Little Women by Louisa May Alcott chapter 20

CONFIDENTIAL

I don't think I have any words in which to tell the meeting of the
mother and daughters.  Such hours are beautiful to live, but very hard
to describe, so I will leave it to the imagination of my readers,
merely saying that the house was full of genuine happiness, and that
Meg's tender hope was realized, for when Beth woke from that long,
healing sleep, the first objects on which her eyes fell were the little
rose and Mother's face.  Too weak to wonder at anything, she only
smiled and nestled close in the loving arms about her, feeling that the
hungry longing was satisfied at last.  Then she slept again, and the
girls waited upon their mother, for she would not unclasp the thin hand
which clung to hers even in sleep.

Hannah had 'dished up' an astonishing breakfast for the traveler,
finding it impossible to vent her excitement in any other way, and Meg
and Jo fed their mother like dutiful young storks, while they listened
to her whispered account of Father's state, Mr. Brooke's promise to
stay and nurse him, the delays which the storm occasioned on the
homeward journey, and the unspeakable comfort Laurie's hopeful face had
given her when she arrived, worn out with fatigue, anxiety, and cold.

What a strange yet pleasant day that was.  So brilliant and gay
without, for all the world seemed abroad to welcome the first snow.  So
quiet and reposeful within, for everyone slept, spent with watching,
and a Sabbath stillness reigned through the house, while nodding Hannah
mounted guard at the door.  With a blissful sense of burdens lifted
off, Meg and Jo closed their weary eyes, and lay at rest, like
storm beaten boats safe at anchor in a quiet harbor.  Mrs. March would
not leave Beth's side, but rested in the big chair, waking often to
look at, touch, and brood over her child, like a miser over some
recovered treasure.

Laurie meanwhile posted off to comfort Amy, and told his story so well
that Aunt March actually 'sniffed' herself, and never once said "I told
you so".  Amy came out so strong on this occasion that I think the good
thoughts in the little chapel really began to bear fruit.  She dried
her tears quickly, restrained her impatience to see her mother, and
never even thought of the turquoise ring, when the old lady heartily
agreed in Laurie's opinion, that she behaved 'like a capital little
woman'.  Even Polly seemed impressed, for he called her a good girl,
blessed her buttons, and begged her to "come and take a walk, dear", in
his most affable tone.  She would very gladly have gone out to enjoy
the bright wintry weather, but discovering that Laurie was dropping
with sleep in spite of manful efforts to conceal the fact, she
persuaded him to rest on the sofa, while she wrote a note to her
mother.  She was a long time about it, and when she returned, he was
stretched out with both arms under his head, sound asleep, while Aunt
March had pulled down the curtains and sat doing nothing in an unusual
fit of benignity.

After a while, they began to think he was not going to wake up till
night, and I'm not sure that he would, had he not been effectually
roused by Amy's cry of joy at sight of her mother. There probably were
a good many happy little girls in and about the city that day, but it
is my private opinion that Amy was the happiest of all, when she sat in
her mother's lap and told her trials, receiving consolation and
compensation in the shape of approving smiles and fond caresses.  They
were alone together in the chapel, to which her mother did not object
when its purpose was explained to her.

"On the contrary, I like it very much, dear," looking from the dusty
rosary to the well worn little book, and the lovely picture with its
garland of evergreen.  "It is an excellent plan to have some place
where we can go to be quiet, when things vex or grieve us.  There are a
good many hard times in this life of ours, but we can always bear them
if we ask help in the right way.  I think my little girl is learning
this."

"Yes, Mother, and when I go home I mean to have a corner in the big
closet to put my books and the copy of that picture which I've tried to
make.  The woman's face is not good, it's too beautiful for me to draw,
but the baby is done better, and I love it very much.  I like to think
He was a little child once, for then I don't seem so far away, and that
helps me."

As Amy pointed to the smiling Christ child on his Mother's knee, Mrs.
March saw something on the lifted hand that made her smile.  She said
nothing, but Amy understood the look, and after a minute's pause, she
added gravely, "I wanted to speak to you about this, but I forgot it.
Aunt gave me the ring today.  She called me to her and kissed me, and
put it on my finger, and said I was a credit to her, and she'd like to
keep me always. She gave that funny guard to keep the turquoise on, as
it's too big.  I'd like to wear them Mother, can I?"

"They are very pretty, but I think you're rather too young for such
ornaments, Amy," said Mrs. March, looking at the plump little hand,
with the band of sky blue stones on the forefinger, and the quaint
guard formed of two tiny golden hands clasped together.

"I'll try not to be vain," said Amy.  "I don't think I like it only
because it's so pretty, but I want to wear it as the girl in the story
wore her bracelet, to remind me of something."

"Do you mean Aunt March?" asked her mother, laughing.

"No, to remind me not to be selfish."  Amy looked so earnest and
sincere about it that her mother stopped laughing, and listened
respectfully to the little plan.

"I've thought a great deal lately about my 'bundle of naughties', and
being selfish is the largest one in it, so I'm going to try hard to
cure it, if I can.  Beth isn't selfish, and that's the reason everyone
loves her and feels so bad at the thoughts of losing her.  People
wouldn't feel so bad about me if I was sick, and I don't deserve to
have them, but I'd like to be loved and missed by a great many friends,
so I'm going to try and be like Beth all I can.  I'm apt to forget my
resolutions, but if I had something always about me to remind me, I
guess I should do better.  May we try this way?"

"Yes, but I have more faith in the corner of the big closet. Wear your
ring, dear, and do your best.  I think you will prosper, for the
sincere wish to be good is half the battle.  Now I must go back to
Beth.  Keep up your heart, little daughter, and we will soon have you
home again."

That evening while Meg was writing to her father to report the
traveler's safe arrival, Jo slipped upstairs into Beth's room, and
finding her mother in her usual place, stood a minute twisting her
fingers in her hair, with a worried gesture and an undecided look.

"What is it, deary?" asked Mrs. March, holding out her hand, with a
face which invited confidence.

"I want to tell you something, Mother."

"About Meg?"

"How quickly you guessed!  Yes, it's about her, and though it's a
little thing, it fidgets me."

"Beth is asleep.  Speak low, and tell me all about it.  That Moffat
hasn't been here, I hope?" asked Mrs. March rather sharply.

"No.  I should have shut the door in his face if he had," said Jo,
settling herself on the floor at her mother's feet.  "Last summer Meg
left a pair of gloves over at the Laurences' and only one was returned.
We forgot about it, till Teddy told me that Mr. Brooke owned that he
liked Meg but didn't dare say so, she was so young and he so poor.
Now, isn't it a dreadful state of things?"

"Do you think Meg cares for him?" asked Mrs. March, with an anxious
look.

"Mercy me!  I don't know anything about love and such nonsense!" cried
Jo, with a funny mixture of interest and contempt. "In novels, the
girls show it by starting and blushing, fainting away, growing thin,
and acting like fools.  Now Meg does not do anything of the sort.  She
eats and drinks and sleeps like a sensible creature, she looks straight
in my face when I talk about that man, and only blushes a little bit
when Teddy jokes about lovers.  I forbid him to do it, but he doesn't
mind me as he ought."

"Then you fancy that Meg is not interested in John?"

"Who?" cried Jo, staring.

"Mr. Brooke.  I call him 'John' now.  We fell into the way of doing so
at the hospital, and he likes it."

"Oh, dear!  I know you'll take his part.  He's been good to Father, and
you won't send him away, but let Meg marry him, if she wants to.  Mean
thing!  To go petting Papa and helping you, just to wheedle you into
liking him." And Jo pulled her hair again with a wrathful tweak.

"My dear, don't get angry about it, and I will tell you how it
happened.  John went with me at Mr. Laurence's request, and was so
devoted to poor Father that we couldn't help getting fond of him.  He
was perfectly open and honorable about Meg, for he told us he loved
her, but would earn a comfortable home before he asked her to marry
him.  He only wanted our leave to love her and work for her, and the
right to make her love him if he could. He is a truly excellent young
man, and we could not refuse to listen to him, but I will not consent
to Meg's engaging herself so young."

"Of course not.  It would be idiotic!  I knew there was mischief
brewing.  I felt it, and now it's worse than I imagined. I just wish I
could marry Meg myself, and keep her safe in the family."

This odd arrangement made Mrs. March smile, but she said gravely, "Jo,
I confide in you and don't wish you to say anything to Meg yet.  When
John comes back, and I see them together, I can judge better of her
feelings toward him."

