Little Women

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 Little Women

Writings
Little Women
Little Men
Jo’s Boys

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Little Women
or, Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy

1868‑1869

Louisa M. Alcott
1832–1888

信
YOGeBooks: Hollister, MO
2013:08:31:19:14:17
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 Little Women

Copyright
YOGeBooks by Roger L. Cole, Hollister, MO 65810
© 2011 YOGeBooks by Roger L. Cole
All rights reserved. Electronic edition published 2011

isbn: 978‑1‑61183‑212‑9 (pdf)

isbn: 978‑1‑61183‑213‑6 (epub)

www.yogebooks.com

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 Contents
Chapter I...................................................................................Playing Pilgrims.
Chapter II......................................................................... A Merry Christmas.
Chapter III........................................................................... The Laurence Boy.
Chapter IV................................................................................................Burdens.
Chapter V............................................................................. Being Neighborly.
Chapter VI............................................ Beth Finds The Palace Beautiful.
Chapter VII...................................................Amy’s Valley of Humiliation.
Chapter VIII...................................................................... Jo Meets Apollyon.
Chapter IX............................................................. Meg Goes to Vanity Fair.
Chapter X...............................................................................The P. C. and P.O.
Chapter XI...................................................................................... Experiments.
Chapter XII............................................................................. Camp Laurence.
Chapter XIII..........................................................................Castles in the Air.
Chapter XIV............................................................................................... Secrets.
Chapter XV.......................................................................................A Telegram.
Chapter XVI...............................................................................................Letters.
Chapter XVII................................................................................Little Faithful.
Chapter XVIII.....................................................................................Dark Days.
Chapter XIX.......................................................................................Amy’s Will.
Chapter XX.....................................................................................Confidential.
Chapter XXI................Laurie Makes Mischief, and Jo Makes Peace.
Chapter XXII....................................................................Pleasant Meadows.
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 Little Women
Chapter XXIII...................................Aunt March Settles the Question.

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 Preface
“Go then, my little Book, and show to all
That entertain, and bid thee welcome shall,
What thou dost keep close shut up in thy breast;
And wish what thou dost show them may be blest
To them for good, may make them choose to be
Pilgrims better, by far, than thee or me.
Tell them of Mercy; she is one
Who early hath her pilgrimage begun.
Yea, let young damsels learn of her to prize
The world which is to come, and so be wise;
For little tripping maids may follow God
Along the ways which saintly feet have trod.”
adapted from John Bunyan.

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Little Women

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Little Women

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 Playing Pilgrims.

Chapter I.

Playing Pilgrims.

C
“ hristmas 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 lots 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, anyhow,” 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’s going to be a hard
winter for every one; 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
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 Little Women
ought to do it gladly. But I am afraid I dont;” 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 Sintram 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 grub hard enough to earn it,” cried
Jo, examining the heels of her boots in a gentlemanly manner.
“I know I do,—teaching those dreadful 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 of the window or box her ears?”
“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 practise good a bit.” 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.”

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 Playing Pilgrims.
“If you mean libel I’d say so, and not talk about labels, as if pa
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 guess we are; for though we do have to
work, we make fun for 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 apron pockets, and began to whistle.
“Don’t, Jo; it’s so boyish.”
“That’s why I do it.”
“I detest rude, unlady‑like girls.”
“I hate affected, niminy piminy chits.”
“Birds in their little nests agree,” sang Beth, the peace‑maker,
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 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 ain’t! 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
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as a China‑aster. It’s bad enough to be a girl, any‑way, 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
at 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 at her
knee 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 tom‑boy, 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 old 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
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 Playing Pilgrims.
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 fly‑away 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
every one 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 Tranquillity,” 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 every one brightened to welcome her. Meg
stopped lecturing, and lit 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.”

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“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.
Every one 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 something for me,” added
Amy.
“How will we give the things?” asked Meg.
“Put ’em 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
big chair with a 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 to‑morrow afternoon,
Meg; there is lots 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.”
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 Playing Pilgrims.
“I can’t help it; I never saw any one 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 hero 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 shout, 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
Sunder 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 Witch’s
Curse, an Operatic Tragedy,’ is rather a nice thing; but I’d like
to try Macbeth, if we only had a trap‑door for Banquo. I always
wanted to do the killing part. ‘Is that a dagger that I see before

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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 ma’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 stout,
motherly lady, with a “can‑I‑help‑you” look about her which
was truly delightful. She wasn’t a particularly handsome person,
but mothers are always lovely to their children, and the girls
thought the gray cloak and unfashionable bonnet covered the
most splendid woman in the world.
“Well, dearies, how have you got on to‑day? There was so
much to do, getting the boxes ready to go to‑morrow, that I
didn’t come home to dinner. Has any one 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 hot 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, overturning, and
clattering everything she touched; Beth trotted to and fro
between parlor and kitchen, quiet and busy; while Amy gave
directions to every one, 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 hot 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
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you girls,” said Mrs. March, patting her pocket as if she had got
a treasure there.
“Hurry up, and get done. Don’t stop to quirk your little finger,
and prink over your plate, Amy,” cried Jo, choking in 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 a chaplain when
he was too old to be draughted, 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 overflow with
fatherly love and longing for the little girls at home.
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“Give them all 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
pig! 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 Pilgrim’s 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 house‑top, where you
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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 hobgoblins
were,” said Jo.
“I liked the place where the bundles fell off and tumbled
down stairs,” said Meg.
“My favorite part was when we came out on the flat roof
where our flowers and arbors, and pretty things were, and all
stood and sung for joy up there in the sunshine,” said Beth,
smiling, as if that pleasant moment had come back to her.
“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
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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 to‑night, 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 guide‑book,” replied Mrs. March.
They talked over the new plan while old Hannah cleared
the table; then out came the four little workbaskets, and the
needles flew as the girls made sheets for Aunt March. It was
uninteresting sewing, but to‑night 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 sung, 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 sung. 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 crook or a quaver that spoilt 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.
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 Chapter II.

A Merry Christmas.

J o 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 so crammed with 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 guide‑book
for any pilgrim going the 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.

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“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 come 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 guess; so do 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.

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 A Merry Christmas.
“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, dont 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 up one.
“Isn’t it right? I thought it was better to do it so, because
Meg’s initials are ‘M. M.,’ and I don’t want any one 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 any one 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

17
 Little Women
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! Lots of them! Thank you for our
books; we read some, and mean to every day,” they 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 muffins,” added Amy, heroically
giving up the articles 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 dinner‑time.”
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 funny party.
A poor, bare, miserable room it was, with broken windows,
no fire, ragged bed‑clothes, a sick mother, wailing baby, and
a group of pale, hungry children cuddled under one old quilt,

18
 A Merry Christmas.
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!” cried the poor
woman, crying for joy.
“Funny angels in hoods and mittens,” said Jo, and set them
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 shawl.
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 gute!” “Der angel‑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.
19
 Little Women
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 theatre,
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; paste‑board 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 tin preserve‑pots were cut out. The furniture was used to
being turned topsy‑turvy, and the big chamber was the scene
of many innocent revels.
No gentlemen 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
20
 A Merry Christmas.
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 on to 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 play‑bill, was
represented by a few shrubs in pots, a 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 slouched 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 to 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 horse‑hair hanging about her face,
a red and black robe, a staff, and cabalistic signs upon her cloak.
21
 Little Women
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 sung:—

“Hither I come,
From my airy home,
Afar in the silver moon;
Take the magic spell,
Oh, 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 has cursed him, and intends to
thwart his plans, and be revenged on him. Then the curtain fell,
22
 A Merry Christmas.
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
carpentering had been got up, no one murmured at the delay.
It was truly superb! A tower rose to the ceiling; half‑way up
appeared a window with a lamp burning at 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 love‑locks, a guitar, and the boots, of
course. Kneeling at the foot of the tower, he sung 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 of 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.

23
 Little Women
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. Ferdinanda, 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 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 ladylove.
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 Roderigo 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
24
 A Merry Christmas.
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.
“It’s 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.

25
 Little Women
“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 don’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 dreadful
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 some time, that he can see.
Maybe he’ll help act; wouldn’t that be jolly?”

26
 A Merry Christmas.
“I never had a 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, sniffing at 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.”

27
Little Women

28
 Chapter III.

The Laurence Boy.

J
“ o! 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 Redcliffe,” 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 to‑morrow 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.

29
 Little Women
“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 horridly, 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 spoilt 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 spoilt the others,
that she shouldn’t get you any more this winter. Can’t you fix
them any way?” asked Meg, anxiously.
“I can hold them crunched 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?”
30
 The Laurence Boy.
“Don’t worry about me; I’ll be as prim as a dish, 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 burnt 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 burnt 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 hair‑dresser
laid a row of little scorched bundles on the bureau before her
victim.
“Oh, oh, oh! what have you done? I’m spoilt! 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 no end sorry, but the tongs were too hot,
and so I’ve made a mess,” groaned poor Jo, regarding the black
pancakes with tears of regret.

31
 Little Women
“It isn’t spoilt; 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 lots of 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 family Jo’s hair was got up, and
her dress on. They looked very well in their simple suits, Meg 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 nice.” Meg’s high‑heeled
slippers were dreadfully tight, and hurt her, though she would
not own it, and Jo’s nineteen hair‑pins 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 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.
32
 The Laurence Boy.
“I know I shall forget. If you see me doing anything wrong,
you 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 lady‑like; I’ll lift my eyebrows if anything is
wrong, and nod if you are all right. Now hold your shoulders
straight, and take short steps, and don’t shake hands if you are
introduced to any one, it isn’t the thing.”
“How do you learn all the proper quirks? 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 near her dwindled away, till she
was left alone. She could not roam about and amuse herself, for
the burnt 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 any one was here!” stammered Jo,
preparing to back out as speedily as she had bounced in.
33
 Little Women
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 boots, 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 ain’t 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.

34
 The Laurence Boy.
“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 every one
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 do the pretty. Don’t you dance?”
“Sometimes; you see I’ve been abroad a good many years, and
haven’t been about enough yet to know how you do things
here.”
“Abroad!” cried Jo, “oh, tell me about it! 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 Vevey, where the boys never wore hats, and had a
fleet of boats on the lake, and for holiday fun went 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 Vevey.”
“Do say some. I can read it, but can’t pronounce.”
“Quel nom à cette jeune demoiselle en les pantoufles jolis?”
said Laurie, good‑naturedly.
“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 criticised,
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
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 Little Women
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, long nose, nice
teeth, little hands and feet, tall as 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
roundabout 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 two or three years yet; I won’t go before seventeen,
any‑way.”
“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 sky‑larking; 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 queer little French
bow.
“I can’t; for I told Meg I wouldn’t, because—” there Jo stopped,
and looked undecided whether to tell or to laugh.
36
 The Laurence Boy.
“Because what?” asked Laurie, curiously.
“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
put on. The hall was empty, and they had a grand polk, 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 student’s 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 horrid 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 things. 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.”

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 Little Women
“No, indeed; it’s past ten, 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 any one. Get me my rubbers, and
put these slippers with our things. I can’t dance any more; 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 the 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 dive at the table, she secured the coffee, which she
immediately spilt, 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
some one 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 some one 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 instalment 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
38
 The Laurence Boy.
bonbons and mottos, 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 up
stairs 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?”
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 Little Women
“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 night‑caps 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 my party in my 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 burnt 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.

40
 Chapter IV.

Burdens.

O
“ h 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
merry‑making did not fit her for going on easily with the task
she never liked.
“I wish it was Christmas or New‑Year 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 in a carriage, and read and rest,
and not grub. 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’s 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 spoilt
children, seemed heavier than ever. She hadn’t heart enough
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 Little Women
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. Every one 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, who had swarmed 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 spoilt sentence in her letter.
There was a momentary lull, broken by Hannah, who
bounced in, laid two hot turn‑overs on the table, and bounced
42
 Burdens.
out again. These turn‑overs 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 three.
“Cuddle your cats, and get over your headache, Bethy.
Good‑by, 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 minxes than we are
were never seen,” cried Jo, taking a remorseful satisfaction in
the slushy road and bitter wind.
“Don’t use such dreadful expressions,” said 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 minx, 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.”

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 Little Women
“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 turn‑over, 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
governness, 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 theatres, concerts, sleighing parties and
merry‑makings 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
every one sometimes, for she had not yet learned to know how
rich she was in the blessings which alone can make life happy.

44
 Burdens.
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
had marched home, declaring she couldn’t bear it any longer;
but Aunt March always cleared up quickly, and sent for her
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 the 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
book‑cases, the cosy 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 big chair,
devoured poetry, romance, history, travels, and pictures, like a
regular book‑worm. But, like all happiness, it did not last long;
for as sure as she had just reached the heart of the story, the
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 Little Women
sweetest verse of the song, or the most perilous adventure of
her traveller, 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, 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
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 Burdens.
dollanity had belonged to Jo; and, having led a tempestuous life,
was left a wreck in the rag‑bag, from which dreary poor‑house 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 any one
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 the air,
hidden under her coat; she sung it lullabys, 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
practised away so patiently at the jingling old instrument, that
it did seem as if some one (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 sung like a little lark about her work, never
was too tired to play 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 accidentally 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
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 Little Women
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 beside 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 spoilt; for every one 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 mamma 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 don’t take tucks in my dresses whenever I’m naughty,
as Maria Parks’ mother does. My dear, it’s really dreadful; for
sometimes she is so bad, her frock is up to her knees, and she
48
 Burdens.
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 any
one in the family. The two older girls were a great deal to each
other, but both took one of the younger into their keeping, and
watched over them in their 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 to‑day, 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 month 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

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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 she only 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 guess,” 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 to‑day 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 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 tryinger 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 to‑day 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,
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 Burdens.
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 parrylized 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 that slate so
every one could see.”
“Didn’t the girls shout at the picture?” asked Jo, who relished
the scrape.
“Laugh! not a one; they sat as 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 would’nt 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 that 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 a 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 in 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 nice of him? Oh, she
did look so funny, hugging the big, slippery fish, and hoping Mr.
Laurence’s bed in heaven would be ‘aisy.’”

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 Little Women
When they had laughed at Beth’s story, they asked their
mother for one; and, after a moment’s thought, she said
soberly,—
“As I sat cutting out blue flannel jackets to‑day, 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 things. 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 afterwards, 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
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 Burdens.
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 somehow
they did not keep them very well, and were constantly saying,
‘If we only had this,’ or ‘if we could only do that,’ quite forgetting
how much they already had, and how many pleasant 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 have 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 ‘spin,’” 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, you
just say to us as Old Chloe did in Uncle Tom,—‘Tink ob yer
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 Little Women
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.

54
 Chapter V.

Being Neighborly.
“
W hat in the world are you going to do now, Jo?”
asked Meg, one snowy afternoon, as her sister came
clumping 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
pussy‑cat, 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,
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 Little Women
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 lately seen,
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 don’t know what’s good for him, and keeps him
shut up all alone. He needs a lot 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. Laurence 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.

56
 Being Neighborly.
“There he is,” thought Jo; “poor boy! all alone, and sick, this
dismal day! It’s a shame! I’ll toss up a snow‑ball, 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 horrid cold, and been shut up
a week.”
“I’m sorry. What do you amuse yourself with?”
“Nothing; it’s as 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 some one come and see you, then.”
“There isn’t any one 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 me,” 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 that 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 little 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
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 Little Women
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 then 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 kind, 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
nice, and Beth thought her cats would be comforting. I knew
you’d shout 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 cosy 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 stood straight on the
mantel‑piece, 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
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 Being Neighborly.
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 a 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 round 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‑love and happiness, she gladly tried to
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 Little Women
share it with him. Her brown 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 don’t look it; 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 ain’t 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 don’t mind
much what happens outside. Mr. Brooke, my tutor, don’t stay
here, you know, and I have no one to go round with me, so I just
stop at home and get on as I can.”
“That’s bad; you ought to make a dive, and go visiting
everywhere you are asked; then you’ll have lots 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 was’nt 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.

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 Being Neighborly.
“Don’t go to school; I’m a business man—girl, I mean. I go to
wait on my 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 revelled. 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 lots 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. Grandpa
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 summer‑like,
Laurie led the way from room to room, letting Jo stop to
examine whatever struck her fancy; and so at last they came to
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 Little Women
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 depths of a velvet
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 say more, a bell rung, 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 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 as 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.”
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 Being Neighborly.
“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
gray 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 that 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
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 Little Women
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 down stairs, and
brought up with a start of surprise at the astonishing 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 down stairs. 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.
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 Being Neighborly.
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 fairy‑like 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 above 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 the rescue.
“That will do, that will do, young lady; too many sugar‑plums
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
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 Little Women
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 anything amiss; he shook his head.
“No, it was me; he don’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 ain’t 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 Joe, 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,

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 Being Neighborly.
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.”
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 Little Women
“We have got to get by the lions, first,” said Jo, as if she rather
liked the prospect.

68
 Chapter VI.

Beth Finds The Palace Beautiful.

T he 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.
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 Little Women
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 shat 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 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
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 Beth Finds The Palace Beautiful.
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 the 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 practise 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 practising 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 any one, 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.

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 Little Women
“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 big 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 at home. How blithely she sung 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 every
one 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 often 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
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 Beth Finds The Palace Beautiful.
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 needle‑woman, and they were finished
before any one got tired of them. Then she wrote a very short,
simple note, and, with Laurie’s help, got them smuggled on to
the study‑table one morning before the old gentleman was up.
When this excitement was over, Beth waited to see what
would happen. All that day passed, and a part of the next,
before any acknowledgment arrived, and she was beginning to
fear she had offended her crotchety 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,—
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 Little Women
“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 twitter 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 on to 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 some one 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,’” continued 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 granddaughter he lost. With hearty thanks, and
best wishes, I remain,
“‘Your grateful friend and humble servant,
“‘James Laurence.’”
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 Beth Finds The Palace Beautiful.
“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 killing,” 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 every one 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 of it 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 shiny 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
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 Little Women
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 cosily 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 uplifted
hands, “Well, I do believe the world is coming to an end!”

76
 Chapter VII.

Amy’s Valley of Humiliation.

T
“ hat 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.

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 Little Women
“Why, I owe at least a dozen pickled limes, and I can’t pay
them, you know, till I have money, for Marmee forbid 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 every one is sucking them in their desks in
school‑time, 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 don’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
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 Amy’s Valley of Humiliation.
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 pretence 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 ferule the first person who
was found breaking the law. This much‑enduring man had
succeeded in banishing 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
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 Little Women
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
school‑girl, “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
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 Amy’s Valley of Humiliation.
twelve mortal 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
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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 very hard to study, with that
pathetic little 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 look Amy gave
him, as she went, without a word to any one, 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, and
Jo wrathfully proposed that Mr. Davis be arrested without
delay, while Hannah shook her fist at the “villain,” and pounded
potatoes for dinner as if she had him under her pestle.

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 Amy’s Valley of Humiliation.
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’ 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 milder method. You are getting to be altogether
too conceited and important, 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
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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 any one 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 any one 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 sung 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 the 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 spoilt 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 conversation, 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
’em,” added Jo; and the lecture ended in a laugh.

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 Chapter VIII.

Jo Meets Apollyon.

G
“ irls, 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 secresy 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 dolls, 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?”

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“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 theatre 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
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 Jo Meets Apollyon.
two girls hurried down, leaving their sister wailing; for now and
then she forgot her grown‑up ways, and acted like a spoilt 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” were as brilliant and wonderful as heart could
wish. But, in spite of the comical red imps, sparkling elves, and
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
semi‑occasional 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
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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 any one
taken my story?”
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 get your silly old story
again,” cried Amy, getting excited in her turn.
“Why not?”
“I burnt 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 burnt
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.”
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 Jo Meets Apollyon.
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 rung, 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 sung alone.
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But, in spite of their efforts to be as cheery as larks, the flute‑like
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 to‑morrow.”
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 don’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
turn‑over in the gutter, Aunt March had an attack of fidgets,
Meg was pensive, 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
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 cross patch to
take me.”
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 Jo Meets Apollyon.
“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
goodnatured with Laurie, then 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 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 just 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 at her heart; then she resolved to go on, but something
held and turned her round, just in time to see Amy throw up
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her hands and go down, with the 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, 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.
“Laurie did it all; I only let her go. Mother, if she should die,
it would be my fault;” and Jo dropped down beside the bed,
in a passion of penitent tears, telling all that had happened,
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 Jo Meets Apollyon.
bitterly condemning her hardness of heart, and sobbing out her
gratitude for being spared the heavy punishment which might
have come upon her.
“It’s my dreadful temper! I try to cure it; I think I have, and
then it breaks out worse than ever. Oh, mother! what shall I do!
what shall I do?” cried poor Jo, in despair.
“Watch and pray, dear; never get tired of trying; and never
think it is impossible to conquer your fault,” said Mrs. March,
drawing the blowzy head to her shoulder, and kissing the wet
cheek so tenderly, that Jo cried harder than ever.
“You don’t know; you can’t guess how bad it is! It seems as
if I could do anything when I’m in a passion; I get so savage, I
could hurt any one, and enjoy it. I’m afraid I shall do something
dreadful some day, and spoil my life, and make everybody hate
me. Oh, mother! help me, do help me!”
“I will, my child; I will. Don’t cry so bitterly, but remember this
day, and resolve, with all your soul, that you will never know
another like it. Jo, dear, we all have our temptations, some far
greater than yours, and it often takes us all our lives to conquer
them. You think your temper is the worst in the world; but
mine used to be just like it.”
“Yours, mother? Why, you are never angry!” and, for the
moment, Jo forgot remorse in surprise.
“I’ve been trying to cure it for forty years; and have only
succeeded in controlling it. I am angry nearly every day of my
life, Jo; but I have learned not to show it; and I still hope to learn
not to feel it, though it may take me another forty years to do
so.”
The patience and the humility of the face she loved so well,
was a better lesson to Jo than the wisest lecture, the sharpest
reproof. She felt comforted at once by the sympathy and
confidence given her; the knowledge that her mother had a
fault like hers, and tried to mend it, made her own easier to
bear, and strengthened her resolution to cure it; though forty

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years seemed rather a long time to watch and pray, to a girl of
fifteen.
“Mother, are you angry when you fold your lips tight together,
and go out of the room sometimes, when Aunt March scolds,
or people worry you?” asked Jo, feeling nearer and dearer to her
mother than ever before.
“Yes, I’ve learned to check the hasty words that rise to my lips;
and when I feel that they mean to break out against my will, I
just go away a minute, and give myself a little shake, for being
so weak and wicked,” answered Mrs. March, with a sigh and a
smile, as she smoothed and fastened up Jo’s dishevelled hair.
“How did you learn to keep still? That is what troubles me—
for the sharp words fly out before I know what I’m about; and
the more I say the worse I get, till it’s a pleasure to hurt people’s
feelings, and say dreadful things. Tell me how you do it, Marmee
dear.”
“My good mother used to help me—”
“As you do us—” interrupted Jo, with a grateful kiss.
“But I lost her when I was a little older than you are, and for
years had to struggle on alone, for I was too proud to confess
my weakness to any one else. I had a hard time, Jo, and shed
a good many bitter tears over my failures; for, in spite of my
efforts, I never seemed to get on. Then your father came, and
I was so happy that I found it easy to be good. But by and by,
when I had four little daughters round me, and we were poor,
then the old trouble began again; for I am not patient by nature,
and it tried me very much to see my children wanting anything.”
“Poor mother! what helped you then?”
“Your father, Jo. He never loses patience,—never doubts
or complains,—but always hopes, and works, and waits so
cheerfully, that one is ashamed to do otherwise before him. He
helped and comforted me, and showed me that I must try to
practise all the virtues I would have my little girls possess, for I
was their example. It was easier to try for your sakes than for
my own; a startled or surprised look from one of you, when I
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 Jo Meets Apollyon.
spoke, sharply rebuked me more than any words could have
done; and the love, respect, and confidence of my children was
the sweetest reward I could receive for my efforts to be the
woman I would have them copy.”
“Oh, mother! if I’m ever half as good as you, I shall be satisfied,”
cried Jo, much touched.
“I hope you will be a great deal better, dear; but you must
keep watch over your ‘bosom enemy,’ as father calls it, or it
may sadden, if not spoil your life. You have had a warning;
remember it, and try with heart and soul to master this quick
temper, before it brings you greater sorrow and regret than you
have known today.”
“I will try, mother; I truly will. But you must help me, remind
me, and keep me from flying out. I used to see father sometimes
put his finger on his lips, and look at you with a very kind, but
sober face; and you always folded your lips tight, or went away;
was he reminding you then?” asked Jo, softly.
“Yes; I asked him to help me so, and he never forgot it, but
saved me from many a sharp word by that little gesture and
kind look.”
Jo saw that her mother’s eyes filled, and her lips trembled,
as she spoke; and, fearing that she had said too much, she
whispered anxiously, “Was it wrong to watch you, and to speak
of it? I didn’t mean to be rude, but it’s so comfortable to say all
I think to you, and feel so safe and happy here.”
“My Jo, you may say anything to your mother, for it is my
greatest happiness and pride to feel that my girls confide in me,
and know how much I love them.”
“I thought I’d grieved you.”
“No, dear; but speaking of father reminded me how much
I miss him, how much I owe him, and how faithfully I should
watch and work to keep his little daughters safe and good for
him.”

