."

     "Then you are fond of old Fred?"

     "I could be, if I tried."

     "But you don't intend to try till the proper moment? Bless
my soul, what unearthly prudence!  He's a good fellow, Amy, but
not the man I fancied you'd like."

     "He is rich, a gentleman, and has delightful manners,"
began Amy, trying to be quite cool and dignified, but feeling
a little ashamed of herself, in spite of the sincerity of her
intentions.

     "I understand.  Queens of society can't get on without money,
so you mean to make a good match, and start in that way?  Quite
right and proper, as the world goes, but it sounds odd from the
lips of one of your mother's girls."

     "True, nevertheless."

     A short speech, but the quiet decision with which it was
uttered contrasted curiously with the young speaker.  Laurie
felt this instinctively and laid himself down again, with a
sense of disappointment which he could not explain.  His look
and silence, as well as a certain inward self-disapproval,
ruffled Amy, and made her resolve to deliver her lecture with-
out delay.

     "I wish you'd do me the favor to rouse yourself a little,"
she said sharply.

     "Do it for me, there's a dear girl."

     "I could, if I tried."  And she looked as if she would like
doing it in the most summary style.

     "Try, then.  I give you leave," returned Laurie, who en-
joyed having someone to tease, after his long abstinence from
his favorite pastime.

     "You'd be angry in five minutes."

     "I'm never angry with you.  It takes two flints to make a
fire.  You are as cool and soft as snow."

     "You don't know what I can do.  Snow produces a glow and
a tingle, if applied rightly.  Your indifference is half af-
fectation, and a good stirring up would prove it."

     "Stir away, it won't hurt me and it may amuse you, as the
big man said when his little wife beat him.  Regard me in the
light of a husband or a carpet, and beat till you are tired,
if that sort of exercise agrees with you."

     Being decidedly nettled herself, and longing to see him
shake off the apathy that so altered him, Amy sharpened both
tongue and pencil, and began.

     "Flo and I have got a new name for you.  It's Lazy Laur-
ence.  How do you like it?"

     She thought it would annoy him, but he only folded his
arms under his head, with an imperturbable, "That's not bad.
Thank you, ladies."

     "Do you want to know what I honestly think of you?"

     "Pining to be told."

     "Well, I despise you."

     If she had even said `I hate you' in a petulant or co-
quettish tone, he would have laughed and rather liked it, but
the grave, almost sad, accent in her voice made him open his
eyes, and ask quickly . . .

     "Why, if you please?"

     "Because, with every chance for being good, useful, and
happy, you are faulty, lazy, and miserable."

     "Strong language, mademoiselle."

     "If you like it, I'll go on."

     "Pray do, it's quite interesting."

     "I thought you'd find it so.  Selfish people always like to
talk about themselves."

     "Am I selfish?"  The question slipped out involuntarily and
in a tone of surprise, for the one virtue on which he prided
himself was generosity.

     "Yes, very selfish," continued Amy, in a calm, cool voice,
twice as effective just then as an angry one.  "I'll show you
how, for I've studied you while we were frolicking, and I'm
not at all satisfied with you.  Here you have been abroad
nearly six months, and done nothing but waste time and money
and disappoint your friends."

     "Isn't a fellow to have any pleasure after a four-year
grind?"

     "You don't look as if you'd had much.  At any rate, you are
none the better for it, as far as I can see.  I said when we
first met that you had improved.  Now I take it all back, for I
don't think you half so nice as when I left you at home.  You
have grown abominably lazy, you like gossip, and waste time on
frivolous things, you are contented to be petted and admired
by silly people, instead of being loved and respected by wise
ones.  With money, talent, position, health, and beauty, ah
you like that old Vanity!  But it's the truth, so I can't help
saying it, with all these splendid things to use and enjoy, you
can find nothing to do but dawdle, and instead of being the man
you ought to be, you are  only . . ."  There she stopped, with
a look that had both pain and pity in it.

     "Saint Laurence on a gridiron," added Laurie, blandly
finishing the sentence.  But the lecture began to take effect,
for there was a wide-awake sparkle in his eyes now and a
half-angry, half-injured expression replaced the former in-
difference.

     "I supposed you'd take it so.  You men tell us we are
angels, and say we can make you what we will, but the instant
we honestly try to do you good, you laugh at us and won't
listen, which proves how much your flattery is worth." Amy
spoke bitterly, and turned her back on the exasperating
martyr at her feet.

     In a minute a hand came down over the page, so that she
could not draw, and Laurie's voice said, with a droll imitation
of a penitent child, "I will be good, oh, I will be good!"

