Little_Women4.txt

MEG

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

My precious Marmee:

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

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

TOPSY-TURVY JO

A SONG FROM THE SUDS

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

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

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

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

Dear Mother,

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

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

LITTLE BETH

Ma Chere Mamma,

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

AMY CURTIS MARCH

Dear Mis March,

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

Yours respectful,

Hannah Mullet

Head Nurse of Ward No. 2,

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

COLONEL TEDDY

Dear Madam:

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

Your sincere friend and servant, JAMES LAURENCE

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

LITTLE FAITHFUL

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m too tired to go this afternoon,” replied Meg, rocking comfortably
as she sewed.

“Can’t you, Jo?” asked Beth.

“Too stormy for me with my cold.”

“I thought it was almost well.”

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

“Why don’t you go yourself?” asked Meg.

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

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

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

“My head aches and I’m tired, so I thought maybe some of you would go,”
said Beth.

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

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

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

“You’ve had the scarlet fever, haven’t you?”

“Years ago, when Meg did. Why?”

“Then I’ll tell you. Oh, Jo, the baby’s dead!”

“What baby?”

“Mrs. Hummel’s. It died in my lap before she got home,” cried Beth
with a sob.

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

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

“Don’t cry, dear! What did you do?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I shall stay, of course, I’m oldest,” began Meg, looking anxious and
self-reproachful.

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

“Which will you have, Beth? There ain’t no need of but one,” aid
Hannah.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But it’s dull at Aunt March’s, and she is so cross,” said Amy, looking
rather frightened.

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

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

“On my honor as a gentleman.”

“And come every single day?”

“See if I don’t!”

“And bring me back the minute Beth is well?”

“The identical minute.”

“And go to the theater, truly?”

“A dozen theaters, if we may.”

“Well–I guess I will,” said Amy slowly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hum, well, I can’t say. Suppose you ask Grandfather after the doctor
has been.”

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

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

“I’m afraid you are busy,” began Meg.

“No, I’ve done my lessons for the day.”

“Do you study in vacation time?” asked Jo.

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

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

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

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

Aunt March received them with her usual hospitality.

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

“Go away. No boys allowed here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

DARK DAYS

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ve sent for Mother,” said Jo, tugging at her rubber boots with a
tragic expression.

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

“No. The doctor told us to.”

“Oh, Jo, it’s not so bad as that?” cried Laurie, with a startled face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Doesn’t Meg pull fair?” asked Laurie, looking indignant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Laurie, you’re an angel! How shall I ever thank you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hark!” cried Jo, starting to her feet.

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

CHAPTER NINETEEN

AMY’S WILL

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

She had to wash the cups every morning, and polish up the old-fashioned
spoons, the fat silver teapot, and the glasses till they shone. Then
she must dust the room, and what a trying job that was. Not a speck
escaped Aunt March’s eye, and all the furniture had claw legs and much
carving, which was never dusted to suit. Then Poll