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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Little Women, by Louisa May Alcott

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Title: Little Women

Author: Louisa May Alcott

Posting Date: September 13, 2008 [EBook #514]
Release Date: May, 1996
[This file last updated on August 19, 2010]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LITTLE WOMEN ***




LITTLE WOMEN


by

Louisa May Alcott




CONTENTS


PART 1

          ONE  PLAYING PILGRIMS
          TWO  A MERRY CHRISTMAS
        THREE  THE LAURENCE BOY
         FOUR  BURDENS
         FIVE  BEING NEIGHBORLY
          SIX  BETH FINDS THE PALACE BEAUTIFUL
        SEVEN  AMY'S VALLEY OF HUMILIATION
        EIGHT  JO MEETS APOLLYON
         NINE  MEG GOES TO VANITY FAIR
          TEN  THE P.C. AND P.O.
       ELEVEN  EXPERIMENTS
       TWELVE  CAMP LAURENCE
     THIRTEEN  CASTLES IN THE AIR
     FOURTEEN  SECRETS
      FIFTEEN  A TELEGRAM
      SIXTEEN  LETTERS
    SEVENTEEN  LITTLE FAITHFUL
     EIGHTEEN  DARK DAYS
     NINETEEN  AMY'S WILL
       TWENTY  CONFIDENTIAL
   TWENTY-ONE  LAURIE MAKES MISCHIEF, AND JO MAKES PEACE
   TWENTY-TWO  PLEASANT MEADOWS
 TWENTY-THREE  AUNT MARCH SETTLES THE QUESTION


PART 2

  TWENTY-FOUR  GOSSIP
  TWENTY-FIVE  THE FIRST WEDDING
   TWENTY-SIX  ARTISTIC ATTEMPTS
 TWENTY-SEVEN  LITERARY LESSONS
 TWENTY-EIGHT  DOMESTIC EXPERIENCES
  TWENTY-NINE  CALLS
       THIRTY  CONSEQUENCES
   THIRTY-ONE  OUR FOREIGN CORRESPONDENT
   THIRTY-TWO  TENDER TROUBLES
 THIRTY-THREE  JO'S JOURNAL
  THIRTY-FOUR  FRIEND
  THIRTY-FIVE  HEARTACHE
   THIRTY-SIX  BETH'S SECRET
 THIRTY-SEVEN  NEW IMPRESSIONS
 THIRTY-EIGHT  ON THE SHELF
  THIRTY-NINE  LAZY LAURENCE
        FORTY  THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW
    FORTY-ONE  LEARNING TO FORGET
    FORTY-TWO  ALL ALONE
  FORTY-THREE  SURPRISES
   FORTY-FOUR  MY LORD AND LADY
   FORTY-FIVE  DAISY AND DEMI
    FORTY-SIX  UNDER THE UMBRELLA
  FORTY-SEVEN  HARVEST TIME



CHAPTER ONE

PLAYING PILGRIMS

"Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents," grumbled Jo, lying
on the rug.

"It's so dreadful to be poor!" sighed Meg, looking down at her old
dress.

"I don't think it's fair for some girls to have plenty of pretty
things, and other girls nothing at all," added little Amy, with an
injured sniff.

"We've got Father and Mother, and each other," said Beth contentedly
from her corner.

The four young faces on which the firelight shone brightened at the
cheerful words, but darkened again as Jo said sadly, "We haven't got
Father, and shall not have him for a long time." She didn't say
"perhaps never," but each silently added it, thinking of Father far
away, where the fighting was.

Nobody spoke for a minute; then Meg said in an altered tone, "You know
the reason Mother proposed not having any presents this Christmas was
because it is going to be a hard winter for everyone; and she thinks we
ought not to spend money for pleasure, when our men are suffering so in
the army.  We can't do much, but we can make our little sacrifices, and
ought to do it gladly.  But I am afraid I don't," and Meg shook her
head, as she thought regretfully of all the pretty things she wanted.

"But I don't think the little we should spend would do any good.  We've
each got a dollar, and the army wouldn't be much helped by our giving
that.  I agree not to expect anything from Mother or you, but I do want
to buy _Undine and Sintran_ for myself.  I've wanted it so long," said
Jo, who was a bookworm.

"I planned to spend mine in new music," said Beth, with a little sigh,
which no one heard but the hearth brush and kettle-holder.

"I shall get a nice box of Faber's drawing pencils; I really need
them," said Amy decidedly.

"Mother didn't say anything about our money, and she won't wish us to
give up everything.  Let's each buy what we want, and have a little
fun; I'm sure we work hard enough to earn it," cried Jo, examining the
heels of her shoes in a gentlemanly manner.

"I know I do--teaching those tiresome children nearly all day, when I'm
longing to enjoy myself at home," began Meg, in the complaining tone
again.

"You don't have half such a hard time as I do," said Jo. "How would you
like to be shut up for hours with a nervous, fussy old lady, who keeps
you trotting, is never satisfied, and worries you till you're ready to
fly out the window or cry?"

"It's naughty to fret, but I do think washing dishes and keeping things
tidy is the worst work in the world.  It makes me cross, and my hands
get so stiff, I can't practice well at all." And Beth looked at her
rough hands with a sigh that any one could hear that time.

"I don't believe any of you suffer as I do," cried Amy, "for you don't
have to go to school with impertinent girls, who plague you if you
don't know your lessons, and laugh at your dresses, and label your
father if he isn't rich, and insult you when your nose isn't nice."

"If you mean libel, I'd say so, and not talk about labels, as if Papa
was a pickle bottle," advised Jo, laughing.

"I know what I mean, and you needn't be statirical about it. It's
proper to use good words, and improve your vocabilary," returned Amy,
with dignity.

"Don't peck at one another, children.  Don't you wish we had the money
Papa lost when we were little, Jo?  Dear me! How happy and good we'd
be, if we had no worries!" said Meg, who could remember better times.

"You said the other day you thought we were a deal happier than the
King children, for they were fighting and fretting all the time, in
spite of their money."

"So I did, Beth.  Well, I think we are.  For though we do have to work,
we make fun of ourselves, and are a pretty jolly set, as Jo would say."

"Jo does use such slang words!" observed Amy, with a reproving look at
the long figure stretched on the rug.

Jo immediately sat up, put her hands in her pockets, and began to
whistle.

"Don't, Jo.  It's so boyish!"

"That's why I do it."

"I detest rude, unladylike girls!"

"I hate affected, niminy-piminy chits!"

"Birds in their little nests agree," sang Beth, the peacemaker, with
such a funny face that both sharp voices softened to a laugh, and the
"pecking" ended for that time.

"Really, girls, you are both to be blamed," said Meg, beginning to
lecture in her elder-sisterly fashion. "You are old enough to leave off
boyish tricks, and to behave better, Josephine.  It didn't matter so
much when you were a little girl, but now you are so tall, and turn up
your hair, you should remember that you are a young lady."

"I'm not!   And if turning up my hair makes me one, I'll wear it in two
tails till I'm twenty," cried Jo, pulling off her net, and shaking down
a chestnut mane.  "I hate to think I've got to grow up, and be Miss
March, and wear long gowns, and look as prim as a China Aster!  It's
bad enough to be a girl, anyway, when I like boy's games and work and
manners!  I can't get over my disappointment in not being a boy.  And
it's worse than ever now, for I'm dying to go and fight with Papa. And
I can only stay home and knit, like a poky old woman!"

And Jo shook the blue army sock till the needles rattled like
castanets, and her ball bounded across the room.

"Poor Jo!  It's too bad, but it can't be helped.  So you must try to be
contented with making your name boyish, and playing brother to us
girls," said Beth, stroking the rough head with a hand that all the
dish washing and dusting in the world could not make ungentle in its
touch.

"As for you, Amy," continued Meg, "you are altogether too particular
and prim.  Your airs are funny now, but you'll grow up an affected
little goose, if you don't take care. I like your nice manners and
refined ways of speaking, when you don't try to be elegant.  But your
absurd words are as bad as Jo's slang."

"If Jo is a tomboy and Amy a goose, what am I, please?" asked Beth,
ready to share the lecture.

"You're a dear, and nothing else," answered Meg warmly, and no one
contradicted her, for the 'Mouse' was the pet of the family.

As young readers like to know 'how people look', we will take this
moment to give them a little sketch of the four sisters, who sat
knitting away in the twilight, while the December snow fell quietly
without, and the fire crackled cheerfully within.  It was a comfortable
room, though the carpet was faded and the furniture very plain, for a
good picture or two hung on the walls, books filled the recesses,
chrysanthemums and Christmas roses bloomed in the windows, and a
pleasant atmosphere of home peace pervaded it.

Margaret, the eldest of the four, was sixteen, and very pretty, being
plump and fair, with large eyes, plenty of soft brown hair, a sweet
mouth, and white hands, of which she was rather vain. Fifteen-year-old
Jo was very tall, thin, and brown, and reminded one of a colt, for she
never seemed to know what to do with her long limbs, which were very
much in her way.  She had a decided mouth, a comical nose, and sharp,
gray eyes, which appeared to see everything, and were by turns fierce,
funny, or thoughtful.  Her long, thick hair was her one beauty, but it
was usually bundled into a net, to be out of her way.  Round shoulders
had Jo, big hands and feet, a flyaway look to her clothes, and the
uncomfortable appearance of a girl who was rapidly shooting up into a
woman and didn't like it. Elizabeth, or Beth, as everyone called her,
was a rosy, smooth-haired, bright-eyed girl of thirteen, with a shy
manner, a timid voice, and a peaceful expression which was seldom
disturbed.  Her father called her 'Little Miss Tranquility', and the
name suited her excellently, for she seemed to live in a happy world of
her own, only venturing out to meet the few whom she trusted and loved.
Amy, though the youngest, was a most important person, in her own
opinion at least.  A regular snow maiden, with blue eyes, and yellow
hair curling on her shoulders, pale and slender, and always carrying
herself like a young lady mindful of her manners.  What the characters
of the four sisters were we will leave to be found out.

The clock struck six and, having swept up the hearth, Beth put a pair
of slippers down to warm.  Somehow the sight of the old shoes had a
good effect upon the girls, for Mother was coming, and everyone
brightened to welcome her.  Meg stopped lecturing, and lighted the
lamp, Amy got out of the easy chair without being asked, and Jo forgot
how tired she was as she sat up to hold the slippers nearer to the
blaze.

"They are quite worn out.  Marmee must have a new pair."

"I thought I'd get her some with my dollar," said Beth.

"No, I shall!" cried Amy.

"I'm the oldest," began Meg, but Jo cut in with a decided, "I'm the man
of the family now Papa is away, and I shall provide the slippers, for
he told me to take special care of Mother while he was gone."

"I'll tell you what we'll do," said Beth, "let's each get her something
for Christmas, and not get anything for ourselves."

"That's like you, dear!  What will we get?" exclaimed Jo.

Everyone thought soberly for a minute, then Meg announced, as if the
idea was suggested by the sight of her own pretty hands, "I shall give
her a nice pair of gloves."

"Army shoes, best to be had," cried Jo.

"Some handkerchiefs, all hemmed," said Beth.

"I'll get a little bottle of cologne.  She likes it, and it won't cost
much, so I'll have some left to buy my pencils," added Amy.

"How will we give the things?" asked Meg.

"Put them on the table, and bring her in and see her open the bundles.
Don't you remember how we used to do on our birthdays?" answered Jo.

"I used to be so frightened when it was my turn to sit in the chair
with the crown on, and see you all come marching round to give the
presents, with a kiss.  I liked the things and the kisses, but it was
dreadful to have you sit looking at me while I opened the bundles,"
said Beth, who was toasting her face and the bread for tea at the same
time.

"Let Marmee think we are getting things for ourselves, and then
surprise her.  We must go shopping tomorrow afternoon, Meg. There is so
much to do about the play for Christmas night," said Jo, marching up
and down, with her hands behind her back, and her nose in the air.

"I don't mean to act any more after this time.  I'm getting too old for
such things," observed Meg, who was as much a child as ever about
'dressing-up' frolics.

"You won't stop, I know, as long as you can trail round in a white gown
with your hair down, and wear gold-paper jewelry. You are the best
actress we've got, and there'll be an end of everything if you quit the
boards," said Jo.  "We ought to rehearse tonight.  Come here, Amy, and
do the fainting scene, for you are as stiff as a poker in that."

"I can't help it.  I never saw anyone faint, and I don't choose to make
myself all black and blue, tumbling flat as you do.  If I can go down
easily, I'll drop.  If I can't, I shall fall into a chair and be
graceful.  I don't care if Hugo does come at me with a pistol,"
returned Amy, who was not gifted with dramatic power, but was chosen
because she was small enough to be borne out shrieking by the villain
of the piece.

"Do it this way.  Clasp your hands so, and stagger across the room,
crying frantically, 'Roderigo! Save me! Save me!'" and away went Jo,
with a melodramatic scream which was truly thrilling.

Amy followed, but she poked her hands out stiffly before her, and
jerked herself along as if she went by machinery, and her "Ow!" was
more suggestive of pins being run into her than of fear and anguish.
Jo gave a despairing groan, and Meg laughed outright, while Beth let
her bread burn as she watched the fun with interest. "It's no use!  Do
the best you can when the time comes, and if the audience laughs, don't
blame me.  Come on, Meg."

Then things went smoothly, for Don Pedro defied the world in a speech
of two pages without a single break.  Hagar, the witch, chanted an
awful incantation over her kettleful of simmering toads, with weird
effect.  Roderigo rent his chains asunder manfully, and Hugo died in
agonies of remorse and arsenic, with a wild, "Ha! Ha!"

"It's the best we've had yet," said Meg, as the dead villain sat up and
rubbed his elbows.

"I don't see how you can write and act such splendid things, Jo.
You're a regular Shakespeare!" exclaimed Beth, who firmly believed that
her sisters were gifted with wonderful genius in all things.

"Not quite," replied Jo modestly.  "I do think _The Witches Curse, an
Operatic Tragedy_ is rather a nice thing, but I'd like to try
_Macbeth_, if we only had a trapdoor for Banquo.  I always wanted to do
the killing part.  'Is that a dagger that I see before me?" muttered
Jo, rolling her eyes and clutching at the air, as she had seen a famous
tragedian do.

"No, it's the toasting fork, with Mother's shoe on it instead of the
bread.  Beth's stage-struck!" cried Meg, and the rehearsal ended in a
general burst of laughter.

"Glad to find you so merry, my girls," said a cheery voice at the door,
and actors and audience turned to welcome a tall, motherly lady with a
'can I help you' look about her which was truly delightful. She was not
elegantly dressed, but a noble-looking woman, and the girls thought the
gray cloak and unfashionable bonnet covered the most splendid mother in
the world.

"Well, dearies, how have you got on today?  There was so much to do,
getting the boxes ready to go tomorrow, that I didn't come home to
dinner.  Has anyone called, Beth?  How is your cold, Meg?  Jo, you look
tired to death.  Come and kiss me, baby."

While making these maternal inquiries Mrs. March got her wet things
off, her warm slippers on, and sitting down in the easy chair, drew Amy
to her lap, preparing to enjoy the happiest hour of her busy day.  The
girls flew about, trying to make things comfortable, each in her own
way.  Meg arranged the tea table, Jo brought wood and set chairs,
dropping, over-turning, and clattering everything she touched.  Beth
trotted to and fro between parlor kitchen, quiet and busy, while Amy
gave directions to everyone, as she sat with her hands folded.

As they gathered about the table, Mrs. March said, with a particularly
happy face, "I've got a treat for you after supper."

A quick, bright smile went round like a streak of sunshine. Beth
clapped her hands, regardless of the biscuit she held, and Jo tossed up
her napkin, crying, "A letter!  A letter!  Three cheers for Father!"

"Yes, a nice long letter.  He is well, and thinks he shall get through
the cold season better than we feared.  He sends all sorts of loving
wishes for Christmas, and an especial message to you girls," said Mrs.
March, patting her pocket as if she had got a treasure there.

"Hurry and get done!  Don't stop to quirk your little finger and simper
over your plate, Amy," cried Jo, choking on her tea and dropping her
bread, butter side down, on the carpet in her haste to get at the treat.

Beth ate no more, but crept away to sit in her shadowy corner and brood
over the delight to come, till the others were ready.

"I think it was so splendid in Father to go as chaplain when he was too
old to be drafted, and not strong enough for a soldier," said Meg
warmly.

"Don't I wish I could go as a drummer, a vivan--what's its name?  Or a
nurse, so I could be near him and help him," exclaimed Jo, with a groan.

"It must be very disagreeable to sleep in a tent, and eat all sorts of
bad-tasting things, and drink out of a tin mug," sighed Amy.

"When will he come home, Marmee?" asked Beth, with a little quiver in
her voice.

"Not for many months, dear, unless he is sick.  He will stay and do his
work faithfully as long as he can, and we won't ask for him back a
minute sooner than he can be spared.  Now come and hear the letter."

They all drew to the fire, Mother in the big chair with Beth at her
feet, Meg and Amy perched on either arm of the chair, and Jo leaning on
the back, where no one would see any sign of emotion if the letter
should happen to be touching.  Very few letters were written in those
hard times that were not touching, especially those which fathers sent
home.  In this one little was said of the hardships endured, the
dangers faced, or the homesickness conquered. It was a cheerful,
hopeful letter, full of lively descriptions of camp life, marches, and
military news, and only at the end did the writer's heart over-flow
with fatherly love and longing for the little girls at home.