"She'll see those handsome eyes that she talks about, and then it will
be all up with her.  She's got such a soft heart, it will melt like
butter in the sun if anyone looks sentimentlly at her.  She read the
short reports he sent more than she did your letters, and pinched me
when I spoke of it, and likes brown eyes, and doesn't think John an
ugly name, and she'll go and fall in love, and there's an end of peace
and fun, and cozy times together. I see it all!  They'll go lovering
around the house, and we shall have to dodge.  Meg will be absorbed and
no good to me any more. Brooke will scratch up a fortune somehow, carry
her off, and make a hole in the family, and I shall break my heart, and
everything will be abominably uncomfortable.  Oh, dear me!  Why weren't
we all boys, then there wouldn't be any bother."

Jo leaned her chin on her knees in a disconsolate attitude and shook
her fist at the reprehensible John.  Mrs. March sighed, and Jo looked
up with an air of relief.

"You don't like it, Mother?  I'm glad of it.  Let's send him about his
business, and not tell Meg a word of it, but all be happy together as
we always have been."

"I did wrong to sigh, Jo.  It is natural and right you should all go to
homes of your own in time, but I do want to keep my girls as long as I
can, and I am sorry that this happened so soon, for Meg is only
seventeen and it will be some years before John can make a home for
her.  Your father and I have agreed that she shall not bind herself in
any way, nor be married, before twenty.  If she and John love one
another, they can wait, and test the love by doing so.  She is
conscientious, and I have no fear of her treating him unkindly.  My
pretty, tender hearted girl!  I hope things will go happily with her."

"Hadn't you rather have her marry a rich man?" asked Jo, as her
mother's voice faltered a little over the last words.

"Money is a good and useful thing, Jo, and I hope my girls will never
feel the need of it too bitterly, nor be tempted by too much.  I should
like to know that John was firmly established in some good business,
which gave him an income large enough to keep free from debt and make
Meg comfortable.  I'm not ambitious for a splendid fortune, a
fashionable position, or a great name for my girls.  If rank and money
come with love and virtue, also, I should accept them gratefully, and
enjoy your good fortune, but I know, by experience, how much genuine
happiness can be had in a plain little house, where the daily bread is
earned, and some privations give sweetness to the few pleasures.  I am
content to see Meg begin humbly, for if I am not mistaken, she will be
rich in the possession of a good man's heart, and that is better than a
fortune."

"I understand, Mother, and quite agree, but I'm disappointed about Meg,
for I'd planned to have her marry Teddy by and by and sit in the lap of
luxury all her days.  Wouldn't it be nice?" asked Jo, looking up with a
brighter face.

"He is younger than she, you know," began Mrs. March, but Jo broke in...

"Only a little, he's old for his age, and tall, and can be quite
grown up in his manners if he likes.  Then he's rich and generous and
good, and loves us all, and I say it's a pity my plan is spoiled."

"I'm afraid Laurie is hardly grown up enough for Meg, and altogether
too much of a weathercock just now for anyone to depend on.  Don't make
plans, Jo, but let time and their own hearts mate your friends.  We
can't meddle safely in such matters, and had better not get 'romantic
rubbish' as you call it, into our heads, lest it spoil our friendship."

"Well, I won't, but I hate to see things going all crisscross and
getting snarled up, when a pull here and a snip there would straighten
it out.  I wish wearing flatirons on our heads would keep us from
growing up.  But buds will be roses, and kittens cats, more's the pity!"

"What's that about flatirons and cats?" asked Meg, as she crept into
the room with the finished letter in her hand.

"Only one of my stupid speeches.  I'm going to bed.  Come, Peggy," said
Jo, unfolding herself like an animated puzzle.

"Quite right, and beautifully written.  Please add that I send my love
to John," said Mrs. March, as she glanced over the letter and gave it
back.

"Do you call him 'John'?" asked Meg, smiling, with her innocent eyes
looking down into her mother's.

"Yes, he has been like a son to us, and we are very fond of him,"
replied Mrs. March, returning the look with a keen one.

"I'm glad of that, he is so lonely.  Good night, Mother, dear.  It is
so inexpressibly comfortable to have you here," was Meg's answer.

The kiss her mother gave her was a very tender one, and as she went
away, Mrs. March said, with a mixture of satisfaction and regret, "She
does not love John yet, but will soon learn to."



 Little Women by Louisa May Alcott chapter 21

LAURIE MAKES MISCHIEF, AND JO MAKES PEACE

Jo's face was a study next day, for the secret rather weighed upon her,
and she found it hard not to look mysterious and important.  Meg
observed it, but did not trouble herself to make inquiries, for she had
learned that the best way to manage Jo was by the law of contraries, so
she felt sure of being told everything if she did not ask.  She was
rather surprised, therefore, when the silence remained unbroken, and Jo
assumed a patronizing air, which decidedly aggravated Meg, who in turn
assumed an air of dignified reserve and devoted herself to her mother.
This left Jo to her own devices, for Mrs. March had taken her place as
nurse, and bade her rest, exercise, and amuse herself after her long
confinement.  Amy being gone, Laurie was her only refuge, and much as
she enjoyed his society, she rather dreaded him just then, for he was
an incorrigible tease, and she feared he would coax the secret from her.

She was quite right, for the mischief loving lad no sooner suspected a
mystery than he set himself to find it out, and led Jo a trying life of
it.  He wheedled, bribed, ridiculed, threatened, and scolded; affected
indifference, that he might surprise the truth from her; declared he
knew, then that he didn't care; and at last, by dint of perseverance,
he satisfied himself that it concerned Meg and Mr. Brooke.  Feeling
indignant that he was not taken into his tutor's confidence, he set his
wits to work to devise some proper retaliation for the slight.

Meg meanwhile had apparently forgotten the matter and was absorbed in
preparations for her father's return, but all of a sudden a change
seemed to come over her, and, for a day or two, she was quite unlike
herself.  She started when spoken to, blushed when looked at, was very
quiet, and sat over her sewing, with a timid, troubled look on her
face.  To her mother's inquiries she answered that she was quite well,
and Jo's she silenced by begging to be let alone.

"She feels it in the air  love, I mean  and she's going very fast.
She's got most of the symptoms  is twittery and cross, doesn't eat,
lies awake, and mopes in corners.  I caught her singing that song he
gave her, and once she said 'John', as you do, and then turned as red
as a poppy.  Whatever shall we do?" said Jo, looking ready for any
measures, however violent.

"Nothing but wait.  Let her alone, be kind and patient, and Father's
coming will settle everything," replied her mother.

"Here's a note to you, Meg, all sealed up.  How odd! Teddy never seals
mine," said Jo next day, as she distributed the contents of the little
post office.

Mrs. March and Jo were deep in their own affairs, when a sound from Meg
made them look up to see her staring at her note with a frightened face.

"My child, what is it?" cried her mother, running to her, while Jo
tried to take the paper which had done the mischief.

"It's all a mistake, he didn't send it.  Oh, Jo, how could you do it?"
and Meg hid her face in her hands, crying as if her heart were quite
broken.

"Me!  I've done nothing!  What's she talking about?" cried Jo,
bewildered.

Meg's mild eyes kindled with anger as she pulled a crumpled note from
her pocket and threw it at Jo, saying reproachfully, "You wrote it, and
that bad boy helped you.  How could you be so rude, so mean, and cruel
to us both?"

Jo hardly heard her, for she and her mother were reading the note,
which was written in a peculiar hand.


"My Dearest Margaret,

"I can no longer restrain my passion, and must know my fate before I
return.  I dare not tell your parents yet, but I think they would
consent if they knew that we adored one another.  Mr. Laurence will
help me to some good place, and then, my sweet girl, you will make me
happy.  I implore you to say nothing to your family yet, but to send
one word of hope through Laurie to,

"Your devoted John."


"Oh, the little villain!  That's the way he meant to pay me for keeping
my word to Mother.  I'll give him a hearty scolding and bring him over
to beg pardon," cried Jo, burning to execute immediate justice.  But
her mother held her back, saying, with a look she seldom wore...

"Stop, Jo, you must clear yourself first.  You have played so many
pranks that I am afraid you have had a hand in this."

"On my word, Mother, I haven't!  I never saw that note before, and
don't know anything about it, as true as I live!" said Jo, so earnestly
that they believed her.  "If I had taken part in it I'd have done it
better than this, and have written a sensible note.  I should think
you'd have known Mr. Brooke wouldn't write such stuff as that," she
added, scornfully tossing down the paper.