     But Amy did not laugh, for she was in earnest, and tapping
on the outspread hand with her pencil, said soberly, "Aren't
you ashamed of a hand like that?  It's as soft and white as a
woman's, and looks as if it never did anything but wear Jouvin's
best gloves and pick flowers for ladies. You are not a dandy,
thank Heaven, so I'm glad to see there are no diamonds or big
seal rings on it, only the little old one Jo gave you so long
ago.  Dear soul, I wish she was here to help me!"

     "So do I!"

     The hand vanished as suddenly as it came, and there was
energy enough in the echo of her wish to suit even Amy. She
glanced down at him with a new thought in her mind, but he
was lying with his hat half over his face, as if for shade, and
his mustache hid his mouth.  She only saw his chest rise and
fall, with a long breath that might have been a sigh, and the
hand that wore the ring nestled down into the grass, as if to
hide something too precious or too tender to be spoken of.
All in a minute various hints and trifles assumed shape and
significance in Amy's mind, and told her what her sister never
had confided to her.  She remembered that Laurie never spoke
voluntarily of Jo, she recalled the shadow on his face just
now, the change in his character, and the wearing of the little
old ring which was no ornament to a handsome hand.  Girls are
quick to read such signs and feel their eloquence.  Amy had
fancied that perhaps a love trouble was at the bottom of the
alteration, and now she was sure of it.  Her keen eyes filled,
and when she spoke again, it was in a voice that could be
beautifully soft and kind when she chose to make it so.

     "I know I have no right to talk so to you, Laurie, and if
you weren't the sweetest-tempered fellow in the world, you'd be
very angry with me.  But we are all so fond and proud of you,
I couldn't bear to think they should be disappointed in you at
home as I have been, though, perhaps they would understand
the change better than I do."

     "I think they would," came from under the hat, in a grim
tone, quite as touching as a broken one.

     "They ought to have told me, and not let me go blundering
and scolding, when I should have been more kind and patient
than ever.  I never did like that Miss Randal and now I hate
her!" said artful Amy, wishing to be sure of her facts this
time.

     "Hang Miss Randal!"  And Laurie knocked the hat off his
face with a look that left no doubt of his sentiments toward
that young lady.

     "I beg pardon, I thought . . ."  And there she paused
diplomatically.

     "No, you didn't, you knew perfectly well I never cared for
anyone but Jo," Laurie said that in his old, impetuous tone,
and turned his face away as he spoke.

     "I did think so, but as they never said anything about it,
and you came away, I supposed I was mistaken.  And Jo wouldn't
be kind to you?  Why, I was sure she loved you dearly."

     "She was kind, but not in the right way, and it's lucky for
her she didn't love me, if I'm the good-for-nothing fellow you
think me.  It's her fault though, and you may tell her so."

     The hard, bitter look came back again as he said that, and
it troubled Amy, for she did not know what balm to apply.

     "I was wrong, I didn't know.  I'm very sorry I was so cross,
but I can't help wishing you'd bear it better, Teddy, dear."

     "Don't, that's her name for me!"  And Laurie put up his
hand with a quick gesture to stop the words spoken in Jo's
half-kind, half-reproachful tone.  "Wait till you've tried it
yourself," he added in a low voice, as he pulled up the grass
by the handful.

     "I'd take it manfully, and be respected if i couldn't be
loved," said Amy, with the decision of one who knew nothing
about it.

     Now, Laurie flattered himself that he had borne it remark-
ably well, making no moan, asking no sympathy, and taking his
trouble away to live it down alone.  Amy's lecture put the
Matter in a new light, and for the first time it did look
weak and selfish to lose heart at the first failure, and shut
himself up in moody indifference.  He felt as if suddenly
shaken out of a pensive dream and found it impossible to go
to sleep again.  Presently he sat up and asked slowly, "Do
you think Jo would despise me as you do?"

     "Yes, if she saw you now.  She hates lazy people.  Why don't
you do something splendid, and make her love you?"

     "I did my best, but it was no use."

     "Graduating well, you mean?  That was no more than you
ought to have done, for your grandfather's sake.  It would
have been shameful to fail after spending so much time and
money, when everyone knew that you could do well."

     "I did fail, say what you will, for Jo wouldn't love me,"
began Laurie, leaning his head on his hand in a despondent
attitude.

     "No, you didn't, and you'll say so in the end, for it did
you good, and proved that you could do something if you tried.
If you'd only set about another task of some sort, you'd soon
be your hearty, happy self again, and forget your trouble."

     "That's impossible."