"Give them all of my dear love and a kiss.  Tell them I think of them
by day, pray for them by night, and find my best comfort in their
affection at all times.  A year seems very long to wait before I see
them, but remind them that while we wait we may all work, so that these
hard days need not be wasted.  I know they will remember all I said to
them, that they will be loving children to you, will do their duty
faithfully, fight their bosom enemies bravely, and conquer themselves
so beautifully that when I come back to them I may be fonder and
prouder than ever of my little women." Everybody sniffed when they came
to that part.  Jo wasn't ashamed of the great tear that dropped off the
end of her nose, and Amy never minded the rumpling of her curls as she
hid her face on her mother's shoulder and sobbed out, "I am a selfish
girl!  But I'll truly try to be better, so he mayn't be disappointed in
me by-and-by."

"We all will," cried Meg.  "I think too much of my looks and hate to
work, but won't any more, if I can help it."

"I'll try and be what he loves to call me, 'a little woman' and not be
rough and wild, but do my duty here instead of wanting to be somewhere
else," said Jo, thinking that keeping her temper at home was a much
harder task than facing a rebel or two down South.

Beth said nothing, but wiped away her tears with the blue army sock and
began to knit with all her might, losing no time in doing the duty that
lay nearest her, while she resolved in her quiet little soul to be all
that Father hoped to find her when the year brought round the happy
coming home.

Mrs. March broke the silence that followed Jo's words, by saying in her
cheery voice, "Do you remember how you used to play Pilgrims Progress
when you were little things?  Nothing delighted you more than to have
me tie my piece bags on your backs for burdens, give you hats and
sticks and rolls of paper, and let you travel through the house from
the cellar, which was the City of Destruction, up, up, to the housetop,
where you had all the lovely things you could collect to make a
Celestial City."

"What fun it was, especially going by the lions, fighting Apollyon, and
passing through the valley where the hob-goblins were," said Jo.

"I liked the place where the bundles fell off and tumbled downstairs,"
said Meg.

"I don't remember much about it, except that I was afraid of the cellar
and the dark entry, and always liked the cake and milk we had up at the
top.  If I wasn't too old for such things, I'd rather like to play it
over again," said Amy, who began to talk of renouncing childish things
at the mature age of twelve.

"We never are too old for this, my dear, because it is a play we are
playing all the time in one way or another.  Our burdens are here, our
road is before us, and the longing for goodness and happiness is the
guide that leads us through many troubles and mistakes to the peace
which is a true Celestial City.  Now, my little pilgrims, suppose you
begin again, not in play, but in earnest, and see how far on you can
get before Father comes home."

"Really, Mother?  Where are our bundles?" asked Amy, who was a very
literal young lady.

"Each of you told what your burden was just now, except Beth. I rather
think she hasn't got any," said her mother.

"Yes, I have.  Mine is dishes and dusters, and envying girls with nice
pianos, and being afraid of people."

Beth's bundle was such a funny one that everybody wanted to laugh, but
nobody did, for it would have hurt her feelings very much.

"Let us do it," said Meg thoughtfully.  "It is only another name for
trying to be good, and the story may help us, for though we do want to
be good, it's hard work and we forget, and don't do our best."

"We were in the Slough of Despond tonight, and Mother came and pulled
us out as Help did in the book.  We ought to have our roll of
directions, like Christian.  What shall we do about that?" asked Jo,
delighted with the fancy which lent a little romance to the very dull
task of doing her duty.

"Look under your pillows Christmas morning, and you will find your
guidebook," replied Mrs. March.

They talked over the new plan while old Hannah cleared the table, then
out came the four little work baskets, and the needles flew as the
girls made sheets for Aunt March.  It was uninteresting sewing, but
tonight no one grumbled.  They adopted Jo's plan of dividing the long
seams into four parts, and calling the quarters Europe, Asia, Africa,
and America, and in that way got on capitally, especially when they
talked about the different countries as they stitched their way through
them.

At nine they stopped work, and sang, as usual, before they went to bed.
No one but Beth could get much music out of the old piano, but she had
a way of softly touching the yellow keys and making a pleasant
accompaniment to the simple songs they sang.  Meg had a voice like a
flute, and she and her mother led the little choir.  Amy chirped like a
cricket, and Jo wandered through the airs at her own sweet will, always
coming out at the wrong place with a croak or a quaver that spoiled the
most pensive tune.  They had always done this from the time they could
lisp...

    Crinkle, crinkle, 'ittle 'tar,

and it had become a household custom, for the mother was a born singer.
The first sound in the morning was her voice as she went about the
house singing like a lark, and the last sound at night was the same
cheery sound, for the girls never grew too old for that familiar
lullaby.



CHAPTER TWO

A MERRY CHRISTMAS

Jo was the first to wake in the gray dawn of Christmas morning. No
stockings hung at the fireplace, and for a moment she felt as much
disappointed as she did long ago, when her little sock fell down
because it was crammed so full of goodies.  Then she remembered her
mother's promise and, slipping her hand under her pillow, drew out a
little crimson-covered book.  She knew it very well, for it was that
beautiful old story of the best life ever lived, and Jo felt that it
was a true guidebook for any pilgrim going on a long journey.  She woke
Meg with a "Merry Christmas," and bade her see what was under her
pillow.  A green-covered book appeared, with the same picture inside,
and a few words written by their mother, which made their one present
very precious in their eyes.  Presently Beth and Amy woke to rummage
and find their little books also, one dove-colored, the other blue, and
all sat looking at and talking about them, while the east grew rosy
with the coming day.

In spite of her small vanities, Margaret had a sweet and pious nature,
which unconsciously influenced her sisters, especially Jo, who loved
her very tenderly, and obeyed her because her advice was so gently
given.

"Girls," said Meg seriously, looking from the tumbled head beside her
to the two little night-capped ones in the room beyond, "Mother wants
us to read and love and mind these books, and we must begin at once.
We used to be faithful about it, but since Father went away and all
this war trouble unsettled us, we have neglected many things.  You can
do as you please, but I shall keep my book on the table here and read a
little every morning as soon as I wake, for I know it will do me good
and help me through the day."

Then she opened her new book and began to read.  Jo put her arm round
her and, leaning cheek to cheek, read also, with the quiet expression
so seldom seen on her restless face.

"How good Meg is!  Come, Amy, let's do as they do.  I'll help you with
the hard words, and they'll explain things if we don't understand,"
whispered Beth, very much impressed by the pretty books and her
sisters' example.

"I'm glad mine is blue," said Amy.  and then the rooms were very still
while the pages were softly turned, and the winter sunshine crept in to
touch the bright heads and serious faces with a Christmas greeting.

"Where is Mother?" asked Meg, as she and Jo ran down to thank her for
their gifts, half an hour later.

"Goodness only knows.  Some poor creeter came a-beggin', and your ma
went straight off to see what was needed.  There never was such a woman
for givin' away vittles and drink, clothes and firin'," replied Hannah,
who had lived with the family since Meg was born, and was considered by
them all more as a friend than a servant.

"She will be back soon, I think, so fry your cakes, and have everything
ready," said Meg, looking over the presents which were collected in a
basket and kept under the sofa, ready to be produced at the proper
time.  "Why, where is Amy's bottle of cologne?" she added, as the
little flask did not appear.

"She took it out a minute ago, and went off with it to put a ribbon on
it, or some such notion," replied Jo, dancing about the room to take
the first stiffness off the new army slippers.

"How nice my handkerchiefs look, don't they?  Hannah washed and ironed
them for me, and I marked them all myself," said Beth, looking proudly
at the somewhat uneven letters which had cost her such labor.

"Bless the child!  She's gone and put 'Mother' on them instead of 'M.
March'.  How funny!" cried Jo, taking one up.

"Isn't that right?  I thought it was better to do it so, because Meg's
initials are M.M., and I don't want anyone to use these but Marmee,"
said Beth, looking troubled.

"It's all right, dear, and a very pretty idea, quite sensible too, for
no one can ever mistake now.  It will please her very much, I know,"
said Meg, with a frown for Jo and a smile for Beth.

"There's Mother.  Hide the basket, quick!" cried Jo, as a door slammed
and steps sounded in the hall.

Amy came in hastily, and looked rather abashed when she saw her sisters
all waiting for her.

"Where have you been, and what are you hiding behind you?" asked Meg,
surprised to see, by her hood and cloak, that lazy Amy had been out so
early.

"Don't laugh at me, Jo!  I didn't mean anyone should know till the time
came.  I only meant to change the little bottle for a big one, and I
gave all my money to get it, and I'm truly trying not to be selfish any
more."

As she spoke, Amy showed the handsome flask which replaced the cheap
one, and looked so earnest and humble in her little effort to forget
herself that Meg hugged her on the spot, and Jo pronounced her 'a
trump', while Beth ran to the window, and picked her finest rose to
ornament the stately bottle.

"You see I felt ashamed of my present, after reading and talking about
being good this morning, so I ran round the corner and changed it the
minute I was up, and I'm so glad, for mine is the handsomest now."

Another bang of the street door sent the basket under the sofa, and the
girls to the table, eager for breakfast.

"Merry Christmas, Marmee!  Many of them!  Thank you for our books.  We
read some, and mean to every day," they all cried in chorus.

"Merry Christmas, little daughters!  I'm glad you began at once, and
hope you will keep on.  But I want to say one word before we sit down.
Not far away from here lies a poor woman with a little newborn baby.
Six children are huddled into one bed to keep from freezing, for they
have no fire.  There is nothing to eat over there, and the oldest boy
came to tell me they were suffering hunger and cold.  My girls, will
you give them your breakfast as a Christmas present?"

They were all unusually hungry, having waited nearly an hour, and for a
minute no one spoke, only a minute, for Jo exclaimed impetuously, "I'm
so glad you came before we began!"

"May I go and help carry the things to the poor little children?" asked
Beth eagerly.

"I shall take the cream and the muffings," added Amy, heroically giving
up the article she most liked.

Meg was already covering the buckwheats, and piling the bread into one
big plate.

"I thought you'd do it," said Mrs. March, smiling as if satisfied. "You
shall all go and help me, and when we come back we will have bread and
milk for breakfast, and make it up at dinnertime."

They were soon ready, and the procession set out.  Fortunately it was
early, and they went through back streets, so few people saw them, and
no one laughed at the queer party.

A poor, bare, miserable room it was, with broken windows, no fire,
ragged bedclothes, a sick mother, wailing baby, and a group of pale,
hungry children cuddled under one old quilt, trying to keep warm.

How the big eyes stared and the blue lips smiled as the girls went in.

"Ach, mein Gott!  It is good angels come to us!" said the poor woman,
crying for joy.

"Funny angels in hoods and mittens," said Jo, and set them to laughing.

In a few minutes it really did seem as if kind spirits had been at work
there.  Hannah, who had carried wood, made a fire, and stopped up the
broken panes with old hats and her own cloak.  Mrs. March gave the
mother tea and gruel, and comforted her with promises of help, while
she dressed the little baby as tenderly as if it had been her own.  The
girls meantime spread the table, set the children round the fire, and
fed them like so many hungry birds, laughing, talking, and trying to
understand the funny broken English.

"Das ist gut!"  "Die Engel-kinder!" cried the poor things as they ate
and warmed their purple hands at the comfortable blaze. The girls had
never been called angel children before, and thought it very agreeable,
especially Jo, who had been considered a 'Sancho' ever since she was
born.  That was a very happy breakfast, though they didn't get any of
it.  And when they went away, leaving comfort behind, I think there
were not in all the city four merrier people than the hungry little
girls who gave away their breakfasts and contented themselves with
bread and milk on Christmas morning.

"That's loving our neighbor better than ourselves, and I like it," said
Meg, as they set out their presents while their mother was upstairs
collecting clothes for the poor Hummels.

Not a very splendid show, but there was a great deal of love done up in
the few little bundles, and the tall vase of red roses, white
chrysanthemums, and trailing vines, which stood in the middle, gave
quite an elegant air to the table.

"She's coming!  Strike up, Beth!  Open the door, Amy!  Three cheers for
Marmee!" cried Jo, prancing about while Meg went to conduct Mother to
the seat of honor.

Beth played her gayest march, Amy threw open the door, and Meg enacted
escort with great dignity.  Mrs. March was both surprised and touched,
and smiled with her eyes full as she examined her presents and read the
little notes which accompanied them.  The slippers went on at once, a
new handkerchief was slipped into her pocket, well scented with Amy's
cologne, the rose was fastened in her bosom, and the nice gloves were
pronounced a perfect fit.

There was a good deal of laughing and kissing and explaining, in the
simple, loving fashion which makes these home festivals so pleasant at
the time, so sweet to remember long afterward, and then all fell to
work.

The morning charities and ceremonies took so much time that the rest of
the day was devoted to preparations for the evening festivities.  Being
still too young to go often to the theater, and not rich enough to
afford any great outlay for private performances, the girls put their
wits to work, and necessity being the mother of invention, made
whatever they needed.  Very clever were some of their productions,
pasteboard guitars, antique lamps made of old-fashioned butter boats
covered with silver paper, gorgeous robes of old cotton, glittering
with tin spangles from a pickle factory, and armor covered with the
same useful diamond shaped bits left in sheets when the lids of
preserve pots were cut out.  The big chamber was the scene of many
innocent revels.

No gentleman were admitted, so Jo played male parts to her heart's
content and took immense satisfaction in a pair of russet leather boots
given her by a friend, who knew a lady who knew an actor.  These boots,
an old foil, and a slashed doublet once used by an artist for some
picture, were Jo's chief treasures and appeared on all occasions.  The
smallness of the company made it necessary for the two principal actors
to take several parts apiece, and they certainly deserved some credit
for the hard work they did in learning three or four different parts,
whisking in and out of various costumes, and managing the stage
besides.  It was excellent drill for their memories, a harmless
amusement, and employed many hours which otherwise would have been
idle, lonely, or spent in less profitable society.

On Christmas night, a dozen girls piled onto the bed which was the
dress circle, and sat before the blue and yellow chintz curtains in a
most flattering state of expectancy.  There was a good deal of rustling
and whispering behind the curtain, a trifle of lamp smoke, and an
occasional giggle from Amy, who was apt to get hysterical in the
excitement of the moment.  Presently a bell sounded, the curtains flew
apart, and the _operatic tragedy_ began.

"A gloomy wood," according to the one playbill, was represented by a
few shrubs in pots, green baize on the floor, and a cave in the
distance.  This cave was made with a clothes horse for a roof, bureaus
for walls, and in it was a small furnace in full blast, with a black
pot on it and an old witch bending over it.  The stage was dark and the
glow of the furnace had a fine effect, especially as real steam issued
from the kettle when the witch took off the cover.  A moment was
allowed for the first thrill to subside, then Hugo, the villain,
stalked in with a clanking sword at his side, a slouching hat, black
beard, mysterious cloak, and the boots.  After pacing to and fro in
much agitation, he struck his forehead, and burst out in a wild strain,
singing of his hatred for Roderigo, his love for Zara, and his pleasing
resolution to kill the one and win the other. The gruff tones of Hugo's
voice, with an occasional shout when his feelings overcame him, were
very impressive, and the audience applauded the moment he paused for
breath.  Bowing with the air of one accustomed to public praise, he
stole to the cavern and ordered Hagar to come forth with a commanding,
"What ho, minion! I need thee!"

Out came Meg, with gray horsehair hanging about her face, a red and
black robe, a staff, and cabalistic signs upon her cloak.  Hugo
demanded a potion to make Zara adore him, and one to destroy Roderigo.
Hagar, in a fine dramatic melody, promised both, and proceeded to call
up the spirit who would bring the love philter.

    Hither, hither, from thy home,
    Airy sprite, I bid thee come!
    Born of roses, fed on dew,
    Charms and potions canst thou brew?
    Bring me here, with elfin speed,
    The fragrant philter which I need.
    Make it sweet and swift and strong,
    Spirit, answer now my song!

A soft strain of music sounded, and then at the back of the cave
appeared a little figure in cloudy white, with glittering wings, golden
hair, and a garland of roses on its head.  Waving a wand, it sang...

    Hither I come,
    From my airy home,
    Afar in the silver moon.
    Take the magic spell,
    And use it well,
    Or its power will vanish soon!

And dropping a small, gilded bottle at the witch's feet, the spirit
vanished.  Another chant from Hagar produced another apparition, not a
lovely one, for with a bang an ugly black imp appeared and, having
croaked a reply, tossed a dark bottle at Hugo and disappeared with a
mocking laugh.  Having warbled his thanks and put the potions in his
boots, Hugo departed, and Hagar informed the audience that as he had
killed a few of her friends in times past, she had cursed him, and
intends to thwart his plans, and be revenged on him.  Then the curtain
fell, and the audience reposed and ate candy while discussing the
merits of the play.

A good deal of hammering went on before the curtain rose again, but
when it became evident what a masterpiece of stage carpentery had been
got up, no one murmured at the delay.  It was truly superb. A tower
rose to the ceiling, halfway up appeared a window with a lamp burning
in it, and behind the white curtain appeared Zara in a lovely blue and
silver dress, waiting for Roderigo.  He came in gorgeous array, with
plumed cap, red cloak, chestnut lovelocks, a guitar, and the boots, of
course.  Kneeling at the foot of the tower, he sang a serenade in
melting tones.  Zara replied and, after a musical dialogue, consented
to fly.  Then came the grand effect of the play.  Roderigo produced a
rope ladder, with five steps to it, threw up one end, and invited Zara
to descend.  Timidly she crept from her lattice, put her hand on
Roderigo's shoulder, and was about to leap gracefully down when "Alas!
Alas for Zara!" she forgot her train.  It caught in the window, the
tower tottered, leaned forward, fell with a crash, and buried the
unhappy lovers in the ruins.

A universal shriek arose as the russet boots waved wildly from the
wreck and a golden head emerged, exclaiming, "I told you so!  I told
you so!"  With wonderful presence of mind, Don Pedro, the cruel sire,
rushed in, dragged out his daughter, with a hasty aside...

