Little Women by Louisa May Alcott chapter 15 Deluxe Edition

A TELEGRAM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Of course we will."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I hadn't the least idea of selling my hair at first, but as I went
along I kept thinking what I could do, and feeling as if I'd like to
dive into some of the rich stores and help myself.  In a barber's
window I saw tails of hair with the prices marked, and one black tail,
not so thick as mine, was forty dollars.  It came to me all of a sudden
that I had one thing to make money out of, and without stopping to
think, I walked in, asked if they bought hair, and what they would give
for mine."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, not now."

"What then?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What did you think of?"

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

"What color do you like best?"

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

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

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



 Little Women by Louisa May Alcott chapter 16

LETTERS

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

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

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

"Yes, Mother."

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

"We will, Mother!  We will!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My dearest Mother:

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

MEG

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

My precious Marmee:

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

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

TOPSY TURVY JO


    A SONG FROM THE SUDS

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

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

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

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


Dear Mother,

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

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

LITTLE BETH


Ma Chere Mamma,

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

AMY CURTIS MARCH


Dear Mis March,

I jes drop a line to say we git on fust rate.  The girls is clever and
fly round right smart.  Miss Meg is going to make a proper good
housekeeper.  She hes the liking for it, and gits the hang of things
surprisin quick.  Jo doos beat all for goin ahead, but she don't stop
to cal'k'late fust, and you never know where she's like to bring up.
She done out a tub of clothes on Monday, but she starched 'em afore
they was wrenched, and blued a pink calico dress till I thought I
should a died a laughin.  Beth is the best of little creeters, and a
sight of help to me, bein so forehanded and dependable.  She tries to
learn everything, and really goes to market beyond her years, likewise
keeps accounts, with my help, quite wonderful.  We have got on very
economical so fur.  I don't let the girls hev coffee only once a week,
accordin to your wish, and keep em on plain wholesome vittles.  Amy
does well without frettin, wearin her best clothes and eatin sweet
stuff. Mr. Laurie is as full of didoes as usual, and turns the house
upside down frequent, but he heartens the girls, so I let em hev full
swing.  The old gentleman sends heaps of things, and is rather wearin,
but means wal, and it aint my place to say nothin.  My bread is riz, so
no more at this time.  I send my duty to Mr. March, and hope he's seen
the last of his Pewmonia.

Yours respectful,

Hannah Mullet


Head Nurse of Ward No. 2,


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

COLONEL TEDDY


Dear Madam:

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

Your sincere friend and servant, JAMES LAURENCE



 Little Women by Louisa May Alcott chapter 17

LITTLE FAITHFUL

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Too stormy for me with my cold."

"I thought it was almost well."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Christopher Columbus!  What's the matter?" cried Jo, as Beth put out
her hand as if to warn her off, and asked quickly. . .

"You've had the scarlet fever, haven't you?"

"Years ago, when Meg did.  Why?"

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

"What baby?"

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

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

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

"Don't cry, dear!  What did you do?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"On my honor as a gentleman."

"And come every single day?"

"See if I don't!"

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

"The identical minute."

"And go to the theater, truly?"

"A dozen theaters, if we may."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aunt March received them with her usual hospitality.

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

"Go away.  No boys allowed here."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



 Little Women by Louisa May Alcott chapter 18

DARK DAYS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No.  The doctor told us to."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



 Little Women by Louisa May Alcott chapter 19

AMY'S WILL

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sit down and rest while I put these things away, then I want to
consult you about a very serious matter," said Amy, when she had shown
her splendor and driven Polly into a corner.  "That bird is the trial
of my life," she continued, removing the pink mountain from her head,
while Laurie seated himself astride a chair.

"Yesterday, when Aunt was asleep and I was trying to be as still as a
mouse, Polly began to squall and flap about in his cage, so I went to
let him out, and found a big spider there.  I poked it out, and it ran
under the bookcase.  Polly marched straight after it, stooped down and
peeped under the bookcase, saying, in his funny way, with a cock of his
eye, 'Come out and take a walk, my dear.' I couldn't help laughing,
which made Poll swear, and Aunt woke up and scolded us both."

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

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

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

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

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

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

MY LAST WILL AND TESTIMENT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amy Curtis March

Witnesses:

Estelle Valnor, Theodore Laurence.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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