"It's like his writing," faltered Meg, comparing it with the note in
her hand.

"Oh, Meg, you didn't answer it?" cried Mrs. March quickly.

"Yes, I did!" and Meg hid her face again, overcome with shame.

"Here's a scrape!  Do let me bring that wicked boy over to explain and
be lectured.  I can't rest till I get hold of him." And Jo made for the
door again.

"Hush!  Let me handle this, for it is worse than I thought. Margaret,
tell me the whole story," commanded Mrs. March, sitting down by Meg,
yet keeping hold of Jo, lest she should fly off.

"I received the first letter from Laurie, who didn't look as if he knew
anything about it," began Meg, without looking up. "I was worried at
first and meant to tell you, then I remembered how you liked Mr.
Brooke, so I thought you wouldn't mind if I kept my little secret for a
few days.  I'm so silly that I liked to think no one knew, and while I
was deciding what to say, I felt like the girls in books, who have such
things to do.  Forgive me, Mother, I'm paid for my silliness now.  I
never can look him in the face again."

"What did you say to him?" asked Mrs. March.

"I only said I was too young to do anything about it yet, that I didn't
wish to have secrets from you, and he must speak to father.  I was very
grateful for his kindness, and would be his friend, but nothing more,
for a long while."

Mrs. March smiled, as if well pleased, and Jo clapped her hands,
exclaiming, with a laugh, "You are almost equal to Caroline Percy, who
was a pattern of prudence!  Tell on, Meg. What did he say to that?"

"He writes in a different way entirely, telling me that he never sent
any love letter at all, and is very sorry that my roguish sister, Jo,
should take liberties with our names.  It's very kind and respectful,
but think how dreadful for me!"

Meg leaned against her mother, looking the image of despair, and Jo
tramped about the room, calling Laurie names.  All of a sudden she
stopped, caught up the two notes, and after looking at them closely,
said decidedly, "I don't believe Brooke ever saw either of these
letters.  Teddy wrote both, and keeps yours to crow over me with
because I wouldn't tell him my secret."

"Don't have any secrets, Jo.  Tell it to Mother and keep out of
trouble, as I should have done," said Meg warningly.

"Bless you, child!  Mother told me."

"That will do, Jo.  I'll comfort Meg while you go and get Laurie.  I
shall sift the matter to the bottom, and put a stop to such pranks at
once."

Away ran Jo, and Mrs. March gently told Meg Mr. Brooke's real feelings.
"Now, dear, what are your own?  Do you love him enough to wait till he
can make a home for you, or will you keep yourself quite free for the
present?"

"I've been so scared and worried, I don't want to have anything to do
with lovers for a long while, perhaps never," answered Meg petulantly.
"If John doesn't know anything about this nonsense, don't tell him, and
make Jo and Laurie hold their tongues.  I won't be deceived and plagued
and made a fool of. It's a shame!"

Seeing Meg's usually gentle temper was roused and her pride hurt by
this mischievous joke, Mrs. March soothed her by promises of entire
silence and great discretion for the future.  The instant Laurie's step
was heard in the hall, Meg fled into the study, and Mrs. March received
the culprit alone. Jo had not told him why he was wanted, fearing he
wouldn't come, but he knew the minute he saw Mrs. March's face, and
stood twirling his hat with a guilty air which convicted him at once.
Jo was dismissed, but chose to march up and down the hall like a
sentinel, having some fear that the prisoner might bolt.  The sound of
voices in the parlor rose and fell for half an hour, but what happened
during that interview the girls never knew.

When they were called in, Laurie was standing by their mother with such
a penitent face that Jo forgave him on the spot, but did not think it
wise to betray the fact.  Meg received his humble apology, and was much
comforted by the assurance that Brooke knew nothing of the joke.

"I'll never tell him to my dying day, wild horses shan't drag it out of
me, so you'll forgive me, Meg, and I'll do anything to show how
out and out sorry I am," he added, looking very much ashamed of himself.

"I'll try, but it was a very ungentlemanly thing to do, I didn't think
you could be so sly and malicious, Laurie," replied Meg, trying to hide
her maidenly confusion under a gravely reproachful air.

"It was altogether abominable, and I don't deserve to be spoken to for
a month, but you will, though, won't you?" And Laurie folded his hands
together with such and imploring gesture, as he spoke in his
irresistibly persuasive tone, that it was impossible to frown upon him
in spite of his scandalous behavior.

Meg pardoned him, and Mrs. March's grave face relaxed, in spite of her
efforts to keep sober, when she heard him declare that he would atone
for his sins by all sorts of penances, and abase himself like a worm
before the injured damsel.

Jo stood aloof, meanwhile, trying to harden her heart against him, and
succeeding only in primming up her face into an expression of entire
disapprobation.  Laurie looked at her once or twice, but as she showed
no sign of relenting, he felt injured, and turned his back on her till
the others were done with him, when he made her a low bow and walked
off without a word.

As soon as he had gone, she wished she had been more forgiving, and
when Meg and her mother went upstairs, she felt lonely and longed for
Teddy.  After resisting for some time, she yielded to the impulse, and
armed with a book to return, went over to the big house.

"Is Mr. Laurence in?" asked Jo, of a housemaid, who was coming
downstairs.

"Yes, Miss, but I don't believe he's seeable just yet."

"Why not?  Is he ill?"

"La, no Miss, but he's had a scene with Mr. Laurie, who is in one of
his tantrums about something, which vexes the old gentleman, so I
dursn't go nigh him."

"Where is Laurie?"

"Shut up in his room, and he won't answer, though I've been a tapping.
I don't know what's to become of the dinner, for it's ready, and
there's no one to eat it."

"I'll go and see what the matter is.  I'm not afraid of either of them."

Up went Jo, and knocked smartly on the door of Laurie's little study.

"Stop that, or I'll open the door and make you!" called out the young
gentleman in a threatening tone.

Jo immediately knocked again.  The door flew open, and in she bounced
before Laurie could recover from his surprise.  Seeing that he really
was out of temper, Jo, who knew how to manage him, assumed a contrite
expression, and going artistically down upon her knees, said meekly,
"Please forgive me for being so cross.  I came to make it up, and can't
go away till I have."

"It's all right.  Get up, and don't be a goose, Jo," was the cavalier
reply to her petition.

"Thank you, I will.  Could I ask what's the matter?  You don't look
exactly easy in your mind."

"I've been shaken, and I won't bear it!" growled Laurie indignantly.

"Who did it?" demanded Jo.

"Grandfather.  If it had been anyone else I'd have..." And the injured
youth finished his sentence by an energetic gesture of the right arm.

"That's nothing.  I often shake you, and you don't mind," said Jo
soothingly.

"Pooh!  You're a girl, and it's fun, but I'll allow no man to shake me!"

"I don't think anyone would care to try it, if you looked as much like
a thundercloud as you do now.  Why were you treated so?"

"Just because I wouldn't say what your mother wanted me for. I'd
promised not to tell, and of course I wasn't going to break my word."

"Couldn't you satisfy your grandpa in any other way?"

"No, he would have the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the
truth.  I'd have told my part of the scrape, if I could without
bringing Meg in.  As I couldn't, I held my tongue, and bore the
scolding till the old gentleman collared me.  Then I bolted, for fear I
should forget myself."

"It wasn't nice, but he's sorry, I know, so go down and make up.  I'll
help you."

"Hanged if I do!  I'm not going to be lectured and pummelled by
everyone, just for a bit of a frolic.  I was sorry about Meg, and
begged pardon like a man, but I won't do it again, when I wasn't in the
wrong."

"He didn't know that."

"He ought to trust me, and not act as if I was a baby.  It's no use,
Jo, he's got to learn that I'm able to take care of myself, and don't
need anyone's apron string to hold on by."

"What pepper pots you are!" sighed Jo.  "How do you mean to settle this
affair?"

"Well, he ought to beg pardon, and believe me when I say I can't tell
him what the fuss's about."

"Bless you!  He won't do that."

"I won't go down till he does."

"Now, Teddy, be sensible.  Let it pass, and I'll explain what I can.
You can't stay here, so what's the use of being melodramatic?"

"I don't intend to stay here long, anyway.  I'll slip off and take a
journey somewhere, and when Grandpa misses me he'll come round fast
enough."

"I dare say, but you ought not to go and worry him."

"Don't preach.  I'll go to Washington and see Brooke.  It's gay there,
and I'll enjoy myself after the troubles."