"Don't laugh!  Act as if it was all right!" and, ordering Roderigo up,
banished him from the kingdom with wrath and scorn. Though decidedly
shaken by the fall from the tower upon him, Roderigo defied the old
gentleman and refused to stir.  This dauntless example fired Zara.  She
also defied her sire, and he ordered them both to the deepest dungeons
of the castle.  A stout little retainer came in with chains and led
them away, looking very much frightened and evidently forgetting the
speech he ought to have made.

Act third was the castle hall, and here Hagar appeared, having come to
free the lovers and finish Hugo.  She hears him coming and hides, sees
him put the potions into two cups of wine and bid the timid little
servant, "Bear them to the captives in their cells, and tell them I
shall come anon."  The servant takes Hugo aside to tell him something,
and Hagar changes the cups for two others which are harmless.
Ferdinando, the 'minion', carries them away, and Hagar puts back the
cup which holds the poison meant for Roderigo. Hugo, getting thirsty
after a long warble, drinks it, loses his wits, and after a good deal
of clutching and stamping, falls flat and dies, while Hagar informs him
what she has done in a song of exquisite power and melody.

This was a truly thrilling scene, though some persons might have
thought that the sudden tumbling down of a quantity of long red hair
rather marred the effect of the villain's death.  He was called before
the curtain, and with great propriety appeared, leading Hagar, whose
singing was considered more wonderful than all the rest of the
performance put together.

Act fourth displayed the despairing Roderigo on the point of stabbing
himself because he has been told that Zara has deserted him. Just as
the dagger is at his heart, a lovely song is sung under his window,
informing him that Zara is true but in danger, and he can save her if
he will.  A key is thrown in, which unlocks the door, and in a spasm of
rapture he tears off his chains and rushes away to find and rescue his
lady love.

Act fifth opened with a stormy scene between Zara and Don Pedro. He
wishes her to go into a convent, but she won't hear of it, and after a
touching appeal, is about to faint when Roderigo dashes in and demands
her hand.  Don Pedro refuses, because he is not rich. They shout and
gesticulate tremendously but cannot agree, and Rodrigo is about to bear
away the exhausted Zara, when the timid servant enters with a letter
and a bag from Hagar, who has mysteriously disappeared.  The latter
informs the party that she bequeaths untold wealth to the young pair
and an awful doom to Don Pedro, if he doesn't make them happy.  The bag
is opened, and several quarts of tin money shower down upon the stage
till it is quite glorified with the glitter.  This entirely softens the
stern sire.  He consents without a murmur, all join in a joyful chorus,
and the curtain falls upon the lovers kneeling to receive Don Pedro's
blessing in attitudes of the most romantic grace.

Tumultuous applause followed but received an unexpected check, for the
cot bed, on which the dress circle was built, suddenly shut up and
extinguished the enthusiastic audience.  Roderigo and Don Pedro flew to
the rescue, and all were taken out unhurt, though many were speechless
with laughter.  The excitement had hardly subsided when Hannah
appeared, with "Mrs. March's compliments, and would the ladies walk
down to supper."

This was a surprise even to the actors, and when they saw the table,
they looked at one another in rapturous amazement.  It was like Marmee
to get up a little treat for them, but anything so fine as this was
unheard of since the departed days of plenty.  There was ice cream,
actually two dishes of it, pink and white, and cake and fruit and
distracting French bonbons and, in the middle of the table, four great
bouquets of hot house flowers.

It quite took their breath away, and they stared first at the table and
then at their mother, who looked as if she enjoyed it immensely.

"Is it fairies?" asked Amy.

"Santa Claus," said Beth.

"Mother did it." And Meg smiled her sweetest, in spite of her gray
beard and white eyebrows.

"Aunt March had a good fit and sent the supper," cried Jo, with a
sudden inspiration.

"All wrong.  Old Mr. Laurence sent it," replied Mrs. March.

"The Laurence boy's grandfather! What in the world put such a thing
into his head?  We don't know him!" exclaimed Meg.

"Hannah told one of his servants about your breakfast party. He is an
odd old gentleman, but that pleased him.  He knew my father years ago,
and he sent me a polite note this afternoon, saying he hoped I would
allow him to express his friendly feeling toward my children by sending
them a few trifles in honor of the day.  I could not refuse, and so you
have a little feast at night to make up for the bread-and-milk
breakfast."

"That boy put it into his head, I know he did!  He's a capital fellow,
and I wish we could get acquainted.  He looks as if he'd like to know
us but he's bashful, and Meg is so prim she won't let me speak to him
when we pass," said Jo, as the plates went round, and the ice began to
melt out of sight, with ohs and ahs of satisfaction.

"You mean the people who live in the big house next door, don't you?"
asked one of the girls.  "My mother knows old Mr. Laurence, but says
he's very proud and doesn't like to mix with his neighbors. He keeps
his grandson shut up, when he isn't riding or walking with his tutor,
and makes him study very hard.  We invited him to our party, but he
didn't come.  Mother says he's very nice, though he never speaks to us
girls."

"Our cat ran away once, and he brought her back, and we talked over the
fence, and were getting on capitally, all about cricket, and so on,
when he saw Meg coming, and walked off.  I mean to know him some day,
for he needs fun, I'm sure he does," said Jo decidedly.

"I like his manners, and he looks like a little gentleman, so I've no
objection to your knowing him, if a proper opportunity comes. He
brought the flowers himself, and I should have asked him in, if I had
been sure what was going on upstairs.  He looked so wistful as he went
away, hearing the frolic and evidently having none of his own."

"It's a mercy you didn't, Mother!" laughed Jo, looking at her boots.
"But we'll have another play sometime that he can see.  Perhaps he'll
help act.  Wouldn't that be jolly?"

"I never had such a fine bouquet before!  How pretty it is!" And Meg
examined her flowers with great interest.

"They are lovely.  But Beth's roses are sweeter to me," said Mrs.
March, smelling the half-dead posy in her belt.

Beth nestled up to her, and whispered softly, "I wish I could send my
bunch to Father.  I'm afraid he isn't having such a merry Christmas as
we are."



CHAPTER THREE

THE LAURENCE BOY

"Jo!  Jo!  Where are you?" cried Meg at the foot of the garret stairs.

"Here!" answered a husky voice from above, and, running up, Meg found
her sister eating apples and crying over the Heir of Redclyffe, wrapped
up in a comforter on an old three-legged sofa by the sunny window.
This was Jo's favorite refuge, and here she loved to retire with half a
dozen russets and a nice book, to enjoy the quiet and the society of a
pet rat who lived near by and didn't mind her a particle.  As Meg
appeared, Scrabble whisked into his hole.  Jo shook the tears off her
cheeks and waited to hear the news.

"Such fun!  Only see!  A regular note of invitation from Mrs. Gardiner
for tomorrow night!" cried Meg, waving the precious paper and then
proceeding to read it with girlish delight.

"'Mrs. Gardiner would be happy to see Miss March and Miss Josephine at
a little dance on New Year's Eve.' Marmee is willing we should go, now
what shall we wear?"

"What's the use of asking that, when you know we shall wear our
poplins, because we haven't got anything else?" answered Jo with her
mouth full.

"If I only had a silk!" sighed Meg.  "Mother says I may when I'm
eighteen perhaps, but two years is an everlasting time to wait."

"I'm sure our pops look like silk, and they are nice enough for us.
Yours is as good as new, but I forgot the burn and the tear in mine.
Whatever shall I do?  The burn shows badly, and I can't take any out."

"You must sit still all you can and keep your back out of sight. The
front is all right.  I shall have a new ribbon for my hair, and Marmee
will lend me her little pearl pin, and my new slippers are lovely, and
my gloves will do, though they aren't as nice as I'd like."

"Mine are spoiled with lemonade, and I can't get any new ones, so I
shall have to go without," said Jo, who never troubled herself much
about dress.

"You must have gloves, or I won't go," cried Meg decidedly. "Gloves are
more important than anything else.  You can't dance without them, and
if you don't I should be so mortified."

"Then I'll stay still.  I don't care much for company dancing. It's no
fun to go sailing round.  I like to fly about and cut capers."

"You can't ask Mother for new ones, they are so expensive, and you are
so careless.  She said when you spoiled the others that she shouldn't
get you any more this winter.  Can't you make them do?"

"I can hold them crumpled up in my hand, so no one will know how
stained they are.  That's all I can do.  No!  I'll tell you how we can
manage, each wear one good one and carry a bad one.  Don't you see?"

"Your hands are bigger than mine, and you will stretch my glove
dreadfully," began Meg, whose gloves were a tender point with her.

"Then I'll go without.  I don't care what people say!" cried Jo, taking
up her book.

"You may have it, you may!  Only don't stain it, and do behave nicely.
Don't put your hands behind you, or stare, or say 'Christopher
Columbus!' will you?"

"Don't worry about me.  I'll be as prim as I can and not get into any
scrapes, if I can help it.  Now go and answer your note, and let me
finish this splendid story."

So Meg went away to 'accept with thanks', look over her dress, and sing
blithely as she did up her one real lace frill, while Jo finished her
story, her four apples, and had a game of romps with Scrabble.

On New Year's Eve the parlor was deserted, for the two younger girls
played dressing maids and the two elder were absorbed in the
all-important business of 'getting ready for the party'.  Simple as the
toilets were, there was a great deal of running up and down, laughing
and talking, and at one time a strong smell of burned hair pervaded the
house.  Meg wanted a few curls about her face, and Jo undertook to
pinch the papered locks with a pair of hot tongs.

"Ought they to smoke like that?" asked Beth from her perch on the bed.

"It's the dampness drying," replied Jo.

"What a queer smell!  It's like burned feathers," observed Amy,
smoothing her own pretty curls with a superior air.

"There, now I'll take off the papers and you'll see a cloud of little
ringlets," said Jo, putting down the tongs.

She did take off the papers, but no cloud of ringlets appeared, for the
hair came with the papers, and the horrified hairdresser laid a row of
little scorched bundles on the bureau before her victim.

"Oh, oh, oh! What have you done?  I'm spoiled!  I can't go!  My hair,
oh, my hair!" wailed Meg, looking with despair at the uneven frizzle on
her forehead.

"Just my luck!  You shouldn't have asked me to do it.  I always spoil
everything.  I'm so sorry, but the tongs were too hot, and so I've made
a mess," groaned poor Jo, regarding the little black pancakes with
tears of regret.

"It isn't spoiled.  Just frizzle it, and tie your ribbon so the ends
come on your forehead a bit, and it will look like the last fashion.
I've seen many girls do it so," said Amy consolingly.

"Serves me right for trying to be fine.  I wish I'd let my hair alone,"
cried Meg petulantly.

"So do I, it was so smooth and pretty.  But it will soon grow out
again," said Beth, coming to kiss and comfort the shorn sheep.

After various lesser mishaps, Meg was finished at last, and by the
united exertions of the entire family Jo's hair was got up and her
dress on.  They looked very well in their simple suits, Meg's in
silvery drab, with a blue velvet snood, lace frills, and the pearl pin.
Jo in maroon, with a stiff, gentlemanly linen collar, and a white
chrysanthemum or two for her only ornament. Each put on one nice light
glove, and carried one soiled one, and all pronounced the effect "quite
easy and fine".  Meg's high-heeled slippers were very tight and hurt
her, though she would not own it, and Jo's nineteen hairpins all seemed
stuck straight into her head, which was not exactly comfortable, but,
dear me, let us be elegant or die.

"Have a good time, dearies!" said Mrs. March, as the sisters went
daintily down the walk.  "Don't eat much supper, and come away at
eleven when I send Hannah for you."  As the gate clashed behind them, a
voice cried from a window...

"Girls, girls!  Have you you both got nice pocket handkerchiefs?"

"Yes, yes, spandy nice, and Meg has cologne on hers," cried Jo, adding
with a laugh as they went on, "I do believe Marmee would ask that if we
were all running away from an earthquake."

"It is one of her aristocratic tastes, and quite proper, for a real
lady is always known by neat boots, gloves, and handkerchief," replied
Meg, who had a good many little 'aristocratic tastes' of her own.

"Now don't forget to keep the bad breadth out of sight, Jo. Is my sash
right?  And does my hair look very bad?" said Meg, as she turned from
the glass in Mrs. Gardiner's dressing room after a prolonged prink.

"I know I shall forget.  If you see me doing anything wrong, just
remind me by a wink, will you?" returned Jo, giving her collar a twitch
and her head a hasty brush.

"No, winking isn't ladylike.  I'll lift my eyebrows if any thing is
wrong, and nod if you are all right.  Now hold your shoulder straight,
and take short steps, and don't shake hands if you are introduced to
anyone.  It isn't the thing."

"How do you learn all the proper ways?  I never can.  Isn't that music
gay?"

Down they went, feeling a trifle timid, for they seldom went to
parties, and informal as this little gathering was, it was an event to
them.  Mrs. Gardiner, a stately old lady, greeted them kindly and
handed them over to the eldest of her six daughters. Meg knew Sallie
and was at her ease very soon, but Jo, who didn't care much for girls
or girlish gossip, stood about, with her back carefully against the
wall, and felt as much out of place as a colt in a flower garden.  Half
a dozen jovial lads were talking about skates in another part of the
room, and she longed to go and join them, for skating was one of the
joys of her life.  She telegraphed her wish to Meg, but the eyebrows
went up so alarmingly that she dared not stir.  No one came to talk to
her, and one by one the group dwindled away till she was left alone.
She could not roam about and amuse herself, for the burned breadth
would show, so she stared at people rather forlornly till the dancing
began.  Meg was asked at once, and the tight slippers tripped about so
briskly that none would have guessed the pain their wearer suffered
smilingly.  Jo saw a big red headed youth approaching her corner, and
fearing he meant to engage her, she slipped into a curtained recess,
intending to peep and enjoy herself in peace.  Unfortunately, another
bashful person had chosen the same refuge, for, as the curtain fell
behind her, she found herself face to face with the 'Laurence boy'.

"Dear me, I didn't know anyone was here!" stammered Jo, preparing to
back out as speedily as she had bounced in.

But the boy laughed and said pleasantly, though he looked a little
startled, "Don't mind me, stay if you like."

"Shan't I disturb you?"

"Not a bit.  I only came here because I don't know many people and felt
rather strange at first, you know."

"So did I.  Don't go away, please, unless you'd rather."

The boy sat down again and looked at his pumps, till Jo said, trying to
be polite and easy, "I think I've had the pleasure of seeing you
before.  You live near us, don't you?"

"Next door."  And he looked up and laughed outright, for Jo's prim
manner was rather funny when he remembered how they had chatted about
cricket when he brought the cat home.

That put Jo at her ease and she laughed too, as she said, in her
heartiest way, "We did have such a good time over your nice Christmas
present."

"Grandpa sent it."

"But you put it into his head, didn't you, now?"

"How is your cat, Miss March?" asked the boy, trying to look sober
while his black eyes shone with fun.

"Nicely, thank you, Mr. Laurence.  But I am not Miss March, I'm only
Jo," returned the young lady.

"I'm not Mr. Laurence, I'm only Laurie."

"Laurie Laurence, what an odd name."

"My first name is Theodore, but I don't like it, for the fellows called
me Dora, so I made them say Laurie instead."

"I hate my name, too, so sentimental!  I wish every one would say Jo
instead of Josephine.  How did you make the boys stop calling you Dora?"

"I thrashed 'em."

"I can't thrash Aunt March, so I suppose I shall have to bear it."  And
Jo resigned herself with a sigh.

"Don't you like to dance, Miss Jo?" asked Laurie, looking as if he
thought the name suited her.

"I like it well enough if there is plenty of room, and everyone is
lively.  In a place like this I'm sure to upset something, tread on
people's toes, or do something dreadful, so I keep out of mischief and
let Meg sail about.  Don't you dance?"

"Sometimes.  You see I've been abroad a good many years, and haven't
been into company enough yet to know how you do things here."

"Abroad!" cried Jo.  "Oh, tell me about it!  I love dearly to hear
people describe their travels."

Laurie didn't seem to know where to begin, but Jo's eager questions
soon set him going, and he told her how he had been at school in Vevay,
where the boys never wore hats and had a fleet of boats on the lake,
and for holiday fun went on walking trips about Switzerland with their
teachers.

"Don't I wish I'd been there!" cried Jo.  "Did you go to Paris?"

"We spent last winter there."

"Can you talk French?"

"We were not allowed to speak anything else at Vevay."

"Do say some!  I can read it, but can't pronounce."

"Quel nom a cette jeune demoiselle en les pantoufles jolis?"

"How nicely you do it!  Let me see ... you said, 'Who is the young lady
in the pretty slippers', didn't you?"

"Oui, mademoiselle."

"It's my sister Margaret, and you knew it was!  Do you think she is
pretty?"

"Yes, she makes me think of the German girls, she looks so fresh and
quiet, and dances like a lady."

Jo quite glowed with pleasure at this boyish praise of her sister, and
stored it up to repeat to Meg.  Both peeped and criticized and chatted
till they felt like old acquaintances.  Laurie's bashfulness soon wore
off, for Jo's gentlemanly demeanor amused and set him at his ease, and
Jo was her merry self again, because her dress was forgotten and nobody
lifted their eyebrows at her.  She liked the 'Laurence boy' better than
ever and took several good looks at him, so that she might describe him
to the girls, for they had no brothers, very few male cousins, and boys
were almost unknown creatures to them.

"Curly black hair, brown skin, big black eyes, handsome nose, fine
teeth, small hands and feet, taller than I am, very polite, for a boy,
and altogether jolly.  Wonder how old he is?"