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“Yet you told him to go, mother, and didn’t cry when he went,
and never complain now, or seem as if you needed any help,”
said Jo, wondering.
“I gave my best to the country I love, and kept my tears till
he was gone. Why should I complain, when we both have
merely done our duty, and will surely be the happier for it in
the end? If I don’t seem to need help, it is because I have a better
friend, even than father, to comfort and sustain me. My child,
the troubles and temptations of your life are beginning, and
may be many; but you can overcome and outlive them all, if
you learn to feel the strength and tenderness of your Heavenly
Father as you do that of your earthly one. The more you love
and trust Him, the nearer you will feel to Him, and the less you
will depend on human power and wisdom. His love and care
never tire or change, can never be taken from you, but may
become the source of lifelong peace; happiness, and strength.
Believe this heartily, and go to God with all your little cares, and
hopes, and sins, and sorrows, as freely and confidingly as you
come to your mother.”
Jo’s only answer was to hold her mother close, and, in the
silence which followed, the sincerest prayer she had ever
prayed left her heart, without words; for in that sad, yet happy
hour, she had learned not only the bitterness of remorse and
despair, but the sweetness of self‑denial and self‑control; and,
led by her mother’s hand, she had drawn nearer to the Friend
who welcomes every child with a love stronger than that of any
father, tenderer than that of any mother.
Amy stirred, and sighed in her sleep; and, as if eager to begin
at once to mend her fault, Jo looked up with an expression on
her face which it had never worn before.
“I let the sun go down on my anger; I wouldn’t forgive her, and
today, if it hadn’t been for Laurie, it might have been too late!
How could I be so wicked?” said Jo, half aloud, as she leaned over
her sister, softly stroking the wet hair scattered on the pillow.

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 Jo Meets Apollyon.
As if she heard, Amy opened her eyes, and held out her arms,
with a smile that went straight to Jo’s heart. Neither said a word,
but they hugged one another close, in spite of the blankets, and
everything was forgiven and forgotten in one hearty kiss.

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 Chapter IX.

Meg Goes to Vanity Fair.

I
“ do think it was the most fortunate thing in the world, that
those children should have the measles just now,” said Meg,
one April day, as she stood packing the “go abroady” trunk
in her room, surrounded by her sisters.
“And so nice of Annie Moffat, not to forget her promise. A
whole fortnight of fun will be regularly splendid,” replied Jo,
looking like a windmill, as she folded skirts with her long arms.
“And such lovely weather; I’m so glad of that,” added Beth,
tidily sorting neck and hair ribbons in her best box, lent for the
great occasion.
“I wish I was going to have a fine time, and wear all these nice
things,” said Amy, with her mouth full of pins, as she artistically
replenished her sister’s cushion.
“I wish you were all going; but, as you can’t, I shall keep my
adventures to tell you when I come back. I’m sure it’s the least
I can do, when you have been so kind, lending me things, and
helping me get ready,” said Meg, glancing round the room at
the very simple outfit, which seemed nearly perfect in their
eyes.
“What did mother give you out of the treasure‑box?” asked
Amy, who had not been present at the opening of a certain
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cedar chest, in which Mrs. March kept a few relics of past
splendor, as gifts for her girls when the proper time came.
“A pair of silk stockings, that pretty carved fan, and a lovely
blue sash. I wanted the violet silk; but there isn’t time to make it
over, so I must be contented with my old tarleton.”
“It will look nicely over my new muslin skirt, and the sash will
set it off beautifully. I wish I hadn’t smashed my coral bracelet,
for you might have had it,” said Jo, who loved to give and lend,
but whose possessions were usually too dilapidated to be of
much use.
“There is a lovely old‑fashioned pearl set in the treasure‑box;
but mother said real flowers were the prettiest ornament for a
young girl, and Laurie promised to send me all I want,” replied
Meg. “Now, let me see; there’s my new gray walking‑suit,—
just curl up the feather in my hat, Beth,—then my poplin, for
Sunday, and the small party,—it looks heavy for spring, don’t it?
the violet silk would be so nice; oh, dear!”
“Never mind; you’ve got the tarleton for the big party, and
you always look like an angel in white,” said Amy, brooding over
the little store of finery in which her soul delighted.
“It isn’t low‑necked, and it don’t sweep enough, but it will
have to do. My blue house‑dress looks so well, turned and
freshly trimmed, that I feel as if I’d got a new one. My silk sacque
isn’t a bit the fashion, and my bonnet don’t look like Sallie’s; I
didn’t like to say anything, but I was dreadfully disappointed in
my umbrella. I told mother black, with a white handle, but she
forgot, and bought a green one, with an ugly yellowish handle.
It’s strong and neat, so I ought not to complain, but I know I
shall feel ashamed of it beside Annie’s silk one, with a gold top,”
sighed Meg, surveying the little umbrella with great disfavor.
“Change it,” advised Jo.
“I won’t be so silly, or hurt Marmee’s feelings, when she took
so much pains to get my things. It’s a nonsensical notion of
mine, and I’m not going to give up to it. My silk stockings and
two pairs of spandy gloves are my comfort. You are a dear, to
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lend me yours, Jo; I feel so rich, and sort of elegant, with two
new pairs, and the old ones cleaned up for common;” and Meg
took a refreshing peep at her glove‑box.
“Annie Moffat has blue and pink bows on her night‑caps;
would you put some on mine?” she asked, as Beth brought up a
pile of snowy muslins, fresh from Hannah’s hands.
“No, I wouldn’t; for the smart caps won’t match the plain
gowns, without any trimming on them. Poor folks shouldn’t
rig,” said Jo, decidedly.
“I wonder if I shall ever be happy enough to have real lace on
my clothes, and bows on my caps?” said Meg, impatiently.
“You said the other day that you’d be perfectly happy if you
could only go to Annie Moffat’s,” observed Beth, in her quiet
way.
“So I did! Well, I am happy, and I won’t fret; but it does seem
as if the more one gets the more one wants, don’t it? There,
now, the trays are ready, and everything in but my ball‑dress,
which I shall leave for mother,” said Meg, cheering up, as she
glanced from the half‑filled trunk to the many‑times pressed
and mended white tarleton, which she called her “ball‑dress,”
with an important air.
The next day was fine, and Meg departed, in style, for a
fortnight of novelty and pleasure. Mrs. March had consented to
the visit rather reluctantly, fearing that Margaret would come
back more discontented than she went. But she had begged so
hard, and Sallie had promised to take good care of her, and a
little pleasure seemed so delightful after a winter of hard work,
that the mother yielded, and the daughter went to take her first
taste of fashionable life.
The Moffats were very fashionable, and simple Meg was
rather daunted, at first, by the splendor of the house, and the
elegance of its occupants. But they were kindly people, in spite
of the frivolous life they led, and soon put their guest at her
ease. Perhaps Meg felt, without understanding why, that they
were not particularly cultivated or intelligent people, and that
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all their gilding could not quite conceal the ordinary material
of which they were made. It certainly was agreeable to fare
sumptuously, drive in a fine carriage, wear her best frock every
day, and do nothing but enjoy herself. It suited her exactly; and
soon she began to imitate the manners and conversation of
those about her; to put on little airs and graces, use French
phrases, crimp her hair, take in her dresses, and talk about
the fashions, as well as she could. The more she saw of Annie
Moffat’s pretty things, the more she envied her, and sighed to
be rich. Home now looked bare and dismal as she thought of
it, work grew harder than ever, and she felt that she was a very
destitute and much injured girl, in spite of the new gloves and
silk stockings.
She had not much time for repining, however; for the three
young girls were busily employed in “having a good time.” They
shopped, walked, rode, and called all day; went to theatres and
operas, or frolicked at home in the evening; for Annie had many
friends, and knew how to entertain them. Her older sisters
were very fine young ladies, and one was engaged, which was
extremely interesting and romantic, Meg thought. Mr. Moffat
was a fat, jolly old gentleman, who knew her father; and Mrs.
Moffat, a fat, jolly old lady, who took as great a fancy to Meg
as her daughter had done. Every one petted her; and “Daisy,” as
they called her, was in a fair way to have her head turned.
When the evening for the “small party” came, she found that
the poplin wouldn’t do at all, for the other girls were putting on
thin dresses, and making themselves very fine indeed; so out
came the tarleton, looking older, limper, and shabbier than ever,
beside Sallie’s crisp new one. Meg saw the girls glance at it, and
then at one another, and her cheeks began to burn; for, with all
her gentleness, she was very proud. No one said a word about it,
but Sallie offered to do her hair, and Annie to tie her sash, and
Belle, the engaged sister, praised her white arms; but, in their
kindness, Meg saw only pity for her poverty, and her heart felt
very heavy as she stood by herself, while the others laughed
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and chattered, prinked, and flew about like gauzy butterflies.
The hard, bitter feeling was getting pretty bad, when the maid
brought in a box of flowers. Before she could speak, Annie had
the cover off, and all were exclaiming at the lovely roses, heath,
and ferns within.
“It’s for Belle, of course; George always sends her some, but
these are altogether ravishing,” cried Annie, with a great sniff.
“They are for Miss March,” the man said. “And here’s a note,”
put in the maid, holding it to Meg.
“What fun! Who are they are from? Didn’t know you had a
lover,” cried the girls, fluttering about Meg in a high state of
curiosity and surprise.
“The note is from mother, and the flowers from Laurie,” said
Meg, simply, yet much gratified that he had not forgotten her.
“Oh, indeed!” said Annie, with a funny look, as Meg slipped
the note into her pocket, as a sort of talisman against envy,
vanity, and false pride; for the few loving words had done her
good, and the flowers cheered her up by their beauty.
Feeling almost happy again, she laid by a few ferns and roses
for herself, and quickly made up the rest in dainty bouquets
for the breasts, hair, or skirts of her friends, offering them so
prettily, that Clara, the elder sister, told her she was “the sweetest
little thing she ever saw;” and they looked quite charmed
with her small attention. Somehow the kind act finished her
despondency; and, when all the rest went to show themselves
to Mrs. Moffat, she saw a happy, bright‑eyed face in the mirror,
as she laid her ferns against her rippling hair, and fastened the
roses in the dress that didn’t strike her as so very shabby now.
She enjoyed herself very much that evening, for she danced
to her heart’s content; every one was very kind, and she had
three compliments. Annie made her sing, and some one said
she had a remarkably fine voice; Major Lincoln asked who “the
fresh little girl, with the beautiful eyes, was;” and Mr. Moffat
insisted on dancing with her, because she “didn’t dawdle,
but had some spring in her,” as he gracefully expressed it. So,
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altogether, she had a very nice time, till she overheard a bit of
a conversation, which disturbed her extremely. She was sitting
just inside the conservatory, waiting for her partner to bring
her an ice, when she heard a voice ask, on the other side of the
flowery wall,—
“How old is he?”
“Sixteen or seventeen, I should say,” replied another voice.
“It would be a grand thing for one of those girls, wouldn’t it?
Sallie says they are very intimate now, and the old man quite
dotes on them.”
“Mrs. M. has laid her plans, I dare say, and will play her cards
well, early as it is. The girl evidently doesn’t think of it yet,” said
Mrs. Moffat.
“She told that fib about her mamma, as if she did know, and
colored up when the flowers came, quite prettily. Poor thing!
she’d be so nice if she was only got up in style. Do you think
she’d be offended if we offered to lend her a dress for Thursday?”
asked another voice.
“She’s proud, but I don’t believe she’d mind, for that dowdy
tarleton is all she has got. She may tear it to‑night, and that will
be a good excuse for offering a decent one.”
“We’ll see; I shall ask that Laurence, as a compliment to her,
and we’ll have fun about it afterward.”
Here Meg’s partner appeared, to find her looking much
flushed, and rather agitated. She was proud, and her pride
was useful just then, for it helped her hide her mortification,
anger, and disgust, at what she had just heard; for, innocent and
unsuspicious as she was, she could not help understanding the
gossip of her friends. She tried to forget it, but could not, and
kept repeating to herself, “Mrs. M. has her plans,” “that fib about
her mamma,” and “dowdy tarleton,” till she was ready to cry,
and rush home to tell her troubles, and ask for advice. As that
was impossible, she did her best to seem gay; and, being rather
excited, she succeeded so well, that no one dreamed what an
effort she was making. She was very glad when it was all over,
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and she was quiet in her bed, where she could think and wonder
and fume till her head ached, and her hot cheeks were cooled
by a few natural tears. Those foolish, yet well‑meant words, had
opened a new world to Meg, and much disturbed the peace
of the old one, in which, till now, she had lived as happily as a
child. Her innocent friendship with Laurie was spoilt by the silly
speeches she had overheard; her faith in her mother was a little
shaken by the worldly plans attributed to her by Mrs. Moffat,
who judged others by herself; and the sensible resolution to be
contented with the simple wardrobe which suited a poor man’s
daughter, was weakened by the unnecessary pity of girls, who
thought a shabby dress one of the greatest calamities under
heaven.
Poor Meg had a restless night, and got up heavy‑eyed,
unhappy, half resentful toward her friends, and half ashamed of
herself for not speaking out frankly, and setting everything right.
Everybody dawdled that morning, and it was noon before the
girls found energy enough even to take up their worsted work.
Something in the manner of her friends struck Meg at once;
they treated her with more respect, she thought; took quite
a tender interest in what she said, and looked at her with eyes
that plainly betrayed curiosity. All this surprised and flattered
her, though she did not understand it till Miss Belle looked up
from her writing, and said, with a sentimental air,—
“Daisy, dear, I’ve sent an invitation to your friend, Mr. Laurence,
for Thursday. We should like to know him, and it’s only a proper
compliment to you.”
Meg colored, but a mischievous fancy to tease the girls made
her reply, demurely,—
“You are very kind, but I’m afraid he won’t come.”
“Why not, cherie?” asked Miss Belle.
“He’s too old.”
“My child, what do you mean? What is his age, I beg to know!”
cried Miss Clara.

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“Nearly seventy, I believe,” answered Meg, counting stitches,
to hide the merriment in her eyes.
“You sly creature! of course, we meant the young man,”
exclaimed Miss Belle, laughing.
“There isn’t any; Laurie is only a little boy,” and Meg laughed
also at the queer look which the sisters exchanged, as she thus
described her supposed lover.
“About your age,” Nan said.
“Nearer my sister Jo’s; I am seventeen in August,” returned
Meg, tossing her head.
“It’s very nice of him to send you flowers, isn’t it?” said Annie,
looking wise about nothing.
“Yes, he often does, to all of us; for their house is full, and
we are so fond of them. My mother and old Mr. Laurence are
friends, you know, so it is quite natural that we children should
play together;” and Meg hoped they would say no more.
“It’s evident Daisy isn’t out yet,” said Miss Clara to Belle, with
a nod.
“Quite a pastoral state of innocence all round,” returned Miss
Belle, with a shrug.
“I’m going out to get some little matters for my girls; can I do
anything for you, young ladies?” asked Mrs. Moffat, lumbering
in, like an elephant, in silk and lace.
“No, thank you, ma’am,” replied Sallie; “I’ve got my new pink
silk for Thursday, and don’t want a thing.”
“Nor I—” began Meg, but stopped, because it occurred to
her that she did want several things, and could not have them.
“What shall you wear?” asked Sallie.
“My old white one again, if I can mend it fit to be seen; it got
sadly torn last night,” said Meg, trying to speak quite easily, but
feeling very uncomfortable.
“Why don’t you send home for another?” said Sallie, who was
not an observing young lady.
“I haven’t got any other.” It cost Meg an effort to say that, but
Sallie did not see it, and exclaimed, in amiable surprise,—
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“Only that? how funny—.” She did not finish her speech, for
Belle shook her head at her, and broke in, saying, kindly,—
“Not at all; where is the use of having a lot of dresses when
she isn’t out? There’s no need of sending home, Daisy, even if
you had a dozen, for I’ve got a sweet blue silk laid away, which
I’ve outgrown, and you shall wear it, to please me; won’t you,
dear?”
“You are very kind, but I don’t mind my old dress, if you don’t;
it does well enough for a little girl like me,” said Meg.
“Now do let me please myself by dressing you up in style.
I admire to do it, and you’d be a regular little beauty, with a
touch here and there. I shan’t let any one see you till you are
done, and then we’ll burst upon them like Cinderella and her
godmother, going to the ball,” said Belle, in her persuasive tone.
Meg couldn’t refuse the offer so kindly made, for a desire to
see if she would be “a little beauty” after touching up caused
her to accept, and forget all her former uncomfortable feelings
towards the Moffats.
On the Thursday evening, Belle shut herself up with her maid;
and, between them, they turned Meg into a fine lady. They
crimped and curled her hair, they polished her neck and arms
with some fragrant powder, touched her lips with coralline
salve, to make them redder, and Hortense would have added “a
soupcon of rouge,” if Meg had not rebelled. They laced her into
a sky‑blue dress, which was so tight she could hardly breathe,
and so low in the neck that modest Meg blushed at herself in
the mirror. A set of silver filagree was added, bracelets, necklace,
brooch, and even ear‑rings, for Hortense tied them on, with a
bit of pink silk, which did not show. A cluster of tea rose‑buds
at the bosom, and a ruche, reconciled Meg to the display of
her pretty white shoulders, and a pair of high‑heeled blue silk
boots satisfied the last wish of her heart. A laced handkerchief,
a plumy fan, and a bouquet in a silver holder, finished her off;
and Miss Belle surveyed her with the satisfaction of a little girl
with a newly dressed doll.
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“Mademoiselle is chamante, tres jolie, is she not?” cried
Hortense, clasping her hands in an affected rapture.
“Come and show yourself,” said Miss Belle, leading the way to
the room where the others were waiting.
As Meg went rustling after, with her long skirts trailing, her
ear‑rings tinkling, her curls waving, and her heart beating,
she felt as if her “fun” had really begun at last, for the mirror
had plainly told her that she was “a little beauty.” Her friends
repeated the pleasing phrase enthusiastically; and, for several
minutes, she stood, like the jackdaw in the fable, enjoying
her borrowed plumes, while the rest chattered like a party of
magpies.
“While I dress, do you drill her, Nan, in the management of her
skirt, and those French heels, or she will trip herself up. Put your
silver butterfly in the middle of that white barbe, and catch up
that long curl on the left side of her head, Clara, and don’t any
of you disturb the charming work of my hands,” said Belle, as
she hurried away, looking well pleased with her success.
“I’m afraid to go down, I feel so queer and stiff, and half‑dressed,”
said Meg to Sallie, as the bell rang, and Mrs. Moffat sent to ask
the young ladies to appear at once.
“You don’t look a bit like yourself, but you are very nice. I’m
nowhere beside you, for Belle has heaps of taste, and you’re
quite French, I assure you. Let your flowers hang; don’t be so
careful of them, and be sure you don’t trip,” returned Sallie,
trying not to care that Meg was prettier than herself.
Keeping that warning carefully in mind, Margaret got safely
down stairs, and sailed into the drawing‑rooms, where the
Moffats and a few early guests were assembled. She very soon
discovered that there is a charm about fine clothes which
attracts a certain class of people, and secures their respect.
Several young ladies, who had taken no notice of her before,
were very affectionate all of a sudden; several young gentlemen,
who had only stared at her at the other party, now not only
stared, but asked to be introduced, and said all manner of
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foolish, but agreeable things to her; and several old ladies, who
sat on sofas, and criticised the rest of the party, inquired who
she was, with an air of interest. She heard Mrs. Moffat reply to
one of them,—
“Daisy March—father a colonel in the army—one of our first
families, but reverses of fortune, you know; intimate friends of
the Laurences; sweet creature, I assure you; my Ned is quite wild
about her.”
“Dear me!” said the old lady, putting up her glass for another
observation of Meg, who tried to look as if she had not heard,
and been rather shocked at Mrs. Moffat’s fibs.
The “queer feeling” did not pass away, but she imagined
herself acting the new part of fine lady, and so got on pretty
well, though the tight dress gave her a side‑ache, the train kept
getting under her feet, and she was in constant fear lest her
ear‑rings should fly off, and get lost or broken. She was flirting
her fan, and laughing at the feeble jokes of a young gentleman
who tried to be witty, when she suddenly stopped laughing,
and looked confused; for, just opposite, she saw Laurie. He was
staring at her with undisguised surprise, and disapproval also,
she thought; for, though he bowed and smiled, yet something
in his honest eyes made her blush, and wish she had her old
dress on. To complete her confusion, she saw Belle nudge Annie,
and both glance from her to Laurie, who, she was happy to see,
looked unusually boyish and shy.
“Silly creatures, to put such thoughts into my head! I won’t
care for it, or let it change me a bit,” thought Meg, and rustled
across the room to shake hands with her friend.
“I’m glad you came, for I was afraid you wouldn’t,” she said,
with her most grown‑up air.
“Jo wanted me to come, and tell her how you looked, so I did;”
answered Laurie, without turning his eyes upon her, though he
half smiled at her maternal tone.