"What fun you'd have!  I wish I could run off too," said Jo, forgetting
her part of mentor in lively visions of martial life at the capital.

"Come on, then!  Why not?  You go and surprise your father, and I'll
stir up old Brooke.  It would be a glorious joke.  Let's do it, Jo.
We'll leave a letter saying we are all right, and trot off at once.
I've got money enough.  It will do you good, and no harm, as you go to
your father."

For a moment Jo looked as if she would agree, for wild as the plan was,
it just suited her.  She was tired of care and confinement, longed for
change, and thoughts of her father blended temptingly with the novel
charms of camps and hospitals, liberty and fun.  Her eyes kindled as
they turned wistfully toward the window, but they fell on the old house
opposite, and she shook her head with sorrowful decision.

"If I was a boy, we'd run away together, and have a capital time, but
as I'm a miserable girl, I must be proper and stop at home. Don't tempt
me, Teddy, it's a crazy plan."

"That's the fun of it," began Laurie, who had got a willful fit on him
and was possessed to break out of bounds in some way.

"Hold your tongue!" cried Jo, covering her ears.  "'Prunes and prisms'
are my doom, and I may as well make up my mind to it.  I came here to
moralize, not to hear things that make me skip to think of."

"I know Meg would wet blanket such a proposal, but I thought you had
more spirit," began Laurie insinuatingly.

"Bad boy, be quiet!  Sit down and think of your own sins, don't go
making me add to mine.  If I get your grandpa to apologize for the
shaking, will you give up running away?" asked Jo seriously.

"Yes, but you won't do it," answered Laurie, who wished to make up, but
felt that his outraged dignity must be appeased first.

"If I can manage the young one, I can the old one," muttered Jo, as she
walked away, leaving Laurie bent over a railroad map with his head
propped up on both hands.

"Come in!" and Mr. Laurence's gruff voice sounded gruffer than ever, as
Jo tapped at his door.

"It's only me, Sir, come to return a book," she said blandly, as she
entered.

"Want any more?" asked the old gentleman, looking grim and vexed, but
trying not to show it.

"Yes, please.  I like old Sam so well, I think I'll try the second
volume," returned Jo, hoping to propitiate him by accepting a second
dose of Boswell's Johnson, as he had recommended that lively work.

The shaggy eyebrows unbent a little as he rolled the steps toward the
shelf where the Johnsonian literature was placed.  Jo skipped up, and
sitting on the top step, affected to be searching for her book, but was
really wondering how best to introduce the dangerous object of her
visit.  Mr. Laurence seemed to suspect that something was brewing in
her mind, for after taking several brisk turns about the room, he faced
round on her, speaking so abruptly that Rasselas tumbled face downward
on the floor.

"What has that boy been about?  Don't try to shield him.  I know he has
been in mischief by the way he acted when he came home.  I can't get a
word from him, and when I threatened to shake the truth out of him he
bolted upstairs and locked himself into his room."

"He did wrong, but we forgave him, and all promised not to say a word
to anyone," began Jo reluctantly.

"That won't do.  He shall not shelter himself behind a promise from you
softhearted girls.  If he's done anything amiss, he shall confess, beg
pardon, and be punished.  Out with it, Jo. I won't be kept in the dark."

Mr. Laurence looked so alarming and spoke so sharply that Jo would have
gladly run away, if she could, but she was perched aloft on the steps,
and he stood at the foot, a lion in the path, so she had to stay and
brave it out.

"Indeed, Sir, I cannot tell.  Mother forbade it.  Laurie has confessed,
asked pardon, and been punished quite enough.  We don't keep silence to
shield him, but someone else, and it will make more trouble if you
interfere.  Please don't.  It was partly my fault, but it's all right
now.  So let's forget it, and talk about the  Rambler  or something
pleasant."

"Hang the  Rambler!   Come down and give me your word that this
harum scarum boy of mine hasn't done anything ungrateful or
impertinent.  If he has, after all your kindness to him, I'll thrash
him with my own hands."

The threat sounded awful, but did not alarm Jo, for she knew the
irascible old gentleman would never lift a finger against his grandson,
whatever he might say to the contrary.  She obediently descended, and
made as light of the prank as she could without betraying Meg or
forgetting the truth.

"Hum... ha... well, if the boy held his tongue because he promised, and
not from obstinacy, I'll forgive him. He's a stubborn fellow and hard
to manage," said Mr. Laurence, rubbing up his hair till it looked as if
he had been out in a gale, and smoothing the frown from his brow with
an air of relief.

"So am I, but a kind word will govern me when all the king's horses and
all the king's men couldn't," said Jo, trying to say a kind word for
her friend, who seemed to get out of one scrape only to fall into
another.

"You think I'm not kind to him, hey?" was the sharp answer.

"Oh, dear no, Sir.  You are rather too kind sometimes, and then just a
trifle hasty when he tries your patience.  Don't you think you are?"

Jo was determined to have it out now, and tried to look quite placid,
though she quaked a little after her bold speech. To her great relief
and surprise, the old gentleman only threw his spectacles onto the
table with a rattle and exclaimed frankly, "You're right, girl, I am!
I love the boy, but he tries my patience past bearing, and I know how
it will end, if we go on so."

"I'll tell you, he'll run away." Jo was sorry for that speech the
minute it was made.  She meant to warn him that Laurie would not bear
much restraint, and hoped he would be more forebearing with the lad.

Mr. Laurence's ruddy face changed suddenly, and he sat down, with a
troubled glance at the picture of a handsome man, which hung over his
table.  It was Laurie's father, who had run away in his youth, and
married against the imperious old man's will. Jo fancied he remembered
and regretted the past, and she wished she had held her tongue.

"He won't do it unless he is very much worried, and only threatens it
sometimes, when he gets tired of studying.  I often think I should like
to, especially since my hair was cut, so if you ever miss us, you may
advertise for two boys and look among the ships bound for India."

She laughed as she spoke, and Mr. Laurence looked relieved, evidently
taking the whole as a joke.

"You hussy, how dare you talk in that way?  Where's your respect for
me, and your proper bringing up?  Bless the boys and girls!  What
torments they are, yet we can't do without them," he said, pinching her
cheeks good humoredly.  "Go and bring that boy down to his dinner, tell
him it's all right, and advise him not to put on tragedy airs with his
grandfather.  I won't bear it."

"He won't come, Sir.  He feels badly because you didn't believe him
when he said he couldn't tell.  I think the shaking hurt his feelings
very much."

Jo tried to look pathetic but must have failed, for Mr. Laurence began
to laugh, and she knew the day was won.

"I'm sorry for that, and ought to thank him for not shaking me, I
suppose.  What the dickens does the fellow expect?" and the old
gentleman looked a trifle ashamed of his own testiness.

"If I were you, I'd write him an apology, Sir.  He says he won't come
down till he has one, and talks about Washington, and goes on in an
absurd way.  A formal apology will make him see how foolish he is, and
bring him down quite amiable.  Try it.  He likes fun, and this way is
better than talking.  I'll carry it up, and teach him his duty."

Mr. Laurence gave her a sharp look, and put on his spectacles, saying
slowly, "You're a sly puss, but I don't mind being managed by you and
Beth.  Here, give me a bit of paper, and let us have done with this
nonsense."

The note was written in the terms which one gentleman would use to
another after offering some deep insult.  Jo dropped a kiss on the top
of Mr. Laurence's bald head, and ran up to slip the apology under
Laurie's door, advising him through the keyhole to be submissive,
decorous, and a few other agreeable impossibilities. Finding the door
locked again, she left the note to do its work, and was going quietly
away, when the young gentleman slid down the banisters, and waited for
her at the bottom, saying, with his most virtuous expression of
countenance, "What a good fellow you are, Jo! Did you get blown up?" he
added, laughing.

"No, he was pretty mild, on the whole."

"Ah!  I got it all round.  Even you cast me off over there, and I felt
just ready to go to the deuce," he began apologetically.

"Don't talk that way, turn over a new leaf and begin again, Teddy, my
son."

"I keep turning over new leaves, and spoiling them, as I used to spoil
my copybooks, and I make so many beginnings there never will be an
end," he said dolefully.

"Go and eat your dinner, you'll feel better after it.  Men always croak
when they are hungry," and Jo whisked out at the front door after that.

"That's a 'label' on my 'sect'," answered Laurie, quoting Amy, as he
went to partake of humble pie dutifully with his grandfather, who was
quite saintly in temper and overwhelmingly respectful in manner all the
rest of the day.