It was on the tip of Jo's tongue to ask, but she checked herself in
time and, with unusual tact, tried to find out in a round-about way.

"I suppose you are going to college soon?  I see you pegging away at
your books, no, I mean studying hard."  And Jo blushed at the dreadful
'pegging' which had escaped her.

Laurie smiled but didn't seem shocked, and answered with a shrug.  "Not
for a year or two.  I won't go before seventeen, anyway."

"Aren't you but fifteen?" asked Jo, looking at the tall lad, whom she
had imagined seventeen already.

"Sixteen, next month."

"How I wish I was going to college!  You don't look as if you liked it."

"I hate it!  Nothing but grinding or skylarking.  And I don't like the
way fellows do either, in this country."

"What do you like?"

"To live in Italy, and to enjoy myself in my own way."

Jo wanted very much to ask what his own way was, but his black brows
looked rather threatening as he knit them, so she changed the subject
by saying, as her foot kept time, "That's a splendid polka!  Why don't
you go and try it?"

"If you will come too," he answered, with a gallant little bow.

"I can't, for I told Meg I wouldn't, because..." There Jo stopped, and
looked undecided whether to tell or to laugh.

"Because, what?"

"You won't tell?"

"Never!"

"Well, I have a bad trick of standing before the fire, and so I burn my
frocks, and I scorched this one, and though it's nicely mended, it
shows, and Meg told me to keep still so no one would see it.  You may
laugh, if you want to.  It is funny, I know."

But Laurie didn't laugh.  He only looked down a minute, and the
expression of his face puzzled Jo when he said very gently, "Never mind
that.  I'll tell you how we can manage.  There's a long hall out there,
and we can dance grandly, and no one will see us. Please come."

Jo thanked him and gladly went, wishing she had two neat gloves when
she saw the nice, pearl-colored ones her partner wore.  The hall was
empty, and they had a grand polka, for Laurie danced well, and taught
her the German step, which delighted Jo, being full of swing and
spring.  When the music stopped, they sat down on the stairs to get
their breath, and Laurie was in the midst of an account of a students'
festival at Heidelberg when Meg appeared in search of her sister.  She
beckoned, and Jo reluctantly followed her into a side room, where she
found her on a sofa, holding her foot, and looking pale.

"I've sprained my ankle.  That stupid high heel turned and gave me a
sad wrench.  It aches so, I can hardly stand, and I don't know how I'm
ever going to get home," she said, rocking to and fro in pain.

"I knew you'd hurt your feet with those silly shoes.  I'm sorry.  But I
don't see what you can do, except get a carriage, or stay here all
night," answered Jo, softly rubbing the poor ankle as she spoke.

"I can't have a carriage without its costing ever so much.  I dare say
I can't get one at all, for most people come in their own, and it's a
long way to the stable, and no one to send."

"I'll go."

"No, indeed!  It's past nine, and dark as Egypt.  I can't stop here,
for the house is full.  Sallie has some girls staying with her. I'll
rest till Hannah comes, and then do the best I can."

"I'll ask Laurie.  He will go," said Jo, looking relieved as the idea
occurred to her.

"Mercy, no!  Don't ask or tell anyone.  Get me my rubbers, and put
these slippers with our things.  I can't dance anymore, but as soon as
supper is over, watch for Hannah and tell me the minute she comes."

"They are going out to supper now.  I'll stay with you.  I'd rather."

"No, dear, run along, and bring me some coffee.  I'm so tired I can't
stir."

So Meg reclined, with rubbers well hidden, and Jo went blundering away
to the dining room, which she found after going into a china closet,
and opening the door of a room where old Mr. Gardiner was taking a
little private refreshment.  Making a dart at the table, she secured
the coffee, which she immediately spilled, thereby making the front of
her dress as bad as the back.

"Oh, dear, what a blunderbuss I am!" exclaimed Jo, finishing Meg's
glove by scrubbing her gown with it.

"Can I help you?" said a friendly voice.  And there was Laurie, with a
full cup in one hand and a plate of ice in the other.

"I was trying to get something for Meg, who is very tired, and someone
shook me, and here I am in a nice state," answered Jo, glancing
dismally from the stained skirt to the coffee-colored glove.

"Too bad!   I was looking for someone to give this to.  May I take it
to your sister?"

"Oh, thank you!  I'll show you where she is.  I don't offer to take it
myself, for I should only get into another scrape if I did."

Jo led the way, and as if used to waiting on ladies, Laurie drew up a
little table, brought a second installment of coffee and ice for Jo,
and was so obliging that even particular Meg pronounced him a 'nice
boy'.  They had a merry time over the bonbons and mottoes, and were in
the midst of a quiet game of _Buzz_, with two or three other young
people who had strayed in, when Hannah appeared.  Meg forgot her foot
and rose so quickly that she was forced to catch hold of Jo, with an
exclamation of pain.

"Hush!  Don't say anything," she whispered, adding aloud, "It's
nothing.  I turned my foot a little, that's all," and limped upstairs
to put her things on.

Hannah scolded, Meg cried, and Jo was at her wits' end, till she
decided to take things into her own hands.  Slipping out, she ran down
and, finding a servant, asked if he could get her a carriage. It
happened to be a hired waiter who knew nothing about the neighborhood
and Jo was looking round for help when Laurie, who had heard what she
said, came up and offered his grandfather's carriage, which had just
come for him, he said.

"It's so early!  You can't mean to go yet?" began Jo, looking relieved
but hesitating to accept the offer.

"I always go early, I do, truly!  Please let me take you home. It's all
on my way, you know, and it rains, they say."

That settled it, and telling him of Meg's mishap, Jo gratefully
accepted and rushed up to bring down the rest of the party.  Hannah
hated rain as much as a cat does so she made no trouble, and they
rolled away in the luxurious close carriage, feeling very festive and
elegant.  Laurie went on the box so Meg could keep her foot up, and the
girls talked over their party in freedom.

"I had a capital time.  Did you?" asked Jo, rumpling up her hair, and
making herself comfortable.

"Yes, till I hurt myself.  Sallie's friend, Annie Moffat, took a fancy
to me, and asked me to come and spend a week with her when Sallie does.
She is going in the spring when the opera comes, and it will be
perfectly splendid, if Mother only lets me go," answered Meg, cheering
up at the thought.

"I saw you dancing with the red headed man I ran away from.  Was he
nice?"

"Oh, very!  His hair is auburn, not red, and he was very polite, and I
had a delicious redowa with him."

"He looked like a grasshopper in a fit when he did the new step. Laurie
and I couldn't help laughing.  Did you hear us?"

"No, but it was very rude.  What were you about all that time, hidden
away there?"

Jo told her adventures, and by the time she had finished they were at
home.  With many thanks, they said good night and crept in, hoping to
disturb no one, but the instant their door creaked, two little
nightcaps bobbed up, and two sleepy but eager voices cried out...

"Tell about the party!  Tell about the party!"

With what Meg called 'a great want of manners' Jo had saved some
bonbons for the little girls, and they soon subsided, after hearing the
most thrilling events of the evening.

"I declare, it really seems like being a fine young lady, to come home
from the party in a carriage and sit in my dressing gown with a maid to
wait on me," said Meg, as Jo bound up her foot with arnica and brushed
her hair.

"I don't believe fine young ladies enjoy themselves a bit more than we
do, in spite of our burned hair, old gowns, one glove apiece and tight
slippers that sprain our ankles when we are silly enough to wear them."
And I think Jo was quite right.



CHAPTER FOUR

BURDENS

"Oh, dear, how hard it does seem to take up our packs and go on,"
sighed Meg the morning after the party, for now the holidays were over,
the week of merrymaking did not fit her for going on easily with the
task she never liked.

"I wish it was Christmas or New Year's all the time. Wouldn't it be
fun?" answered Jo, yawning dismally.

"We shouldn't enjoy ourselves half so much as we do now. But it does
seem so nice to have little suppers and bouquets, and go to parties,
and drive home, and read and rest, and not work.  It's like other
people, you know, and I always envy girls who do such things, I'm so
fond of luxury," said Meg, trying to decide which of two shabby gowns
was the least shabby.

"Well, we can't have it, so don't let us grumble but shoulder our
bundles and trudge along as cheerfully as Marmee does.  I'm sure Aunt
March is a regular Old Man of the Sea to me, but I suppose when I've
learned to carry her without complaining, she will tumble off, or get
so light that I shan't mind her."

This idea tickled Jo's fancy and put her in good spirits, but Meg
didn't brighten, for her burden, consisting of four spoiled children,
seemed heavier than ever. She had not heart enough even to make herself
pretty as usual by putting on a blue neck ribbon and dressing her hair
in the most becoming way.

"Where's the use of looking nice, when no one sees me but those cross
midgets, and no one cares whether I'm pretty or not?" she muttered,
shutting her drawer with a jerk.  "I shall have to toil and moil all my
days, with only little bits of fun now and then, and get old and ugly
and sour, because I'm poor and can't enjoy my life as other girls do.
It's a shame!"

So Meg went down, wearing an injured look, and wasn't at all agreeable
at breakfast time.  Everyone seemed rather out of sorts and inclined to
croak.

Beth had a headache and lay on the sofa, trying to comfort herself with
the cat and three kittens.  Amy was fretting because her lessons were
not learned, and she couldn't find her rubbers.  Jo would whistle and
make a great racket getting ready.

Mrs. March was very busy trying to finish a letter, which must go at
once, and Hannah had the grumps, for being up late didn't suit her.

"There never was such a cross family!" cried Jo, losing her temper when
she had upset an inkstand, broken both boot lacings, and sat down upon
her hat.

"You're the crossest person in it!" returned Amy, washing out the sum
that was all wrong with the tears that had fallen on her slate.

"Beth, if you don't keep these horrid cats down cellar I'll have them
drowned," exclaimed Meg angrily as she tried to get rid of the kitten
which had scrambled up her back and stuck like a burr just out of reach.

Jo laughed, Meg scolded, Beth implored, and Amy wailed because she
couldn't remember how much nine times twelve was.

"Girls, girls, do be quiet one minute!  I must get this off by the
early mail, and you drive me distracted with your worry," cried Mrs.
March, crossing out the third spoiled sentence in her letter.

There was a momentary lull, broken by Hannah, who stalked in, laid two
hot turnovers on the table, and stalked out again. These turnovers were
an institution, and the girls called them 'muffs', for they had no
others and found the hot pies very comforting to their hands on cold
mornings.

Hannah never forgot to make them, no matter how busy or grumpy she
might be, for the walk was long and bleak. The poor things got no other
lunch and were seldom home before two.

"Cuddle your cats and get over your headache, Bethy. Goodbye, Marmee.
We are a set of rascals this morning, but we'll come home regular
angels.  Now then, Meg!"  And Jo tramped away, feeling that the
pilgrims were not setting out as they ought to do.

They always looked back before turning the corner, for their mother was
always at the window to nod and smile, and wave her hand to them.
Somehow it seemed as if they couldn't have got through the day without
that, for whatever their mood might be, the last glimpse of that
motherly face was sure to affect them like sunshine.

"If Marmee shook her fist instead of kissing her hand to us, it would
serve us right, for more ungrateful wretches than we are were never
seen," cried Jo, taking a remorseful satisfaction in the snowy walk and
bitter wind.

"Don't use such dreadful expressions," replied Meg from the depths of
the veil in which she had shrouded herself like a nun sick of the world.

"I like good strong words that mean something," replied Jo, catching
her hat as it took a leap off her head preparatory to flying away
altogether.

"Call yourself any names you like, but I am neither a rascal nor a
wretch and I don't choose to be called so."

"You're a blighted being, and decidedly cross today because you can't
sit in the lap of luxury all the time.  Poor dear, just wait till I
make my fortune, and you shall revel in carriages and ice cream and
high-heeled slippers, and posies, and red-headed boys to dance with."

"How ridiculous you are, Jo!"  But Meg laughed at the nonsense and felt
better in spite of herself.

"Lucky for you I am, for if I put on crushed airs and tried to be
dismal, as you do, we should be in a nice state. Thank goodness, I can
always find something funny to keep me up.  Don't croak any more, but
come home jolly, there's a dear."

Jo gave her sister an encouraging pat on the shoulder as they parted
for the day, each going a different way, each hugging her little warm
turnover, and each trying to be cheerful in spite of wintry weather,
hard work, and the unsatisfied desires of pleasure-loving youth.

When Mr. March lost his property in trying to help an unfortunate
friend, the two oldest girls begged to be allowed to do something
toward their own support, at least.  Believing that they could not
begin too early to cultivate energy, industry, and independence, their
parents consented, and both fell to work with the hearty good will
which in spite of all obstacles is sure to succeed at last.

Margaret found a place as nursery governess and felt rich with her
small salary.  As she said, she was 'fond of luxury', and her chief
trouble was poverty.  She found it harder to bear than the others
because she could remember a time when home was beautiful, life full of
ease and pleasure, and want of any kind unknown.  She tried not to be
envious or discontented, but it was very natural that the young girl
should long for pretty things, gay friends, accomplishments, and a
happy life.  At the Kings' she daily saw all she wanted, for the
children's older sisters were just out, and Meg caught frequent
glimpses of dainty ball dresses and bouquets, heard lively gossip about
theaters, concerts, sleighing parties, and merrymakings of all kinds,
and saw money lavished on trifles which would have been so precious to
her.  Poor Meg seldom complained, but a sense of injustice made her
feel bitter toward everyone sometimes, for she had not yet learned to
know how rich she was in the blessings which alone can make life happy.

Jo happened to suit Aunt March, who was lame and needed an active
person to wait upon her.  The childless old lady had offered to adopt
one of the girls when the troubles came, and was much offended because
her offer was declined.  Other friends told the Marches that they had
lost all chance of being remembered in the rich old lady's will, but
the unworldly Marches only said...

"We can't give up our girls for a dozen fortunes.  Rich or poor, we
will keep together and be happy in one another."

The old lady wouldn't speak to them for a time, but happening to meet
Jo at a friend's, something in her comical face and blunt manners
struck the old lady's fancy, and she proposed to take her for a
companion.  This did not suit Jo at all, but she accepted the place
since nothing better appeared and, to every one's surprise, got on
remarkably well with her irascible relative.  There was an occasional
tempest, and once Jo marched home, declaring she couldn't bear it
longer, but Aunt March always cleared up quickly, and sent for her to
come back again with such urgency that she could not refuse, for in her
heart she rather liked the peppery old lady.

I suspect that the real attraction was a large library of fine books,
which was left to dust and spiders since Uncle March died.  Jo
remembered the kind old gentleman, who used to let her build railroads
and bridges with his big dictionaries, tell her stories about queer
pictures in his Latin books, and buy her cards of gingerbread whenever
he met her in the street.  The dim, dusty room, with the busts staring
down from the tall bookcases, the cozy chairs, the globes, and best of
all, the wilderness of books in which she could wander where she liked,
made the library a region of bliss to her.

The moment Aunt March took her nap, or was busy with company, Jo
hurried to this quiet place, and curling herself up in the easy chair,
devoured poetry, romance, history, travels, and pictures like a regular
bookworm.  But, like all happiness, it did not last long, for as sure
as she had just reached the heart of the story, the sweetest verse of a
song, or the most perilous adventure of her traveler, a shrill voice
called, "Josy-phine! Josy-phine!" and she had to leave her paradise to
wind yarn, wash the poodle, or read Belsham's Essays by the hour
together.

Jo's ambition was to do something very splendid.  What it was, she had
no idea as yet, but left it for time to tell her, and meanwhile, found
her greatest affliction in the fact that she couldn't read, run, and
ride as much as she liked.  A quick temper, sharp tongue, and restless
spirit were always getting her into scrapes, and her life was a series
of ups and downs, which were both comic and pathetic. But the training
she received at Aunt March's was just what she needed, and the thought
that she was doing something to support herself made her happy in spite
of the perpetual "Josy-phine!"

Beth was too bashful to go to school.  It had been tried, but she
suffered so much that it was given up, and she did her lessons at home
with her father.  Even when he went away, and her mother was called to
devote her skill and energy to Soldiers' Aid Societies, Beth went
faithfully on by herself and did the best she could.  She was a
housewifely little creature, and helped Hannah keep home neat and
comfortable for the workers, never thinking of any reward but to be
loved.  Long, quiet days she spent, not lonely nor idle, for her little
world was peopled with imaginary friends, and she was by nature a busy
bee.  There were six dolls to be taken up and dressed every morning,
for Beth was a child still and loved her pets as well as ever.  Not one
whole or handsome one among them, all were outcasts till Beth took them
in, for when her sisters outgrew these idols, they passed to her
because Amy would have nothing old or ugly. Beth cherished them all the
more tenderly for that very reason, and set up a hospital for infirm
dolls.  No pins were ever stuck into their cotton vitals, no harsh
words or blows were ever given them, no neglect ever saddened the heart
of the most repulsive, but all were fed and clothed, nursed and
caressed with an affection which never failed. One forlorn fragment of
dollanity had belonged to Jo and, having led a tempestuous life, was
left a wreck in the rag bag, from which dreary poorhouse it was rescued
by Beth and taken to her refuge.  Having no top to its head, she tied
on a neat little cap, and as both arms and legs were gone, she hid
these deficiencies by folding it in a blanket and devoting her best bed
to this chronic invalid.  If anyone had known the care lavished on that
dolly, I think it would have touched their hearts, even while they
laughed. She brought it bits of bouquets, she read to it, took it out
to breathe fresh air, hidden under her coat, she sang it lullabies and
never went to bed without kissing its dirty face and whispering
tenderly, "I hope you'll have a good night, my poor dear."