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“What shall you tell her?” asked Meg, full of curiosity to know
his opinion of her, yet feeling ill at ease with him, for the first
time.
“I shall say I didn’t know you; for you look so grown‑up, and
unlike yourself, I’m quite afraid of you,” he said, fumbling at his
glove‑button.
“How absurd of you! the girls dressed me up for fun, and I
rather like it. Wouldn’t Jo stare if she saw me?” said Meg, bent
on making him say whether he thought her improved or not.
“Yes, I think she would,” returned Laurie, gravely.
“Don’t you like me so?” asked Meg.
“No, I don’t,” was the blunt reply.
“Why not?” in an anxious tone.
He glanced at her frizzled head, bare shoulders, and
fantastically trimmed dress, with an expression that abashed
her more than his answer, which had not a particle of his usual
politeness about it.
“I don’t like fuss and feathers.”
That was altogether too much from a lad younger than
herself; and Meg walked away, saying, petulantly,—
“You are the rudest boy I ever saw.”
Feeling very much ruffled, she went and stood at a quiet
window, to cool her cheeks, for the tight dress gave her an
uncomfortably brilliant color. As she stood there, Major
Lincoln passed by; and, a minute after, she heard him saying to
his mother,—
“They are making a fool of that little girl; I wanted you to see
her, but they have spoilt her entirely; she’s nothing but a doll,
to‑night.”
“Oh, dear!” sighed Meg; “I wish I’d been sensible, and worn my
own things; then I should not have disgusted other people, or
felt so uncomfortable and ashamed myself.”
She leaned her forehead on the cool pane, and stood half
hidden by the curtains, never minding that her favorite waltz
had begun, till some one touched her; and, turning, she saw
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Laurie looking penitent, as he said, with his very best bow, and
his hand out,—
“Please forgive my rudeness, and come and dance with me.”
“I’m afraid it will be too disagreeable to you,” said Meg, trying
to look offended, and failing entirely.
“Not a bit of it; I’m dying to do it. Come, I’ll be good; I don’t
like your gown, but I do think you are—just splendid;” and he
waved his hands, as if words failed to express his admiration.
Meg smiled, and relented, and whispered, as they stood
waiting to catch the time.
“Take care my skirt don’t trip you up; it’s the plague of my life,
and I was a goose to wear it.”
“Pin it round your neck, and then it will be useful,” said Laurie,
looking down at the little blue boots, which he evidently
approved of.
Away they went, fleetly and gracefully; for, having practised
at home, they were well matched, and the blithe young couple
were a pleasant sight to see, as they twirled merrily round and
round, feeling more friendly than ever after their small tiff.
“Laurie, I want you to do me a favor; will you?” said Meg, as he
stood fanning her, when her breath gave out, which it did, very
soon, though she would not own why.
“Won’t I!” said Laurie, with alacrity.
“Please don’t tell them at home about my dress to‑night.
They won’t understand the joke, and it will worry mother.”
“Then why did you do it?” said Laurie’s eyes, so plainly, that
Meg hastily added,—
“I shall tell them, myself, all about it, and ‘’fess’ to mother how
silly I’ve been. But I’d rather do it myself; so you’ll not tell, will
you?”
“I give you my word I won’t; only what shall I say when they
ask me?”
“Just say I looked nice, and was having a good time.”
“I’ll say the first, with all my heart; but how about the other?
You don’t look as if you were having a good time; are you?” and
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Laurie looked at her with an expression which made her answer,
in a whisper,—
“No; not just now. Don’t think I’m horrid; I only wanted a little
fun, but this sort don’t pay, I find, and I’m getting tired of it.”
“Here comes Ned Moffat; what does he want?” said Laurie,
knitting his black brows, as if he did not regard his young host
in the light of a pleasant addition to the party.
“He put his name down for three dances, and I suppose he’s
coming for them; what a bore!” said Meg, assuming a languid
air, which amused Laurie immensely.
He did not speak to her again till supper‑time, when he saw
her drinking champagne with Ned, and his friend Fisher, who
were behaving “like a pair of fools,” as Laurie said to himself, for
he felt a brotherly sort of right to watch over the Marches, and
fight their battles, whenever a defender was needed.
“You’ll have a splitting headache to‑morrow, if you drink
much of that. I wouldn’t, Meg; your mother don’t like it, you
know,” he whispered, leaning over her chair, as Ned turned to
refill her glass, and Fisher stooped to pick up her fan.
“I’m not Meg, to‑night; I’m ‘a doll,’ who does all sorts of crazy
things. To‑morrow I shall put away my ‘fuss and feathers,’ and
be desperately good again,” she answered, with an affected
little laugh.
“Wish to‑morrow was here, then,” muttered Laurie, walking
off, ill‑pleased at the change he saw in her.
Meg danced and flirted, chattered and giggled, as the other
girls did; after supper she undertook the German, and blundered
through it, nearly upsetting her partner with her long skirt, and
romping in a way that scandalized Laurie, who looked on and
meditated a lecture. But he got no chance to deliver it, for Meg
kept away from him till he came to say good‑night.
“Remember!” she said, trying to smile, for the splitting
headache had already begun.
“Silence à la mort,” replied Laurie, with a melodramatic
flourish, as he went away.
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 Meg Goes to Vanity Fair.
This little bit of by‑play excited Annie’s curiosity; but Meg
was too tired for gossip, and went to bed, feeling as if she had
been to a masquerade, and hadn’t enjoyed herself as much as
she expected. She was sick all the next day, and on Saturday
went home, quite used up with her fortnight’s fun, and feeling
that she had sat in the lap of luxury long enough.
“It does seem pleasant to be quiet, and not have company
manners on all the time. Home is a nice place, though it isn’t
splendid,” said Meg, looking about her with a restful expression,
as she sat with her mother and Jo on the Sunday evening.
“I’m glad to hear you say so, dear, for I was afraid home would
seem dull and poor to you, after your fine quarters,” replied her
mother, who had given her many anxious looks that day; for
motherly eyes are quick to see any change in children’s faces.
Meg had told her adventures gaily, and said over and over
what a charming time she had had; but something still seemed
to weigh upon her spirits, and, when the younger girls were
gone to bed, she sat thoughtfully staring at the fire, saying little,
and looking worried. As the clock struck nine, and Jo proposed
bed, Meg suddenly left her chair, and, taking Beth’s stool, leaned
her elbows on her mother’s knee, saying, bravely,—
“Marmee, I want to ‘’fess.’”
“I thought so; what is it, dear?”
“Shall I go away?” asked Jo, discreetly.
“Of course not; don’t I always tell you everything? I was
ashamed to speak of it before the children, but I want you to
know all the dreadful things I did at the Moffats.”
“We are prepared,” said Mrs. March, smiling, but looking a
little anxious.
“I told you they rigged me up, but I didn’t tell you that they
powdered, and squeezed, and frizzled, and made me look like
a fashion‑plate. Laurie thought I wasn’t proper; I know he did,
though he didn’t say so, and one man called me ‘a doll.’ I knew
it was silly, but they flattered me, and said I was a beauty, and
quantities of nonsense, so I let them make a fool of me.”
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 Little Women
“Is that all?” asked Jo, as Mrs March looked silently at the
downcast face of her pretty daughter, and could not find it in
her heart to blame her little follies.
“No; I drank champagne, and romped, and tried to flirt, and
was, altogether, abominable,” said Meg, self‑reproachfully.
“There is something more, I think;” and Mrs. March smoothed
the soft cheek, which suddenly grew rosy, as Meg answered,
slowly,—
“Yes; it’s very silly, but I want to tell it, because I hate to have
people say and think such things about us and Laurie.”
Then she told the various bits of gossip she had heard at
the Moffats; and, as she spoke, Jo saw her mother fold her lips
tightly, as if ill pleased that such ideas should be put into Meg’s
innocent mind.
“Well, if that isn’t the greatest rubbish I ever heard,” cried Jo,
indignantly. “Why didn’t you pop out and tell them so, on the
spot?”
“I couldn’t, it was so embarrassing for me. I couldn’t help
hearing, at first, and then I was so angry and ashamed, I didn’t
remember that I ought to go away.”
“Just wait till I see Annie Moffat, and I’ll show you how to
settle such ridiculous stuff. The idea of having ‘plans,’ and being
kind to Laurie, because he’s rich, and may marry us by and by!
Won’t he shout, when I tell him what those silly things say about
us poor children?” and Jo laughed, as if, on second thoughts,
the thing struck her as a good joke.
“If you tell Laurie, I’ll never forgive you! She mustn’t, must she,
mother?” said Meg, looking distressed.
“No; never repeat that foolish gossip, and forget it as soon
as you can,” said Mrs. March, gravely. “I was very unwise to let
you go among people of whom I know so little; kind, I dare say,
but worldly, ill‑bred, and full of these vulgar ideas about young
people. I am more sorry than I can express, for the mischief this
visit may have done you, Meg.”

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 Meg Goes to Vanity Fair.
“Don’t be sorry, I won’t let it hurt me; I’ll forget all the bad,
and remember only the good; for I did enjoy a great deal, and
thank you very much for letting me go. I’ll not be sentimental
or dissatisfied, mother; I know I’m a silly little girl, and I’ll stay
with you till I’m fit to take care of myself. But it is nice to be
praised and admired, and I can’t help saying I like it,” said Meg,
looking half ashamed of the confession.
“That is perfectly natural, and quite harmless, if the liking
does not become a passion, and lead one to do foolish or
unmaidenly things. Learn to know and value the praise which is
worth having, and to excite the admiration of excellent people,
by being modest as well as pretty, Meg.”
Margaret sat thinking a moment, while Jo stood with her
hands behind her, looking both interested and a little perplexed;
for it was a new thing to see Meg blushing and talking about
admiration, lovers, and things of that sort, and Jo felt as if
during that fortnight her sister had grown up amazingly, and
was drifting away from her into a world where she could not
follow.
“Mother, do you have ‘plans,’ as Mrs. Moffat said?” asked Meg,
bashfully.
“Yes, my dear, I have a great many; all mothers do, but mine
differ somewhat from Mrs. Moffat’s, I suspect. I will tell you
some of them, for the time has come when a word may set this
romantic little head and heart of yours right, on a very serious
subject. You are young, Meg; but not too young to understand
me, and mothers’ lips are the fittest to speak of such things to
girls like you. Jo, your turn will come in time, perhaps, so listen
to my ‘plans,’ and help me carry them out, if they are good.”
Jo went and sat on one arm of the chair, looking as if she
thought they were about to join in some very solemn affair.
Holding a hand of each, and watching the two young faces
wistfully, Mrs. March said, in her serious yet cheery way,—
“I want my daughters to be beautiful, accomplished, and good;
to be admired, loved, and respected, to have a happy youth, to
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 Little Women
be well and wisely married, and to lead useful, pleasant lives,
with as little care and sorrow to try them as God sees fit to
send. To be loved and chosen by a good man is the best and
sweetest thing which can happen to a woman; and I sincerely
hope my girls may know this beautiful experience. It is natural
to think of it, Meg; right to hope and wait for it, and wise to
prepare for it; so that, when the happy time comes, you may
feel ready for the duties, and worthy of the joy. My dear girls, I
am ambitious for you, but not to have you make a dash in the
world,—marry rich men merely because they are rich, or have
splendid houses, which are not homes, because love is wanting.
Money is a needful and precious thing,—and, when well used,
a noble thing,—but I never want you to think it is the first or
only prize to strive for. I’d rather see you poor men’s wives, if
you were happy, beloved, contented, than queens on thrones,
without self‑respect and peace.”
“Poor girls don’t stand any chance, Belle says, unless they put
themselves forward,” sighed Meg.
“Then we’ll be old maids,” said Jo, stoutly.
“Right, Jo; better be happy old maids than unhappy wives, or
unmaidenly girls, running about to find husbands,” said Mrs.
March, decidedly. “Don’t be troubled, Meg; poverty seldom
daunts a sincere lover. Some of the best and most honored
women I know were poor girls, but so love‑worthy that they
were not allowed to be old maids. Leave these things to time;
make this home happy, so that you may be fit for homes of your
own, if they are offered you, and contented here if they are not.
One thing remember, my girls, mother is always ready to be
your confidant, father to be your friend; and both of us trust
and hope that our daughters, whether married or single, will be
the pride and comfort of our lives.”
“We will, Marmee, we will!” cried both, with all their hearts, as
she bade them good‑night.

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 Chapter X.

The P. C. and P.O.

A s spring came on, a new set of amusements became the

fashion, and the lengthening days gave long afternoons
for work and play of all sorts. The garden had to be put
in order, and each sister had a quarter of the little plot to do
what she liked with. Hannah used to say, “I’d know which each
of them gardings belonged to, ef I see ’em in Chiny;” and so she
might, for the girls’ tastes differed as much as their characters.
Meg’s had roses and heliotrope, myrtle, and a little orange‑tree
in it. Jo’s bed was never alike two seasons, for ,she was always
trying experiments; this year it was to be a plantation of
sunflowers, the seeds of which cheerful and aspiring plant were
to feed “Aunt Cockle‑top” and her family of chicks. Beth had
old‑fashioned,fragrant flowers in her garden; sweet peas and
mignonette, larkspur, pinks, pansies, and southernwood, with
chickweed for the bird and catnip for the pussies. Amy had a
bower in hers,—rather small and earwiggy, but very pretty to
look at,—with honeysuckles and morning‑glories hanging their
colored horns and bells in graceful wreaths all over it; tall white
lilies, delicate ferns, and as many brilliant, picturesque plants as
would consent to blossom there.

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 Little Women
Gardening, walks, rows on the river, and flower‑hunts
employed the fine days; and for rainy ones, they had house
diversions,—some old, some new,—all more or less original.
One of these was the “P. C.”; for, as secret societies were the
fashion, it was thought proper to have one; and, as all of the
girls admired Dickens, they called themselves the Pickwick
Club. With a few interruptions, they had kept this up for a year,
and met every Saturday evening in the big garret, on which
occasions the ceremonies were as follows: Three chairs were
arranged in a row before a table, on which was a lamp, also
four white badges, with a big “P. C.” in different colors on each,
and the weekly newspaper, called “The Pickwick Portfolio,”
to which all contributed something; while Jo, who revelled
in pens and ink, was the editor. At seven o’clock, the four
members ascended to the clubroom, tied their badges round
their heads, and took their seats with great solemnity. Meg,
as the eldest, was Samuel Pickwick; Jo, being of a literary turn,
Augustus Snodgrass; Beth, because she was round and rosy,
Tracy Tupman; and Amy, who was always trying to do what she
couldn’t, was Nathaniel Winkle. Pickwick, the President, read
the paper, which was filled with original tales, poetry, local news,
funny advertisements, and hints, in which they good‑naturedly
reminded each other of their faults and shortcomings. On one
occasion, Mr. Pickwick put on a pair of spectacles without any
glasses, rapped upon the table, hemmed, and, having stared
hard at Mr. Snodgrass, who was tilting back in his chair, till he
arranged himself properly, began to read,—

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 The P. C. and P.O.
“The Pickwick Portfolio.”
MAY 20, 18—.
Poet’s Corner To joke and laugh and read,
And tread the path of literature
Anniversary Ode. That doth to glory lead.

Again we meet to celebrate Long may our paper prosper well,

With badge and solemn rite, Our club unbroken be,
Our fifty‑second anniversary, And coming years their blessings pour
In Pickwick Hall, to‑night. On the useful, gay “P. C.”

We all are here in perfect health,  A. Snodgrass.

None gone from our small band;
Again we see each well‑known face, The Masked Marriage.
And press each friendly hand. a tale of venice.

Our Pickwick, always at his post, Gondola after gondola swept up to the
With reverence we greet, marble steps, and left its lovely load to
As, spectacles on nose, he reads swell the brilliant throng that filled the
Our well‑filled weekly sheet. stately balls of Count de Adelon. Knights
and ladies, elves and pages, monks and
Although he suffers from a cold, flower‑girls, all mingled gaily in the dance.
We joy to hear him speak, Sweet voices and rich melody filled the
For words of wisdom from him fall, air; and so with mirth and music the
In spite of croak or squeak. masquerade went on.
“Has your Highness seen the Lady Viola
Old six‑foot Snodgrass looms on high, to‑night?” asked a gallant troubadour of
With elephantine grace, the fairy queen who floated down the hall
And beams upon the company, upon his arm.
With brown and jovial face. “Yes; is she not lovely, though so sad!
Her dress is well chosen, too, for in a
Poetic fire lights up his eye, week she weds Count Antonio, whom she
He struggles ’gainst his lot; passionately hates.”
Behold ambition on his brow, “By my faith I envy him. Yonder he
And on his nose a blot! comes, arrayed like a bridegroom, except
the black mask. When that is off we shall
Next our peaceful Tupman comes, see how he regards the fair maid whose
So rosy, plump and sweet, heart be cannot win, though her stern
Who chokes with laughter at the puns, father bestows her hand,” returned the
And tumbles off his seat. troubadour.
“’Tis whispered that she loves the young
Prim little Winkle too is here, English artist who haunts her steps, and
With every hair in place, is spurned by the old count,” said the lady,
A model of propriety, as they joined the dance.
Though he hates to wash his face. The revel was at its height when a priest
appeared,and, withdrawing the young
The year is gone, we still unite pair to an alcove hung with purple velvet,

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 Little Women
be motioned them to kneel. Instant Why is the P. C. like the Tower of Babel?
silence fell upon the gay throng; and not It is full of unruly members.
a sound, but the dash of fountains or the •
rustle of orange groves sleeping in the
moonlight, broke the hush, as Count de The History of a Squash.
Adelon spoke thus:—
“My lords and ladies; pardon the ruse by Once upon a time a farmer planted
which I have gathered you here to witness a little seed in his garden, and after a
the marriage of my daughter. Father, we while it sprouted and became a vine,
wait your services.” and bore many squashes. One day in
All eyes turned toward the bridal party, October, when they were ripe, be picked
and a low murmur of amazement went one and took it to market. A grocer man
through the throng, for neither bride nor bought and put it in his shop. That same
groom removed their masks. Curiosity morning, a little girl, in a brown hat and
and wonder possessed all hearts, but blue dress, with a round face and snubby
respect restrained all tongues till the holy nose, went and bought it for her mother
rite was over. Then the eager spectators She lugged it home, cut it up, and boiled
gathered round the count, demanding an it in the big pot; mashed some of it, with
explanation. salt and butter, for dinner; and to the
“Gladly would I give it if I could; but rest she added a pint of milk, two eggs,
I only know that it was the whim of my four spoons of sugar, nutmeg, and some
timid Viola, and I yielded to it. Now, my crackers; put it in a deep dish, and baked
children, let the play end. Unmask, and it till it was brown and nice; and next day
receive my blessing.” it was eaten by a family named March.
But neither bent the knee; for the  T. Tupman.
young bridegroom replied, in a tone •
that startled all listeners, as the mask fell, Mr. Pickwick, Sir:—
disclosing the noble face of Ferdinand I address you upon the subject of sin
Devereux, the artist lover, and, leaning the sinner I mean is a man named Winkle
on the breast where now flashed the star who makes trouble in his club by laughing
of an English earl, was the lovely Viola, and sometimes won’t write his piece in
radiant with joy and beauty. this fine paper I hope you will pardon his
“My lord, you scornfully bade me claim badness and let him send a French fable
your daughter when I could boast as high because be can’t write out of his head
a name and vast a fortune as the Count as he has so many lessons to do and no
Antonio. I can do more; for even your brains in future I will try to take time by
ambitious soul cannot refuse the Earl of the fetlock and prepare some work which
Devereux and De Vere, when he gives will be all commy la fo that means all right
his ancient name and boundless wealth I am in haste as it is nearly school time
in return for the beloved hand of this fair Yours respectably N. Winkle.
lady, now my wife.”
The count stood like one changed to [The above is a manly and handsome
stone; and, turning to the bewildered acknowledgment of past misdemeanors.
crowd, Ferdinand added, with a gay smile If our young friend studied punctuation,
of triumph, “To you, my gallant friends, it would be well.]
I can only wish that your wooing may •
prosper as mine has done; and that you
may all win as fair a bride as I have, by this A Sad Accident.
masked marriage.”
 S. Pickwick. On Friday last, we were startled by a
• violent shock in our basement, followed
by cries of distress. On rushing, in a body,

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 The P. C. and P.O.
to the cellar, we discovered our beloved We know not where it may be.
President prostrate upon the floor, Her empty bed, her idle ball,
having tripped and fallen while getting Will never see her more;
wood for domestic purposes. A perfect No gentle tap, no loving purr
scene of ruin met our eyes; for in his Is heard at the parlor door.
fall Mr. Pickwick had plunged his head
and shoulders into a tub of water, upset Another cat comes after her mice,
a keg of soft soap upon his manly form, A cat with a dirty face;
and torn his garments badly. On being But she does not hunt as our darling did,
removed from this perilous situation, it Nor play with her airy grace.
was discovered that he had suffered no
injury but several bruises; and, we are Her stealthy paws tread the very hall
happy to add, is now doing well. Where Snowball used to play,
Ed. But she only spits at the dogs our pet
• So gallantly drove away.

The Public Bereavement. She is useful and mild, and does her best,
But she is not fair to see;
It is our painful duty to record the And we cannot give her your place, dear,
sudden and mysterious disappearance Nor worship her as we worship thee.
of our cherished friend, Mrs. Snowball  A. S.
PatPaw. This lovely and beloved cat was
the pet of a large circle of warm and Advertisements.
admiring friends; for her beauty attracted
all eyes, her graces and virtues endeared Miss Oranthy Bluggage, the
her to all hearts, and her loss is deeply felt accomplished Strong‑Minded Lecturer,
by the whole community. will deliver her famous Lecture on
When last seen, she was sitting at the “Woman and Her Position,” at
gate, watching the butcher’s cart; and Pickwick Hall, next Saturday Evening,
it is feared that some villain, tempted after the usual performances.
by her charms, basely stole her. Weeks
have passed, but no trace of her has been A Weekly Meeting will be held at
discovered; and we relinquish all hope, tie Kitchen Place, to teach young ladies how
a black ribbon to her basket, set aside her to cook. Hannah Brown will preside; and
dish, and weep for her as one lost to us all are invited to attend.
forever.
• The Dustpan Society will meet on
A sympathizing friend sends the Wednesday next, and parade to the upper
following gem:— story of the Club House. All members
to appear in uniform and shoulder their
A Lament brooms at nine precisely.
for s. b. pat paw.
Mrs. Beth Bouncer will open her
new assortment of Doll’s Millinery next
We mourn the loss of our little pet, week. The latest Paris Fashions have
And sigh o’er her hapless fate, arrived, and orders are respectfully
For never more by the fire she’ll sit, solicited.
Nor play by the old green gate.
A New Play will appear at the
The little grave where her infant sleeps, Barnville Theatre, in the course of a few
Is ’neath the chestnut tree; weeks, which will surpass anything ever
But o’er her grave we may not weep, seen on the American stage. “The Greek

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 Little Women
Slave, or Constantine the Avenger,” is forget Amy’s napkin. N. W. must not fret
the name of this thrilling drama!!! because his dress has not nine tucks.
•

Hints. Weekly Report.

If S. P. didn’t use so much soap on Meg—Good.
his hands, he wouldn’t always be late Jo—Bad.
at breakfast. A. S. is requested not to Beth—Very good.
whistle in the street. T. T. please don’t Amy—Middling.

As the President finished reading the paper (which I beg

leave to assure my readers is a bona fide copy of one written by
bona fide girls once upon a time), a round of applause followed,
and then Mr. Snodgrass rose to make a proposition.
“Mr. President and gentlemen,” he began, assuming a
parliamentary attitude and tone, “I wish to propose the
admission of a new member; one who highly deserves the honor,
would be deeply grateful for it, and would add immensely to
the spirit of the club, the literary value of the paper, and be
no end jolly and nice. I propose Mr. Theodore Laurence as an
honorary member of the P. C. Come now, do have him.”
Jo’s sudden change of tone made the girls laugh; but all
looked rather anxious, and no one said a word, as Snodgrass
took his seat.
“We’ll put it to vote,” said the President. “All in favor of this
motion please to manifest it by saying ‘Aye.’”
A loud response from Snodgrass, followed, to everybody’s
surprise, by a timid one from Beth.
“Contrary minded say ‘No.’”
Meg and Amy were contrary minded; and Mr. Winkle rose
to say, with great elegance, “We don’t wish any boys; they only
joke and bounce about. This is a ladies’ club, and we wish to be
private and proper.”
“I’m afraid he’ll laugh at our paper, and make fun of us
afterward,” observed Pickwick, pulling the little curl on her
forehead, as she always did when doubtful.
Up bounced Snodgrass, very much in earnest. “Sir! I give you
my word as a gentleman, Laurie won’t do anything of the sort.
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 The P. C. and P.O.
He likes to write, and he’ll give a tone to our contributions, and
keep us from being sentimental, don’t you see? We can do so
little for him, and he does so much for us, I think the least we
can do is to offer him a place here, and make him welcome, if
he comes.”
This artful allusion to benefits conferred, brought Tupman to
his feet, looking as if he had quite made up his mind.
“Yes; we ought to do it, even if we are afraid. I say he may
come, and his grandpa too, if he likes.”
This spirited burst from Beth electrified the club, and Jo left
her seat to shake hands approvingly. “Now then, vote again.
Everybody remember it’s our Laurie, and say ‘Aye!’” cried
Snodgrass, excitedly.
“Aye! aye! aye!” replied three voices at once.
“Good! bless you! now, as there’s nothing like ‘taking time by
the fetlock,’ as Winkle characteristically observes, allow me to
present the new member;” and, to the dismay of the rest of the
club, Jo threw open the door of the closet, and displayed Laurie
sitting on a rag‑bag, flushed and twinkling with suppressed
laughter.
“You rogue! you traitor! Jo, how could you?” cried the three
girls, as Snodgrass led her friend triumphantly forth; and,
producing both a chair and a badge, installed him in a jiffy.
“The coolness of you two rascals is amazing,” began Mr.
Pickwick, trying to get up an awful frown, and only succeeding
in producing an amiable smile. But the new member was equal
to the occasion; and, rising with a grateful salutation to the Chair,
said, in the most engaging manner,“Mr. President and ladies,—I
beg pardon, gentlemen,—allow me to introduce myself as Sam
Weller, the very humble servant of the club.”
“Good, good!” cried Jo, pounding with the handle of the old
warming‑pan on which she leaned.
“My faithful friend and noble patron,” continued Laurie, with
a wave of the hand, “ who has so flatteringly presented me, is

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 Little Women
not to be blamed for the base stratagem of to‑night. I planned
it, and she only gave in after lots of teasing.”
“Come now, don’t lay it all on yourself; you know I proposed
the cupboard,” broke in Snodgrass, who was enjoying the joke
amazingly.
“Never you mind what she says. I’m the wretch that did it, sir,”
said the new member, with a Welleresque nod to Mr. Pickwick.
“ But on my honor, I never will do so again, and henceforth
dewote myself to the interest of this immortal club.”
“Hear! hear!” cried Jo, clashing the lid of the warming‑pan like
a cymbal.
“Go on, go on!” added Winkle and Tupman, while the
President bowed benignly.
“I merely wish to say, that as a slight token of my gratitude
for the honor done me, and as a means of promoting friendly
relations between adjoining nations, I have set up a post‑office
in the hedge in the lower corner of the garden; a fine, spacious
building, with padlocks on the doors, and every convenience for
the mails,—also the females, if I may be allowed the expression.
It’s the old martin‑house; but I’ve stopped up the door, and
made the roof open, so it will hold all sorts of things, and save
our valuable time. Letters, manuscripts, books and bundles
can be passed in there; and, as each nation has a key, it will be
uncommonly nice, I fancy. Allow me to present the club key;
and, with many thanks for your favor, take my seat.”
Great applause as Mr. Weller deposited a little key on the
table, and subsided; the warming‑pan clashed and waved
wildly, and it was some time before order could be restored. A
long discussion followed, and every one came out surprising,
for every one did her best; so it was an unusually lively meeting,
and did not adjourn till a late hour, when it broke up with three
shrill cheers for the new member.
No one ever regretted the admittance of Sam Weller, for
a more devoted, well‑behaved, and jovial member no club
could have. He certainly did add “spirit” to the meetings, and
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 The P. C. and P.O.
“a tone” to the paper; for his orations convulsed his hearers,
and his contributions were excellent, being patriotic, classical,
comical, or dramatic, but never sentimental. Jo regarded them
as worthy of Bacon, Milton, or Shakespeare; and remodelled
her own works with good effect, she thought.
The P. O. was a capital little institution, and flourished
wonderfully, for nearly as many queer things passed through
it as through the real office. Tragedies and cravats, poetry and
pickles, garden seeds and long letters, music and gingerbread,
rubbers, invitations, scoldings and puppies. The old gentleman
liked the fun, and amused himself by sending odd bundles,
mysterious messages, and funny telegrams; and his gardener,
who was smitten with Hannah’s charms, actually sent a
love‑letter to Jo’s care. How they laughed when the secret
came out, never dreaming how many love‑letters that little
post‑office would hold in the years to come!