Everyone thought the matter ended and the little cloud blown over, but
the mischief was done, for though others forgot it, Meg remembered.
She never alluded to a certain person, but she thought of him a good
deal, dreamed dreams more than ever, and once Jo, rummaging her
sister's desk for stamps, found a bit of paper scribbled over with the
words, 'Mrs. John Brooke', whereat she groaned tragically and cast it
into the fire, feeling that Laurie's prank had hastened the evil day
for her.



 Little Women by Louisa May Alcott chapter 22

PLEASANT MEADOWS

Like sunshine after a storm were the peaceful weeks which followed.
The invalids improved rapidly, and Mr. March began to talk of returning
early in the new year.  Beth was soon able to lie on the study sofa all
day, amusing herself with the well beloved cats at first, and in time
with doll's sewing, which had fallen sadly behind hand.  Her once
active limbs were so stiff and feeble that Jo took her for a daily
airing about the house in her strong arms.  Meg cheerfully blackened
and burned her white hands cooking delicate messes for 'the dear',
while Amy, a loyal slave of the ring, celebrated her return by giving
away as many of her treasures as she could prevail on her sisters to
accept.

As Christmas approached, the usual mysteries began to haunt the house,
and Jo frequently convulsed the family by proposing utterly impossible
or magnificently absurd ceremonies, in honor of this unusually merry
Christmas.  Laurie was equally impracticable, and would have had
bonfires, skyrockets, and triumphal arches, if he had had his own way.
After many skirmishes and snubbings, the ambitious pair were considered
effectually quenched and went about with forlorn faces, which were
rather belied by explosions of laughter when the two got together.

Several days of unusually mild weather fitly ushered in a splendid
Christmas Day.  Hannah 'felt in her bones' that it was going to be an
unusually fine day, and she proved herself a true prophetess, for
everybody and everything seemed bound to produce a grand success.  To
begin with, Mr. March wrote that he should soon be with them, then Beth
felt uncommonly well that morning, and, being dressed in her mother's
gift, a soft crimson merino wrapper, was borne in high triumph to the
window to behold the offering of Jo and Laurie.  The Unquenchables had
done their best to be worthy of the name, for like elves they had
worked by night and conjured up a comical surprise.  Out in the garden
stood a stately snow maiden, crowned with holly, bearing a basket of
fruit and flowers in one hand, a great roll of music in the other, a
perfect rainbow of an Afghan round her chilly shoulders, and a
Christmas carol issuing from her lips on a pink paper streamer.

    THE JUNGFRAU TO BETH

    God bless you, dear Queen Bess!
    May nothing you dismay,
    But health and peace and happiness
    Be yours, this Christmas day.

    Here's fruit to feed our busy bee,
    And flowers for her nose.
    Here's music for her pianee,
    An afghan for her toes,

    A portrait of Joanna, see,
    By Raphael No. 2,
    Who laboured with great industry
    To make it fair and true.

    Accept a ribbon red, I beg,
    For Madam Purrer's tail,
    And ice cream made by lovely Peg,
    A Mont Blanc in a pail.

    Their dearest love my makers laid
    Within my breast of snow.
    Accept it, and the Alpine maid,
    From Laurie and from Jo.

How Beth laughed when she saw it, how Laurie ran up and down to bring
in the gifts, and what ridiculous speeches Jo made as she presented
them.

"I'm so full of happiness, that if Father was only here, I couldn't
hold one drop more," said Beth, quite sighing with contentment as Jo
carried her off to the study to rest after the excitement, and to
refresh herself with some of the delicious grapes the 'Jungfrau' had
sent her.

"So am I," added Jo, slapping the pocket wherein reposed the
long desired  Undine and Sintram .

"I'm sure I am," echoed Amy, poring over the engraved copy of the
Madonna and Child, which her mother had given her in a pretty frame.

"Of course I am!" cried Meg, smoothing the silvery folds of her first
silk dress, for Mr. Laurence had insisted on giving it. "How can I be
otherwise?" said Mrs. March gratefully, as her eyes went from her
husband's letter to Beth's smiling face, and her hand carressed the
brooch made of gray and golden, chestnut and dark brown hair, which the
girls had just fastened on her breast.

Now and then, in this workaday world, things do happen in the
delightful storybook fashion, and what a comfort it is.  Half an hour
after everyone had said they were so happy they could only hold one
drop more, the drop came.  Laurie opened the parlor door and popped his
head in very quietly.  He might just as well have turned a somersault
and uttered an Indian war whoop, for his face was so full of suppressed
excitement and his voice so treacherously joyful that everyone jumped
up, though he only said, in a queer, breathless voice, "Here's another
Christmas present for the March family."

Before the words were well out of his mouth, he was whisked away
somehow, and in his place appeared a tall man, muffled up to the eyes,
leaning on the arm of another tall man, who tried to say something and
couldn't.  Of course there was a general stampede, and for several
minutes everybody seemed to lose their wits, for the strangest things
were done, and no one said a word.

Mr. March became invisible in the embrace of four pairs of loving arms.
Jo disgraced herself by nearly fainting away, and had to be doctored by
Laurie in the china closet.  Mr. Brooke kissed Meg entirely by mistake,
as he somewhat incoherently explained.  And Amy, the dignified, tumbled
over a stool, and never stopping to get up, hugged and cried over her
father's boots in the most touching manner.  Mrs. March was the first
to recover herself, and held up her hand with a warning, "Hush!
Remember Beth."

But it was too late.  The study door flew open, the little red wrapper
appeared on the threshold, joy put strength into the feeble limbs, and
Beth ran straight into her father's arms.  Never mind what happened
just after that, for the full hearts overflowed, washing away the
bitterness of the past and leaving only the sweetness of the present.

It was not at all romantic, but a hearty laugh set everybody straight
again, for Hannah was discovered behind the door, sobbing over the fat
turkey, which she had forgotten to put down when she rushed up from the
kitchen.  As the laugh subsided, Mrs. March began to thank Mr. Brooke
for his faithful care of her husband, at which Mr. Brooke suddenly
remembered that Mr. March needed rest, and seizing Laurie, he
precipitately retired.  Then the two invalids were ordered to repose,
which they did, by both sitting in one big chair and talking hard.

Mr. March told how he had longed to surprise them, and how, when the
fine weather came, he had been allowed by his doctor to take advantage
of it, how devoted Brooke had been, and how he was altogether a most
estimable and upright young man.  Why Mr. March paused a minute just
there, and after a glance at Meg, who was violently poking the fire,
looked at his wife with an inquiring lift of the eyebrows, I leave you
to imagine.  Also why Mrs. March gently nodded her head and asked,
rather abruptly, if he wouldn't like to have something to eat.  Jo saw
and understood the look, and she stalked grimly away to get wine and
beef tea, muttering to herself as she slammed the door, "I hate
estimable young men with brown eyes!"

There never was such a Christmas dinner as they had that day. The fat
turkey was a sight to behold, when Hannah sent him up, stuffed,
browned, and decorated.  So was the plum pudding, which melted in one's
mouth, likewise the jellies, in which Amy reveled like a fly in a
honeypot.  Everything turned out well, which was a mercy, Hannah said,
"For my mind was that flustered, Mum, that it's a merrycle I didn't
roast the pudding, and stuff the turkey with raisins, let alone bilin'
of it in a cloth."

Mr. Laurence and his grandson dined with them, also Mr. Brooke, at whom
Jo glowered darkly, to Laurie's infinite amusement. Two easy chairs
stood side by side at the head of the table, in which sat Beth and her
father, feasting modestly on chicken and a little fruit.  They drank
healths, told stories, sang songs, 'reminisced', as the old folks say,
and had a thoroughly good time. A sleigh ride had been planned, but the
girls would not leave their father, so the guests departed early, and
as twilight gathered, the happy family sat together round the fire.

"Just a year ago we were groaning over the dismal Christmas we expected
to have.  Do you remember?" asked Jo, breaking a short pause which had
followed a long conversation about many things.

"Rather a pleasant year on the whole!" said Meg, smiling at the fire,
and congratulating herself on having treated Mr. Brooke with dignity.

"I think it's been a pretty hard one," observed Amy, watching the light
shine on her ring with thoughtful eyes.

"I'm glad it's over, because we've got you back," whispered Beth, who
sat on her father's knee.