Beth had her troubles as well as the others, and not being an angel but
a very human little girl, she often 'wept a little weep' as Jo said,
because she couldn't take music lessons and have a fine piano.  She
loved music so dearly, tried so hard to learn, and practiced away so
patiently at the jingling old instrument, that it did seem as if
someone (not to hint Aunt March) ought to help her.  Nobody did,
however, and nobody saw Beth wipe the tears off the yellow keys, that
wouldn't keep in tune, when she was all alone. She sang like a little
lark about her work, never was too tired for Marmee and the girls, and
day after day said hopefully to herself, "I know I'll get my music some
time, if I'm good."

There are many Beths in the world, shy and quiet, sitting in corners
till needed, and living for others so cheerfully that no one sees the
sacrifices till the little cricket on the hearth stops chirping, and
the sweet, sunshiny presence vanishes, leaving silence and shadow
behind.

If anybody had asked Amy what the greatest trial of her life was, she
would have answered at once, "My nose."  When she was a baby, Jo had
accidently dropped her into the coal hod, and Amy insisted that the
fall had ruined her nose forever.  It was not big nor red, like poor
'Petrea's', it was only rather flat, and all the pinching in the world
could not give it an aristocratic point.  No one minded it but herself,
and it was doing its best to grow, but Amy felt deeply the want of a
Grecian nose, and drew whole sheets of handsome ones to console herself.

"Little Raphael," as her sisters called her, had a decided talent for
drawing, and was never so happy as when copying flowers, designing
fairies, or illustrating stories with queer specimens of art.  Her
teachers complained that instead of doing her sums she covered her
slate with animals, the blank pages of her atlas were used to copy maps
on, and caricatures of the most ludicrous description came fluttering
out of all her books at unlucky moments.  She got through her lessons
as well as she could, and managed to escape reprimands by being a model
of deportment.  She was a great favorite with her mates, being
good-tempered and possessing the happy art of pleasing without effort.
Her little airs and graces were much admired, so were her
accomplishments, for besides her drawing, she could play twelve tunes,
crochet, and read French without mispronouncing more than two-thirds of
the words.  She had a plaintive way of saying, "When Papa was rich we
did so-and-so," which was very touching, and her long words were
considered 'perfectly elegant' by the girls.

Amy was in a fair way to be spoiled, for everyone petted her, and her
small vanities and selfishnesses were growing nicely. One thing,
however, rather quenched the vanities.  She had to wear her cousin's
clothes.  Now Florence's mama hadn't a particle of taste, and Amy
suffered deeply at having to wear a red instead of a blue bonnet,
unbecoming gowns, and fussy aprons that did not fit.  Everything was
good, well made, and little worn, but Amy's artistic eyes were much
afflicted, especially this winter, when her school dress was a dull
purple with yellow dots and no trimming.

"My only comfort," she said to Meg, with tears in her eyes, "is that
Mother doesn't take tucks in my dresses whenever I'm naughty, as Maria
Parks's mother does.  My dear, it's really dreadful, for sometimes she
is so bad her frock is up to her knees, and she can't come to school.
When I think of this _deggerredation_, I feel that I can bear even my
flat nose and purple gown with yellow sky-rockets on it."

Meg was Amy's confidant and monitor, and by some strange attraction of
opposites Jo was gentle Beth's.  To Jo alone did the shy child tell her
thoughts, and over her big harum-scarum sister Beth unconsciously
exercised more influence than anyone in the family.  The two older
girls were a great deal to one another, but each took one of the
younger sisters into her keeping and watched over her in her own way,
'playing mother' they called it, and put their sisters in the places of
discarded dolls with the maternal instinct of little women.

"Has anybody got anything to tell?  It's been such a dismal day I'm
really dying for some amusement," said Meg, as they sat sewing together
that evening.

"I had a queer time with Aunt today, and, as I got the best of it, I'll
tell you about it," began Jo, who dearly loved to tell stories.  "I was
reading that everlasting Belsham, and droning away as I always do, for
Aunt soon drops off, and then I take out some nice book, and read like
fury till she wakes up.  I actually made myself sleepy, and before she
began to nod, I gave such a gape that she asked me what I meant by
opening my mouth wide enough to take the whole book in at once."

"I wish I could, and be done with it," said I, trying not to be saucy.

"Then she gave me a long lecture on my sins, and told me to sit and
think them over while she just 'lost' herself for a moment. She never
finds herself very soon, so the minute her cap began to bob like a
top-heavy dahlia, I whipped the _Vicar of Wakefield_ out of my pocket,
and read away, with one eye on him and one on Aunt. I'd just got to
where they all tumbled into the water when I forgot and laughed out
loud.  Aunt woke up and, being more good-natured after her nap, told me
to read a bit and show what frivolous work I preferred to the worthy
and instructive Belsham. I did my very best, and she liked it, though
she only said...

"'I don't understand what it's all about.  Go back and begin it,
child.'"

"Back I went, and made the Primroses as interesting as ever I could.
Once I was wicked enough to stop in a thrilling place, and say meekly,
'I'm afraid it tires you, ma'am.  Shan't I stop now?'"

"She caught up her knitting, which had dropped out of her hands, gave
me a sharp look through her specs, and said, in her short way, 'Finish
the chapter, and don't be impertinent, miss'."

"Did she own she liked it?" asked Meg.

"Oh, bless you, no!  But she let old Belsham rest, and when I ran back
after my gloves this afternoon, there she was, so hard at the Vicar
that she didn't hear me laugh as I danced a jig in the hall because of
the good time coming.  What a pleasant life she might have if only she
chose!  I don't envy her much, in spite of her money, for after all
rich people have about as many worries as poor ones, I think," added Jo.

"That reminds me," said Meg, "that I've got something to tell. It isn't
funny, like Jo's story, but I thought about it a good deal as I came
home.  At the Kings' today I found everybody in a flurry, and one of
the children said that her oldest brother had done something dreadful,
and Papa had sent him away.  I heard Mrs. King crying and Mr. King
talking very loud, and Grace and Ellen turned away their faces when
they passed me, so I shouldn't see how red and swollen their eyes were.
I didn't ask any questions, of course, but I felt so sorry for them and
was rather glad I hadn't any wild brothers to do wicked things and
disgrace the family."

"I think being disgraced in school is a great deal try_inger_ than
anything bad boys can do," said Amy, shaking her head, as if her
experience of life had been a deep one.  "Susie Perkins came to school
today with a lovely red carnelian ring.  I wanted it dreadfully, and
wished I was her with all my might.  Well, she drew a picture of Mr.
Davis, with a monstrous nose and a hump, and the words, 'Young ladies,
my eye is upon you!' coming out of his mouth in a balloon thing.  We
were laughing over it when all of a sudden his eye _was_ on us, and he
ordered Susie to bring up her slate.  She was _parry_lized with fright,
but she went, and oh, what _do_ you think he did?  He took her by the
ear--the ear!  Just fancy how horrid!--and led her to the recitation
platform, and made her stand there half an hour, holding the slate so
everyone could see."

"Didn't the girls laugh at the picture?" asked Jo, who relished the
scrape.

"Laugh? Not one! They sat still as mice, and Susie cried quarts, I know
she did.  I didn't envy her then, for I felt that millions of carnelian
rings wouldn't have made me happy after that. I never, never should
have got over such a agonizing mortification." And Amy went on with her
work, in the proud consciousness of virtue and the successful utterance
of two long words in a breath.

"I saw something I liked this morning, and I meant to tell it at
dinner, but I forgot," said Beth, putting Jo's topsy-turvy basket in
order as she talked.  "When I went to get some oysters for Hannah, Mr.
Laurence was in the fish shop, but he didn't see me, for I kept behind
the fish barrel, and he was busy with Mr. Cutter the fish-man. A poor
woman came in with a pail and a mop, and asked Mr. Cutter if he would
let her do some scrubbing for a bit of fish, because she hadn't any
dinner for her children, and had been disappointed of a day's work.
Mr. Cutter was in a hurry and said 'No', rather crossly, so she was
going away, looking hungry and sorry, when Mr. Laurence hooked up a big
fish with the crooked end of his cane and held it out to her.  She was
so glad and surprised she took it right into her arms, and thanked him
over and over.  He told her to 'go along and cook it', and she hurried
off, so happy!  Wasn't it good of him?  Oh, she did look so funny,
hugging the big, slippery fish, and hoping Mr. Laurence's bed in heaven
would be 'aisy'."

When they had laughed at Beth's story, they asked their mother for one,
and after a moments thought, she said soberly, "As I sat cutting out
blue flannel jackets today at the rooms, I felt very anxious about
Father, and thought how lonely and helpless we should be, if anything
happened to him.  It was not a wise thing to do, but I kept on worrying
till an old man came in with an order for some clothes.  He sat down
near me, and I began to talk to him, for he looked poor and tired and
anxious.

"'Have you sons in the army?' I asked, for the note he brought was not
to me."

"Yes, ma'am.  I had four, but two were killed, one is a prisoner, and
I'm going to the other, who is very sick in a Washington hospital.' he
answered quietly."

"'You have done a great deal for your country, sir,' I said, feeling
respect now, instead of pity."

"'Not a mite more than I ought, ma'am.  I'd go myself, if I was any
use.  As I ain't, I give my boys, and give 'em free.'"

"He spoke so cheerfully, looked so sincere, and seemed so glad to give
his all, that I was ashamed of myself.  I'd given one man and thought
it too much, while he gave four without grudging them.  I had all my
girls to comfort me at home, and his last son was waiting, miles away,
to say good-by to him, perhaps!  I felt so rich, so happy thinking of
my blessings, that I made him a nice bundle, gave him some money, and
thanked him heartily for the lesson he had taught me."

"Tell another story, Mother, one with a moral to it, like this. I like
to think about them afterward, if they are real and not too preachy,"
said Jo, after a minute's silence.

Mrs. March smiled and began at once, for she had told stories to this
little audience for many years, and knew how to please them.

"Once upon a time, there were four girls, who had enough to eat and
drink and wear, a good many comforts and pleasures, kind friends and
parents who loved them dearly, and yet they were not contented." (Here
the listeners stole sly looks at one another, and began to sew
diligently.) "These girls were anxious to be good and made many
excellent resolutions, but they did not keep them very well, and were
constantly saying, 'If only we had this,' or 'If we could only do
that,' quite forgetting how much they already had, and how many things
they actually could do.  So they asked an old woman what spell they
could use to make them happy, and she said, 'When you feel
discontented, think over your blessings, and be grateful.'" (Here Jo
looked up quickly, as if about to speak, but changed her mind, seeing
that the story was not done yet.)

"Being sensible girls, they decided to try her advice, and soon were
surprised to see how well off they were.  One discovered that money
couldn't keep shame and sorrow out of rich people's houses, another
that, though she was poor, she was a great deal happier, with her
youth, health, and good spirits, than a certain fretful, feeble old
lady who couldn't enjoy her comforts, a third that, disagreeable as it
was to help get dinner, it was harder still to go begging for it and
the fourth, that even carnelian rings were not so valuable as good
behavior.  So they agreed to stop complaining, to enjoy the blessings
already possessed, and try to deserve them, lest they should be taken
away entirely, instead of increased, and I believe they were never
disappointed or sorry that they took the old woman's advice."

"Now, Marmee, that is very cunning of you to turn our own stories
against us, and give us a sermon instead of a romance!" cried Meg.

"I like that kind of sermon.  It's the sort Father used to tell us,"
said Beth thoughtfully, putting the needles straight on Jo's cushion.

"I don't complain near as much as the others do, and I shall be more
careful than ever now, for I've had warning from Susie's downfall,"
said Amy morally.

"We needed that lesson, and we won't forget it.  If we do so, you just
say to us, as old Chloe did in _Uncle Tom_, 'Tink ob yer marcies,
chillen!' 'Tink ob yer marcies!'" added Jo, who could not, for the life
of her, help getting a morsel of fun out of the little sermon, though
she took it to heart as much as any of them.



CHAPTER FIVE

BEING NEIGHBORLY

"What in the world are you going to do now, Jo?" asked Meg one snowy
afternoon, as her sister came tramping through the hall, in rubber
boots, old sack, and hood, with a broom in one hand and a shovel in the
other.

"Going out for exercise," answered Jo with a mischievous twinkle in her
eyes.

"I should think two long walks this morning would have been enough!
It's cold and dull out, and I advise you to stay warm and dry by the
fire, as I do," said Meg with a shiver.

"Never take advice!  Can't keep still all day, and not being a
pussycat, I don't like to doze by the fire.  I like adventures, and I'm
going to find some."

Meg went back to toast her feet and read _Ivanhoe_, and Jo began to dig
paths with great energy.  The snow was light, and with her broom she
soon swept a path all round the garden, for Beth to walk in when the
sun came out and the invalid dolls needed air.  Now, the garden
separated the Marches' house from that of Mr. Laurence.  Both stood in
a suburb of the city, which was still country-like, with groves and
lawns, large gardens, and quiet streets.  A low hedge parted the two
estates.  On one side was an old, brown house, looking rather bare and
shabby, robbed of the vines that in summer covered its walls and the
flowers, which then surrounded it.  On the other side was a stately
stone mansion, plainly betokening every sort of comfort and luxury,
from the big coach house and well-kept grounds to the conservatory and
the glimpses of lovely things one caught between the rich curtains.

Yet it seemed a lonely, lifeless sort of house, for no children
frolicked on the lawn, no motherly face ever smiled at the windows, and
few people went in and out, except the old gentleman and his grandson.

To Jo's lively fancy, this fine house seemed a kind of enchanted
palace, full of splendors and delights which no one enjoyed.  She had
long wanted to behold these hidden glories, and to know the Laurence
boy, who looked as if he would like to be known, if he only knew how to
begin.  Since the party, she had been more eager than ever, and had
planned many ways of making friends with him, but he had not been seen
lately, and Jo began to think he had gone away, when she one day spied
a brown face at an upper window, looking wistfully down into their
garden, where Beth and Amy were snow-balling one another.

"That boy is suffering for society and fun," she said to herself. "His
grandpa does not know what's good for him, and keeps him shut up all
alone.  He needs a party of jolly boys to play with, or somebody young
and lively.  I've a great mind to go over and tell the old gentleman
so!"

The idea amused Jo, who liked to do daring things and was always
scandalizing Meg by her queer performances.  The plan of 'going over'
was not forgotten.  And when the snowy afternoon came, Jo resolved to
try what could be done.  She saw Mr. Lawrence drive off, and then
sallied out to dig her way down to the hedge, where she paused and took
a survey.  All quiet, curtains down at the lower windows, servants out
of sight, and nothing human visible but a curly black head leaning on a
thin hand at the upper window.

"There he is," thought Jo, "Poor boy!  All alone and sick this dismal
day.  It's a shame!  I'll toss up a snowball and make him look out, and
then say a kind word to him."

Up went a handful of soft snow, and the head turned at once, showing a
face which lost its listless look in a minute, as the big eyes
brightened and the mouth began to smile.  Jo nodded and laughed, and
flourished her broom as she called out...

"How do you do?  Are you sick?"

Laurie opened the window, and croaked out as hoarsely as a raven...

"Better, thank you.  I've had a bad cold, and been shut up a week."

"I'm sorry.  What do you amuse yourself with?"

"Nothing.  It's dull as tombs up here."

"Don't you read?"

"Not much.  They won't let me."

"Can't somebody read to you?"

"Grandpa does sometimes, but my books don't interest him, and I hate to
ask Brooke all the time."

"Have someone come and see you then."

"There isn't anyone I'd like to see.  Boys make such a row, and my head
is weak."

"Isn't there some nice girl who'd read and amuse you?  Girls are quiet
and like to play nurse."

"Don't know any."

"You know us," began Jo, then laughed and stopped.

"So I do!  Will you come, please?" cried Laurie.

"I'm not quiet and nice, but I'll come, if Mother will let me. I'll go
ask her.  Shut the window, like a good boy, and wait till I come."

With that, Jo shouldered her broom and marched into the house,
wondering what they would all say to her.  Laurie was in a flutter of
excitement at the idea of having company, and flew about to get ready,
for as Mrs. March said, he was 'a little gentleman', and did honor to
the coming guest by brushing his curly pate, putting on a fresh collar,
and trying to tidy up the room, which in spite of half a dozen
servants, was anything but neat.  Presently there came a loud ring,
than a decided voice, asking for 'Mr. Laurie', and a surprised-looking
servant came running up to announce a young lady.

"All right, show her up, it's Miss Jo," said Laurie, going to the door
of his little parlor to meet Jo, who appeared, looking rosy and quite
at her ease, with a covered dish in one hand and Beth's three kittens
in the other.

"Here I am, bag and baggage," she said briskly.  "Mother sent her love,
and was glad if I could do anything for you.  Meg wanted me to bring
some of her blanc mange, she makes it very nicely, and Beth thought her
cats would be comforting.  I knew you'd laugh at them, but I couldn't
refuse, she was so anxious to do something."

It so happened that Beth's funny loan was just the thing, for in
laughing over the kits, Laurie forgot his bashfulness, and grew
sociable at once.

"That looks too pretty to eat," he said, smiling with pleasure, as Jo
uncovered the dish, and showed the blanc mange, surrounded by a garland
of green leaves, and the scarlet flowers of Amy's pet geranium.

"It isn't anything, only they all felt kindly and wanted to show it.
Tell the girl to put it away for your tea.  It's so simple you can eat
it, and being soft, it will slip down without hurting your sore throat.
What a cozy room this is!"

"It might be if it was kept nice, but the maids are lazy, and I don't
know how to make them mind.  It worries me though."

"I'll right it up in two minutes, for it only needs to have the hearth
brushed, so--and the things made straight on the mantelpiece, so--and
the books put here, and the bottles there, and your sofa turned from
the light, and the pillows plumped up a bit.  Now then, you're fixed."