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Little Women

126
 Chapter XI.

Experiments.

T
“ he first of June; the Kings are off to the seashore
to‑morrow, and I’m free! Three months’ vacation! how
I shall enjoy it!” exclaimed Meg, coming home one
warm day to find Jo laid upon the sofa in an unusual state
of exhaustion, while Beth took off her dusty boots, and Amy
made lemonade for the refreshment of the whole party.
“Aunt March went to‑day, for which, oh be joyful!” said Jo. “I
was mortally afraid she’d ask me to go with her; if she had, I
should have felt as if I ought to do it; but Plumfield is about as
festive as a churchyard, you know, and I’d rather be excused. We
had a flurry getting the old lady off, and I had a scare every time
she spoke to me, for I was in such a hurry to be through that
I was uncommonly helpful and sweet, and feared she’d find it
impossible to part from me. I quaked till she was fairly in the
carriage, and had a final fright, for, as it drove off, she popped
out her head, saying, ‘Josy‑phine, won’t you—?’ I didn’t hear
any more, for I basely turned and fled; I did actually run, and
whisked round the corner, where I felt safe.”
“Poor old Jo! she came in looking as if bears were after her,”
said Beth, as she cuddled her sister’s feet with a motherly air.

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“Aunt March is a regular samphire, is she not?” observed Amy,
tasting her mixture critically.
“She means vampire, not sea‑weed; but it don’t matter; it’s too
warm to be particular about one’s parts of speech,” murmured
Jo.
“What shall you do all your vacation?” asked Amy, changing
the subject, with tact.
“I shall lie abed late, and do nothing,” replied Meg, from the
depths of the rocking‑chair. “I’ve been routed up early all winter,
and had to spend my days working for other people; so now I’m
going to rest and revel to my heart’s content.”
“Hum!” said Jo; “that dozy way wouldn’t suit me. I’ve laid in
a heap of books, and I’m going to improve my shining hours
reading on my perch in the old apple‑tree, when I’m not having
l—”
“Don’t say ‘larks!’” implored Amy, as a return snub for the
“samphire” correction.
“I’ll say ‘nightingales,’ then, with Laurie; that’s proper and
appropriate, since he’s a warbler.”
“Don’t let us do any lessons, Beth, for a while, but play all the
time, and rest, as the girls mean to,” proposed Amy.
“Well, I will, if mother don’t mind. I want to learn some new
songs, and my children need fixing up for the summer; they are
dreadfully out of order, and really suffering for clothes.”
“May we, mother?” asked Meg, turning to Mrs. March, who
sat sewing, in what they called “Marmee’s corner.”
“You may try your experiment for a week, and see how you
like it. I think by Saturday night you will find that all play, and
no work, is as bad as all work, and no play.”
“Oh, dear, no! it will be delicious, I’m sure,” said Meg,
complacently.
“I now propose a toast, as my ‘friend and pardner, Sairy
Gamp,’ says. Fun forever, and no grubbage,” cried Jo, rising, glass
in hand, as the lemonade went round.

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 Experiments.
They all drank it merrily, and began the experiment by
lounging for the rest of the day. Next morning, Meg did not
appear till ten o’clock; her solitary breakfast did not taste good,
and the room seemed lonely and untidy, for Jo had not filled
the vases, Beth had not dusted, and Amy’s books lay scattered
about. Nothing was neat and pleasant but “Marmee’s corner,”
which looked as usual; and there she sat, to “rest and read,”
which meant yawn, and imagine what pretty summer dresses
she would get with her salary. Jo spent the morning on the
river, with Laurie, and the afternoon reading and crying over
“The Wide, Wide World,” up in the apple‑tree. Beth began
by rummaging everything out of the big closet, where her
family resided; but, getting tired before half done, she left her
establishment topsy‑turvy, and went to her music, rejoicing
that she had no dishes to wash. Amy arranged her bower, put
on her best white frock, smoothed her curls, and sat down to
draw, under the honeysuckles, hoping some one would see
and inquire who the young artist was. As no one appeared but
an inquisitive daddy‑long‑legs, who examined her work with
interest, she went to walk, got caught in a shower, and came
home dripping.
At tea‑time they compared notes, and all agreed that it had
been a delightful, though unusually long day. Meg, who went
shopping in the afternoon, and got a “sweet blue muslin,” had
discovered, after she had cut the breadths off, that it wouldn’t
wash, which mishap made her slightly cross. Jo had burnt the
skin off her nose boating, and got a raging headache by reading
too long. Beth was worried by the confusion of her closet, and
the difficulty of learning three or four songs at once; and Amy
deeply regretted the damage done her frock, for Katy Brown’s
party was to be the next day; and now, like Flora McFlimsy, she
had “nothing to wear.” But these were mere trifles; and they
assured their mother that the experiment was working finely.
She smiled, said nothing, and, with Hannah’s help, did their
neglected work, keeping home pleasant, and the domestic
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machinery running smoothly. It was astonishing what a
peculiar and uncomfortable state of things was produced by
the “resting and revelling” process. The days kept getting longer
and longer; the weather was unusually variable, and so were
tempers; an unsettled feeling possessed every one, and Satan
found plenty of mischief for the idle hands to do. As the height
of luxury, Meg put out some of her sewing, and then found
time hang so heavily, that she fell to snipping and spoiling her
clothes, in her attempts to furbish them up, à la Moffat. Jo
read till her eyes gave out, and she was sick of books; got so
fidgety that even good‑natured Laurie had a quarrel with her,
and so reduced in spirits that she desperately wished she had
gone with Aunt March. Beth got on pretty well, for she was
constantly forgetting that it was to be all play, and no work,
and fell back into her old ways, now and then; but something
in the air affected her, and, more than once, her tranquillity
was much disturbed; so much so, that, on one occasion, she
actually shook poor dear Joanna, and told her she was “a fright.”
Amy fared worst of all, for her resources were small; and, when
her sisters left her to amuse and care for herself, she soon found
that accomplished and important little self a great burden. She
didn’t like dolls; fairy tales were childish, and one couldn’t draw
all the time. Tea‑parties didn’t amount to much, neither did
picnics, unless very well conducted. “If one could have a fine
house, full of nice girls, or go travelling, the summer would be
delightful; but to stay at home with three selfish sisters, and
a grown‑up boy, was enough to try the patience of a Boaz,”
complained Miss Malaprop, after several days devoted to
pleasure, fretting, and ennui.
No one would own that they were tired of the experiment;
but, by Friday night, each acknowledged to herself that they
were glad the week was nearly done. Hoping to impress the
lesson more deeply, Mrs. March, who had a good deal of humor,
resolved to finish off the trial in an appropriate manner; so she

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 Experiments.
gave Hannah a holiday, and let the girls enjoy the full effect of
the play system.
When they got up on Saturday morning, there was no fire in
the kitchen, no breakfast in the dining‑room, and no mother
anywhere to be seen.
“Mercy on us! what has happened?” cried Jo, staring about
her in dismay.
Meg ran upstairs, and soon came back again, looking relieved,
but rather bewildered, and a little ashamed.
“Mother isn’t sick, only very tired, and she says she is going
to stay quietly in her room all day, and let us do the best we
can. It’s a very queer thing for her to do, she don’t act a bit
like herself; but she says it has been a hard week for her, so we
mustn’t grumble, but take care of ourselves.”
“That’s easy enough, and I like the idea; I’m aching for
something to do—that is, some new amusement, you know,”
added Jo, quickly.
In fact it was an immense relief to them all to have a little
work, and they took hold with a will, but soon realized the
truth of Hannah’s saying, “Housekeeping ain’t no joke.” There
was plenty of food in the larder, and, while Beth and Amy set
the table, Meg and Jo got breakfast; wondering, as they did so,
why servants ever talked about hard work.
“I shall take some up to mother, though she said we were not
to think of her, for she’d take care of herself,” said Meg, who
presided, and felt quite matronly behind the teapot.
So a tray was fitted out before any one began, and taken up,
with the cook’s compliments. The boiled tea was very bitter, the
omelette scorched, and the biscuits speckled with saleratus;
but Mrs. March received her repast with thanks, and laughed
heartily over it after Jo was gone.
“Poor little souls, they will have a hard time, I’m afraid; but
they won’t suffer, and it will do them good,” she said, producing
the more palatable viands with which she had provided herself,
and disposing of the bad breakfast, so that their feelings might
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not be hurt;—a motherly little deception, for which they were
grateful.
Many were the complaints below, and great the chagrin of
the head cook, at her failures. “Never mind, I’ll get the dinner,
and be servant; you be missis, keep your hands nice, see
company, and give orders,” said Jo, who knew still less than Meg
about culinary affairs.
This obliging offer was gladly accepted; and Margaret retired
to the parlor, which she hastily put in order by whisking the litter
under the sofa, and shutting the blinds, to save the trouble of
dusting. Jo, with perfect faith in her own powers, and a friendly
desire to make up the quarrel, immediately put a note in the
office, inviting Laurie to dinner.
“You’d better see what you have got before you think of
having company,” said Meg, when informed of the hospitable,
but rash act.
“Oh, there’s corned beef, and plenty of potatoes; and I shall
get some asparagus, and a lobster, ‘for a relish,’ as Hannah says.
We’ll have lettuce, and make a salad; I don’t know how, but the
book tells. I’ll have blanc‑mange and strawberries for dessert;
and coffee, too, if you want to be elegant.”
“Don’t try too many messes, Jo, for you can’t make anything
but gingerbread and molasses candy, fit to eat. I wash my hands
of the dinner‑party; and, since you have asked Laurie on your
own responsibility, you may just take care of him.”
“I don’t want you to do anything but be clever to him, and
help to the pudding. You’ll give me your advice if I get stuck,
won’t you?” asked Jo, rather hurt.
“Yes; but I don’t know much, except about bread, and a few
trifles. You had better ask mother’s leave, before you order
anything,” returned Meg, prudently.
“Of course I shall; I ain’t a fool,” and Jo went off in a huff at the
doubts expressed of her powers.
“Get what you like, and don’t disturb me; I’m going out to
dinner, and can’t worry about things at home,” said Mrs. March,
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 Experiments.
when Jo spoke to her. “I never enjoyed housekeeping, and I’m
going to take a vacation today, and read, write, go visiting and
amuse myself.”
The unusual spectacle of her busy mother rocking
comfortably, and reading early in the morning, made Jo feel as
if some natural phenomenon had occurred; for an eclipse, an
earthquake, or a volcanic eruption would hardly have seemed
stranger.
“Everything is out of sorts, somehow,” she said to herself,
going down stairs. “There’s Beth crying; that’s a sure sign that
something is wrong with this family. If Amy is bothering, I’ll
shake her.”
Feeling very much out of sorts herself, Jo hurried into the
parlor to find Beth sobbing over Pip, the canary, who lay dead
in the cage, with his little claws pathetically extended, as if
imploring the food, for want of which he had died.
“It’s all my fault—I forgot him—there isn’t a seed or drop
left—oh, Pip! oh, Pip! how could I be so cruel to you?” cried
Beth, taking the poor thing in her hands, and trying to restore
him.
Jo peeped into his half‑open eye, felt his little heart, and
finding him stiff and cold, shook her head, and offered her
domino‑box for a coffin.
“Put him in the oven, and maybe he will get warm, and revive,”
said Amy, hopefully.
“He’s been starved, and he shan’t be baked, now he’s dead. I’ll
make him a shroud, and he shall be buried in the grave; and I’ll
never have another bird, never, my Pip! for I am too bad to own
one,” murmured Beth, sitting on the floor with her pet folded
in her hands.
“The funeral shall be this afternoon, and we will all go. Now,
don’t cry, Bethy; it’s a pity, but nothing goes right this week, and
Pip has had the worst of the experiment. Make the shroud, and
lay him in my box; and, after the dinner‑party, we’ll have a nice

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little funeral,” said Jo, beginning to feel as if she had undertaken
a good deal.
Leaving the others to console Beth, she departed to the
kitchen, which was in a most discouraging state of confusion.
Putting on a big apron, she fell to work, and got the dishes piled
up ready for washing, when she discovered that the fire was out.
“Here’s a sweet prospect!” muttered Jo, slamming the stove
door open, and poking vigorously among the cinders.
Having rekindled it, she thought she would go to market
while the water heated. The walk revived her spirits; and,
flattering herself that she had made good bargains, she trudged
home again, after buying a very young lobster, some very old
asparagus, and two boxes of acid strawberries. By the time she
got cleared up, the dinner arrived, and the stove was red‑hot.
Hannah had left a pan of bread to rise, Meg had worked it up
early, set it on the hearth for a second rising, and forgotten it.
Meg was entertaining Sallie Gardiner, in the parlor, when the
door flew open, and a floury, crocky, flushed and dishevelled
figure appeared, demanding, tartly,—
“I say, isn’t bread ‘riz’ enough when it runs over the pans?”
Sallie began to laugh; but Meg nodded, and lifted her
eyebrows as high as they would go, which caused the apparition
to vanish, and put the sour bread into the oven without further
delay. Mrs. March went out, after peeping here and there to
see how matters went, also saying a word of comfort to Beth,
who sat making a winding‑sheet, while the dear departed lay
in state in the domino‑box. A strange sense of helplessness fell
upon the girls as the gray bonnet vanished round the corner;
and despair seized them, when, a few minutes later, Miss
Crocker appeared, and said she’d come to dinner. Now this lady
was a thin, yellow spinster, with a sharp nose, and inquisitive
eyes, who saw everything, and gossiped about all she saw. They
disliked her, but had been taught to be kind to her, simply
because she was old and poor, and had few friends. So Meg
gave her the easy‑chair, and tried to entertain her, while she
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 Experiments.
asked questions, criticised everything, and told stories of the
people whom she knew.
Language cannot describe the anxieties, experiences, and
exertions which Jo underwent that morning; and the dinner
she served up became a standing joke. Fearing to ask any more
advice, she did her best alone, and discovered that something
more than energy and good‑will is necessary to make a cook.
She boiled the asparagus hard for an hour, and was grieved to
find the heads cooked off, and the stalks harder than ever. The
bread burnt black; for the salad dressing so aggravated her, that
she let everything else go, till she had convinced herself that she
could not make it fit to eat. The lobster was a scarlet mystery to
her, but she hammered and poked, till it was unshelled, and its
meagre proportions concealed in a grove of lettuce‑leaves. The
potatoes had to be hurried, not to keep the asparagus waiting,
and were not done at last. The blanc‑mange was lumpy, and
the strawberries not as ripe as they looked, having been skilfully
“deaconed.”
“Well, they can eat beef, and bread and butter, if they are
hungry; only it’s mortifying to have to spend your whole
morning for nothing,” thought Jo, as she rang the bell half
an hour later than usual, and stood hot, tired, and dispirited,
surveying the feast spread for Laurie, accustomed to all sorts of
elegance, and Miss Crocker, whose curious eyes would mark all
failures, and whose tattling tongue would report them far and
wide.
Poor Jo would gladly have gone under the table, as one thing
after another was tasted and left; while Amy giggled, Meg
looked distressed, Miss Crocker pursed up her lips, and Laurie
talked and laughed with all his might, to give a cheerful tone
to the festive scene. Jo’s one strong point was the fruit, for she
had sugared it well, and had a pitcher of rich cream to eat with
it. Her hot cheeks cooled a trifle, and she drew a long breath,
as the pretty glass plates went round, and every one looked
graciously at the little rosy islands floating in a sea of cream.
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 Little Women
Miss Crocker tasted first, made a wry face, and drank some
water hastily. Jo, who had refused, thinking there might not be
enough, for they dwindled sadly after the picking over, glanced
at Laurie, but he was eating away manfully, though there was
a slight pucker about his mouth, and he kept his eye fixed on
his plate. Amy, who was fond of delicate fare, took a heaping
spoonful, choked, hid her face in her napkin, and left the table
precipitately.
“Oh, what is it?” exclaimed Jo, trembling.
“Salt instead of sugar, and the cream is sour,” replied Meg,
with a tragic gesture.
Jo uttered a groan, and fell back in her chair; remembering
that she had given a last hasty powdering to the berries out of
one of the two boxes on the kitchen table, and had neglected
to put the milk in the refrigerator. She turned scarlet, and was
on the verge of crying, when she met Laurie’s eyes, which would
look merry in spite of his heroic efforts; the comical side of the
affair suddenly struck her, and she laughed till the tears ran
down her cheeks. So did every one else, even “Croaker,” as the
girls called the old lady; and the unfortunate dinner ended gaily,
with bread and butter, olives and fun.
“I haven’t strength of mind enough to clear up now, so we will
sober ourselves with a funeral,” said Jo, as they rose; and Miss
Crocker made ready to go, being eager to tell the new story at
another friend’s dinner‑table.
They did sober themselves, for Beth’s sake; Laurie dug a grave
under the ferns in the grove, little Pip was laid in, with many
tears, by his tender‑hearted mistress, and covered with moss,
while a wreath of violets and chickweed was hung on the stone
which bore his epitaph, composed by Jo, while she struggled
with the dinner:—
“Here lies Pip March,
Who died the 7th of June;
Loved and lamented sore,
And not forgotten soon.”
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 Experiments.
At the conclusion of the ceremonies, Beth retired to her
room, overcome with emotion and lobster; but there was no
place of repose, for the beds were not made, and she found her
grief much assuaged by beating up pillows and putting things
in order. Meg helped Jo clear away the remains of the feast,
which took half the afternoon, and left them so tired that they
agreed to be contented with tea and toast for supper. Laurie
took Amy to drive, which was a deed of charity, for the sour
cream seemed to have had a bad effect upon her temper. Mrs.
March came home to find the three older girls hard at work in
the middle of the afternoon; and a glance at the closet gave her
an idea of the success of one part of the experiment.
Before the housewives could rest, several people called, and
there was a scramble to get ready to see them; then tea must be
got, errands done; and one or two bits of sewing were necessary,
but neglected till the last minute. As twilight fell, dewy and still,
one by one they gathered in the porch where the June roses
were budding beautifully, and each groaned or sighed as she sat
down, as if tired or troubled.
“What a dreadful day this has been!” begun Jo, usually the first
to speak.
“It has seemed shorter than usual, but so uncomfortable,”
said Meg.
“Not a bit like home,” added Amy.
“It can’t seem so without Marmee and little Pip,” sighed Beth,
glancing, with full eyes, at the empty cage above her head.
“Here’s mother, dear, and you shall have another bird
to‑morrow, if you want it.”
As she spoke, Mrs. March came and took her place among
them, looking as if her holiday had not been much pleasanter
than theirs.
“Are you satisfied with your experiment, girls, or do you want
another week of it?” she asked, as Beth nestled up to her, and
the rest turned toward her with brightening faces, as flowers
turn toward the sun.
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 Little Women
“I don’t!” cried Jo, decidedly.
“Nor I,” echoed the others.
“You think, then, that it is better to have a few duties, and live
a little for others, do you?”
“Lounging and larking don’t pay,” observed Jo, shaking her
head. “I’m tired of it, and mean to go to work at something
right off.”
“Suppose you learn plain cooking; that’s a useful
accomplishment, which no woman should be without,” said Mrs.
March, laughing audibly at the recollection of Jo’s dinner‑party;
for she had met Miss Crocker, and heard her account of it.
“Mother! did you go away and let everything be, just to see
how we’d get on?” cried Meg, who had had suspicions all day.
“Yes; I wanted you to see how the comfort of all depends on
each doing their share faithfully. While Hannah and I did your
work, you got on pretty well, though I don’t think you were
very happy or amiable; so I thought, as a little lesson, I would
show you what happens when every one thinks only of herself.
Don’t you feel that it is pleasanter to help one another, to have
daily duties which make leisure sweet when it comes, and to
bear or forbear, that home may be comfortable and lovely to
us all?”
“We do, mother, we do!” cried the girls.
“Then let me advise you to take up your little burdens again;
for though they seem heavy sometimes, they are good for us,
and lighten as we learn to carry them. Work is wholesome,
and there is plenty for every one; it keeps us from ennui and
mischief; is good for health and spirits, and gives us a sense of
power and independence better than money or fashion”
“We’ll work like bees, and love it too; see if we don’t!” said
Jo. “ I’ll learn plain cooking for my holiday task; and the next
dinner‑party I have shall be a success”
“I’ll make the set of shirts for father, instead of letting you
do it, Marmee. I can and I will, though I’m not fond of sewing;

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 Experiments.
that will be better than fussing over my own things, which are
plenty nice enough as they are,” said Meg.
“I’ll do my lessons every day, and not spend so much time
with my music and dolls. I am a stupid thing, and ought to
be studying, not playing,” was Beth’s resolution; while Amy
followed their example, by heroically declaring,” I shall learn to
make buttonholes, and attend to my parts of speech.”
“Very good! then I am quite satisfied with the experiment,
and fancy that we shall not have to repeat it; only don’t go to
the other extreme, and delve like slaves. Have regular hours for
work and play; make each day both useful and pleasant, and
prove that you understand the worth of time by employing it
well. Then youth will be delightful, old age will bring few regrets,
and life become a beautiful success, in spite of poverty.”
“We’ll remember, mother!” and they did.

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140
 Chapter XII.

Camp Laurence.

B eth was post‑mistress, for, being most at home, she could

attend to it regularly, and dearly liked the daily task of
unlocking the little door and distributing the mail. One
July day she came in with her hands full, and went about the
house leaving letters and parcels, like the penny post.
“Here’s your posy, mother! Laurie never forgets that,” she said,
putting the fresh nosegay in the vase that stood in “Marmee’s
corner,” and was kept supplied by the affectionate boy.
“Miss Meg March, one letter, and a glove,” continued Beth,
delivering the articles to her sister, who sat near her mother,
stitching wristbands.
“Why, I left a pair over there, and here is only one,” said Meg,
looking at the gray cotton glove.
“Didn’t you drop the other in the garden?”
“No, I’m sure I didn’t; for there was only one in the office.”
“I hate to have odd gloves! Never mind, the other may be
found. My letter is only a translation of the German song I
wanted; I guess Mr. Brooke did it, for this isn’t Laurie’s writing.”
Mrs. March glanced at Meg, who was looking very pretty
in her gingham morning‑gown, with the little curls blowing
about her forehead, and very womanly, as she sat sewing at
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 Little Women
her little work‑table, full of tidy white rolls; so, unconscious of
the thought in her mother’s mind, she sewed and sung while
her fingers flew, and her mind was busied with girlish fancies as
innocent and fresh as the pansies in her belt, that Mrs. March
smiled, and was satisfied.
“Two letters for Doctor Jo, a book, and a funny old hat,
which covered the whole post‑office, stuck outside,” said Beth,
laughing, as she went into the study, where Jo sat writing.
“What a sly fellow Laurie is! I said I wished bigger hats were
the fashion, because I burn my face every hot day. He said, ‘Why
mind the fashion? wear a big hat, and be comfortable!’ I said I
would, if I had one, and he has sent me this, to try me; I’ll wear it,
for fun, and show him I don’t care for the fashion;” and, hanging
the antique broad‑brim on a bust of Plato, Jo read her letters.
One from her mother made her cheeks glow, and her eyes fill,
for it said to her,—

“My dear:
“I write a little word to tell you with how much satisfaction
I watch your efforts to control your temper. You say nothing
about your trials, failures, or successes, and think, perhaps,
that no one sees them but the Friend whose help you daily ask,
if I may trust the well‑worn cover of your guide‑book, I, too,
have seen them all, and heartily believe in the sincerity of your
resolution, since it begins to bear fruit. Go on, dear, patiently
and bravely, and always believe that no one sympathizes more
tenderly with you than your loving Mother.”