"Rather a rough road for you to travel, my little pilgrims, especially
the latter part of it.  But you have got on bravely, and I think the
burdens are in a fair way to tumble off very soon," said Mr. March,
looking with fatherly satisfaction at the four young faces gathered
round him.

"How do you know?  Did Mother tell you?" asked Jo.

"Not much.  Straws show which way the wind blows, and I've made several
discoveries today."

"Oh, tell us what they are!" cried Meg, who sat beside him.

"Here is one." And taking up the hand which lay on the arm of his
chair, he pointed to the roughened forefinger, a burn on the back, and
two or three little hard spots on the palm.  "I remember a time when
this hand was white and smooth, and your first care was to keep it so.
It was very pretty then, but to me it is much prettier now, for in this
seeming blemishes I read a little history.  A burnt offering has been
made to vanity, this hardened palm has earned something better than
blisters, and I'm sure the sewing done by these pricked fingers will
last a long time, so much good will went into the stitches.  Meg, my
dear, I value the womanly skill which keeps home happy more than white
hands or fashionable accomplishments.  I'm proud to shake this good,
industrious little hand, and hope I shall not soon be asked to give it
away."

If Meg had wanted a reward for hours of patient labor, she received it
in the hearty pressure of her father's hand and the approving smile he
gave her.

"What about Jo?  Please say something nice, for she has tried so hard
and been so very, very good to me," said Beth in her father's ear.

He laughed and looked across at the tall girl who sat opposite, with an
unusually mild expression in her face.

"In spite of the curly crop, I don't see the 'son Jo' whom I left a
year ago," said Mr. March.  "I see a young lady who pins her collar
straight, laces her boots neatly, and neither whistles, talks slang,
nor lies on the rug as she used to do.  Her face is rather thin and
pale just now, with watching and anxiety, but I like to look at it, for
it has grown gentler, and her voice is lower.  She doesn't bounce, but
moves quietly, and takes care of a certain little person in a motherly
way which delights me.  I rather miss my wild girl, but if I get a
strong, helpful, tenderhearted woman in her place, I shall feel quite
satisfied. I don't know whether the shearing sobered our black sheep,
but I do know that in all Washington I couldn't find anything beautiful
enough to be bought with the five and twenty dollars my good girl sent
me."

Jo's keen eyes were rather dim for a minute, and her thin face grew
rosy in the firelight as she received her father's praise, feeling that
she did deserve a portion of it.

"Now, Beth," said Amy, longing for her turn, but ready to wait.

"There's so little of her, I'm afraid to say much, for fear she will
slip away altogether, though she is not so shy as she used to be,"
began their father cheerfully.  But recollecting how nearly he had lost
her, he held her close, saying tenderly, with her cheek against his
own, "I've got you safe, my Beth, and I'll keep you so, please God."

After a minute's silence, he looked down at Amy, who sat on the cricket
at his feet, and said, with a caress of the shining hair...

"I observed that Amy took drumsticks at dinner, ran errands for her
mother all the afternoon, gave Meg her place tonight, and has waited on
every one with patience and good humor.  I also observe that she does
not fret much nor look in the glass, and has not even mentioned a very
pretty ring which she wears, so I conclude that she has learned to
think of other people more and of herself less, and has decided to try
and mold her character as carefully as she molds her little clay
figures.  I am glad of this, for though I should be very proud of a
graceful statue made by her, I shall be infinitely prouder of a lovable
daughter with a talent for making life beautiful to herself and others."

"What are you thinking of, Beth?" asked Jo, when Amy had thanked her
father and told about her ring.

"I read in  Pilgrim's Progress  today how, after many troubles,
Christian and Hopeful came to a pleasant green meadow where lilies
bloomed all year round, and there they rested happily, as we do now,
before they went on to their journey's end," answered Beth, adding, as
she slipped out of her father's arms and went to the instrument, "It's
singing time now, and I want to be in my old place.  I'll try to sing
the song of the shepherd boy which the Pilgrims heard.  I made the
music for Father, because he likes the verses."

So, sitting at the dear little piano, Beth softly touched the keys, and
in the sweet voice they had never thought to hear again, sang to her
own accompaniment the quaint hymn, which was a singularly fitting song
for her.


    He that is down need fear no fall,
    He that is low no pride.
    He that is humble ever shall
    Have God to be his guide.

    I am content with what I have,
    Little be it, or much.
    And, Lord!  Contentment still I crave,
    Because Thou savest such.

    Fulness to them a burden is,
    That go on pilgrimage.
    Here little, and hereafter bliss,
    Is best from age to age!



 Little Women by Louisa May Alcott chapter 23

AUNT MARCH SETTLES THE QUESTION

Like bees swarming after their queen, mother and daughters hovered
about Mr. March the next day, neglecting everything to look at, wait
upon, and listen to the new invalid, who was in a fair way to be killed
by kindness.  As he sat propped up in a big chair by Beth's sofa, with
the other three close by, and Hannah popping in her head now and then
'to peek at the dear man', nothing seemed needed to complete their
happiness.  But something was needed, and the elder ones felt it,
though none confessed the fact.  Mr. and Mrs. March looked at one
another with an anxious expression, as their eyes followed Meg.  Jo had
sudden fits of sobriety, and was seen to shake her fist at Mr. Brooke's
umbrella, which had been left in the hall.  Meg was absent minded, shy,
and silent, started when the bell rang, and colored when John's name
was mentioned.  Amy said, "Everyone seemed waiting for something, and
couldn't settle down, which was queer, since Father was safe at home,"
and Beth innocently wondered why their neighbors didn't run over as
usual.

Laurie went by in the afternoon, and seeing Meg at the window, seemed
suddenly possessed with a melodramatic fit, for he fell down on one
knee in the snow, beat his breast, tore his hair, and clasped his hands
imploringly, as if begging some boon. And when Meg told him to behave
himself and go away, he wrung imaginary tears out of his handkerchief,
and staggered round the corner as if in utter despair.

"What does the goose mean?" said Meg, laughing and trying to look
unconscious.

"He's showing you how your John will go on by and by. Touching, isn't
it?" answered Jo scornfully.

"Don't say my John, it isn't proper or true," but Meg's voice lingered
over the words as if they sounded pleasant to her.  "Please don't
plague me, Jo, I've told you I don't care much about him, and there
isn't to be anything said, but we are all to be friendly, and go on as
before."

"We can't, for something has been said, and Laurie's mischief has
spoiled you for me.  I see it, and so does Mother.  You are not like
your old self a bit, and seem ever so far away from me.  I don't mean
to plague you and will bear it like a man, but I do wish it was all
settled.  I hate to wait, so if you mean ever to do it, make haste and
have it over quickly," said Jo pettishly.

"I can't say anything till he speaks, and he won't, because Father said
I was too young," began Meg, bending over her work with a queer little
smile, which suggested that she did not quite agree with her father on
that point.

"If he did speak, you wouldn't know what to say, but would cry or
blush, or let him have his own way, instead of giving a good, decided
no."

"I'm not so silly and weak as you think.  I know just what I should
say, for I've planned it all, so I needn't be taken unawares.  There's
no knowing what may happen, and I wished to be prepared."

Jo couldn't help smiling at the important air which Meg had
unconsciously assumed and which was as becoming as the pretty color
varying in her cheeks.

"Would you mind telling me what you'd say?" asked Jo more respectfully.

"Not at all.  You are sixteen now, quite old enough to be my confident,
and my experience will be useful to you by and by, perhaps, in your own
affairs of this sort."

"Don't mean to have any.  It's fun to watch other people philander, but
I should feel like a fool doing it myself," said Jo, looking alarmed at
the thought.

"I think not, if you liked anyone very much, and he liked you."  Meg
spoke as if to herself, and glanced out at the lane where she had often
seen lovers walking together in the summer twilight.

"I thought you were going to tell your speech to that man," said Jo,
rudely shortening her sister's little reverie.

"Oh, I should merely say, quite calmly and decidedly, 'Thank you, Mr.
Brooke, you are very kind, but I agree with Father that I am too young
to enter into any engagement at present, so please say no more, but let
us be friends as we were.'"

"Hum, that's stiff and cool enough!  I don't believe you'll ever say
it, and I know he won't be satisfied if you do.  If he goes on like the
rejected lovers in books, you'll give in, rather than hurt his
feelings."

"No, I won't.  I shall tell him I've made up my mind, and shall walk
out of the room with dignity."