And so he was, for, as she laughed and talked, Jo had whisked things
into place and given quite a different air to the room.  Laurie watched
her in respectful silence, and when she beckoned him to his sofa, he
sat down with a sigh of satisfaction, saying gratefully...

"How kind you are!  Yes, that's what it wanted.  Now please take the
big chair and let me do something to amuse my company."

"No, I came to amuse you.  Shall I read aloud?" and Jo looked
affectionately toward some inviting books near by.

"Thank you!  I've read all those, and if you don't mind, I'd rather
talk," answered Laurie.

"Not a bit.  I'll talk all day if you'll only set me going. Beth says I
never know when to stop."

"Is Beth the rosy one, who stays at home good deal and sometimes goes
out with a little basket?" asked Laurie with interest.

"Yes, that's Beth.  She's my girl, and a regular good one she is, too."

"The pretty one is Meg, and the curly-haired one is Amy, I believe?"

"How did you find that out?"

Laurie colored up, but answered frankly, "Why, you see I often hear you
calling to one another, and when I'm alone up here, I can't help
looking over at your house, you always seem to be having such good
times.  I beg your pardon for being so rude, but sometimes you forget
to put down the curtain at the window where the flowers are. And when
the lamps are lighted, it's like looking at a picture to see the fire,
and you all around the table with your mother.  Her face is right
opposite, and it looks so sweet behind the flowers, I can't help
watching it.  I haven't got any mother, you know." And Laurie poked the
fire to hide a little twitching of the lips that he could not control.

The solitary, hungry look in his eyes went straight to Jo's warm heart.
She had been so simply taught that there was no nonsense in her head,
and at fifteen she was as innocent and frank as any child.  Laurie was
sick and lonely, and feeling how rich she was in home and happiness,
she gladly tried to share it with him. Her face was very friendly and
her sharp voice unusually gentle as she said...

"We'll never draw that curtain any more, and I give you leave to look
as much as you like.  I just wish, though, instead of peeping, you'd
come over and see us.  Mother is so splendid, she'd do you heaps of
good, and Beth would sing to you if I begged her to, and Amy would
dance.  Meg and I would make you laugh over our funny stage properties,
and we'd have jolly times.  Wouldn't your grandpa let you?"

"I think he would, if your mother asked him.  He's very kind, though he
does not look so, and he lets me do what I like, pretty much, only he's
afraid I might be a bother to strangers," began Laurie, brightening
more and more.

"We are not strangers, we are neighbors, and you needn't think you'd be
a bother.  We want to know you, and I've been trying to do it this ever
so long.  We haven't been here a great while, you know, but we have got
acquainted with all our neighbors but you."

"You see, Grandpa lives among his books, and doesn't mind much what
happens outside.  Mr. Brooke, my tutor, doesn't stay here, you know,
and I have no one to go about with me, so I just stop at home and get
on as I can."

"That's bad.  You ought to make an effort and go visiting everywhere
you are asked, then you'll have plenty of friends, and pleasant places
to go to.  Never mind being bashful.  It won't last long if you keep
going."

Laurie turned red again, but wasn't offended at being accused of
bashfulness, for there was so much good will in Jo it was impossible
not to take her blunt speeches as kindly as they were meant.

"Do you like your school?" asked the boy, changing the subject, after a
little pause, during which he stared at the fire and Jo looked about
her, well pleased.

"Don't go to school, I'm a businessman--girl, I mean.  I go to wait on
my great-aunt, and a dear, cross old soul she is, too," answered Jo.

Laurie opened his mouth to ask another question, but remembering just
in time that it wasn't manners to make too many inquiries into people's
affairs, he shut it again, and looked uncomfortable.

Jo liked his good breeding, and didn't mind having a laugh at Aunt
March, so she gave him a lively description of the fidgety old lady,
her fat poodle, the parrot that talked Spanish, and the library where
she reveled.

Laurie enjoyed that immensely, and when she told about the prim old
gentleman who came once to woo Aunt March, and in the middle of a fine
speech, how Poll had tweaked his wig off to his great dismay, the boy
lay back and laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks, and a maid
popped her head in to see what was the matter.

"Oh!  That does me no end of good.  Tell on, please," he said, taking
his face out of the sofa cushion, red and shining with merriment.

Much elated with her success, Jo did 'tell on', all about their plays
and plans, their hopes and fears for Father, and the most interesting
events of the little world in which the sisters lived.  Then they got
to talking about books, and to Jo's delight, she found that Laurie
loved them as well as she did, and had read even more than herself.

"If you like them so much, come down and see ours.  Grandfather is out,
so you needn't be afraid," said Laurie, getting up.

"I'm not afraid of anything," returned Jo, with a toss of the head.

"I don't believe you are!" exclaimed the boy, looking at her with much
admiration, though he privately thought she would have good reason to
be a trifle afraid of the old gentleman, if she met him in some of his
moods.

The atmosphere of the whole house being summerlike, Laurie led the way
from room to room, letting Jo stop to examine whatever struck her
fancy.  And so, at last they came to the library, where she clapped her
hands and pranced, as she always did when especially delighted.  It was
lined with books, and there were pictures and statues, and distracting
little cabinets full of coins and curiosities, and Sleepy Hollow
chairs, and queer tables, and bronzes, and best of all, a great open
fireplace with quaint tiles all round it.

"What richness!" sighed Jo, sinking into the depth of a velour chair
and gazing about her with an air of intense satisfaction. "Theodore
Laurence, you ought to be the happiest boy in the world," she added
impressively.

"A fellow can't live on books," said Laurie, shaking his head as he
perched on a table opposite.

Before he could more, a bell rang, and Jo flew up, exclaiming with
alarm, "Mercy me!  It's your grandpa!"

"Well, what if it is?  You are not afraid of anything, you know,"
returned the boy, looking wicked.

"I think I am a little bit afraid of him, but I don't know why I should
be.  Marmee said I might come, and I don't think you're any the worse
for it," said Jo, composing herself, though she kept her eyes on the
door.

"I'm a great deal better for it, and ever so much obliged. I'm only
afraid you are very tired of talking to me.  It was so pleasant, I
couldn't bear to stop," said Laurie gratefully.

"The doctor to see you, sir," and the maid beckoned as she spoke.

"Would you mind if I left you for a minute?  I suppose I must see him,"
said Laurie.

"Don't mind me.  I'm happy as a cricket here," answered Jo.

Laurie went away, and his guest amused herself in her own way. She was
standing before a fine portrait of the old gentleman when the door
opened again, and without turning, she said decidedly, "I'm sure now
that I shouldn't be afraid of him, for he's got kind eyes, though his
mouth is grim, and he looks as if he had a tremendous will of his own.
He isn't as handsome as my grandfather, but I like him."

"Thank you, ma'am," said a gruff voice behind her, and there, to her
great dismay, stood old Mr. Laurence.

Poor Jo blushed till she couldn't blush any redder, and her heart began
to beat uncomfortably fast as she thought what she had said.  For a
minute a wild desire to run away possessed her, but that was cowardly,
and the girls would laugh at her, so she resolved to stay and get out
of the scrape as she could.  A second look showed her that the living
eyes, under the bushy eyebrows, were kinder even than the painted ones,
and there was a sly twinkle in them, which lessened her fear a good
deal.  The gruff voice was gruffer than ever, as the old gentleman said
abruptly, after the dreadful pause, "So you're not afraid of me, hey?"

"Not much, sir."

"And you don't think me as handsome as your grandfather?"

"Not quite, sir."

"And I've got a tremendous will, have I?"

"I only said I thought so."

"But you like me in spite of it?"

"Yes, I do, sir."

That answer pleased the old gentleman.  He gave a short laugh, shook
hands with her, and, putting his finger under her chin, turned up her
face, examined it gravely, and let it go, saying with a nod, "You've
got your grandfather's spirit, if you haven't his face.  He was a fine
man, my dear, but what is better, he was a brave and an honest one, and
I was proud to be his friend."

"Thank you, sir," And Jo was quite comfortable after that, for it
suited her exactly.

"What have you been doing to this boy of mine, hey?" was the next
question, sharply put.

"Only trying to be neighborly, sir."  And Jo told how her visit came
about.

"You think he needs cheering up a bit, do you?"

"Yes, sir, he seems a little lonely, and young folks would do him good
perhaps.  We are only girls, but we should be glad to help if we could,
for we don't forget the splendid Christmas present you sent us," said
Jo eagerly.

"Tut, tut, tut!  That was the boy's affair.  How is the poor woman?"

"Doing nicely, sir."  And off went Jo, talking very fast, as she told
all about the Hummels, in whom her mother had interested richer friends
than they were.

"Just her father's way of doing good.  I shall come and see your mother
some fine day.  Tell her so.  There's the tea bell, we have it early on
the boy's account.  Come down and go on being neighborly."

"If you'd like to have me, sir."

"Shouldn't ask you, if I didn't."  And Mr. Laurence offered her his arm
with old-fashioned courtesy.

"What would Meg say to this?" thought Jo, as she was marched away,
while her eyes danced with fun as she imagined herself telling the
story at home.

"Hey!  Why, what the dickens has come to the fellow?" said the old
gentleman, as Laurie came running downstairs and brought up with a
start of surprise at the astounding sight of Jo arm in arm with his
redoubtable grandfather.

"I didn't know you'd come, sir," he began, as Jo gave him a triumphant
little glance.

"That's evident, by the way you racket downstairs.  Come to your tea,
sir, and behave like a gentleman."  And having pulled the boy's hair by
way of a caress, Mr. Laurence walked on, while Laurie went through a
series of comic evolutions behind their backs, which nearly produced an
explosion of laughter from Jo.

The old gentleman did not say much as he drank his four cups of tea,
but he watched the young people, who soon chatted away like old
friends, and the change in his grandson did not escape him.  There was
color, light, and life in the boy's face now, vivacity in his manner,
and genuine merriment in his laugh.

"She's right, the lad is lonely.  I'll see what these little girls can
do for him," thought Mr. Laurence, as he looked and listened.  He liked
Jo, for her odd, blunt ways suited him, and she seemed to understand
the boy almost as well as if she had been one herself.

If the Laurences had been what Jo called 'prim and poky', she would not
have got on at all, for such people always made her shy and awkward.
But finding them free and easy, she was so herself, and made a good
impression.  When they rose she proposed to go, but Laurie said he had
something more to show her, and took her away to the conservatory,
which had been lighted for her benefit.  It seemed quite fairylike to
Jo, as she went up and down the walks, enjoying the blooming walls on
either side, the soft light, the damp sweet air, and the wonderful
vines and trees that hung about her, while her new friend cut the
finest flowers till his hands were full.  Then he tied them up, saying,
with the happy look Jo liked to see, "Please give these to your mother,
and tell her I like the medicine she sent me very much."

They found Mr. Laurence standing before the fire in the great drawing
room, but Jo's attention was entirely absorbed by a grand piano, which
stood open.

"Do you play?" she asked, turning to Laurie with a respectful
expression.

"Sometimes," he answered modestly.

"Please do now.  I want to hear it, so I can tell Beth."

"Won't you first?"

"Don't know how.  Too stupid to learn, but I love music dearly."

So Laurie played and Jo listened, with her nose luxuriously buried in
heliotrope and tea roses.  Her respect and regard for the 'Laurence'
boy increased very much, for he played remarkably well and didn't put
on any airs.  She wished Beth could hear him, but she did not say so,
only praised him till he was quite abashed, and his grandfather came to
his rescue.

"That will do, that will do, young lady.  Too many sugarplums are not
good for him.  His music isn't bad, but I hope he will do as well in
more important things.  Going?  well, I'm much obliged to you, and I
hope you'll come again.  My respects to your mother. Good night, Doctor
Jo."

He shook hands kindly, but looked as if something did not please him.
When they got into the hall, Jo asked Laurie if she had said something
amiss.  He shook his head.

"No, it was me.  He doesn't like to hear me play."

"Why not?"

"I'll tell you some day.  John is going home with you, as I can't."

"No need of that.  I am not a young lady, and it's only a step.  Take
care of yourself, won't you?"

"Yes, but you will come again, I hope?"

"If you promise to come and see us after you are well."

"I will."

"Good night, Laurie!"

"Good night, Jo, good night!"

When all the afternoon's adventures had been told, the family felt
inclined to go visiting in a body, for each found something very
attractive in the big house on the other side of the hedge. Mrs. March
wanted to talk of her father with the old man who had not forgotten
him, Meg longed to walk in the conservatory, Beth sighed for the grand
piano, and Amy was eager to see the fine pictures and statues.

"Mother, why didn't Mr. Laurence like to have Laurie play?" asked Jo,
who was of an inquiring disposition.

"I am not sure, but I think it was because his son, Laurie's father,
married an Italian lady, a musician, which displeased the old man, who
is very proud.  The lady was good and lovely and accomplished, but he
did not like her, and never saw his son after he married.  They both
died when Laurie was a little child, and then his grandfather took him
home.  I fancy the boy, who was born in Italy, is not very strong, and
the old man is afraid of losing him, which makes him so careful.
Laurie comes naturally by his love of music, for he is like his mother,
and I dare say his grandfather fears that he may want to be a musician.
At any rate, his skill reminds him of the woman he did not like, and so
he 'glowered' as Jo said."

"Dear me, how romantic!" exclaimed Meg.

"How silly!" said Jo.  "Let him be a musician if he wants to, and not
plague his life out sending him to college, when he hates to go."

"That's why he has such handsome black eyes and pretty manners, I
suppose.  Italians are always nice," said Meg, who was a little
sentimental.

"What do you know about his eyes and his manners?  You never spoke to
him, hardly," cried Jo, who was not sentimental.

"I saw him at the party, and what you tell shows that he knows how to
behave.  That was a nice little speech about the medicine Mother sent
him."

"He meant the blanc mange, I suppose."

"How stupid you are, child!  He meant you, of course."

"Did he?" And Jo opened her eyes as if it had never occurred to her
before.

"I never saw such a girl!  You don't know a compliment when you get
it," said Meg, with the air of a young lady who knew all about the
matter.

"I think they are great nonsense, and I'll thank you not to be silly
and spoil my fun.  Laurie's a nice boy and I like him, and I won't have
any sentimental stuff about compliments and such rubbish.  We'll all be
good to him because he hasn't got any mother, and he may come over and
see us, mayn't he, Marmee?"

"Yes, Jo, your little friend is very welcome, and I hope Meg will
remember that children should be children as long as they can."

"I don't call myself a child, and I'm not in my teens yet," observed
Amy.  "What do you say, Beth?"

"I was thinking about our '_Pilgrim's Progress_'," answered Beth, who
had not heard a word.  "How we got out of the Slough and through the
Wicket Gate by resolving to be good, and up the steep hill by trying,
and that maybe the house over there, full of splendid things, is going
to be our Palace Beautiful."

"We have got to get by the lions first," said Jo, as if she rather
liked the prospect.



CHAPTER SIX

BETH FINDS THE PALACE BEAUTIFUL

The big house did prove a Palace Beautiful, though it took some time
for all to get in, and Beth found it very hard to pass the lions.  Old
Mr. Laurence was the biggest one, but after he had called, said
something funny or kind to each one of the girls, and talked over old
times with their mother, nobody felt much afraid of him, except timid
Beth.  The other lion was the fact that they were poor and Laurie rich,
for this made them shy of accepting favors which they could not return.
But, after a while, they found that he considered them the benefactors,
and could not do enough to show how grateful he was for Mrs. March's
motherly welcome, their cheerful society, and the comfort he took in
that humble home of theirs.  So they soon forgot their pride and
interchanged kindnesses without stopping to think which was the greater.

All sorts of pleasant things happened about that time, for the new
friendship flourished like grass in spring.  Every one liked Laurie,
and he privately informed his tutor that "the Marches were regularly
splendid girls."  With the delightful enthusiasm of youth, they took
the solitary boy into their midst and made much of him, and he found
something very charming in the innocent companionship of these
simple-hearted girls.  Never having known mother or sisters, he was
quick to feel the influences they brought about him, and their busy,
lively ways made him ashamed of the indolent life he led. He was tired
of books, and found people so interesting now that Mr. Brooke was
obliged to make very unsatisfactory reports, for Laurie was always
playing truant and running over to the Marches'.

"Never mind, let him take a holiday, and make it up afterward," said
the old gentleman.  "The good lady next door says he is studying too
hard and needs young society, amusement, and exercise.  I suspect she
is right, and that I've been coddling the fellow as if I'd been his
grandmother.  Let him do what he likes, as long as he is happy. He
can't get into mischief in that little nunnery over there, and Mrs.
March is doing more for him than we can."

What good times they had, to be sure.  Such plays and tableaux, such
sleigh rides and skating frolics, such pleasant evenings in the old
parlor, and now and then such gay little parties at the great house.
Meg could walk in the conservatory whenever she liked and revel in
bouquets, Jo browsed over the new library voraciously, and convulsed
the old gentleman with her criticisms, Amy copied pictures and enjoyed
beauty to her heart's content, and Laurie played 'lord of the manor' in
the most delightful style.