“That does me good! that’s worth millions of money, and

pecks of praise. Oh, Marmee, I do try! I will keep on trying, and
not get tired, since I have you to help me.”
Laying her head on her arms, Jo wet her little romance with
a few happy tears, for she had thought that no one saw and
appreciated her efforts to be good, and this assurance was
doubly precious, doubly encouraging, because unexpected,
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 Camp Laurence.
and from the person whose commendation she most valued.
Feeling stronger than ever to meet and subdue her Apollyon,
she pinned the note inside her frock, as a shield and a reminder,
lest she be taken unaware, and proceeded to open her other
letter, quite ready for either good or bad news. In a big, dashing
hand, Laurie wrote,—

“Dear Jo,
What ho!
Some English girls and boys are coming to see me to‑morrow,
and I want to have a jolly time. If it’s fine, I’m going to pitch my
tent in Longmeadow, and row up the whole crew to lunch and
croquet;—have a fire, make messes, gipsey fashion, and all sorts
of larks. They are nice people, and like such things. Brooke will
go, to keep us boys steady, and Kate Vaughn will play propriety
for the girls. I want you all to come; can’t let Beth off, at any price,
and nobody shall worry her. Don’t bother about rations,—I’ll
see to that, and everything else,—only do come, there’s a good
fellow!
“In a tearing hurry,
Yours ever, Laurie.”

“Here’s richness!” cried Jo, flying in to tell the news to Meg. “

Of course we can go, mother! it will be such a help to Laurie, for
I can row, and Meg see to the lunch, and the children be useful
some way.”
“I hope the Vaughn’s are not fine, grown‑up people. Do you
know anything about them, Jo?” asked Meg.
“Only that there are four of them. Kate is older than you, Fred
and Frank (twins) about my age, and a little girl (Grace), who
is nine or ten. Laurie knew them abroad, and liked the boys; I
fancied, from the way he primmed up his mouth in speaking of
her, that he didn’t admire Kate much.”

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 Little Women
“I’m so glad my French print is clean, it’s just the thing, and so
becoming!” observed Meg, complacently. “Have you anything
decent, Jo?”
“Scarlet and gray boating suit, good enough for me; I shall
row and tramp about, so I don’t want any starch to think of.
You’ll come, Betty?”
“If you won’t let any of the boys talk to me.”
“Not a boy!”
“I like to please Laurie; and I’m not afraid of Mr. Brooke, he
is so kind; but I don’t want to play, or sing, or say anything. I’ll
work hard, and not trouble any one; and you’ll take care of me,
Jo, so I’ll go.”
“That’s my good girl; you do try to fight off your shyness, and
I love you for it; fighting faults isn’t easy, as I know; and a cheery
word kind of gives a lift. Thank you, mother,” and Jo gave the
thin cheek a grateful kiss, more precious to Mrs. March than if
it had given her back the rosy roundness of her youth.
“I had a box of chocolate drops, and the picture I wanted to
copy,” said Amy, showing her mail.
“And I got a note from Mr. Laurence, asking me to come over
and play to him to‑night, before the lamps are lighted, and I
shall go,” added Beth, whose friendship with the old gentleman
prospered finely.
“Now let’s fly round, and do double duty today, so that we
can play to‑morrow with free minds,” said Jo, preparing to
replace her pen with a broom.
When the sun peeped into the girls’ room early next morning,
to promise them a fine day;he saw a comical sight. Each had
made such preparation for the fête as seemed necessary and
proper. Meg had an extra row of little curl papers across her
forehead, Jo had copiously anointed her afflicted face with cold
cream, Beth had taken Joanna to bed with her to atone for
the approaching separation, and Amy had capped the climax
by putting a clothes‑pin on her nose, to uplift the offending
feature. It was one of the kind artists use to hold the paper on
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their drawing‑boards; therefore, quite appropriate and effective
for the purpose to which it was now put. This funny spectacle
appeared to amuse the sun, for he burst out with such radiance
that Jo woke up, and roused all her sisters by a hearty laugh at
Amy’s ornament.
Sunshine and laughter were good omens for a pleasure
party, and soon a lively bustle began in both houses. Beth, who
was ready first, kept reporting what went on next door, and
enlivened her sisters’ toilets by frequent telegrams from the
window.
“There goes the man with the tent! I see Mrs. Barker doing up
the lunch, in a hamper, and a great basket. Now Mr. Laurence is
looking up at the sky, and the weathercock; I wish he would go,
too! There’s Laurie looking like a sailor,—nice boy! Oh, mercy
me! here’s a carriage full of people—a tall lady, a little girl, and
two dreadful boys. One is lame; poor thing, he’s got a crutch!
Laurie didn’t tell us that. Be quick, girls! it’s getting late. Why,
there is Ned Moffat, I do declare. Look, Meg! isn’t that the man
who bowed to you one day, when we were shopping?”
“So it is; how queer that he should come! I thought he was at
the Mountains. There is Sallie; I’m glad she got back in time. Am
I all right, Jo?” cried Meg, in a flutter.
“A regular daisy; hold up your dress, and put your hat straight;
it looks sentimental tipped that way, and will fly off at the first
puff. Now, then, come on!”
“Oh, oh, Jo! you ain’t going to wear that awful hat? It’s too
absurd! You shall not make a guy of yourself,” remonstrated
Meg, as Jo tied down, with a red ribbon, the broad‑brimmed,
old‑fashioned Leghorn Laurie had sent for a joke.
“I just will, though! it’s capital; so shady, light, and big. It will
make fun; and I don’t mind being a guy, if I’m comfortable.”
With that Jo marched straight away, and the rest followed; a
bright little band of sisters, all looking their best, in summer
suits, with happy faces, under the jaunty hat‑brims.

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Laurie ran to meet, and present them to his friends, in the
most cordial manner. The lawn was the reception room, and
for several minutes a lively scene was enacted there. Meg was
grateful to see that Miss Kate, though twenty, was dressed with
a simplicity which American girls would do well to imitate; and
she was much flattered by Mr. Ned’s assurances that he came
especially to see her. Jo understood why Laurie “primmed up
his mouth” when speaking of Kate, for that young lady had a
stand‑off‑don’t‑touch‑me air, which contrasted strongly with
the free and easy demeanor of the other girls. Beth took an
observation of the new boys, and decided that the lame one
was not “dreadful,” but gentle and feeble, and she would be kind
to him, on that account. Amy found Grace a well‑mannered,
merry little person; and, after staring dumbly at one another for
a few minutes, they suddenly became very good friends.
Tents, lunch, and croquet utensils having been sent on
beforehand, the party was soon embarked, and the two boats
pushed off together, leaving Mr. Laurence waving his hat on the
shore. Laurie and Jo rowed one boat; Mr. Brooke and Ned the
other; while Fred Vaughn, the riotous twin, did his best to upset
both, by paddling about in a wherry, like a disturbed waterbug.
Jo’s funny hat deserved a vote of thanks, for it was of general
utility; it broke the ice in the beginning, by producing a laugh;
it created quite a refreshing breeze, flapping to and fro, as she
rowed, and would make an excellent umbrella for the whole
party, if a shower came up, she said. Kate looked rather amazed
at Jo’s proceedings, especially as she exclaimed “Christopher
Columbus!” when she lost her oar; and Laurie said, “My dear
fellow, did I hurt you?” when he tripped over her feet in taking
his place. But after putting up her glass to examine the queer
girl several times, Miss Kate decided that she was “odd, but
rather clever,” and smiled upon her from afar.
Meg, in the other boat, was delightfully situated, face to face
with the rowers, who both admired the prospect, and feathered
their oars with uncommon “skill and dexterity.” Mr. Brooke was
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a grave, silent young man, with handsome brown eyes, and a
pleasant voice. Meg liked his quiet manners, and considered
him a walking encyclopædia of useful knowledge. He never
talked to her much; but he looked at her a good deal, and she
felt sure that he did not regard her with aversion. Ned being in
college, of course put on all the airs which Freshmen think it
their bounden duty to assume; he was not very wise, but very
good‑natured and merry, and, altogether, an excellent person
to carry on a picnic. Sallie Gardiner was absorbed in keeping
her white piquè dress clean, and chattering with the ubiquitous
Fred, who kept Beth in constant terror by his pranks.
It was not far to Longmeadow; but the tent was pitched, and
the wickets down, by the time they arrived. A pleasant green
field, with three wide‑spreading oaks in the middle, and a
smooth strip of turf for croquet.
“Welcome to Camp Laurence!” said the young host, as
they landed, with exclamations of delight. “Brooke is
commander‑in‑chief; I am commissary‑general; the other
fellows are staff‑officers; and you, ladies, are company. The tent
is for your especial benefit, and that oak is your drawing‑room;
this is the mess‑room, and the third is the camp kitchen. Now
let’s have a game before it gets hot, and then we’ll see about
dinner.”
Frank, Beth, Amy, and Grace, sat down to watch the game
played by the other eight. Mr. Brooke chose Meg, Kate, and
Fred; Laurie took Sallie, Jo, and Ned. The Englishers played well;
but the Americans played better, and contested every inch of
the ground as strongly as if the spirit of ’76 inspired them. Jo
and Fred had several skirmishes, and once narrowly escaped
high words. Jo was through the last wicket, and had missed
the stroke, which failure ruffled her a good deal. Fred was close
behind her, and his turn came before hers; he gave a stroke, his
ball hit the wicket, and stopped an inch on the wrong side. No
one was very near; and, running up to examine, he gave it a sly
nudge with his toe, which put it just an inch on the right side.
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“I’m through! now, Miss Jo, I’ll settle you, and get in first,” cried
the young gentleman, swinging his mallet for another blow.
“You pushed it; I saw you; it’s my turn now,” said Jo, sharply.
“Upon my word I didn’t move it! it rolled a bit, perhaps, but
that is allowed; so stand off, please, and let me have a go at the
stake.”
“We don’t cheat in America; but you can, if you choose,” said
Jo, angrily.
“Yankees are a deal the most tricky, everybody knows. There
you go,” returned Fred, croqueting her ball far away.
Jo opened her lips to say something rude; but checked
herself in time, colored up to her forehead, and stood a minute,
hammering down a wicket with all her might, while Fred hit
the stake, and declared himself out, with much exultation. She
went off to get her ball, and was a long time finding it, among
the bushes; but she came back, looking cool and quiet, and
waited her turn patiently. It took several strokes to regain the
place she had lost; and, when she got there, the other side had
nearly won, for Kate’s ball was the last but one, and lay near the
stake.
“By George, it’s all up with us! Good‑by, Kate; Miss Jo owes me
one, so you are finished,” cried Fred, excitedly, as they all drew
near to see the finish.
“Yankees have a trick of being generous to their enemies,”
said Jo, with a look that made the lad redden, “especially when
they beat them,” she added, as, leaving Kate’s ball untouched,
she won the game by a clever stroke.
Laurie threw up his hat; then remembered that it wouldn’t
do to exult over the defeat of his guests, and stopped in the
middle of a cheer to whisper to his friend,—
“Good for you, Jo! he did cheat, I saw him; we can’t tell him so,
but he won’t do it again, take my word for it.”
Meg drew her aside, under pretence of pinning up a loose
braid, and said, approvingly,—

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 Camp Laurence.
“It was dreadfully provoking; but you kept your temper, and
I’m so glad, Jo.”
“Don’t praise me, Meg, for I could box his ears this minute. I
should certainly have boiled over, if hadn’t stayed among the
nettles till I got my rage under enough to hold my tongue. It’s
simmering now, so I hope he’ll keep out of my way,” returned Jo,
biting her lips, as she glowered at Fred from under her big hat.
“Time for lunch,” said Mr. Brooke, looking at his watch.
“Commisary‑general, will you make the fire, and get water, while
Miss March, Miss Sallie, and I spread the table. Who can make
good coffee?”
“Jo can,” said Meg, glad to recommend her sister. So Jo, feeling
that her late lessons in cookery were to do her honor, went to
preside over the coffee‑pot, while the children collected dry
sticks, and the boys made a fire, and got water from a spring
near by. Miss Kate sketched, and Frank talked to Beth, who was
making little mats of braided rushes, to serve as plates.
The commander‑in‑chief and his aids soon spread the
table‑cloth with an inviting array of eatables and drinkables,
prettily decorated with green leaves. Jo announced that the
coffee was ready, and every one settled themselves to a hearty
meal; for youth is seldom dyspeptic, and exercise develops
wholesome appetites. A very merry lunch it was; for everything
seemed fresh and funny, and frequent peals of laughter startled
a venerable horse, who fed near by. There was a pleasing
inequality in the table, which produced many mishaps to
cups and plates; acorns dropped into the milk, little black ants
partook of the refreshments without being invited, and fuzzy
caterpillars swung down from the tree, to see what was going
on. Three white‑headed children peeped over the fence, and an
objectionable dog barked at them from the other side of the
river, with all his might and main.
“There’s salt, here, if you prefer it,” said Laurie, as he handed
Jo a saucer of berries.

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“Thank you; I prefer spiders,” she replied, fishing up two
unwary little ones, who had gone to a creamy death. “How dare
you remind me of that horrid dinner‑party, when yours is so
nice in every way?” added Jo, as they both laughed, and ate out
of one plate, the china having run short.
“I had an uncommonly good time that day, and haven’t got
over it yet. This is no credit to me, you know; I don’t do anything;
it’s you, and Meg, and Brooke, who make it go, and I’m no end
obliged to you. What shall we do when we can’t eat any more?”
asked Laurie, feeling that his trump card had been played when
lunch was over.
“Have games, till it’s cooler. I brought ‘Authors,’ and I dare say
Miss Kate knows something new and nice. Go and ask her; she’s
company, and you ought to stay with her more.”
“Aren’t you company, too? I thought she’d suit Brooke; but he
keeps talking to Meg, and Kate just stares at them through that
ridiculous glass of hers. I’m going, so you needn’t try to preach
propriety, for you can’t do it, Jo.”
Miss Kate did know several new games; and as the girls would
not, and the boys could not, eat any more, they all adjourned
to the drawing‑room, to play “Rigmarole.”
“One person begins a story, any nonsense you like, and tells
as long as they please, only taking care to stop short at some
exciting point, when the next takes it up, and does the same.
It’s very funny, when well done, and makes a perfect jumble of
tragical comical stuff to laugh over. Please start it, Mr. Brooke,”
said Kate, with a commanding gesture, which surprised Meg,
who treated the tutor with as much respect as any other
gentleman.
Lying on the grass, at the feet of the two young ladies, Mr.
Brooke obediently began the story, with the handsome brown
eyes steadily fixed upon the sunshiny river.
“Once on a time, a knight went out into the world to seek
his fortune, for he had nothing but his sword and his shield. He
travelled a long while, nearly eight‑and‑twenty years, and had
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 Camp Laurence.
a hard time of it, till he came to the palace of a good old king,
who had offered a reward to any one who would tame and
train a fine, but unbroken colt, of which he was very fond. The
knight agreed to try, and got on slowly, but surely; for the colt
was a gallant fellow, and soon learned to love his new master,
though he was freakish and wild. Every day, when he gave his
lessons to this pet of the king’s, the knight rode him through
the city; and, as he rode, he looked everywhere for a certain
beautiful face, which he had seen many times in his dreams, but
never found. One day, as he went prancing down a quiet street,
he saw at the window of a ruinous castle the lovely face. He was
delighted, inquired who lived in this old castle, and was told
that several captive princesses were kept there by a spell, and
spun all day to lay up money to buy their liberty. The knight
wished intensely that he could free them; but he was poor, and
could only go by each day, watching for the sweet face, and
longing to see it out in the sunshine. At last, he resolved to get
into the castle, and ask how he could help them. He went and
knocked; the great door flew open, and he beheld—”
“A ravishingly lovely lady, who exclaimed, with a cry of rapture,
‘At last! at last!’” continued Kate, who had read French novels,
and admired the style. “‘’Tis she!’ cried Count Gustave, and fell
at her feet in an ecstasy of joy. ‘Oh, rise!’ she said, extending
a hand of marble fairness. ‘Never! till you tell me how I may
rescue you,’ swore the knight, still kneeling. ‘Alas, my cruel fate
condemns me to remain here till my tyrant is destroyed.’ ‘Where
is the villain?’ ‘In the mauve salon; go, brave heart, and save me
from despair.’ ‘I obey, and return victorious or dead!’ With these
thrilling words he rushed away, and, flinging open the door of
the mauve salon, was about to enter, when he received—”
“A stunning blow from the big Greek lexicon, which an old
fellow in, a black gown fired at him,” said Ned. “Instantly Sir
What’s‑his‑name recovered himself, pitched the tyrant out of
the window, and turned to join the lady, victorious, but with a
bump on his brow; found the door locked, tore up the curtains,
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make a rope ladder, got half‑way down when ladder broke, and
he went head first into the moat, sixty feet below. Could swim
like a duck, paddled round the castle till he came to a little door
guarded by two stout fellows; knocked their heads together till
they cracked like a couple of nuts, then, by a trifling exertion
of his prodigious strength, he smashed in the door, went up a
pair of stone steps covered with dust a foot thick, toads as big
as your fist, and spiders that would frighten you into hysterics,
Miss March. At the top of these steps he came plump upon a
sight that took his breath away and chilled his blood—”
“A tall figure, all in white, with a veil over its face, and a
lamp in its wasted hand,” went on Meg. “It beckoned, gliding
noiselessly before him down a corridor as dark and cold as
any tomb. Shadowy effigies in armor stood on either side, a
dead silence reigned, the lamp burned blue, and the ghostly
figure ever and anon turned its face toward him, showing the
glitter of awful eyes through its white veil. They reached a
curtained door, behind which sounded lovely music; he sprang
forward to enter, but the spectre plucked him back, and waved,
threateningly, before him a—”
“Snuff‑box,” said Jo, in a sepulchral tone, which convulsed
the audience. “‘Thankee,’ said the knight, politely, as he took a
pinch, and sneezed seven times so violently that his head fell
off. ‘Ha! ha!’ laughed the ghost; and, having peeped through the
keyhole at the princesses spinning away for dear life, the evil
spirit picked up her victim and put him in a large tin box, where
there were eleven other knights packed together without their
heads, like sardines, who all rose and began to—”
“Dance a hornpipe,” cut in Fred, as Jo paused for breath; “and,
as they danced, the rubbishy old castle turned to a man‑of‑war
in full sail. ‘Up with the jib, reef the tops’l halliards, helm hard a
lee, and man the guns,’ roared the captain, as a Portuguese pirate
hove in sight, with a flag black as ink flying from her foremast.
‘Go in and win my hearties,’ says the captain; and a tremendous
fight begun. Of course the British beat—they always do; and,
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having taken the pirate captain prisoner, sailed slap over the
schooner, whose decks were piled with dead, and whose
lee‑scuppers ran blood, for the order had been ‘Cutlasses, and
die hard.’ ‘Bosen’s mate, take a bight of the flying jib sheet, and
start this villain if he don’t confess his sins double quick,’ said
the British captain. The Portuguese held his tongue like a brick,
and walked the plank, while the jolly tars cheered like mad. But
the sly dog dived, came up under the man‑of‑war, scuttled her,
and down she went, with all sail set, ‘To the bottom of the sea,
sea, sea,’ where—”
“Oh, gracious! what shall I say?” cried Sallie, as Fred ended his
rigmarole, in which he had jumbled together, pell‑mell, nautical
phrases and facts, out of one of his favorite books. “Well, they
went to the bottom, and a nice mermaid welcomed them, but
was much grieved on finding the box of headless knights, and
kindly pickled them in brine, hoping to discover the mystery
about them; for, being a woman, she was curious. By and by a
diver came down, and the mermaid said, ‘I’ll give you this box of
pearls if you can take it up;’ for she wanted to restore the poor
things to life, and couldn’t raise the heavy load herself. So the
diver hoisted it up, and was much disappointed, on opening it,
to find no pearls. He left it in a great lonely field, where it was
found by a—”
“Little goose‑girl, who kept a hundred fat geese in the field,”
said Amy, when Sallie’s invention gave out. “The little girl was
sorry for them, and asked an old woman what she should do
to help them. ‘Your geese will tell you, they know everything,’
said the old woman. So she asked what she should use for new
heads, since the old ones were lost, and all the geese opened
their hundred mouths, and screamed—”
“‘Cabbages!’ continued Laurie, promptly. ‘Just the thing,’ said
the girl, and ran to get twelve fine ones from her garden. She put
them on, the knights revived at once, thanked her, and went
on their way rejoicing, never knowing the difference, for there
were so many other heads like them in the world, that no one
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thought anything of it. The knight in whom I’m interested went
back to find the pretty face, and learned that the princesses
had spun themselves free, and all gone to be married, but one.
He was in a great state of mind at that; and, mounting the colt,
who stood by him through thick and thin, rushed to the castle
to see which was left. Peeping over the hedge, he saw the queen
of his affections picking flowers in her garden. ‘Will you give
me a rose?’ said he. ‘You must come and get it; I can’t come
to you; it isn’t proper,’ said she, as sweet as honey. He tried to
climb over the hedge, but it seemed to grow higher and higher;
then he tried to push through, but it grew thicker and thicker,
and he was in despair. So he patiently broke twig after twig, till
he had made a little hole, through which he peeped, saying,
imploringly, ‘Let me in! let me in!’ But the pretty princess did
not seem to understand, for she picked her roses quietly, and
left him to fight his way in. Whether he did or not, Frank will
tell you.”
“I can’t; I’m not playing, I never do,” said Frank, dismayed at
the sentimental predicament out of which he was to rescue
the absurd couple. Beth had disappeared behind Jo, and Grace
was asleep.
“So the poor knight is to be left sticking in the hedge, is he?”
asked Mr. Brooke, still watching the river, and playing with the
wild rose in his button‑hole.
“I guess the princess gave him a posy, and opened the gate,
after awhile,” said Laurie, smiling to himself, as he threw acorns
at his tutor.
“What a piece of nonsense we have made! With practice we
might do something quite clever. Do you know ‘Truth?’” asked
Sallie, after they had laughed over their story.
“I hope so,” said Meg, soberly.
“The game, I mean?”
“What is it?” said Fred.

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 Camp Laurence.
“Why, you pile up your hands, choose a number, and draw
out in turn, and the person who draws at the number has to
answer truly any questions put by the rest. It’s great fun.”
“Let’s try it,” said Jo, who liked new experiments.
Miss Kate and Mr. Brooke, Meg and Ned, declined; but Fred,
Sallie, Jo and Laurie piled and drew; and the lot fell to Laurie.
“Who are your heroes?” asked Jo.
“Grandfather and Napoleon.”
“What lady do you think prettiest?” said Sallie.
“Margaret.”
“Which do you like best?” from Fred.
“Jo, of course.”
“What silly questions you ask!” and Jo gave a disdainful shrug
as the rest laughed at Laurie’s matter‑of‑fact tone.
“Try again; Truth isn’t a bad game,” said Fred.
“It’s a very good one for you,” retorted Jo, in a low voice.
Her turn came next.
“What is your greatest fault?” asked Fred, by way of testing in
her the virtue he lacked himself.
“A quick temper.”
“What do you most wish for?” said Laurie.
“A pair of boot‑lacings,” returned Jo, guessing and defeating
his purpose.
“Not a true answer; you must say what you really do want
most.”
“Genius; don’t you wish you could give it to me, Laurie?” and
she slyly smiled in his disappointed face.
“What virtues do you most admire in a man?” asked Sallie.
“Courage and honesty.”
“Now my turn,” said Fred, as his hand came last.
“Let’s give it to him,” whispered Laurie to Jo, who nodded, and
asked at once,—
“Didn’t you cheat at croquet?”
“Well, yes, a little bit.”