Meg rose as she spoke, and was just going to rehearse the dignified
exit, when a step in the hall made her fly into her seat and begin to
sew as fast as if her life depended on finishing that particular seam
in a given time.  Jo smothered a laugh at the sudden change, and when
someone gave a modest tap, opened the door with a grim aspect which was
anything but hospitable.

"Good afternoon.  I came to get my umbrella, that is, to see how your
father finds himself today," said Mr. Brooke, getting a trifle confused
as his eyes went from one telltale face to the other.

"It's very well, he's in the rack.  I'll get him, and tell it you are
here."  And having jumbled her father and the umbrella well together in
her reply, Jo slipped out of the room to give Meg a chance to make her
speech and air her dignity.  But the instant she vanished, Meg began to
sidle toward the door, murmuring...

"Mother will like to see you.  Pray sit down, I'll call her."

"Don't go.  Are you afraid of me, Margaret?" and Mr. Brooke looked so
hurt that Meg thought she must have done something very rude.  She
blushed up to the little curls on her forehead, for he had never called
her Margaret before, and she was surprised to find how natural and
sweet it seemed to hear him say it.  Anxious to appear friendly and at
her ease, she put out her hand with a confiding gesture, and said
gratefully...

"How can I be afraid when you have been so kind to Father? I only wish
I could thank you for it."

"Shall I tell you how?" asked Mr. Brooke, holding the small hand fast
in both his own, and looking down at Meg with so much love in the brown
eyes that her heart began to flutter, and she both longed to run away
and to stop and listen.

"Oh no, please don't, I'd rather not," she said, trying to withdraw her
hand, and looking frightened in spite of her denial.

"I won't trouble you.  I only want to know if you care for me a little,
Meg.  I love you so much, dear," added Mr. Brooke tenderly.

This was the moment for the calm, proper speech, but Meg didn't make
it.  She forgot every word of it, hung her head, and answered, "I don't
know," so softly that John had to stoop down to catch the foolish
little reply.

He seemed to think it was worth the trouble, for he smiled to himself
as if quite satisfied, pressed the plump hand gratefully, and said in
his most persuasive tone, "Will you try and find out?  I want to know
so much, for I can't go to work with any heart until I learn whether I
am to have my reward in the end or not."

"I'm too young," faltered Meg, wondering why she was so fluttered, yet
rather enjoying it.

"I'll wait, and in the meantime, you could be learning to like me.
Would it be a very hard lesson, dear?"

"Not if I chose to learn it, but. . ."

"Please choose to learn, Meg.  I love to teach, and this is easier than
German," broke in John, getting possession of the other hand, so that
she had no way of hiding her face as he bent to look into it.

His tone was properly beseeching, but stealing a shy look at him, Meg
saw that his eyes were merry as well as tender, and that he wore the
satisfied smile of one who had no doubt of his success.  This nettled
her.  Annie Moffat's foolish lessons in coquetry came into her mind,
and the love of power, which sleeps in the bosoms of the best of little
women, woke up all of a sudden and took possession of her.  She felt
excited and strange, and not knowing what else to do, followed a
capricious impulse, and, withdrawing her hands, said petulantly, "I
don't choose.  Please go away and let me be!"

Poor Mr. Brooke looked as if his lovely castle in the air was tumbling
about his ears, for he had never seen Meg in such a mood before, and it
rather bewildered him.

"Do you really mean that?" he asked anxiously, following her as she
walked away.

"Yes, I do.  I don't want to be worried about such things. Father says
I needn't, it's too soon and I'd rather not."

"Mayn't I hope you'll change your mind by and by?  I'll wait and say
nothing till you have had more time.  Don't play with me, Meg.  I
didn't think that of you."

"Don't think of me at all.  I'd rather you wouldn't," said Meg, taking
a naughty satisfaction in trying her lover's patience and her own power.

He was grave and pale now, and looked decidedly more like the novel
heroes whom she admired, but he neither slapped his forehead nor
tramped about the room as they did.  He just stood looking at her so
wistfully, so tenderly, that she found her heart relenting in spite of
herself.  What would have happened next I cannot say, if Aunt March had
not come hobbling in at this interesting minute.

The old lady couldn't resist her longing to see her nephew, for she had
met Laurie as she took her airing, and hearing of Mr. March's arrival,
drove straight out to see him.  The family were all busy in the back
part of the house, and she had made her way quietly in, hoping to
surprise them.  She did surprise two of them so much that Meg started
as if she had seen a ghost, and Mr. Brooke vanished into the study.

"Bless me, what's all this?" cried the old lady with a rap of her cane
as she glanced from the pale young gentleman to the scarlet young lady.

"It's Father's friend.  I'm so surprised to see you!" stammered Meg,
feeling that she was in for a lecture now.

"That's evident," returned Aunt March, sitting down.  "But what is
Father's friend saying to make you look like a peony? There's mischief
going on, and I insist upon knowing what it is," with another rap.

"We were only talking.  Mr. Brooke came for his umbrella," began Meg,
wishing that Mr. Brooke and the umbrella were safely out of the house.

"Brooke?  That boy's tutor?  Ah! I understand now.  I know all about
it.  Jo blundered into a wrong message in one of your Father's letters,
and I made her tell me.  You haven't gone and accepted him, child?"
cried Aunt March, looking scandalized.

"Hush! He'll hear.  Shan't I call Mother?" said Meg, much troubled.

"Not yet.  I've something to say to you, and I must free my mind at
once.  Tell me, do you mean to marry this Cook?  If you do, not one
penny of my money ever goes to you.  Remember that, and be a sensible
girl," said the old lady impressively.

Now Aunt March possessed in perfection the art of rousing the spirit of
opposition in the gentlest people, and enjoyed doing it.  The best of
us have a spice of perversity in us, especially when we are young and
in love.  If Aunt March had begged Meg to accept John Brooke, she would
probably have declared she couldn't think of it, but as she was
preemptorily ordered not to like him, she immediately made up her mind
that she would.  Inclination as well as perversity made the decision
easy, and being already much excited, Meg opposed the old lady with
unusual spirit.

"I shall marry whom I please, Aunt March, and you can leave your money
to anyone you like," she said, nodding her head with a resolute air.

"Highty tighty!  Is that the way you take my advice, Miss? You'll be
sorry for it by and by, when you've tried love in a cottage and found
it a failure."

"It can't be a worse one than some people find in big houses," retorted
Meg.

Aunt March put on her glasses and took a look at the girl, for she did
not know her in this new mood.  Meg hardly knew herself, she felt so
brave and independent, so glad to defend John and assert her right to
love him, if she liked.  Aunt March saw that she had begun wrong, and
after a little pause, made a fresh start, saying as mildly as she
could, "Now, Meg, my dear, be reasonable and take my advice.  I mean it
kindly, and don't want you to spoil your whole life by making a mistake
at the beginning.  You ought to marry well and help your family.  It's
your duty to make a rich match and it ought to be impressed upon you."

"Father and Mother don't think so.  They like John though he is poor."

"Your parents, my dear, have no more worldly wisdom than a pair of
babies."

"I'm glad of it," cried Meg stoutly.

Aunt March took no notice, but went on with her lecture. "This Rook is
poor and hasn't got any rich relations, has he?"

"No, but he has many warm friends."

"You can't live on friends, try it and see how cool they'll grow.  He
hasn't any business, has he?"

"Not yet.  Mr. Laurence is going to help him."

"That won't last long.  James Laurence is a crotchety old fellow and
not to be depended on.  So you intend to marry a man without money,
position, or business, and go on working harder than you do now, when
you might be comfortable all your days by minding me and doing better?
I thought you had more sense, Meg."

"I couldn't do better if I waited half my life!  John is good and wise,
he's got heaps of talent, he's willing to work and sure to get on, he's
so energetic and brave.  Everyone likes and respects him, and I'm proud
to think he cares for me, though I'm so poor and young and silly," said
Meg, looking prettier than ever in her earnestness.

"He knows you have got rich relations, child.  That's the secret of his
liking, I suspect."

"Aunt March, how dare you say such a thing?  John is above such
meanness, and I won't listen to you a minute if you talk so," cried Meg
indignantly, forgetting everything but the injustice of the old lady's
suspicions.  "My John wouldn't marry for money, any more than I would.
We are willing to work and we mean to wait.  I'm not afraid of being
poor, for I've been happy so far, and I know I shall be with him
because he loves me, and I..."

Meg stopped there, remembering all of a sudden that she hadn't made up
her mind, that she had told 'her John' to go away, and that he might be
overhearing her inconsistent remarks.