     "Try it and see.  You needn't shrug your shoulders, and
think, `Much she knows about such things'.  I don't pretend
to be wise, but I am observing, and I see a great deal more
than you'd imagine.  I'm interested in other people's ex-
periences and inconsistencies, and though I can't explain, I
remember and use them for my own benefit.  Love Jo all your
days, if you choose, but don't let it spoil you, for it's
wicked to throw away so many good gifts because you can't
have the one you want.  There, I won't lecture any more, for
I know you'll wake up and be a man in spite of that hard-
hearted girl."

     Neither spoke for several minutes.  Laurie sat turning
the little ring on his finger, and Amy put the last touches to
the hasty sketch she had been working at while she talked.
Presently she put it on his knee, merely saying, "How do you
like that?"

     He looked and then he smiled, as he could not well help
doing, for it was capitally done, the long, lazy figure on the
grass, with listless face, half-shut eyes, and one hand holding
a cigar, from which came the little wreath of smoke that en-
circled the dreamer's head.

     "How well you draw!" he said, with a genuine surprise
and pleasure at her skill, adding, with a half-laugh, "Yes,
that's me."

     "As you are.  This is as you were."  And Amy laid another
sketch beside the one he held.

     It was not nearly so well done, but there was a life and
spirit in it which atoned for many faults, and it recalled the
past so vividly that a sudden change swept over the young
man's face as he looked.  Only a rough sketch of Laurie taming
a horse.  Hat and coat were off, and every line of the active
figure, resolute face, and commanding attitude was full of
energy and meaning.  The handsome brute, just subdued, stood
arching his neck under the tightly drawn rein, with one foot
impatiently pawing the ground, and ears pricked up as if
listening for the voice that had mastered him.  In the ruffled
mane. The rider's breezy hair and erect attitude, there was a
suggestion of suddenly arrested motion, of strength, courage,
and youthful buoyancy that contrasted sharply with the supine
grace of the `DOLCE FAR NIENTE' sketch.  Laurie said nothing
but as his eye went from one to the other, Amy say him flush
up and fold his lips together as if he read and accepted the
little lesson she had given him.  That satisfied her, and
without waiting for him to speak, she said, in her sprightly
way . . .

     "Don't you remember the day you played Rarey with Puck,
and we all looked on?  Meg and Beth were frightened, but Jo
clapped and pranced, and I sat on the fence and drew you.  I
found that sketch in my portfolio the other day, touched it
up, and kept it to show you."

     "Much obliged.  You've improved immensely since then,
and I congratulate you.  May I venture to suggest in ` a
honeymoon paradise' that five o'clock is the dinner hour at
your hotel?"

     Laurie rose as he spoke, returned the pictures with a smile
and a bow and looked at his watch, as if to remind her that
even moral lectures should have an end.  He tried to resume his
former easy, indifferent air, but it was an affectation now, for
the rousing had been more effacious than he would confess.  Amy
felt the shade of coldness in his manner, and said to herself . ..

     "Now, I've offended him.  Well, if it does him good, I'm
glad, if it makes him hate me, I'm sorry, but it's true, and
I can't take back a word of it."

     They laughed and chatted all the way home, and little
Baptist, up behind, thought that monsieur and madamoiselle
were in charming spirits.  But both felt ill at ease.  The
friendly frankness was disturbed, the sunshine had a shadow
over it, and despite their apparent gaiety, there was a secret
discontent in the heart of each.

     "Shall we see you this evening, mon frere?"  asked Amy, as
they parted at her aunt's door.

     "Unfortunately I have an engagement.  Au revoir, madam-
oiselle."  And Laurie bent as if to kiss her hand, in the
foreign fashion, which became him better than many men.  Some-
thing in his face made Amy say quickly and warmly . . .

     "No, be yourself with me, Laurie, and part in the good
old way.  I'd rather have a hearty English handshake than
all the sentimental salutations in France."

     "Goodbye, dear." And with these words, uttered in the
tone she liked, Laurie left her, after a handshake almost pain-
ful in its heartiness.

     Next morning, instead of the usual call, Amy received a
note which made her smile at the beginning and sigh at the end.

     My Dear Mentor,
     Please make my adieux to your aunt, and exult within
yourself, for `Lazy Laurence' has gone to his grandpa, like
the best of boys.  A pleasant winter to you, and may the gods
grant you a blissful honeymoon at Valrosa!  I think Fred
would be benefited by a rouser.  Tell him so, with my con-
gratulations.
                 Yours gratefully,   TELEMACHUS

     "Good boy!  I'm glad he's gone," said Amy, with an ap-
proving smile.  The next minute her face  fell as she glanced
about the empty room, adding, with an involuntary sigh,  "Yes,
I am glad, but how I shall miss him."