But Beth, though yearning for the grand piano, could not pluck up
courage to go to the 'Mansion of Bliss', as Meg called it.  She went
once with Jo, but the old gentleman, not being aware of her infirmity,
stared at her so hard from under his heavy eyebrows, and said "Hey!" so
loud, that he frightened her so much her 'feet chattered on the floor',
she never told her mother, and she ran away, declaring she would never
go there any more, not even for the dear piano.  No persuasions or
enticements could overcome her fear, till, the fact coming to Mr.
Laurence's ear in some mysterious way, he set about mending matters.
During one of the brief calls he made, he artfully led the conversation
to music, and talked away about great singers whom he had seen, fine
organs he had heard, and told such charming anecdotes that Beth found
it impossible to stay in her distant corner, but crept nearer and
nearer, as if fascinated.  At the back of his chair she stopped and
stood listening, with her great eyes wide open and her cheeks red with
excitement of this unusual performance.  Taking no more notice of her
than if she had been a fly, Mr. Laurence talked on about Laurie's
lessons and teachers.  And presently, as if the idea had just occurred
to him, he said to Mrs. March...

"The boy neglects his music now, and I'm glad of it, for he was getting
too fond of it.  But the piano suffers for want of use.  Wouldn't some
of your girls like to run over, and practice on it now and then, just
to keep it in tune, you know, ma'am?"

Beth took a step forward, and pressed her hands tightly together to
keep from clapping them, for this was an irresistible temptation, and
the thought of practicing on that splendid instrument quite took her
breath away.  Before Mrs. March could reply, Mr. Laurence went on with
an odd little nod and smile...

"They needn't see or speak to anyone, but run in at any time. For I'm
shut up in my study at the other end of the house, Laurie is out a
great deal, and the servants are never near the drawing room after nine
o'clock."

Here he rose, as if going, and Beth made up her mind to speak, for that
last arrangement left nothing to be desired.  "Please, tell the young
ladies what I say, and if they don't care to come, why, never mind."
Here a little hand slipped into his, and Beth looked up at him with a
face full of gratitude, as she said, in her earnest yet timid way...

"Oh sir, they do care, very very much!"

"Are you the musical girl?" he asked, without any startling "Hey!" as
he looked down at her very kindly.

"I'm Beth.  I love it dearly, and I'll come, if you are quite sure
nobody will hear me, and be disturbed," she added, fearing to be rude,
and trembling at her own boldness as she spoke.

"Not a soul, my dear.  The house is empty half the day, so come and
drum away as much as you like, and I shall be obliged to you."

"How kind you are, sir!"

Beth blushed like a rose under the friendly look he wore, but she was
not frightened now, and gave the hand a grateful squeeze because she
had no words to thank him for the precious gift he had given her. The
old gentleman softly stroked the hair off her forehead, and, stooping
down, he kissed her, saying, in a tone few people ever heard...

"I had a little girl once, with eyes like these.  God bless you, my
dear!  Good day, madam."  And away he went, in a great hurry.

Beth had a rapture with her mother, and then rushed up to impart the
glorious news to her family of invalids, as the girls were not home.
How blithely she sang that evening, and how they all laughed at her
because she woke Amy in the night by playing the piano on her face in
her sleep.  Next day, having seen both the old and young gentleman out
of the house, Beth, after two or three retreats, fairly got in at the
side door, and made her way as noiselessly as any mouse to the drawing
room where her idol stood.  Quite by accident, of course, some pretty,
easy music lay on the piano, and with trembling fingers and frequent
stops to listen and look about, Beth at last touched the great
instrument, and straightway forgot her fear, herself, and everything
else but the unspeakable delight which the music gave her, for it was
like the voice of a beloved friend.

She stayed till Hannah came to take her home to dinner, but she had no
appetite, and could only sit and smile upon everyone in a general state
of beatitude.

After that, the little brown hood slipped through the hedge nearly
every day, and the great drawing room was haunted by a tuneful spirit
that came and went unseen.  She never knew that Mr. Laurence opened his
study door to hear the old-fashioned airs he liked.  She never saw
Laurie mount guard in the hall to warn the servants away. She never
suspected that the exercise books and new songs which she found in the
rack were put there for her especial benefit, and when he talked to her
about music at home, she only thought how kind he was to tell things
that helped her so much.  So she enjoyed herself heartily, and found,
what isn't always the case, that her granted wish was all she had
hoped.  Perhaps it was because she was so grateful for this blessing
that a greater was given her.  At any rate she deserved both.

"Mother, I'm going to work Mr. Laurence a pair of slippers.  He is so
kind to me, I must thank him, and I don't know any other way. Can I do
it?" asked Beth, a few weeks after that eventful call of his.

"Yes, dear.  It will please him very much, and be a nice way of
thanking him.  The girls will help you about them, and I will pay for
the making up," replied Mrs. March, who took peculiar pleasure in
granting Beth's requests because she so seldom asked anything for
herself.

After many serious discussions with Meg and Jo, the pattern was chosen,
the materials bought, and the slippers begun.  A cluster of grave yet
cheerful pansies on a deeper purple ground was pronounced very
appropriate and pretty, and Beth worked away early and late, with
occasional lifts over hard parts.  She was a nimble little needlewoman,
and they were finished before anyone got tired of them.  Then she wrote
a short, simple note, and with Laurie's help, got them smuggled onto
the study table one morning before the old gentleman was up.

When this excitement was over, Beth waited to see what would happen.
All day passed and a part of the next before any acknowledgement
arrived, and she was beginning to fear she had offended her crochety
friend.  On the afternoon of the second day, she went out to do an
errand, and give poor Joanna, the invalid doll, her daily exercise.  As
she came up the street, on her return, she saw three, yes, four heads
popping in and out of the parlor windows, and the moment they saw her,
several hands were waved, and several joyful voices screamed...

"Here's a letter from the old gentleman!  Come quick, and read it!"

"Oh, Beth, he's sent you..." began Amy, gesticulating with unseemly
energy, but she got no further, for Jo quenched her by slamming down
the window.

Beth hurried on in a flutter of suspense.  At the door her sisters
seized and bore her to the parlor in a triumphal procession, all
pointing and all saying at once, "Look there!  Look there!"  Beth did
look, and turned pale with delight and surprise, for there stood a
little cabinet piano, with a letter lying on the glossy lid, directed
like a sign board to "Miss Elizabeth March."

"For me?" gasped Beth, holding onto Jo and feeling as if she should
tumble down, it was such an overwhelming thing altogether.

"Yes, all for you, my precious!  Isn't it splendid of him?  Don't you
think he's the dearest old man in the world?  Here's the key in the
letter.  We didn't open it, but we are dying to know what he says,"
cried Jo, hugging her sister and offering the note.

"You read it!  I can't, I feel so queer!  Oh, it is too lovely!" and
Beth hid her face in Jo's apron, quite upset by her present.

Jo opened the paper and began to laugh, for the first words she saw
were...

"Miss March: "Dear Madam--"

"How nice it sounds!  I wish someone would write to me so!" said Amy,
who thought the old-fashioned address very elegant.

"'I have had many pairs of slippers in my life, but I never had any
that suited me so well as yours,'" continues Jo.  "'Heart's-ease is my
favorite flower, and these will always remind me of the gentle giver.
I like to pay my debts, so I know you will allow 'the old gentleman' to
send you something which once belonged to the little grand daughter he
lost.  With hearty thanks and best wishes, I remain "'Your grateful
friend and humble servant, 'JAMES LAURENCE'."

"There, Beth, that's an honor to be proud of, I'm sure! Laurie told me
how fond Mr. Laurence used to be of the child who died, and how he kept
all her little things carefully.  Just think, he's given you her piano.
That comes of having big blue eyes and loving music," said Jo, trying
to soothe Beth, who trembled and looked more excited than she had ever
been before.

"See the cunning brackets to hold candles, and the nice green silk,
puckered up, with a gold rose in the middle, and the pretty rack and
stool, all complete," added Meg, opening the instrument and displaying
its beauties.

"'Your humble servant, James Laurence'.  Only think of his writing that
to you.  I'll tell the girls.  They'll think it's splendid," said Amy,
much impressed by the note.

"Try it, honey.  Let's hear the sound of the baby pianny," said Hannah,
who always took a share in the family joys and sorrows.

So Beth tried it, and everyone pronounced it the most remarkable piano
ever heard.  It had evidently been newly tuned and put in apple-pie
order, but, perfect as it was, I think the real charm lay in the
happiest of all happy faces which leaned over it, as Beth lovingly
touched the beautiful black and white keys and pressed the bright
pedals.

"You'll have to go and thank him," said Jo, by way of a joke, for the
idea of the child's really going never entered her head.

"Yes, I mean to.  I guess I'll go now, before I get frightened thinking
about it." And, to the utter amazement of the assembled family, Beth
walked deliberately down the garden, through the hedge, and in at the
Laurences' door.

"Well, I wish I may die if it ain't the queerest thing I ever see!  The
pianny has turned her head!  She'd never have gone in her right mind,"
cried Hannah, staring after her, while the girls were rendered quite
speechless by the miracle.

They would have been still more amazed if they had seen what Beth did
afterward.  If you will believe me, she went and knocked at the study
door before she gave herself time to think, and when a gruff voice
called out, "come in!" she did go in, right up to Mr. Laurence, who
looked quite taken aback, and held out her hand, saying, with only a
small quaver in her voice, "I came to thank you, sir, for..." But she
didn't finish, for he looked so friendly that she forgot her speech
and, only remembering that he had lost the little girl he loved, she
put both arms round his neck and kissed him.

If the roof of the house had suddenly flown off, the old gentleman
wouldn't have been more astonished.  But he liked it. Oh, dear, yes, he
liked it amazingly!  And was so touched and pleased by that confiding
little kiss that all his crustiness vanished, and he just set her on
his knee, and laid his wrinkled cheek against her rosy one, feeling as
if he had got his own little granddaughter back again.  Beth ceased to
fear him from that moment, and sat there talking to him as cozily as if
she had known him all her life, for love casts out fear, and gratitude
can conquer pride.  When she went home, he walked with her to her own
gate, shook hands cordially, and touched his hat as he marched back
again, looking very stately and erect, like a handsome, soldierly old
gentleman, as he was.

When the girls saw that performance, Jo began to dance a jig, by way of
expressing her satisfaction, Amy nearly fell out of the window in her
surprise, and Meg exclaimed, with up-lifted hands, "Well, I do believe
the world is coming to an end."



CHAPTER SEVEN

AMY'S VALLEY OF HUMILIATION

"That boy is a perfect cyclops, isn't he?" said Amy one day, as Laurie
clattered by on horseback, with a flourish of his whip as he passed.

"How dare you say so, when he's got both his eyes?  And very handsome
ones they are, too," cried Jo, who resented any slighting remarks about
her friend.

"I didn't say anything about his eyes, and I don't see why you need
fire up when I admire his riding."

"Oh, my goodness!  That little goose means a centaur, and she called
him a Cyclops," exclaimed Jo, with a burst of laughter.

"You needn't be so rude, it's only a 'lapse of lingy', as Mr. Davis
says," retorted Amy, finishing Jo with her Latin.  "I just wish I had a
little of the money Laurie spends on that horse," she added, as if to
herself, yet hoping her sisters would hear.

"Why?" asked Meg kindly, for Jo had gone off in another laugh at Amy's
second blunder.

"I need it so much.  I'm dreadfully in debt, and it won't be my turn to
have the rag money for a month."

"In debt, Amy?  What do you mean?" And Meg looked sober.

"Why, I owe at least a dozen pickled limes, and I can't pay them, you
know, till I have money, for Marmee forbade my having anything charged
at the shop."

"Tell me all about it.  Are limes the fashion now?  It used to be
pricking bits of rubber to make balls."  And Meg tried to keep her
countenance, Amy looked so grave and important.

"Why, you see, the girls are always buying them, and unless you want to
be thought mean, you must do it too.  It's nothing but limes now, for
everyone is sucking them in their desks in schooltime, and trading them
off for pencils, bead rings, paper dolls, or something else, at recess.
If one girl likes another, she gives her a lime.  If she's mad with
her, she eats one before her face, and doesn't offer even a suck.  They
treat by turns, and I've had ever so many but haven't returned them,
and I ought for they are debts of honor, you know."

"How much will pay them off and restore your credit?" asked Meg, taking
out her purse.

"A quarter would more than do it, and leave a few cents over for a
treat for you.  Don't you like limes?"

"Not much.  You may have my share.  Here's the money.  Make it last as
long as you can, for it isn't very plenty, you know."

"Oh, thank you!  It must be so nice to have pocket money!  I'll have a
grand feast, for I haven't tasted a lime this week.  I felt delicate
about taking any, as I couldn't return them, and I'm actually suffering
for one."

Next day Amy was rather late at school, but could not resist the
temptation of displaying, with pardonable pride, a moist brown-paper
parcel, before she consigned it to the inmost recesses of her desk.
During the next few minutes the rumor that Amy March had got
twenty-four delicious limes (she ate one on the way) and was going to
treat circulated through her 'set', and the attentions of her friends
became quite overwhelming.  Katy Brown invited her to her next party on
the spot.  Mary Kingsley insisted on lending her her watch till recess,
and Jenny Snow, a satirical young lady, who had basely twitted Amy upon
her limeless state, promptly buried the hatchet and offered to furnish
answers to certain appalling sums.  But Amy had not forgotten Miss
Snow's cutting remarks about 'some persons whose noses were not too
flat to smell other people's limes, and stuck-up people who were not
too proud to ask for them', and she instantly crushed 'that Snow
girl's' hopes by the withering telegram, "You needn't be so polite all
of a sudden, for you won't get any."

A distinguished personage happened to visit the school that morning,
and Amy's beautifully drawn maps received praise, which honor to her
foe rankled in the soul of Miss Snow, and caused Miss March to assume
the airs of a studious young peacock.  But, alas, alas!  Pride goes
before a fall, and the revengeful Snow turned the tables with
disastrous success.  No sooner had the guest paid the usual stale
compliments and bowed himself out, than Jenny, under pretense of asking
an important question, informed Mr. Davis, the teacher, that Amy March
had pickled limes in her desk.

Now Mr. Davis had declared limes a contraband article, and solemnly
vowed to publicly ferrule the first person who was found breaking the
law.  This much-enduring man had succeeded in banishing chewing gum
after a long and stormy war, had made a bonfire of the confiscated
novels and newspapers, had suppressed a private post office, had
forbidden distortions of the face, nicknames, and caricatures, and done
all that one man could do to keep half a hundred rebellious girls in
order.  Boys are trying enough to human patience, goodness knows, but
girls are infinitely more so, especially to nervous gentlemen with
tyrannical tempers and no more talent for teaching than Dr. Blimber.
Mr. Davis knew any quantity of Greek, Latin, algebra, and ologies of
all sorts so he was called a fine teacher, and manners, morals,
feelings, and examples were not considered of any particular
importance.  It was a most unfortunate moment for denouncing Amy, and
Jenny knew it.  Mr. Davis had evidently taken his coffee too strong
that morning, there was an east wind, which always affected his
neuralgia, and his pupils had not done him the credit which he felt he
deserved.  Therefore, to use the expressive, if not elegant, language
of a schoolgirl, "He was as nervous as a witch and as cross as a bear".
The word 'limes' was like fire to powder, his yellow face flushed, and
he rapped on his desk with an energy which made Jenny skip to her seat
with unusual rapidity.

"Young ladies, attention, if you please!"

At the stern order the buzz ceased, and fifty pairs of blue, black,
gray, and brown eyes were obediently fixed upon his awful countenance.

"Miss March, come to the desk."

Amy rose to comply with outward composure, but a secret fear oppressed
her, for the limes weighed upon her conscience.

"Bring with you the limes you have in your desk," was the unexpected
command which arrested her before she got out of her seat.

"Don't take all." whispered her neighbor, a young lady of great
presence of mind.

Amy hastily shook out half a dozen and laid the rest down before Mr.
Davis, feeling that any man possessing a human heart would relent when
that delicious perfume met his nose.  Unfortunately, Mr. Davis
particularly detested the odor of the fashionable pickle, and disgust
added to his wrath.

"Is that all?"

"Not quite," stammered Amy.

"Bring the rest immediately."

With a despairing glance at her set, she obeyed.

"You are sure there are no more?"

"I never lie, sir."

"So I see.  Now take these disgusting things two by two, and throw them
out of the window."

There was a simultaneous sigh, which created quite a little gust, as
the last hope fled, and the treat was ravished from their longing lips.
Scarlet with shame and anger, Amy went to and fro six dreadful times,
and as each doomed couple, looking oh, so plump and juicy, fell from
her reluctant hands, a shout from the street completed the anguish of
the girls, for it told them that their feast was being exulted over by
the little Irish children, who were their sworn foes.  This--this was
too much.  All flashed indignant or appealing glances at the inexorable
Davis, and one passionate lime lover burst into tears.

As Amy returned from her last trip, Mr. Davis gave a portentous "Hem!"
and said, in his most impressive manner...

"Young ladies, you remember what I said to you a week ago.  I am sorry
this has happened, but I never allow my rules to be infringed, and I
never break my word.  Miss March, hold out your hand."

Amy started, and put both hands behind her, turning on him an imploring
look which pleaded for her better than the words she could not utter.
She was rather a favorite with 'old Davis', as, of course, he was
called, and it's my private belief that he would have broken his word
if the indignation of one irrepressible young lady had not found vent
in a hiss.  That hiss, faint as it was, irritated the irascible
gentleman, and sealed the culprit's fate.

"Your hand, Miss March!" was the only answer her mute appeal received,
and too proud to cry or beseech, Amy set her teeth, threw back her head
defiantly, and bore without flinching several tingling blows on her
little palm.  They were neither many nor heavy, but that made no
difference to her.  For the first time in her life she had been struck,
and the disgrace, in her eyes, was as deep as if he had knocked her
down.

"You will now stand on the platform till recess," said Mr. Davis,
resolved to do the thing thoroughly, since he had begun.