Aunt March was very angry, for she had set her heart on having her
pretty niece make a fine match, and something in the girl's happy young
face made the lonely old woman feel both sad and sour.

"Well, I wash my hands of the whole affair!  You are a willful child,
and you've lost more than you know by this piece of folly. No, I won't
stop.  I'm disappointed in you, and haven't spirits to see your father
now.  Don't expect anything from me when you are married.  Your Mr.
Brooke's friends must take care of you.  I'm done with you forever."

And slamming the door in Meg's face, Aunt March drove off in high
dudgeon.  She seemed to take all the girl's courage with her, for when
left alone, Meg stood for a moment, undecided whether to laugh or cry.
Before she could make up her mind, she was taken possession of by Mr.
Brooke, who said all in one breath, "I couldn't help hearing, Meg.
Thank you for defending me, and Aunt March for proving that you do care
for me a little bit."

"I didn't know how much till she abused you," began Meg.

"And I needn't go away, but may stay and be happy, may I, dear?"

Here was another fine chance to make the crushing speech and the
stately exit, but Meg never thought of doing either, and disgraced
herself forever in Jo's eyes by meekly whispering, "Yes,  John," and
hiding her face on Mr. Brooke's waistcoat.

Fifteen minutes after Aunt March's departure, Jo came softly
downstairs, paused an instant at the parlor door, and hearing no sound
within, nodded and smiled with a satisfied expression, saying to
herself, "She has seen him away as we planned, and that affair is
settled.  I'll go and hear the fun, and have a good laugh over it."

But poor Jo never got her laugh, for she was transfixed upon the
threshold by a spectacle which held her there, staring with her mouth
nearly as wide open as her eyes.  Going in to exult over a fallen enemy
and to praise a strong minded sister for the banishment of an
objectionable lover, it certainly was a shock to behold the aforesaid
enemy serenely sitting on the sofa, with the strongminded sister
enthroned upon his knee and wearing an expression of the most abject
submission.  Jo gave a sort of gasp, as if a cold shower bath had
suddenly fallen upon her, for such an unexpected turning of the tables
actually took her breath away.  At the odd sound the lovers turned and
saw her.  Meg jumped up, looking both proud and shy, but 'that man', as
Jo called him, actually laughed and said coolly, as he kissed the
astonished newcomer, "Sister Jo, congratulate us!"

That was adding insult to injury, it was altogether too much, and
making some wild demonstration with her hands, Jo vanished without a
word.  Rushing upstairs, she startled the invalids by exclaiming
tragically as she burst into the room, "Oh, do somebody go down quick!
John Brooke is acting dreadfully, and Meg likes it!"

Mr. and Mrs. March left the room with speed, and casting herself upon
the bed, Jo cried and scolded tempestuously as she told the awful news
to Beth and Amy.  The little girls, however, considered it a most
agreeable and interesting event, and Jo got little comfort from them,
so she went up to her refuge in the garret, and confided her troubles
to the rats.

Nobody ever knew what went on in the parlor that afternoon, but a great
deal of talking was done, and quiet Mr. Brooke astonished his friends
by the eloquence and spirit with which he pleaded his suit, told his
plans, and persuaded them to arrange everything just as he wanted it.

The tea bell rang before he had finished describing the paradise which
he meant to earn for Meg, and he proudly took her in to supper, both
looking so happy that Jo hadn't the heart to be jealous or dismal. Amy
was very much impressed by John's devotion and Meg's dignity, Beth
beamed at them from a distance, while Mr. and Mrs. March surveyed the
young couple with such tender satisfaction that it was perfectly
evident Aunt March was right in calling them as 'unworldly as a pair of
babies'.  No one ate much, but everyone looked very happy, and the old
room seemed to brighten up amazingly when the first romance of the
family began there.

"You can't say nothing pleasant ever happens now, can you, Meg?" said
Amy, trying to decide how she would group the lovers in a sketch she
was planning to make.

"No, I'm sure I can't.  How much has happened since I said that! It
seems a year ago," answered Meg, who was in a blissful dream lifted far
above such common things as bread and butter.

"The joys come close upon the sorrows this time, and I rather think the
changes have begun," said Mrs. March.  "In most families there comes,
now and then, a year full of events.  This has been such a one, but it
ends well, after all."

"Hope the next will end better," muttered Jo, who found it very hard to
see Meg absorbed in a stranger before her face, for Jo loved a few
persons very dearly and dreaded to have their affection lost or
lessened in any way.

"I hope the third year from this will end better.  I mean it shall, if
I live to work out my plans," said Mr. Brooke, smiling at Meg, as if
everything had become possible to him now.

"Doesn't it seem very long to wait?" asked Amy, who was in a hurry for
the wedding.

"I've got so much to learn before I shall be ready, it seems a short
time to me," answered Meg, with a sweet gravity in her face never seen
there before.

"You have only to wait, I am to do the work," said John beginning his
labors by picking up Meg's napkin, with an expression which caused Jo
to shake her head, and then say to herself with an air of relief as the
front door banged, "Here comes Laurie.  Now we shall have some sensible
conversation."

But Jo was mistaken, for Laurie came prancing in, overflowing with good
spirits, bearing a great bridal looking bouquet for 'Mrs. John Brooke',
and evidently laboring under the delusion that the whole affair had
been brought about by his excellent management.

"I knew Brooke would have it all his own way, he always does, for when
he makes up his mind to accomplish anything, it's done though the sky
falls," said Laurie, when he had presented his offering and his
congratulations.

"Much obliged for that recommendation.  I take it as a good omen for
the future and invite you to my wedding on the spot," answered Mr.
Brooke, who felt at peace with all mankind, even his mischievous pupil.

"I'll come if I'm at the ends of the earth, for the sight of Jo's face
alone on that occasion would be worth a long journey. You don't look
festive, ma'am, what's the matter?" asked Laurie, following her into a
corner of the parlor, whither all had adjourned to greet Mr. Laurence.

"I don't approve of the match, but I've made up my mind to bear it, and
shall not say a word against it," said Jo solemnly.  "You can't know
how hard it is for me to give up Meg," she continued with a little
quiver in her voice.

"You don't give her up.  You only go halves," said Laurie consolingly.

"It can never be the same again.  I've lost my dearest friend," sighed
Jo.

"You've got me, anyhow.  I'm not good for much, I know, but I'll stand
by you, Jo, all the days of my life.  Upon my word I will!" and Laurie
meant what he said.

"I know you will, and I'm ever so much obliged.  You are always a great
comfort to me, Teddy," returned Jo, gratefully shaking hands.

"Well, now, don't be dismal, there's a good fellow.  It's all right you
see.  Meg is happy, Brooke will fly round and get settled immediately,
Grandpa will attend to him, and it will be very jolly to see Meg in her
own little house.  We'll have capital times after she is gone, for I
shall be through college before long, and then we'll go abroad on some
nice trip or other.  Wouldn't that console you?"

"I rather think it would, but there's no knowing what may happen in
three years," said Jo thoughtfully.

"That's true.  Don't you wish you could take a look forward and see
where we shall all be then?  I do," returned Laurie.

"I think not, for I might see something sad, and everyone looks so
happy now, I don't believe they could be much improved." And Jo's eyes
went slowly round the room, brightening as they looked, for the
prospect was a pleasant one.

Father and Mother sat together, quietly reliving the first chapter of
the romance which for them began some twenty years ago. Amy was drawing
the lovers, who sat apart in a beautiful world of their own, the light
of which touched their faces with a grace the little artist could not
copy.  Beth lay on her sofa, talking cheerily with her old friend, who
held her little hand as if he felt that it possessed the power to lead
him along the peaceful way she walked. Jo lounged in her favorite low
seat, with the grave quiet look which best became her, and Laurie,
leaning on the back of her chair, his chin on a level with her curly
head, smiled with his friendliest aspect, and nodded at her in the long
glass which reflected them both.


So the curtain falls upon Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy.  Whether it ever
rises again, depends upon the reception given the first act of the
domestic drama called  Little Women .







LITTLE WOMEN PART 2

In order that we may start afresh and go to Meg's wedding...



 Little Women by Louisa May Alcott chapter 24

GOSSIP

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sallie Moffat has four," began Amy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where is John?" asked Meg anxiously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not a prank."

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

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

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

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

"I never cry unless for some great affliction."

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

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

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

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

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

"No, I don't."

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

"You spend a great deal, Teddy."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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