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“Good! Didn’t you take your story out of ‘The Sea Lion?’” said
Laurie.
“Rather.”
“Don’t you think the English nation perfect in every respect?”
asked Sallie.
“I should be ashamed of myself if I didn’t.”
“He’s a true John Bull. Now, Miss Sallie, you shall have a
chance without waiting to draw. I’ll harrow up your feelings first
by asking if you don’t think you are something of a flirt,” said
Laurie, as Jo nodded to Fred, as a sign that peace was declared.
“You impertinent boy! of course I’m not,” exclaimed Sallie,
with an air that proved the contrary.
“What do you hate most?” asked Fred.
“Spiders and rice pudding.”
“What do you like best?” asked]o.
“Dancing and French gloves.”
“Well, I think Truth is a very silly play; let’s have a sensible
game of Authors, to refresh our minds,” proposed Jo.
Ned, Frank, and the little girls joined in this, and, while it
went on, the three elders sat apart, talking. Miss Kate took out
her sketch again, and Margaret watched her, while Mr. Brooke
lay on the grass, with a book, which he did not read.
“How beautifully you do it; I wish I could draw,” said Meg,
with mingled admiration and regret in her voice.
“Why don’t you learn? I should think you had taste and talent
for it,” replied Miss Kate, graciously.
“I haven’t time.”
“Your mamma prefers other accomplishments, fancy. So
did mine; but I proved to her that I had talent, by taking a few
lessons privately, and then she was quite willing I should go on.
Can’t you do the same with your governess?”
“I have none.”
“I forgot; young ladies in America go to school more than
with us. Very fine schools they are, too, papa says. You go to a
private one, I suppose?”
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 Camp Laurence.
“I don’t go at all; I am a governess myself.”
“Oh, indeed!” said Miss Kate; but she might as well have said,
“Dear me, how dreadful!” for her tone implied it, and something
in her face made Meg color, and wish she had not been so frank.
Mr. Brooke looked up, and said, quickly, “Young ladies in
America love independence as much as their ancestors did, and
are admired and respected for supporting themselves.”
“Oh, yes; of course! it’s very nice and proper in them to do
so. We have many most respectable and worthy young women,
who do the same; and are employed by the nobility, because,
being the daughters of gentlemen, they are both well‑bred and
accomplished, you know,” said Miss Kate, in a patronizing tone,
that hurt Meg’s pride, and made her work seem not only more
distasteful, but degrading.
“Did the German song suit, Miss March?” inquired Mr. Brooke,
breaking an awkward pause.
“Oh, yes! it was very sweet, and I’m much obliged to whoever
translated it for me;” and Meg’s downcast face brightened as
she spoke.
“Don’t you read German?” asked Miss Kate, with a look of
surprise.
“Not very well. My father, who taught me, is away, and I
don’t get on very fast alone, for I’ve no one to correct my
pronunciation.”
“Try a little now; here is Schiller’s ‘Mary Stuart,’ and a tutor
who loves to teach,” and Mr. Brooke laid his book on her lap,
with an inviting smile.
“It’s so hard, I’m afraid to try,” said Meg, grateful, but bashful
in the presence of the accomplished young lady beside her.
“I’ll read a bit, to encourage you;” and Miss Kate read one of
the most beautiful passages, in a perfectly correct, but perfectly
expressionless, manner.
Mr Brooke made no comment, as she returned the book to
Meg, who said, innocently,—
“I thought it was poetry.”
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“Some of it is; try this passage.”
There was a queer smile about Mr. Brooke’s mouth, as he
opened at poor Mary’s lament.
Meg, obediently following the long grass‑blade which
her new tutor used to point with, read, slowly and timidly,
unconsciously making poetry of the hard words, by the soft
intonation of her musical voice. Down the page went the green
guide, and presently, forgetting her listener in the beauty of the
sad scene, Meg read as if alone, giving a little touch of tragedy
to the words of the unhappy queen. If she had seen the brown
eyes then, she would have stopped short; but she never looked
up, and the lesson was not spoilt for her.
“Very well, indeed!” said Mr. Brooke, as she paused, quite
ignoring her many mistakes, and looking as if he did, indeed,
“love to teach.”
Miss Kate put up her glass, and, having taken a survey of
the little tableau before her, shut her sketchbook, saying, with
condescension,—
“You’ve a nice accent, and, in time, will be a clever reader. I
advise you to learn, for German is a valuable accomplishment
to teachers. I must look after Grace, she is romping;” and Miss
Kate strolled away, adding to herself, with a shrug, “I didn’t
come to chaperone a governess, though she is young and
pretty. What odd people these Yankees are! I’m afraid Laurie
will be quite spoilt among them.”
“I forgot that English people rather turn up their noses at
governesses, and don’t treat them as we do,” said Meg, looking
after the retreating figure with an annoyed expression.
“Tutors, also, have rather a hard time of it there, as I know to
my sorrow. There’s no place like America for us workers, Miss
Margaret,” and Mr. Brooke looked so contented and cheerful,
that Meg was ashamed to lament her hard lot.
“I’m glad I live in it, then. I don’t like my work, but I get a good
deal of satisfaction out of it, after all, so I won’t complain; I only
wish I liked teaching as you do.”
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 Camp Laurence.
“I think you would, if you had Laurie for a pupil. I shall be very
sorry to lose him next year,” said Mr. Brooke, busily punching
holes in the turf.
“Going to college, I suppose?” Meg’s lips asked that question,
but her eyes added, “And what becomes of you?”
“Yes; it’s high time he went, for he is nearly ready, and as soon
as he is off I shall turn soldier.”
“I’m glad of that!” exclaimed Meg; “ I should think every young
man would want to go; though it is hard for the mothers and
sisters, who stay at home,” she added, sorrowfully.
“I have neither, and very few friends, to care whether I live
or die,” said Mr. Brooke, rather bitterly, as he absently put the
dead rose in the hole he had made, and covered it up, like a
little grave.
“Laurie and his grandfather would care a great deal, and we
should all be very sorry to have any harm happen to you,” said
Meg, heartily.
“Thank you; that sounds pleasant,” began Mr. Brooke, looking
cheerful again; but, before he could finish his speech, Ned,
mounted on the old horse, came lumbering up, to display his
equestrian skill before the young ladies, and there was no more
quiet that day.
“Don’t you love to ride?” asked Grace of Amy, as they stood
resting, after a race round the field with the others, led by Ned.
“I dote upon it; my sister Meg used to ride, when papa was
rich, but we don’t keep any horses now,—except Ellen Tree,”
added Amy, laughing.
“Tell me about Ellen Tree; is it a donkey?” asked Grace,
curiously.
“Why, you see, Jo is crazy about horses, and so am I, but we’ve
only got an old side‑saddle, and no horse. Out in our garden is
an apple‑tree, that has a nice low branch; so I put the saddle on
it, fixed some reins on the part that turns up, and we bounce
away on Ellen Tree whenever we like.”

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“How funny!” laughed Grace. “I have a pony at home, and
ride nearly every day in the park, with Fred and Kate; it’s very
nice, for my friends go too, and the Row is full of ladies and
gentlemen.”
“Dear, how charming! I hope I shall go abroad, some day; but
I’d rather go to Rome than the Row,” said Amy, who had not the
remotest idea what the Row was, and wouldn’t have asked for
the world.
Frank, sitting just behind the little girls, heard what they were
saying, and pushed his crutch away from him with an impatient
gesture, as he watched the active lads going through all sorts
of comical gymnastics. Beth, who was collecting the scattered
Author‑cards, looked up, and said, in her shy yet friendly way,—
“I’m afraid you are tired; can I do anything for you?”
“Talk to me, please; it’s dull, sitting by myself,” answered Frank,
who had evidently been used to being made much of at home.
If he had asked her to deliver a Latin oration, it would not
have seemed a more impossible task to bashful Beth; but there
was no place to run to, no Jo to hide behind now, and the poor
boy looked so wistfully at her, that she bravely resolved to try.
“What do you like to talk about?” she asked, fumbling over
the cards, and dropping half as she tried to tie them up.
“Well, I like to hear about cricket, and boating, and hunting,”
said Frank, who had not yet learned to suit his amusements to
his strength.
“My heart! whatever shall I do! I don’t know anything about
them,” thought Beth; and, forgetting the boy’s misfortune in
her flurry, she said, hoping to make him talk, “I never saw any
hunting, but I suppose you know all about it.”
“I did once; but I’ll never hunt again, for I got hurt leaping
a confounded five‑barred gate; so there’s no more horses and
hounds for me,” said Frank, with a sigh that made Beth hate
herself for her innocent blunder.

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 Camp Laurence.
“Your deer are much prettier than our ugly buffaloes,” she
said, turning to the prairies for help, and feeling glad that she
had read one of the boys’ books in which Jo delighted.
Buffaloes proved soothing and satisfactory; and, in her
eagerness to amuse another, Beth forgot herself, and was quite
unconscious of her sister’s surprise and delight at the unusual
spectacle of Beth talking away to one of the dreadful boys,
against whom she had begged protection.
“Bless her heart! She pities him, so she is good to him,” said Jo,
beaming at her from the croquet‑ground.
“I always said she was a little saint,” added Meg, as if there
could be no further doubt of it.
“I haven’t heard Frank laugh so much for ever so long,” said
Grace to Amy, as they sat discussing dolls, and making tea‑sets
out of the acorn‑cups.
“My sister Beth is a very fastidious girl, when she likes to be,”
said Amy, well pleased at Beth’s success. She meant” fascinating,”
but, as Grace didn’t know the exact meaning of either word,
“fastidious” sounded well, and made a good impression.
An impromptu circus, fox and geese, and an amicable game
of croquet, finished the afternoon. At sunset the tent was
struck, hampers packed, wickets pulled up, boats loaded, and
the whole party floated down the river, singing at the tops of
their voices. Ned, getting sentimental, warbled a serenade with
the pensive refrain,—

“Alone, alone, ah! woe, alone,”

and at the lines—

“We each are young, we each have a heart,

Oh, why should we stand thus coldly apart?”

he looked at Meg with such a lackadaisical expression, that she

laughed outright, and spoilt his song.
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 Little Women
“How can you be so cruel to me?” he whispered, under cover
of a lively chorus; “you’ve kept close to that starched‑up English
woman all day, and now you snub me.”
“I didn’t mean to; but you looked so funny I really couldn’t
help it,” replied Meg, passing over the first part of his reproach;
for it was quite true that she had shunned him, remembering
the Moffat party and the talk after it.
Ned was offended, and turned to Sallie for consolation,
saying to her, rather pettishly, “There isn’t a bit of flirt in that
girl, is there?”
“Not a particle; but she’s a dear,” returned Sallie, defending
her friend even while confessing her shortcomings.
“She’s not a stricken deer, any‑way,” said Ned, trying to be
witty, and succeeding as well as very young gentlemen usually
do.
On the lawn where it had gathered, the little party separated
with cordial good‑nights and good‑byes, for the Vaughns
were going to Canada. As the four sisters went home through
the garden, Miss Kate looked after them, saying, without the
patronizing tone in her voice, “In spite of their demonstrative
manners, American girls are very nice when one knows them.”
“I quite agree with you,” said Mr. Brooke.

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 Chapter XIII.

Castles in the Air.

L aurie lay luxuriously swinging to and fro in his hammock,

one warm September afternoon, wondering what his
neighbors were about, but too lazy to go and find out. He
was in one of his moods; for the day had been both unprofitable
and unsatisfactory, and he was wishing he could live it over
again. The hot weather made him indolent; and he had shirked
his studies, tried Mr. Brooke’s patience to the utmost, displeased
his grandfather by practising half the afternoon, frightened the
maidservants half out of their wits, by mischievously hinting
that one of his dogs was going mad, and, after high words with
the stableman about some fancied neglect of his horse, he had
flung himself into his hammock, to fume over the stupidity of
the world in general, till the peace of the lovely day quieted
him in spite of himself. Staring up into the green gloom of the
horse‑chestnut trees above him, he dreamed dreams of all sorts,
and was just imagining himself tossing on the ocean, in a voyage
round the world, when the sound of voices brought him ashore
in a flash. Peeping through the meshes of the hammock, he saw
the Marches coming out, as if bound on some expedition.
“What in the world are those girls about now?” thought
Laurie, opening his sleepy eyes to take a good look, for there was
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something rather peculiar in the appearance of his neighbors.
Each wore a large, flapping hat, a brown linen pouch slung over
one shoulder, and carried a long staff; Meg had a cushion, Jo a
book, Beth a dipper, and Amy a portfolio. All walked quietly
through the garden, out at the little back gate, and began to
climb the hill that lay between the house and river.
“Well, that’s cool!” said Laurie to himself, “to have a picnic and
never ask me. They can’t be going in the boat, for they haven’t
got the key. Perhaps they forgot it; I’ll take it to them, and see
what’s going on.”
Though possessed of half a dozen hats, it took him some
time to find one; then there was a hunt for the key, which was
at last discovered in his pocket, so that the girls were quite out
of sight when he leaped the fence and ran after them. Taking
the shortest way to the boat‑house, he waited for them to
appear; but no one came, and he went up the hill to take an
observation. A grove of pines covered one part of it, and from
the heart of this green spot came a clearer sound than the soft
sigh of the pines, or the drowsy chirp of the crickets.
“Here’s a landscape!” thought Laurie, peeping through the
bushes, and looking wide awake and good‑natured already.
It was rather a pretty little picture; for the sisters sat together
in the shady nook, with sun and shadow flickering over them,—
the aromatic wind lifting their hair and cooling their hot
cheeks,—and all the little wood‑people going on with their
affairs as if these were no strangers, but old friends. Meg sat
upon her cushion, sewing daintily with her white hands, and
looking as fresh and sweet as a rose, in her pink dress, among
the green. Beth was sorting the cones that lay thick under the
hemlock near by, for she made pretty things of them. Amy was
sketching a group of ferns, and Jo was knitting as she read aloud.
A shadow passed over the boy’s face as he watched them, feeling
that he ought to go, because uninvited; yet lingering, because
home seemed very lonely, and this quiet party in the woods
most attractive to his restless spirit. He stood so still, that a
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squirrel, busy with its harvesting, ran down a pine close beside
him, saw him suddenly, and skipped back, scolding so shrilly
that Beth looked up, espied the wistful face behind the birches,
and beckoned with a reassuring smile.
“May I come in, please? or shall I be a bother?” he asked,
advancing slowly.
Meg lifted her eyebrows, but Jo scowled at her defiantly,
and said, at once, “Of course you may. We should have asked
you before, only we thought you wouldn’t care for such a girl’s
game as this.”
“I always like your games; but if Meg don’t want me, I’ll go
away.”
“I’ve no objection, if you do something; it’s against the rule to
be idle here,” replied Meg, gravely, but graciously.
“Much obliged; I’ll do anything if you’ll let me stop a bit, for
it’s as dull as the desert of Sahara down there. Shall I sew, read,
cone, draw, or do all at once? Bring on your bears; I’m ready,”
and Laurie sat down with a submissive expression delightful to
behold.
“Finish this story while I set my heel,” said Jo, handing him the
book.
“Yes’m,” was the meek answer, as he began, doing his best to
prove his gratitude for the favor of an admission into the “Busy
Bee Society.”
The story was not a long one, and, when it was finished, he
ventured to ask a few questions as a reward of merit.
“Please, mum, could I inquire if this highly instructive and
charming institution is a new one?”
“Would you tell him?” asked Meg of her sisters.
“He’ll laugh,” said Amy, warningly.
“Who cares?” said Jo.
“I guess he’ll like it,” added Beth.
“Of course I shall! I give you my word I won’t laugh. Tell away,
Jo, and don’t be afraid.”

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 Little Women
“The idea of being afraid of you! Well, you see we used to play
‘Pilgrim’s Progress,’ and we have been going on with it in earnest,
all winter and summer.”
“Yes, I know,” said Laurie, nodding wisely.
“Who told you?” demanded Jo.
“Spirits.”
“No, it was me; I wanted to amuse him one night when you
were all away, and he was rather dismal. He did like it, so don’t
scold, Jo,” said Beth, meekly.
“You can’t keep a secret. Never mind; it saves trouble now.”
“Go on, please,” said Laurie, as Jo became absorbed in her
work, looking a trifle displeased.
“Oh, didn’t she tell you about this new plan of ours? Well, we
have tried not to waste our holiday, but each has had a task, and
worked at it with a will. The vacation is nearly over, the stints
are all done, and we are ever so glad that we didn’t dawdle.”
“Yes, I should think so;” and Laurie thought regretfully of his
own idle days.
“Mother likes to have us out of doors as much as possible; so
we bring our work here, and have nice times. For the fun of it
we bring our things in these bags, wear the old hats, use poles
to climb the hill, and play pilgrims, as we used to do years ago.
We call this hill the ‘Delectable Mountain,’ for we can look far
away and see the country where we hope to live some time.”
Jo pointed, and Laurie sat up to examine; for through an
opening in the wood one could look across the wide, blue
river,—the meadows on the other side,—far over the outskirts
of the great city, to the green hills that rose to meet the sky.
The sun was low, and the heavens glowed with the splendor of
an autumn sunset. Gold and purple clouds lay on the hill‑tops;
and rising high into the ruddy light were silvery white peaks,
that shone like the airy spires of some Celestial City.
“How beautiful that is!” said Laurie; softly, for he was quick to
see and feel beauty of any kind.

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 Castles in the Air.
“It’s often so; and we like to watch it, for it is never the same,
but always splendid,” replied Amy, wishing she could paint it.
“Jo talks about the country where we hope to live some
time; the real country, she means, with pigs and chickens, and
haymaking. It would be nice, but I wish the beautiful country up
there was real, and we could ever go to it,” said Beth, musingly.
“There is a lovelier country even than that, where we shall go,
by and by, when we are good enough,” answered Meg, with her
sweet voice.
“It seems so long to wait, so hard to do; I want to fly away at
once, as those swallows fly, and go in at that splendid gate.”
“You’ll get there, Beth, sooner or later; no fear of that,” said Jo;
“I’m the one that will have to fight and work, and climb and wait,
and maybe never get in after all.”
“You’ll have me for company, if that’s any comfort. I shall have
to do a deal of travelling before I come in sight of your Celestial
City. If I arrive late, you’ll say a good word for me, won’t you,
Beth?”
Something in the boy’s face troubled his little friend; but she
said cheerfully, with her quiet eyes on the changing clouds, “If
people really want to go, and really try all their lives, I think
they will get in; for I don’t believe there are any locks on that
door, or any guards at the gate. I always imagine it is as it is in
the picture, where the shining ones stretch out their hands to
welcome poor Christian as he comes up from the river.”
“Wouldn’t it be fun if all the castles in the air which we make
could come true, and we could live in them?” said Jo, after a
little pause.
“I’ve made such quantities it would be hard to choose which
I’d have,” said Laurie, lying flat, and throwing cones at the
squirrel who had betrayed him.
“You’d have to take your favorite one. What is it?” asked Meg.
“If I tell mine, will you tell yours?”
“Yes, if the girls will too.”
“We will. Now, Laurie!”
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 Little Women
“After I’d seen as much of the world as I want to, I’d like to
settle in Germany, and have just as much music as I choose.
I’m to be a famous musician myself, and all creation is to rush
to hear me; and I’m never to be bothered about money or
business, but just enjoy myself, and live for what I like. That’s
my favorite castle. What’s yours, Meg?”
Margaret seemed to find it a little hard to tell hers, and moved
a brake before her face, as if to disperse imaginary gnats, while
she said, slowly, “I should like a lovely house, full of all sorts of
luxurious things; nice food, pretty clothes, handsome furniture,
pleasant people, and heaps of money. I am to be mistress of it,
and manage it as I like, with plenty of servants, so I never need
work a bit. How I should enjoy it! for I wouldn’t be idle, but do
good, and make every one love me dearly.”
“Wouldn’t you have a master for your castle in the air?” asked
Laurie, slyly.
“I said ‘pleasant people,’ you know;” and Meg carefully tied up
her shoe as she spoke, so that no one saw her face.
“Why don’t you say you’d have a splendid, wise, good husband,
and some angelic little children? you know your castle wouldn’t
be perfect without,” said blunt Jo, who had no tender fancies
yet, and rather scorned romance, except in books.
“You’d have nothing but horses, inkstands, and novels in
yours,” answered Meg, petulantly.
“Wouldn’t I, though! I’d have a stable full of Arabian steeds,
rooms piled with books, and I’d write out of a magic inkstand,
so that my works should be as famous as Laurie’s music. I
want to do something splendid before I go into my castle,—
something heroic, or wonderful,—that won’t be forgotten after
I’m dead. I don’t know what, but I’m on the watch for it; and
mean to astonish you all, some day. I think I shall write books,
and get rich and famous; that would suit me, so that is my
favorite dream.”
“Mine is to stay at home safe with father and mother, and
help take care of the family,” said Beth, contentedly.
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 Castles in the Air.
“Don’t you wish for anything else?” asked Laurie.
“Since I had my little piano I am perfectly satisfied. I only wish
we may all keep well, and be together; nothing else.”
“I have lots of wishes; but the pet one is to be an artist, and
go to Rome, and do fine pictures, and be the best artist in the
whole world,” was Amy’s modest desire.
“We’re an ambitious set, aren’t we? Every one of us; but Beth,
wants to be rich and famous, and gorgeous in every respect.
I do wonder if any of us will ever get our wishes,” said Laurie,
chewing grass, like a meditative calf.
“I’ve got the key to my castle in the air; but whether I can
unlock the door, remains to be seen,” observed Jo, mysteriously.
“I’ve got the key to mine, but I’m not allowed to try it. Hang
college!” muttered Laurie, with an impatient sigh.
“Here’s mine!” and Amy waved her pencil.
“I haven’t got any,” said Meg, forlornly.
“Yes you have,” said Laurie, at once.
“Where?”
“In your face.”
“Nonsense; that’s of no use.”
“Wait and see if it doesn’t bring you something worth having,”
replied the boy, laughing at the thought of a charming little
secret which he fancied he knew.
Meg colored behind the brake, but asked no questions, and
looked across the river with the same expectant expression
which Mr. Brooke had worn when he told the story of the
knight.
“If we are all alive ten years hence, let’s meet, and see how
many of us have got our wishes, or how much nearer we are
then than now,” said Jo, always ready with a plan.
“Bless me! how old I shall be,—twenty—seven!” exclaimed
Meg, who felt grown up already, having just reached seventeen.
“You and I shall be twenty‑six, Teddy; Beth twenty‑four, and
Amy twenty‑two; what a venerable party!” said Jo.