That was dreadful.  It would have been bad enough to go to her seat,
and see the pitying faces of her friends, or the satisfied ones of her
few enemies, but to face the whole school, with that shame fresh upon
her, seemed impossible, and for a second she felt as if she could only
drop down where she stood, and break her heart with crying.  A bitter
sense of wrong and the thought of Jenny Snow helped her to bear it,
and, taking the ignominious place, she fixed her eyes on the stove
funnel above what now seemed a sea of faces, and stood there, so
motionless and white that the girls found it hard to study with that
pathetic figure before them.

During the fifteen minutes that followed, the proud and sensitive
little girl suffered a shame and pain which she never forgot.  To
others it might seem a ludicrous or trivial affair, but to her it was a
hard experience, for during the twelve years of her life she had been
governed by love alone, and a blow of that sort had never touched her
before.  The smart of her hand and the ache of her heart were forgotten
in the sting of the thought, "I shall have to tell at home, and they
will be so disappointed in me!"

The fifteen minutes seemed an hour, but they came to an end at last,
and the word 'Recess!' had never seemed so welcome to her before.

"You can go, Miss March," said Mr. Davis, looking, as he felt,
uncomfortable.

He did not soon forget the reproachful glance Amy gave him, as she
went, without a word to anyone, straight into the anteroom, snatched
her things, and left the place "forever," as she passionately declared
to herself.  She was in a sad state when she got home, and when the
older girls arrived, some time later, an indignation meeting was held
at once.  Mrs. March did not say much but looked disturbed, and
comforted her afflicted little daughter in her tenderest manner. Meg
bathed the insulted hand with glycerine and tears, Beth felt that even
her beloved kittens would fail as a balm for griefs like this, Jo
wrathfully proposed that Mr. Davis be arrested without delay, and
Hannah shook her fist at the 'villain' and pounded potatoes for dinner
as if she had him under her pestle.

No notice was taken of Amy's flight, except by her mates, but the
sharp-eyed demoiselles discovered that Mr. Davis was quite benignant in
the afternoon, also unusually nervous.  Just before school closed, Jo
appeared, wearing a grim expression as she stalked up to the desk, and
delivered a letter from her mother, then collected Amy's property, and
departed, carefully scraping the mud from her boots on the door mat, as
if she shook the dust of the place off her feet.

"Yes, you can have a vacation from school, but I want you to study a
little every day with Beth," said Mrs. March that evening. "I don't
approve of corporal punishment, especially for girls.  I dislike Mr.
Davis's manner of teaching and don't think the girls you associate with
are doing you any good, so I shall ask your father's advice before I
send you anywhere else."

"That's good!  I wish all the girls would leave, and spoil his old
school.  It's perfectly maddening to think of those lovely limes,"
sighed Amy, with the air of a martyr.

"I am not sorry you lost them, for you broke the rules, and deserved
some punishment for disobedience," was the severe reply, which rather
disappointed the young lady, who expected nothing but sympathy.

"Do you mean you are glad I was disgraced before the whole school?"
cried Amy.

"I should not have chosen that way of mending a fault," replied her
mother, "but I'm not sure that it won't do you more good than a bolder
method.  You are getting to be rather conceited, my dear, and it is
quite time you set about correcting it.  You have a good many little
gifts and virtues, but there is no need of parading them, for conceit
spoils the finest genius.  There is not much danger that real talent or
goodness will be overlooked long, even if it is, the consciousness of
possessing and using it well should satisfy one, and the great charm of
all power is modesty."

"So it is!" cried Laurie, who was playing chess in a corner with Jo.
"I knew a girl once, who had a really remarkable talent for music, and
she didn't know it, never guessed what sweet little things she composed
when she was alone, and wouldn't have believed it if anyone had told
her."

"I wish I'd known that nice girl.  Maybe she would have helped me, I'm
so stupid," said Beth, who stood beside him, listening eagerly.

"You do know her, and she helps you better than anyone else could,"
answered Laurie, looking at her with such mischievous meaning in his
merry black eyes that Beth suddenly turned very red, and hid her face
in the sofa cushion, quite overcome by such an unexpected discovery.

Jo let Laurie win the game to pay for that praise of her Beth, who
could not be prevailed upon to play for them after her compliment. So
Laurie did his best, and sang delightfully, being in a particularly
lively humor, for to the Marches he seldom showed the moody side of his
character.  When he was gone, Amy, who had been pensive all evening,
said suddenly, as if busy over some new idea, "Is Laurie an
accomplished boy?"

"Yes, he has had an excellent education, and has much talent. He will
make a fine man, if not spoiled by petting," replied her mother.

"And he isn't conceited, is he?" asked Amy.

"Not in the least.  That is why he is so charming and we all like him
so much."

"I see.  It's nice to have accomplishments and be elegant, but not to
show off or get perked up," said Amy thoughtfully.

"These things are always seen and felt in a person's manner and
conversations, if modestly used, but it is not necessary to display
them," said Mrs. March.

"Any more than it's proper to wear all your bonnets and gowns and
ribbons at once, that folks may know you've got them," added Jo, and
the lecture ended in a laugh.



CHAPTER EIGHT

JO MEETS APOLLYON

"Girls, where are you going?" asked Amy, coming into their room one
Saturday afternoon, and finding them getting ready to go out with an
air of secrecy which excited her curiosity.

"Never mind.  Little girls shouldn't ask questions," returned Jo
sharply.

Now if there is anything mortifying to our feelings when we are young,
it is to be told that, and to be bidden to "run away, dear" is still
more trying to us.  Amy bridled up at this insult, and determined to
find out the secret, if she teased for an hour. Turning to Meg, who
never refused her anything very long, she said coaxingly, "Do tell me!
I should think you might let me go, too, for Beth is fussing over her
piano, and I haven't got anything to do, and am so lonely."

"I can't, dear, because you aren't invited," began Meg, but Jo broke in
impatiently, "Now, Meg, be quiet or you will spoil it all.  You can't
go, Amy, so don't be a baby and whine about it."

"You are going somewhere with Laurie, I know you are.  You were
whispering and laughing together on the sofa last night, and you
stopped when I came in.  Aren't you going with him?"

"Yes, we are.  Now do be still, and stop bothering."

Amy held her tongue, but used her eyes, and saw Meg slip a fan into her
pocket.

"I know!  I know!  You're going to the theater to see the _Seven
Castles!_" she cried, adding resolutely, "and I shall go, for Mother
said I might see it, and I've got my rag money, and it was mean not to
tell me in time."

"Just listen to me a minute, and be a good child," said Meg soothingly.
"Mother doesn't wish you to go this week, because your eyes are not
well enough yet to bear the light of this fairy piece.  Next week you
can go with Beth and Hannah, and have a nice time."

"I don't like that half as well as going with you and Laurie. Please
let me.  I've been sick with this cold so long, and shut up, I'm dying
for some fun.  Do, Meg!  I'll be ever so good," pleaded Amy, looking as
pathetic as she could.

"Suppose we take her.  I don't believe Mother would mind, if we bundle
her up well," began Meg.

"If she goes I shan't, and if I don't, Laurie won't like it, and it
will be very rude, after he invited only us, to go and drag in Amy.  I
should think she'd hate to poke herself where she isn't wanted," said
Jo crossly, for she disliked the trouble of overseeing a fidgety child
when she wanted to enjoy herself.

Her tone and manner angered Amy, who began to put her boots on, saying,
in her most aggravating way, "I shall go.  Meg says I may, and if I pay
for myself, Laurie hasn't anything to do with it."

"You can't sit with us, for our seats are reserved, and you mustn't sit
alone, so Laurie will give you his place, and that will spoil our
pleasure.  Or he'll get another seat for you, and that isn't proper
when you weren't asked.  You shan't stir a step, so you may just stay
where you are," scolded Jo, crosser than ever, having just pricked her
finger in her hurry.

Sitting on the floor with one boot on, Amy began to cry and Meg to
reason with her, when Laurie called from below, and the two girls
hurried down, leaving their sister wailing.  For now and then she
forgot her grown-up ways and acted like a spoiled child.  Just as the
party was setting out, Amy called over the banisters in a threatening
tone, "You'll be sorry for this, Jo March, see if you ain't."

"Fiddlesticks!" returned Jo, slamming the door.

They had a charming time, for _The Seven Castles Of The Diamond Lake_
was as brilliant and wonderful as heart could wish. But in spite of the
comical red imps, sparkling elves, and the gorgeous princes and
princesses, Jo's pleasure had a drop of bitterness in it.  The fairy
queen's yellow curls reminded her of Amy, and between the acts she
amused herself with wondering what her sister would do to make her
'sorry for it'.  She and Amy had had many lively skirmishes in the
course of their lives, for both had quick tempers and were apt to be
violent when fairly roused.  Amy teased Jo, and Jo irritated Amy, and
semioccasional explosions occurred, of which both were much ashamed
afterward. Although the oldest, Jo had the least self-control, and had
hard times trying to curb the fiery spirit which was continually
getting her into trouble.  Her anger never lasted long, and having
humbly confessed her fault, she sincerely repented and tried to do
better. Her sisters used to say that they rather liked to get Jo into a
fury because she was such an angel afterward.  Poor Jo tried
desperately to be good, but her bosom enemy was always ready to flame
up and defeat her, and it took years of patient effort to subdue it.

When they got home, they found Amy reading in the parlor. She assumed
an injured air as they came in, never lifted her eyes from her book, or
asked a single question.  Perhaps curiosity might have conquered
resentment, if Beth had not been there to inquire and receive a glowing
description of the play.  On going up to put away her best hat, Jo's
first look was toward the bureau, for in their last quarrel Amy had
soothed her feelings by turning Jo's top drawer upside down on the
floor.  Everything was in its place, however, and after a hasty glance
into her various closets, bags, and boxes, Jo decided that Amy had
forgiven and forgotten her wrongs.

There Jo was mistaken, for next day she made a discovery which produced
a tempest.  Meg, Beth, and Amy were sitting together, late in the
afternoon, when Jo burst into the room, looking excited and demanding
breathlessly, "Has anyone taken my book?"

Meg and Beth said, "No." at once, and looked surprised.  Amy poked the
fire and said nothing.  Jo saw her color rise and was down upon her in
a minute.

"Amy, you've got it!"

"No, I haven't."

"You know where it is, then!"

"No, I don't."

"That's a fib!" cried Jo, taking her by the shoulders, and looking
fierce enough to frighten a much braver child than Amy.

"It isn't.  I haven't got it, don't know where it is now, and don't
care."

"You know something about it, and you'd better tell at once, or I'll
make you."  And Jo gave her a slight shake.

"Scold as much as you like, you'll never see your silly old book
again," cried Amy, getting excited in her turn.

"Why not?"

"I burned it up."

"What!  My little book I was so fond of, and worked over, and meant to
finish before Father got home?  Have you really burned it?" said Jo,
turning very pale, while her eyes kindled and her hands clutched Amy
nervously.

"Yes, I did!  I told you I'd make you pay for being so cross yesterday,
and I have, so..."

Amy got no farther, for Jo's hot temper mastered her, and she shook Amy
till her teeth chattered in her head, crying in a passion of grief and
anger...

"You wicked, wicked girl!  I never can write it again, and I'll never
forgive you as long as I live."

Meg flew to rescue Amy, and Beth to pacify Jo, but Jo was quite beside
herself, and with a parting box on her sister's ear, she rushed out of
the room up to the old sofa in the garret, and finished her fight alone.

The storm cleared up below, for Mrs. March came home, and, having heard
the story, soon brought Amy to a sense of the wrong she had done her
sister.  Jo's book was the pride of her heart, and was regarded by her
family as a literary sprout of great promise.  It was only half a dozen
little fairy tales, but Jo had worked over them patiently, putting her
whole heart into her work, hoping to make something good enough to
print.  She had just copied them with great care, and had destroyed the
old manuscript, so that Amy's bonfire had consumed the loving work of
several years.  It seemed a small loss to others, but to Jo it was a
dreadful calamity, and she felt that it never could be made up to her.
Beth mourned as for a departed kitten, and Meg refused to defend her
pet.  Mrs. March looked grave and grieved, and Amy felt that no one
would love her till she had asked pardon for the act which she now
regretted more than any of them.

When the tea bell rang, Jo appeared, looking so grim and unapproachable
that it took all Amy's courage to say meekly...

"Please forgive me, Jo.  I'm very, very sorry."

"I never shall forgive you," was Jo's stern answer, and from that
moment she ignored Amy entirely.

No one spoke of the great trouble, not even Mrs. March, for all had
learned by experience that when Jo was in that mood words were wasted,
and the wisest course was to wait till some little accident, or her own
generous nature, softened Jo's resentment and healed the breach.  It
was not a happy evening, for though they sewed as usual, while their
mother read aloud from Bremer, Scott, or Edgeworth, something was
wanting, and the sweet home peace was disturbed.  They felt this most
when singing time came, for Beth could only play, Jo stood dumb as a
stone, and Amy broke down, so Meg and Mother sang alone.  But in spite
of their efforts to be as cheery as larks, the flutelike voices did not
seem to chord as well as usual, and all felt out of tune.

As Jo received her good-night kiss, Mrs. March whispered gently, "My
dear, don't let the sun go down upon your anger.  Forgive each other,
help each other, and begin again tomorrow."

Jo wanted to lay her head down on that motherly bosom, and cry her
grief and anger all away, but tears were an unmanly weakness, and she
felt so deeply injured that she really couldn't quite forgive yet.  So
she winked hard, shook her head, and said gruffly because Amy was
listening, "It was an abominable thing, and she doesn't deserve to be
forgiven."

With that she marched off to bed, and there was no merry or
confidential gossip that night.

Amy was much offended that her overtures of peace had been repulsed,
and began to wish she had not humbled herself, to feel more injured
than ever, and to plume herself on her superior virtue in a way which
was particularly exasperating.  Jo still looked like a thunder cloud,
and nothing went well all day.  It was bitter cold in the morning, she
dropped her precious turnover in the gutter, Aunt March had an attack
of the fidgets, Meg was sensitive, Beth would look grieved and wistful
when she got home, and Amy kept making remarks about people who were
always talking about being good and yet wouldn't even try when other
people set them a virtuous example.

"Everybody is so hateful, I'll ask Laurie to go skating.  He is always
kind and jolly, and will put me to rights, I know," said Jo to herself,
and off she went.

Amy heard the clash of skates, and looked out with an impatient
exclamation.

"There!  She promised I should go next time, for this is the last ice
we shall have.  But it's no use to ask such a crosspatch to take me."

"Don't say that.  You were very naughty, and it is hard to forgive the
loss of her precious little book, but I think she might do it now, and
I guess she will, if you try her at the right minute," said Meg.  "Go
after them.  Don't say anything till Jo has got good-natured with
Laurie, than take a quiet minute and just kiss her, or do some kind
thing, and I'm sure she'll be friends again with all her heart."

"I'll try," said Amy, for the advice suited her, and after a flurry to
get ready, she ran after the friends, who were just disappearing over
the hill.

It was not far to the river, but both were ready before Amy reached
them.  Jo saw her coming, and turned her back.  Laurie did not see, for
he was carefully skating along the shore, sounding the ice, for a warm
spell had preceded the cold snap.

"I'll go on to the first bend, and see if it's all right before we
begin to race," Amy heard him say, as he shot away, looking like a
young Russian in his fur-trimmed coat and cap.

Jo heard Amy panting after her run, stamping her feet and blowing on
her fingers as she tried to put her skates on, but Jo never turned and
went slowly zigzagging down the river, taking a bitter, unhappy sort of
satisfaction in her sister's troubles. She had cherished her anger till
it grew strong and took possession of her, as evil thoughts and
feelings always do unless cast out at once.  As Laurie turned the bend,
he shouted back...

"Keep near the shore.  It isn't safe in the middle." Jo heard, but Amy
was struggling to her feet and did not catch a word.  Jo glanced over
her shoulder, and the little demon she was harboring said in her ear...

"No matter whether she heard or not, let her take care of herself."

Laurie had vanished round the bend, Jo was just at the turn, and Amy,
far behind, striking out toward the smoother ice in the middle of the
river.  For a minute Jo stood still with a strange feeling in her
heart, then she resolved to go on, but something held and turned her
round, just in time to see Amy throw up her hands and go down, with a
sudden crash of rotten ice, the splash of water, and a cry that made
Jo's heart stand still with fear.  She tried to call Laurie, but her
voice was gone.  She tried to rush forward, but her feet seemed to have
no strength in them, and for a second, she could only stand motionless,
staring with a terror-stricken face at the little blue hood above the
black water. Something rushed swiftly by her, and Laurie's voice cried
out...

"Bring a rail.  Quick, quick!"

How she did it, she never knew, but for the next few minutes she worked
as if possessed, blindly obeying Laurie, who was quite self-possessed,
and lying flat, held Amy up by his arm and hockey stick till Jo dragged
a rail from the fence, and together they got the child out, more
frightened than hurt.

"Now then, we must walk her home as fast as we can.  Pile our things on
her, while I get off these confounded skates," cried Laurie, wrapping
his coat round Amy, and tugging away at the straps which never seemed
so intricate before.

Shivering, dripping, and crying, they got Amy home, and after an
exciting time of it, she fell asleep, rolled in blankets before a hot
fire.  During the bustle Jo had scarcely spoken but flown about,
looking pale and wild, with her things half off, her dress torn, and
her hands cut and bruised by ice and rails and refractory buckles. When
Amy was comfortably asleep, the house quiet, and Mrs. March sitting by
the bed, she called Jo to her and began to bind up the hurt hands.

"Are you sure she is safe?" whispered Jo, looking remorsefully at the
golden head, which might have been swept away from her sight forever
under the treacherous ice.

"Quite safe, dear.  She is not hurt, and won't even take cold, I think,
you were so sensible in covering and getting her home quickly," replied
her mother cheerfully.