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“I hope I shall have done something to be proud of by that
time; but I’m such a lazy dog, I’m afraid I shall ‘dawdle,’ Jo.”
“You need a motive, mother says; and when you get it, she is
sure you’ll work splendidly.”
“Is she? By Jupiter I will, if I only get the chance!” cried Laurie,
sitting up with sudden energy. “I ought to be satisfied to please
grandfather, and I do try, but it’s working against the grain, you
see, and comes hard. He wants me to be an India merchant, as
he was, and I’d rather be shot; I hate tea, and silk, and spices, and
every sort of rubbish his old ships bring, and I don’t care how
soon they go to the bottom when I own them. Going to college
ought to satisfy him, for if I give him four years he ought to let
me off from the business; but he’s set, and I’ve got to do just as
he did, unless I break away and please myself, as my father did.
If there was any one left to stay with the old gentleman, I’d do
it to‑morrow.”
Laurie spoke excitedly, and looked ready to carry his threat
into execution on the slightest provocation; for he was growing
up very fast, and, in spite of his indolent ways, had a young
man’s hatred of subjection,—a young man’s restless longing to
try the world for himself.
“I advise you to sail away in one of your ships, and never come
home again till you have tried your own way,” said Jo, whose
imagination was fired by the thought of such a daring exploit,
and whose sympathy was excited by what she called “Teddy’s
wrongs.”
“That’s not right, Jo; you mustn’t talk in that way, and Laurie
mustn’t take your bad advice. You should do just what your
grandfather wishes, my dear boy,” said Meg, in her most maternal
tone. “Do your best at college, and, when he sees that you try to
please him, I’m sure he won’t be hard or unjust to you. As you
say, there is no one else to stay with and love him, and you’d
never forgive yourself if you left him without his permission.
Don’t be dismal, or fret, but do your duty; and you’ll get your
reward, as good Mr. Brooke has, by being respected and loved.”
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 Castles in the Air.
“What do you know about him?” asked Laurie, grateful for
the good advice, but objecting to the lecture, and glad to turn
the conversation from himself, after his unusual outbreak.
“Only what your grandpa told mother about him; how he
took good care of his own mother till she died, and wouldn’t go
abroad as tutor to some nice person, because he wouldn’t leave
her; and how he provides now for an old woman who nursed
his mother; and never tells any one, but is just as generous, and
patient, and good as he can be.”
“So he is, dear old fellow!” said Laurie, heartily, as Meg paused,
looking flushed and earnest, with her story. “It’s like grandpa
to find out all about him, without letting him know, and to
tell all his goodness to others, so that they might like him.
Brooke couldn’t understand why your mother was so kind to
him, asking him over with me, and treating him in her beautiful,
friendly way. He thought she was just perfect, and talked about
it for days and days, and went on about you all, in flaming style.
If ever I do get my wish, you see what I’ll do for Brooke.”
“Begin to do something now, by not plaguing his life out,”
said Meg, sharply.
“How do you know I do, miss?”
“I can always tell by his face, when he goes away. If you have
been good, he looks satisfied, and walks briskly; if you have
plagued him, he’s sober, and walks slowly, as if he wanted to go
back and do his work better.”
“Well, I like that! So you keep an account of my good and bad
marks in Brooke’s face, do you? I see him bow and smile as he
passes your window, but I didn’t know you’d got up a telegraph.”
“We haven’t; don’t be angry, and oh, don’t tell him I said
anything! It was only to show that I cared how you get on, and
what is said here is said in confidence, you know,” cried Meg,
much alarmed at the thought of what might follow from her
careless speech.
“I don’t tell tales,” replied Laurie, with his “high and mighty”
air, as Jo called a certain expression which he occasionally wore.
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 Little Women
“Only if Brooke is going to be a thermometer, I must mind and
have fair weather for him to report.”
“Please don’t be offended; I didn’t mean to preach or tell
tales, or be silly; I only thought Jo was encouraging you in a
feeling which you’d be sorry for, by and by. You are so kind to us,
we feel as if you were our brother, and say just what we think;
forgive me, I meant it kindly!” and Meg offered her hand with a
gesture both affectionate and timid.
Ashamed of his momentary pique, Laurie squeezed the kind
little hand, and said, frankly, “I’m the one to be forgiven; I’m
cross, and have been out of sorts all day. I like to have you tell
me my faults, and be sisterly; so don’t mind if I am grumpy
sometimes; I thank you all the same.”
Bent on showing that he was not offended, he made himself
as agreeable as possible; wound cotton for Meg, recited poetry
to please Jo, shook down cones for Beth, and helped Amy
with her ferns,—proving himself a fit person to belong to the
“Busy Bee Society.” In the midst of an animated discussion on
the domestic habits of turtles (one of which amiable creatures
having strolled up from the river), the faint sound of a bell
warned them that Hannah had put the tea “to draw,” and they
would just have time to get home to supper.
“May I come again?” asked Laurie.
“Yes, if you are good, and love your book, as the boys in the
primer are told to do,” said Meg, smiling.
“I’ll try.”
“Then you may come, and I’ll teach you to knit as the
Scotchmen do; there’s a demand for socks just now,” added Jo,
waving hers, like a big blue worsted banner, as they parted at
the gate.
That night, when Beth played to Mr. Laurence in the twilight,
Laurie, standing in the shadow of the curtain, listened to the
little David, whose simple music always quieted his moody
spirit, and watched the old man, who sat with his gray head
on his hand, thinking tender thoughts of the dead child he
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 Castles in the Air.
had loved so much. Remembering the conversation of the
afternoon, the boy said to himself, with the resolve to make the
sacrifice cheerfully, “I’ll let my castle go, and stay with the dear
old gentleman while he needs me, for I am all he has.”

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174
 Chapter XIV.

Secrets.

J o was very busy up in the garret, for the October days

began to grow chilly, and the afternoons were short. For two
or three hours the sun lay warmly in at the high window,
showing Jo seated on the old sofa writing busily, with her papers
spread out upon a trunk before her, while Scrabble, the pet rat,
promenaded the beams overhead, accompanied by his oldest
son, a fine young fellow, who was evidently very proud of his
whiskers. Quite absorbed in her work, Jo scribbled away till the
last page was filled, when she signed her name with a flourish,
and threw down her pen, exclaiming,—
“There, I’ve done my best! If this don’t suit I shall have to wait
till I can do better.”
Lying back on the sofa, she read the manuscript carefully
through, making dashes here and there, and putting in many
exclamation points, which looked like little balloons; then she
tied it up with a smart red ribbon, and sat a minute looking at
it with a sober, wistful expression, which plainly showed how
earnest her work had been. Jo’s desk up here was an old tin
kitchen, which hung against the wall. In it she kept her papers,
and a few books, safely shut away from Scrabble, who, being
likewise of a literary turn, was fond of making a circulating
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library of such books as were left in his way, by eating the leaves.
From this tin receptacle Jo produced another manuscript; and,
putting both in her pocket, crept quietly down stairs, leaving
her friends to nibble her pens and taste her ink.
She put on her hat and jacket as noiselessly as possible, and,
going to the back entry window, got out upon the roof of a
low porch, swung herself down to the grassy bank, and took a
roundabout way to the road. Once there she composed herself,
hailed a passing omnibus, and rolled away to town, looking
very merry and mysterious.
If any one had been watching her, he would have thought
her movements decidedly peculiar; for, on alighting, she went
off at a great pace till she reached a certain number in a certain
busy street; having found the place with some difficulty, she
went into the door‑way, looked up the dirty stairs, and, after
standing stock still a minute, suddenly dived into the street,
and walked away as rapidly as she came. This manœuvre she
repeated several times, to the great amusement of a black‑eyed
young gentleman lounging in the window of a building opposite.
On returning for the third time, Jo gave herself a shake, pulled
her hat over her eyes, and walked up the stairs, looking as if she
was going to have all her teeth out.
There was a dentist’s sign, among others, which adorned the
entrance, and, after staring a moment at the pair of artificial
jaws which slowly opened and shut to draw attention to a fine
set of teeth, the young gentleman put on his coat, took his
hat, and went down to post himself in the opposite door‑way,
saying, with a smile and a shiver,—
“It’s like her to come alone, but if she has a bad time she’ll
need some one to help her home.”
In ten minutes Jo came running down stairs with a very red
face, and the general appearance of a person who had just
passed through a trying ordeal of some sort. When she saw
the young gentleman she looked anything but pleased, and

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 Secrets.
passed him with a nod; but he followed, asking with an air of
sympathy,—
“Did you have a bad time?”
“Not very.”
“You got through quick.”
“Yes, thank goodness!”
“Why did you go alone?”
“Didn’t want any one to know.”
“You’re the oddest fellow I ever saw. How many did you have
out?”
Jo looked at her friend as if she did not understand him; then
began to laugh, as if mightily amused at something.
“There are two which I want to have come out, but I must
wait a week.”
“What are you laughing at? You are up to some mischief, Jo,”
said Laurie, looking mystified.
“So are you. What were you doing, sir, up in that billiard
saloon?”
“Begging your pardon, ma’am, it wasn’t a billiard saloon, but a
gymnasium, and I was taking a lesson in fencing.”
“I’m glad of that!”
“Why?”
“You can teach me; and then, when we play Hamlet, you can
be Laertes, and we’ll make a fine thing of the fencing scene.”
Laurie burst out with a hearty boy’s laugh, which made
several passers‑by smile in spite of themselves.
“I’ll teach you, whether we play Hamlet or not; it’s grand fun,
and will straighten you up capitally. But I don’t believe that was
your only reason for saying ‘I’m glad,’ in that decided way; was
it, now?”
“No, I was glad you were not in the saloon, because I hope
you never go to such places. Do you?”
“Not often.”
“I wish you wouldn’t.”

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“It’s no harm, Jo, I have billiards at home, but it’s no fun unless
you have good players; so, as I’m fond of it, I come sometimes
and have a game with Ned Moffat or some of the other fellows.”
“Oh dear, I’m so sorry, for you’ll get to liking it better and
better, and will waste time and money, and grow like those
dreadful boys. I did hope you’d stay respectable, and be a
satisfaction, to your friends,” said Jo, shaking her head.
“Can’t a fellow take a little innocent amusement now and
then without losing his respectability?” asked Laurie, looking
nettled.
“That depends upon how and where he takes it. I don’t like
Ned and his set, and wish you’d keep out of it. Mother won’t let
us have him at our house, though he wants to come, and if you
grow like him she won’t be willing to have us frolic together as
we do now.”
“Won’t she?” asked Laurie, anxiously.
“No, she can’t bear fashionable young men, and she’d shut us
all up in bandboxes rather than have us associate with them.”
“Well, she needn’t get out her bandboxes yet; I’m not a
fashionable party, and don’t mean to be; but I do like harmless
larks now and then, don’t you?”
“Yes, nobody minds them, so lark away, but don’t get wild,
will you? or there will be an end of all our good times.”
“I’ll be a double distilled saint.”
“I can’t bear saints; just be a simple, honest, respectable boy,
and we’ll never desert you. I don’t know what I should do if you
acted like Mr. King’s son; he had plenty of money, but didn’t
know how to spend it, and got tipsey, and gambled, and ran
away, and forged his father’s name, I believe, and was altogether
horrid.”
“You think I’m likely to do the same? Much obliged.”
“No I don’t—oh, dear, no!—but I hear people talking about
money being such a temptation, and I sometimes wish you
were poor; I shouldn’t worry then.”
“Do you worry about me, Jo?”
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 Secrets.
“A little, when you look moody or discontented, as you
sometimes do, for you’ve got such a strong will if you once get
started wrong, I’m afraid it would be hard to stop you.”
Laurie walked in silence a few minutes, and Jo watched him,
wishing she had held her tongue, for his eyes looked angry,
though his lips still smiled as if at her warnings.
“Are you going to deliver lectures all the way home?” he asked,
presently.
“Of course not; why?”
“Because if you are, I’ll take a ’bus; if you are not, I’d like to
walk with you, and tell you something very interesting.”
“I won’t preach any more, and I’d like to hear the news
immensely.”
“Very well, then; come on. It’s a secret, and if I tell you, you
must tell me yours.”
“I haven’t got any,” began Jo, but stopped suddenly,
remembering that she had.
“You know you have; you can’t hide anything, so up and ’fess,
or I won’t tell,” cried Laurie.
“Is your secret a nice one?”
“Oh, isn’t it! all about people you know, and such fun! You
ought to hear it, and I’ve been aching to tell this long time.
Come! you begin.”
“You’ll not say anything about it at home, will you?”
“Not a word.”
“And you won’t tease me in private?”
“I never tease.”
“Yes, you do; you get everything you want out of people. I
don’t know how you do it, but you are a born wheedler.”
“Thank you; fire away!”
“Well, I’ve left two stories with a newspaper man, and he’s to
give his answer next week,” whispered Jo, in her confidant’s ear.
“Hurrah for Miss March, the celebrated American authoress!”
cried Laurie, throwing up his hat and catching it again, to the

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great delight of two ducks, four cats, five hens, and half a dozen
Irish children; for they were out of the city now.
“Hush! it won’t come to anything, I dare say; but I couldn’t
rest till I had tried, and I said nothing about it, because I didn’t
want any one else to be disappointed.”
“It won’t fail! Why, Jo, your stories are works of Shakespeare
compared to half the rubbish that’s published every day. Won’t
it be fun to see them in print; and shan’t we feel proud of our
authoress?”
Jo’s eyes sparkled, for it’s always pleasant to be believed in;
and a friend’s praise is always sweeter than a dozen newspaper
puffs.
“Where’s your secret? Play fair, Teddy, or I’ll never believe you
again,” she said, trying to extinguish the brilliant hopes that
blazed up at a word of encouragement.
“I may get into a scrape for telling; but I didn’t promise not
to, so I will, for I never feel easy in my mind till I’ve told you any
plummy bit of news I get. I know where Meg’s glove is.”
“Is that all?” said Jo, looking disappointed, as Laurie nodded
and twinkled, with a face full of mysterious intelligence.
“It’s quite enough for the present, as you’ll agree when I tell
you where it is.”
“Tell, then.”
Laurie bent and whispered three words in Jo’s ear, which
produced a comical change. She stood and stared at him for a
minute, looking both surprised and displeased, then walked on,
saying sharply, “How do you know?”
“Saw it.”
“Where?”
“Pocket.”
“All this time?”
“Yes; isn’t that romantic?”
“No, it’s horrid.”
“Don’t you like it?”

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 Secrets.
“Of course I don’t; it’s ridiculous; it won’t be allowed. My
patience! what would Meg say?”
“You are not to tell any one; mind that.”
“I didn’t promise.”
“That was understood, and I trusted you.”
“Well, I won’t for the present, any‑way; but I’m disgusted, and
wish you hadn’t told me.”
“I thought you’d be pleased.”
“At the idea of anybody coming to take Meg away? No, thank
you.”
“You’ll feel better about it when somebody comes to take
you away.”
“I’d like to see any one try it,” cried Jo, fiercely.
“So should I!” and Laurie chuckled at the idea.
“I don’t think secrets agree with me; I feel rumpled up in my
mind since you told me that,” said Jo, rather ungratefully.
“Race down this hill with me, and you’ll be all right,” suggested
Laurie.
No one was in sight; the smooth road sloped invitingly
before her, and, finding the temptation irresistible, Jo darted
away, soon leaving hat and comb behind her, and scattering
hair‑pins as she ran. Laurie reached the goal first, and was quite
satisfied with the success of his treatment; for his Atlanta came
panting up with flying hair, bright eyes, ruddy cheeks, and no
signs of dissatisfaction in her face.
“I wish I was a horse; then I could run for miles in this splendid
air, and not lose my breath. It was capital; but see what a guy it’s
made me. Go, pick up my things, like a cherub as you are,” said
Jo, dropping down under a maple tree, which was carpeting the
bank with crimson leaves.
Laurie leisurely departed to recover the lost property, and
Jo bundled up her braids, hoping no one would pass by till she
was tidy again. But some one did pass, and who should it be but
Meg, looking particularly lady‑like in her state and festival suit,
for she had been making calls.
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“What in the world are you doing here?” she asked, regarding
her dishevelled sister with well‑bred surprise.
“Getting leaves,” meekly answered Jo, sorting the rosy handful
she had just swept up.
“And hair‑pins,” added Laurie, throwing half a dozen into Jo’s
lap. “They grow on this road, Meg; so do combs and brown
straw hats.”
“You have been running, Jo; how could you? When will you
stop such romping ways?” said Meg, reprovingly, as she settled
her cuffs and smoothed her hair, with which the wind had
taken liberties.
“Never till I’m stiff and old, and have to use a crutch. Don’t
try to make me grow up before my time, Meg; it’s hard enough
to have you change all of a sudden; let me be a little girl as long
as I can.”
As she spoke, Jo bent over her work to hide the trembling of
her lips; for lately she had felt that Margaret was fast getting to
be a woman, and Laurie’s secret made her dread the separation
which must surely come some time, and now seemed very near.
He saw the trouble in her face, and drew Meg’s attention from
it by asking, quickly, “Where have you been calling, all so fine?”
“At the Gardiners; and Sallie has been telling me all about
Belle Moffat’s wedding. It was very splendid, and they have
gone to spend the winter in Paris; just think how delightful that
must be!”
“Do you envy her, Meg?” said Laurie.
“I’m afraid I do.”
“I’m glad of it!” muttered Jo, tying on her hat with a jerk.
“Why?” asked Meg, looking surprised.
“Because, if you care much about riches, you will never go
and marry a poor man,” said Jo, frowning at Laurie, who was
mutely warning her to mind what she said.
“I shall never ‘go and marry’ any one,” observed Meg, walking
on with great dignity, while the others followed, laughing,
whispering, skipping stones, and “behaving like children,” as
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 Secrets.
Meg said to herself, though she might have been tempted to
join them if she had not had her best dress on.
For a week or two Jo behaved so queerly, that her sisters got
quite bewildered. She rushed to the door when the postman
rang; was rude to Mr. Brooke whenever they met; would sit
looking at Meg with a woe‑begone face, occasionally jumping
up to shake, and then to kiss her, in a very mysterious manner;
Laurie and she were always making signs to one another, and
talking about “Spread Eagles,” till the girls declared they had
both lost their wits. On the second Saturday after Jo got out
of the window, Meg, as she sat sewing at her window, was
scandalized by the sight of Laurie chasing Jo all over the garden,
and finally capturing her in Amy’s bower. What went on there,
Meg could not see, but shrieks of laughter were heard, followed
by the murmur of voices, and a great flapping of newspapers.
“What shall we do with that girl? She never will behave like
a young lady,” sighed Meg, as she watched the race with a
disapproving face.
“I hope she won’t; she is so funny and dear as she is,” said Beth,
who had never betrayed that she was a little hurt at Jo’s having
secrets with any one but her.
“It’s very trying, but we never can make her comme la fo,”
added Amy, who sat making some new frills for herself, with her
curls tied up in a very becoming way,—two agreeable things,
which made her feel unusually elegant and lady‑like.
In a few minutes Jo bounced in, laid herself on the sofa, and
affected to read.
“Have you anything interesting there?” asked Meg, with
condescension.
“Nothing but a story; don’t amount to much, I guess,” returned
Jo, carefully keeping the name of the paper out of sight.
“You’d better read it loud; that will amuse us, and keep you
out of mischief,” said Amy, in her most grown‑up tone.
“What’s the name?” asked Beth, wondering why Jo kept her
face behind the sheet.
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“The Rival Painters.”
“That sounds well; read it,” said Meg.
With a loud “hem!” and a long breath, Jo began to read very
fast. The girls listened with interest, for the tale was romantic,
and somewhat pathetic, as most of the characters died in the
end.
“I like that about the splendid picture,” was Amy’s approving
remark, as Jo paused.
“I prefer the lovering part. Viola and Angelo are two of our
favorite names; isn’t that queer?” said Meg, wiping her eyes, for
the “lovering part” was tragical.
“Who wrote it?” asked Beth, who had caught a glimpse of Jo’s
face.
The reader suddenly sat up, cast away the paper, displaying
a flushed countenance, and, with a funny mixture of solemnity
and excitement, replied in a loud voice, “Your sister!”
“You?” cried Meg, dropping her work.
“It’s very good,” said Amy, critically.
“I knew it! I knew it! oh, my Jo, I am so proud!” and Beth ran to
hug her sister and exult over this splendid success.
Dear me, how delighted they all were, to be sure; how Meg
wouldn’t believe it till she saw the words, “Miss Josephine
March,” actually printed in the paper; how graciously Amy
criticised the artistic parts of the story, and offered hints for
a sequel, which unfortunately couldn’t be carried out, as the
hero and heroine were dead; how Beth got excited, and skipped
and sung with joy; how Hannah came in to exclaim, “Sakes alive,
well I never!” in great astonishment at “that Jo’s doins;” how
proud Mrs. March was when she knew it; how Jo laughed, with
tears in her eyes, as she declared she might as well be a peacock
and done with it; and how the “Spread Eagle” might be said to
flap his wings triumphantly over the house of March, as the
paper passed from hand to hand.
“Tell us about it.” “When did it come?” “How much did you
get for it?” “What will father say?” “Won’t Laurie laugh?” cried
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 Secrets.
the family, all in one breath, as they clustered about Jo; for
these foolish, affectionate people made a jubilee of every little
household joy.
“Stop jabbering, girls, and I’ll tell you everything,” said Jo,
wondering if Miss Burney felt any grander over her “Evelina” than
she did over her “Rival Painters.” Having told how she disposed
of her tales, Jo added,—“And when I went to get my answer the
man said he liked them both, but didn’t pay beginners, only let
them print in his paper, and noticed the stories. It was good
practice, he said; and, when the beginners improved, any one
would pay. So I let him have the two stories, and today this was
sent to me, and Laurie caught me with it, and insisted on seeing
it, so I let him; and he said it was good, and I shall write more,
and he’s going to get the next paid for, and oh—I am so happy,
for in time I may be able to support myself and help the girls.”
Jo’s breath gave out here; and, wrapping her head in the
paper, she bedewed her little story with a few natural tears; for
to be independent, and earn the praise of those she loved, were
the dearest wishes of her heart, and this seemed to be the first
step toward that happy end.

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186
 Chapter XV.

A Telegram.

N
“ ovember is the most disagreeable month in the whole
year,” said Margaret, standing at the window one dull
afternoon, looking out at the frost‑bitten garden.
“That’s the reason I was born in it,” observed Jo, pensively,
quite unconscious of the blot on her nose.
“If something very pleasant should happen now, we should
think it a delightful month,” said Beth, who took a hopeful view
of everything, even November.
“I dare say; but nothing pleasant ever does happen in this
family,” said Meg, who was out of sorts. “We go grubbing along
day after day, without a bit of change, and very little fun. We
might as well be in a tread‑mill.”
“My patience, how blue we are!” cried Jo. “I don’t much wonder,
poor dear, for you see other girls having splendid times, while
you grind, grind, year in and year out. Oh, don’t I wish I could fix
things for you as I do for my heroines! you’re pretty enough and
good enough already, so I’d have some rich relation leave you a
fortune unexpectedly; then you’d dash out as an heiress, scorn
every one who has slighted you, go abroad, and come home my
Lady Something, in a blaze of splendor and elegance.”

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“People don’t have fortunes left them in that style now‑a‑days;
men have to work, and women to marry for money. It’s a
dreadfully unjust world,” said Meg, bitterly.
“Jo and I are going to make fortunes for you all; just wait ten
years, and see if we don’t,” said Amy, who sat in a corner making
“mud pies,” as Hannah called her little clay models of birds, fruit
and faces.
“Can’t wait, and I’m afraid I haven’t much faith in ink and dirt,
though I’m grateful for your good intentions.”
Meg sighed, and turned to the frost‑bitten garden again; Jo
groaned, and leaned both elbows on the table in a despondent
attitude, but Amy spatted away energetically; and Beth, who
sat at the other window, said, smiling, “Two pleasant things
are going to happen right away; Marmee is coming down the
street, and Laurie is tramping through the garden as if he had
something nice to tell.”
In they both came, Mrs. March with her usual question, “Any
letter from father, girls?” and Laurie to say, in his persuasive way,
“Won’t some of you come for a drive? I’ve been pegging away
at mathematics till my head is in a muddle, and I’m going to
freshen my wits by a brisk turn. It’s a dull day, but the air isn’t
bad, and I’m going to take Brooke home, so it will be gay inside,
if it isn’t out. Come, Jo, you and Beth will go, won’t you?”
“Of course we will.”
“Much obliged, but I’m busy;” and Meg whisked out her
work‑basket, for she had agreed with her mother that it was best,
for her at least, not to drive often with the young gentleman.
“We three will be ready in a minute,” cried Amy, running away
to wash her hands.
“Can I do anything for you, Madam Mother?” asked Laurie,
leaning over Mrs. March’s chair, with the affectionate look and
tone he always gave her.
“No, thank you, except call at the office, if you’ll be so kind,
dear. It’s our day for a letter, and the penny postman hasn’t

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 A Telegram.
been. Father is as regular as the sun, but there’s some delay on
the way, perhaps.”
A sharp ring interrupted her, and a minute after Hannah
came in with a letter.
“It’s one of them horrid telegraph things, mum,” she said,
handing it as if she was afraid it would explode, and do some
damage.
At the word “telegraph,” Mrs. March snatched it, read the two
lines it contained, and dropped back into her chair as white as
if the little paper had sent a bullet to her heart. Laurie dashed
down stairs for water, while Meg and Hannah supported her,
and Jo read aloud, in a frightened voice,—

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

How still the room was as they listened breathlessly! how

strangely the day darkened outside! and how suddenly the
whole world seemed to change, as the girls gathered about
their mother, feeling as if all the happiness and support of their
lives was about to be taken from them. Mrs. March was herself
again directly; read the message over, and stretched out her
arms to her daughters, saying, in a tone they never forgot, “I
shall go at once, but it may be too late; oh, children, children!
help me to bear it!”
For several minutes there was nothing but the sound of
sobbing in the room, mingled with broken words of comfort,
tender assurances of help, and hopeful whispers, that died
away in tears. Poor Hannah was the first to recover, and with
unconscious wisdom she set all the rest a good example; for,
with her, work was the panacea for most afflictions.
“The Lord keep the dear man! I won’t waste no time a cryin’,
but git your things ready right away, mum,” she said, heartily,
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 Little Women
as she wiped her face on her apron, gave her mistress a warm
shake of the hand with her own hard one, and went away to
work, like three women in one.
“She’s right; there’s no time for tears now. Be calm, girls, and
let me think.”
They tried to be calm, poor things, as their mother sat up,
looking pale, but steady, and put away her grief to think and
plan for them.
“Where’s Laurie?” she asked presently, when she had collected
her thoughts, and decided on the first duties to be done.
“Here, ma’am; oh, let me do something!” cried the boy, hurrying
from the next room, whither he had withdrawn, feeling that
their first sorrow was too sacred for even his friendly eyes to see.
“Send a telegram saying I will come at once. The next train
goes early in the morning; I’ll take that.”
“What else? The horses are ready; I can go anywhere,—do
anything,” he said, looking ready to fly to ends of the earth.
“Leave a note at Aunt March’s. Jo, give me that pen and paper.”
Tearing off the blank side of one of her newly‑copied pages,
Jo drew the table before her mother, well knowing that money
for the long, sad journey, must be borrowed, and feeling as if
she could do anything to add a little to the sum for her father.
“Now go, dear; but don’t kill yourself driving at a desperate
pace; there is no need of that.”
Mrs. March’s warning was evidently thrown away; for five
minutes later Laurie tore by the window, on his own fleet horse,
riding as if for his life.
“Jo, run to the rooms, and tell Mrs. King that I can’t come.
On the way get these things. I’ll put them down; they’ll be
needed, and I must go prepared for nursing. Hospital stores are
not always good. Beth, go and ask Mr. Laurence for a couple of
bottles of old wine; I’m not too proud to beg for father; he shall
have the best of everything. Amy, tell Hannah to get down the
black trunk; and Meg, come and held me find my things, for I’m
half bewildered.”
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 A Telegram.
Writing, thinking, and directing all at once, might well
bewilder the poor lady, and Meg begged her to sit quietly in her
room for a little while, and let them work. Every one scattered,
like leaves before a gust of wind; and the quiet, happy household
was broken up as suddenly as if the paper had been an evil spell.
Mr. Laurence came hurrying back with Beth, bringing every
comfort the kind old gentleman could think of for the invalid,
and friendliest promises of protection for the girls, during the
mother’s absence, which comforted her very much. There was
nothing he didn’t offer, from his own dressing‑gown to himself
as escort. But that last was impossible. Mrs. March would not
hear of the old gentleman’s undertaking the long journey; yet an
expression of relief was visible when he spoke of it, for anxiety ill
fits one for travelling. He saw the look, knit his heavy eyebrows,
rubbed his hands, and marched abruptly away, saying he’d be
back directly. No one had time to think of him again till, as Meg
ran through the entry, with a pair of rubbers in one hand and
a cup of tea in the other, she came suddenly upon Mr. Brooke.
“I’m very sorry to hear of this, Miss March,” he said, in the kind,
quiet tone which sounded very pleasantly to her perturbed
spirit. “I came to offer myself as escort to your mother. Mr.
Laurence has commissions for me in Washington, and it will
give me real satisfaction to be of service to her there.”
Down dropped the rubbers, and the tea was very near
following, as Meg put out her hand, with a face so full of
gratitude, that Mr. Brooke would have felt repaid for a much
greater sacrifice than the trifling one of time and comfort,
which he was about to make.
“How kind you all are! Mother will accept, I’m sure; and it will
be such a relief to know that she has some one to take care of
her. Thank you very, very much!”
Meg spoke earnestly, and forgot herself entirely till something
in the brown eyes looking down at her made her remember the
cooling tea, and lead the way into the parlor, saying she would
call her mother.
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 Little Women
Everything was arranged by the time Laurie returned with
a note from Aunt March, enclosing the desired sum, and a
few lines repeating what she had often said before, that she
had always told them it was absurd for March to go into the
army, always predicted that no good would come of it, and she
hoped they would take her advice next time. Mrs. March put
the note in the fire, the money in her purse, and went on with
her preparations, with her lips folded tightly, in a way which Jo
would have understood if she had been there.
The short afternoon wore away; all the other errands were
done, and Meg and her mother busy at some necessary
needle‑work, while Beth and Amy got tea, and Hannah finished
her ironing with what she called a “slap and a bang,” but still
Jo did not come. They began to get anxious; and Laurie went
off to find her, for no one ever knew what freak Jo might take
into her head. He missed her, however, and “she came walking
in with a very queer expression of countenance, for there was
a mixture of fun and fear, satisfaction and regret in it, which
puzzled the family as much as did the roll of bills she laid before
her mother, saying, with a little choke in her voice, “That’s my
contribution towards making father comfortable, and bringing
him home!”
“My dear, where did you get it! Twenty‑five dollars! Jo, I hope
you haven’t done anything rash?”
“No, it’s mine honestly; I didn’t beg, borrow, nor steal it. I
earned it; and I don’t think you’ll blame me, for I only sold what
was my own.”
As she spoke, Jo took off her bonnet, and a general outcry
arose, for all her abundant hair was cut short.
“Your hair! Your beautiful hair!” “Oh,Jo, how could you? Your
one beauty.” “My dear girl, there was no need of this.” “She don’t
look like my Jo any more, but I love her dearly for it!”
As every one exclaimed, and Beth hugged the cropped head
tenderly, Jo assumed an indifferent air, which did not deceive
any one a particle, and said, rumpling up the brown bush, and
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 A Telegram.
trying to look as if she liked it, “It doesn’t affect the fate of the
nation, so don’t wail, Beth. It will be good for my vanity; I was
getting too proud of my wig. It will do my brains good to have
that mop taken off; my head feels deliciously light and cool,
and the barber said I could soon have a curly crop, which will
be boyish, becoming, and easy to keep in order. I’m satisfied; so
please take the money, and let’s have supper.”
“Tell me all about it, Jo; I am not quite satisfied, but I can’t
blame you, for I know how willingly you sacrificed your vanity,
as you call it, to your love. But, my dear, it was not necessary,
and I’m afraid you will regret it, one of these days,” said Mrs.
March.
“No I won’t!” returned Jo, stoutly, feeling much relieved that
her prank was not entirely condemned.
“What made you do it?” asked Amy, who would as soon have
thought of cutting off her head as her pretty hair.
“Well, I was wild to do something for father, replied Jo, as
they gathered about the table, for healthy young people can
eat even in the midst of trouble. “I hate to borrow as much as
mother does, and I knew Aunt March would croak; she always
does, if you ask for a ninepence. Meg gave all her quarterly
salary toward the rent, and I only got some clothes with mine,
so I felt wicked, and was bound to have some money, if I sold
the nose off my face to get it.”
“You needn’t feel wicked, my child, you had no winter things,
and got the simplest, with your own hard earnings,” said Mrs.
March, with a look that warmed Jo’s heart.
“I hadn’t the least idea of selling my hair at first, but as I went
along I kept thinking what I could do, and feeling as if I’d like to
dive into some of the rich stores and help myself. In a barber’s
window I saw tails of hair with the prices marked; and one black
tail, longer, but not so thick as mine, was forty dollars. It came
over me all of a sudden that I had one thing to make money
out of, and, without stopping to think, I walked in, asked if they
bought hair, and what they would give for mine.”
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 Little Women
“I don’t see how you dared to do it,” said Beth, in a tone of
awe.
“Oh, he was a little man who looked as if he merely lived to oil
his hair. He rather stared, at first, as if he wasn’t used to having
girls bounce into his shop and ask him to buy their hair. He said
he didn’t care about mine, it wasn’t the fashionable color, and
he never paid much for it in the first place; the work put into
it made it dear, and so on. It was getting late, and I was afraid,
if it wasn’t done right away, that I shouldn’t have it done at all,
and you know, when I start to do a thing, I hate to give it up; so
I begged him to take it, and told him why I was in such a hurry.
It was silly, I dare say, but it changed his mind, for I got rather
excited, and told the story in my topsy‑turvy way, and his wife
heard, and said so kindly,”—
“‘Take it, Thomas, and oblige the young lady; I’d do as much
for our Jimmy any day if I had a spire of hair worth selling.’”
“Who was Jimmy?” asked Amy, who liked to have things
explained as they went along.
“Her son, she said, who is in the army. How friendly such
things make strangers feel, don’t they? She talked away all the
time the man clipped, and diverted my mind nicely.”
“Didn’t you feel dreadfully when the first cut came?” asked
Meg, with a shiver.
“I took a last look at my hair while the man got his things,
and that was the end of it. I never snivel over trifles like that;
I will confess, though, I felt queer when I saw the dear old hair
laid out on the table, and felt only the short, rough ends on my
head. It almost seemed as if I’d an arm or a leg off. The woman
saw me look at it, and picked out a long lock for me to keep.
I’ll give it to you, Marmee, just to remember past glories by; for
a crop is so comfortable I don’t think I shall ever have a mane
again.”
Mrs. March folded the wavy, chestnut lock, and laid it away
with a short gray one in her desk. She only said “Thank you,
deary,” but something in her face made the girls change the
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 A Telegram.
subject, and talk as cheerfully as they could about Mr. Brooke’s
kindness, the prospect of a fine day to‑morrow, and the happy
times they would have when father came home to be nursed.
No one wanted to go to bed, when, at ten o’clock, Mrs.
March put by the last finished job, and said, “Come, girls.” Beth
went to the piano and played the father’s favorite hymn; all
began bravely, but broke down one by one till Beth was left
alone, singing with all her heart, for to her music was always a
sweet consoler.
“Go to bed, and don’t talk, for we must be up early, and shall
need all the sleep we can get. Good‑night, my darlings,” said
Mrs. March, as the hymn ended, for no one cared to try another.
They kissed her quietly, and went to bed as silently as if the
dear invalid lay in the next room. Beth and Amy soon. fell
asleep in spite of the great trouble, but Meg lay awake thinking
the most serious thoughts she had ever known in her short life.
Jo lay motionless, and her sister fancied that she was asleep, till
a stifled sob made her exclaim, as she touched a wet cheek,—
“Jo, dear, what is it? Are you crying about father?”
“No, not now.”
“What then?”
“My—my hair,” burst out poor Jo, trying vainly to smother her
emotion in the pillow.
It did not sound at all comical to Meg, who kissed and
caressed the afflicted heroine in the tenderest manner.
“I’m not sorry,” protested Jo, with a choke. “I’d do it again
to‑morrow, if I could. It’s only the vain, selfish part of me that
goes and cries in this silly way. Don’t tell any one, it’s all over
now. I thought you were asleep, so I just made a little private
moan for my one beauty. How came you to be awake?” “I can’t
sleep, I’m so anxious,” said Meg.
“Think about something pleasant, and you’ll soon drop off.”
“I tried it, but felt wider awake than ever.”
“What did you think of?”

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 Little Women
“Handsome faces; eyes particularly,” answered Meg smilingly,
to herself, in the dark.
“What color do you like best?”
“Brown—that is sometimes—blue are lovely.”
Jo laughed, and Meg sharply ordered her not to talk, then
amiably promised to make her hair curl, and fell asleep to
dream of living in her castle in the air.
The clocks were striking midnight, and the rooms were very
still, as a figure glided quietly from bed to bed, smoothing a
coverlid here, setting a pillow there, and pausing to look long
and tenderly at each unconscious face, to kiss each with lips
that mutely blessed, and to pray the fervent prayers which only
mothers utter. As she lifted the curtain to look out into the
dreary night, the moon broke suddenly from behind the clouds,
and shone upon her like a bright benignant face, which seemed
to whisper in the silence, “Be comforted, dear heart! there is
always light behind the clouds.”

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 Chapter XVI.

Letters.

I n the cold gray dawn the sisters lit their lamp, and read their
chapter with an earnestness never felt before, for now the
shadow of a real trouble had come, showing them how rich
in sunshine their lives had been. The little books were full of
help and comfort; and, as they dressed, they agreed to say
good‑by cheerfully, hopefully, and send their mother on her
anxious journey unsaddened by tears or complaints from them.
Everything seemed very strange when they went down; so dim
and still outside, so full of light and bustle within. Breakfast at
that early hour seemed odd, and even Hannah’s familiar face
looked unnatural as she flew about her kitchen with her night
cap on. The big trunk stood ready in the hall, mother’s cloak
and bonnet lay on the sofa, and mother herself sat trying to eat,
but looking so pale and worn with sleeplessness and anxiety,
that the girls found it very hard to keep their resolution. Meg’s
eyes kept filling in spite of herself; Jo was obliged to hide her
face in the kitchen roller more than once, and the little girls’
young faces wore a grave, troubled expression, as if sorrow was
a new experience to them.
Nobody talked much, but, as the time drew very near, and
they sat waiting for the carriage, Mrs. March said to the girls,
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 Little Women
who were all busied about her, one folding her shawl, another
smoothing out the strings of her bonnet, a third putting on her
overshoes, and a fourth fastening up her travelling bag,—
“Children, I leave you to Hannah’s care, and Mr. Laurence’s
protection; Hannah is faithfulness itself, and our good neighbor
will guard you as if you were his own. I have no fears for you, yet
I am anxious that you should take this trouble rightly. Don’t
grieve and fret when I am gone, or think that you can comfort
yourselves by being idle, and trying to forget. Go on with your
work as usual, for work is a blessed solace. Hope, and keep
busy; and, whatever happens, remember that you never can be
fatherless.”
“Yes, mother.”
“Meg dear, be prudent, watch over your sisters, consult
Hannah, and, in any perplexity, go to Mr. Laurence. Be patient,
Jo, don’t get despondent, or do rash things; write to me often,
and be my brave girl, ready to help and cheer us all. Beth,
comfort yourself with your music, and be faithful to the little
home duties; and you, Amy, help all you can, be obedient, and
keep happy safe at home.”
“We will, mother! we will!”
The rattle of an approaching carriage made them all start and
listen. That was the hard minute, but the girls stood it well; no
one cried, no one ran away, or uttered a lamentation, though
their hearts were very heavy as they sent loving messages to
father, remembering, as they spoke, that it might be too late
to deliver them. They kissed their mother quietly, clung about
her tenderly, and tried to wave their hands cheerfully, when she
drove away.
Laurie and his grandfather came over to see her off, and Mr.
Brooke looked so strong, and sensible, and kind, that the girls
christened him “Mr. Greatheart,” on the spot.
“Good‑by, my darlings! God bless and keep us all,” whispered
Mrs. March, as she kissed one dear little face after the other,
and hurried into the carriage.
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 Letters.
As she rolled away, the sun came out, and, looking back, she
saw it shining on the group at the gate, like a good omen. They
saw it also, and smiled and waved their hands; and the last thing
she beheld, as she turned the corner, was the four bright faces,
and behind them, like a body‑guard, old Mr. Laurence, faithful
Hannah, and devoted Laurie.
“How kind every one is to us,” she said, turning to find fresh
proof of it in the respectful sympathy of the young man’s face.
“I don’t see how they can help it,” returned Mr. Brooke,
laughing so infectiously that Mrs. March could not help
smiling; and so the long journey began with the good omens of
sunshine, smiles, and cheerful words.
“I feel as if there had been an earthquake,” said Jo, as their
neighbors went home to breakfast, leaving them to rest and
refresh themselves.
“It seems as if half the house was gone,” added Meg, forlornly.
Beth opened her lips to say something, but could only point
to the pile of nicely‑mended hose which lay on mother’s table,
showing that even in her last hurried moments she had thought
and worked for them. It was a little thing, but it went straight
to their hearts; and, in spite of their brave resolutions, they all
broke down, and cried bitterly.
Hannah wisely allowed them to relieve their feelings; and,
when the shower showed signs of clearing up, she came to the
rescue, armed with a coffee‑pot.
“Now, my dear young ladies, remember what your ma said,
and don’t fret; come and have a cup of coffee all round, and
then let’s fall to work, and be a credit to the family.”
Coffee was a treat, and Hannah showed great tact in making
it that morning. No one could resist her persuasive nods, or
the fragrant invitation issuing from the nose of the coffee‑pot.
They drew up to the table, exchanged their handkerchiefs for
napkins, and, in ten minutes, were all right again.
“‘Hope and keep busy;’ that’s the motto for us, so let’s see
who will remember it best. I shall go to Aunt March, as usual;
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 Little Women
oh, won’t she lecture, though!” said Jo, as she sipped, with
returning spirit.
“I shall go to my Kings, though I’d much rather stay at home
and attend to things here,” said Meg, wishing she hadn’t made
her eyes so red.
“No need of that; Beth and I can keep house perfectly well,”
put in Amy, with an important air.
“Hannah will tell us what to do; and we’ll have everything
nice when you come home,” added Beth, getting out her mop
and dish‑tub without delay.
“I think anxiety is very interesting,” observed Amy, eating
sugar, pensively.
The girls couldn’t help laughing, and felt better for it,
though Meg shook her head at the young lady who could find
consolation in a sugar‑bowl.
The sight of the turn‑overs made Jo sober again; and, when
the two went out to their daily tasks, they looked sorrowfully
back at the window where they were accustomed to see their
mother’s face. It was gone; but Beth had remembered the little
household ceremony, and there she was, nodding away at them
like a rosy‑faced mandarin.
“That’s so like my Beth!” said Jo, waving her hat, with a grateful
face. “Good‑by, Meggy; I hope the Kings won’t train to‑day.
Don’t fret about father, dear,” she added, as they parted.
“And I hope Aunt March won’t croak. Your hair is becoming,
and it looks very boyish and nice,” returned Meg, trying not to
smile at the curly head, which looked comically small on her
tall sister’s shoulders.
“That’s my only comfort;” and, touching her hat à la Laurie,
away went Jo, feeling like a shorn sheep on a wintry day.
News from their father comforted the girls very much; for,
though dangerously ill, the presence of the best and tenderest
of nurses had already done him good. Mr. Brooke sent a bulletin
every day, and, as the head of the family, Meg insisted on
reading the despatches, which grew more and more cheering
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 Letters.
as the week passed. At first, every one was eager to write, and
plump envelopes were carefully poked into the letter‑box, by
one or other of the sisters, who felt rather important with
their Washington correspondence. As one of these packets
contained characteristic notes from the party, we will rob an
imaginary mail, and read them:—

“My Dearest Mother,—

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

This note, prettily written on scented paper, was a great

contrast to the next, which was scribbled on a big sheet of

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 Little Women
thin, foreign paper, ornamented with blots, and all manner of
flourishes and curly‑tailed letters:—

“My Precious Marmee,—

“Three cheers for dear old 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 ’em, for every one is so desperately good, it’s like
living in a nest of turtle‑doves. 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 others 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 the lovingest hug that ever was, and kiss yourself a
dozen times, for your
“Topsy‑Turvy Jo.

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 Letters.
“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 busily 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
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 Little Women
Leal’ now; it makes me cry. Every one 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 buck wheats 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 goin 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
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 Letters.
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
about 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 up the girls, and so I let em
hev full swing. The old man 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 II.:

“All serene on the Rappahannock, troops in fine condition,
commissary department well conducted, the Home Guard
under Colonel Teddy always on duty, Commander‑in‑chief
General Laurence reviews the army daily, Quartermaster
Mullett 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 head‑quarters. 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, guards pretty Meg like a dragon.
Glad the fine weather holds; pray make Brooke useful, and
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 Little Women
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.”

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 Chapter XVII.

Little Faithful.

F or a week the amount of virtue in the old house would

have supplied the neighborhood. It was really amazing,
for every one 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 the 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 neglecting 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 to the sofa to nurse her cold with
arsenicum and books. Amy found that house‑work and art did
not go well together, and returned to her mud pies. Meg went
daily to her kingdom, and sewed, or thought she did, at home,
but much time was spent in writing long letters to her mother,
or reading the Washington despatches 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
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 Little Women
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 certain
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 every one 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 most well.”
“It’s well enough for me to go out with Laurie, but not well
enough to go 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. Hummell 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
to‑morrow.
“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 story.”
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 Little Faithful.
“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.
“Well, I’ll rest a little, and wait for her.”
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 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 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 lap 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 that 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 it 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?”
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“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 got 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’re 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 nave 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 Jo that there was no need to worry; every
one had scarlet fever, and, if rightly treated, nobody died; all of

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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,”
said 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.

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“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 this 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 don’t 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 clever 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 theatre, truly?”
“A dozen theatres, if we may.”
“Well—I guess—I will,” said Amy, slowly.
“Good girl! Sing out for 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.
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 Little Faithful.
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 sort of way. “No sooner do we get out of one trouble
than down comes another. There don’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
don’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 of 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
thought she would have it lightly, though he looked sober over
the Hummel story. Amy was ordered off at once, and provided

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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 bays 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, good‑by, good‑by!”
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 rattle‑pated boy like—”
“Hold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird!” cried Polly,
tumbling off the chair with a bounce, and running to peck the
“rattle‑pated” 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.

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

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216
 Chapter XVIII.

Dark Days.

B eth did have the fever, and was much sicker than any one
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 all 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 round 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
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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 the 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. Every one missed Beth. The milk‑man,
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 protégé.
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
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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 a minute,
and laid it gently down, saying, in a low tone, 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, after 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 tragical 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.
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“Yes, it is; she don’t know us, she don’t even talk about the
flocks of green doves, as she calls the vine leaves on the wall;
she don’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 lots, Jo. Soon
your mother will be here, and then everything will be 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.
“Don’t Meg pull fair?” asked Laurie, looking indignant.
“Oh, yes; she tries to, but she don’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
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 Dark Days.
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 in my bill, by and by; and to‑night 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 to‑night, 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
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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 ‘marmed
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 like 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
rather a neat thing of it.

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 Dark Days.
“That’s the interferingest chap I ever see; but I forgive him,
and do hope Mrs. March is coming on 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 sick room 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 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 anxious countenance as she entered; Laurie lay on
the rug, pretending to rest, but staring into the fire with the

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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 poor 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!”
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 Dark Days.
As if waked 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
to‑morrow 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.

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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!”

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 Chapter XIX.

Amy’s Will.

W hile 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 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 childrens’ 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 most to death 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 in hand, and taught her as
she herself had been taught sixty years ago; a process which

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carried dismay to Amy’s soul, and made her feel like a fly in the
web of a very strict spider.
She had to wash the cups every morning, and polish up the
old‑fashioned spoons, the fat silver teapot, and the glasses, till
they shone. Then she must dust the room, and what a trying
job that was! Not a speck escaped Aunt March’s eye, and all
the furniture had claw legs, and much carving, which was never
dusted to suit. Then Polly must be fed, the lap‑dog combed,
and a dozen trips upstairs and down, to get things or deliver
orders, for the old lady was very lame, and seldom left her
big chair. After these tiresome labors she must do her lessons,
which was a daily trial of every virtue she possessed. Then she
was allowed one hour for exercise or play, and didn’t she enjoy
it? Laurie came every day, and wheedled Aunt March till Amy
was allowed to go out with him, when they walked and rode,
and had capital times. After dinner she had to read aloud, and
sit still while the old lady slept, which she usually did for an
hour, as she dropped off over the first page. Then patch‑work
or towels appeared, and Amy sewed with outward meekness
and inward rebellion till dusk, when she was allowed to amuse
herself as she liked, till tea‑time. The evenings were the worst of
all, for Aunt March fell to telling long stories about her youth,
which were so unutterably. dull, that Amy was always ready to
go to bed, intending to cry over her hard fate, but usually going
to sleep before she had squeezed out more than a tear or two.
If it had not been for Laurie and old Esther, the maid, she felt
that she never could have got through that dreadful time. The
parrot alone was enough to drive her distracted, for he soon
felt that she did not admire him, and revenged himself by being
as mischievous as possible. He pulled her hair whenever she
came near him, upset his bread and milk to plague her when
she had newly cleaned his cage, made Mop bark by pecking at
him while Madame dozed; called her names before company,
and behaved in all respects like a reprehensible old bird. Then
she could not endure the dog, a fat, cross beast, who snarled
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 Amy’s Will.
and yelped at her when she made his toilet, and who laid on
his back with all his legs in the air, and a most idiotic expression
of countenance, when he wanted something to eat, which was
about a dozen times a day. The cook was bad‑tempered, the
old coachman deaf, and Esther the only one who ever took any
notice of the young lady.
Esther was a French woman, who had lived with “Madame,”
as she called her mistress, for many years, and who rather
tyrannized over the old lady, who could not get along without
her. Her real name was Estelle; but Aunt March ordered her to
change it, and she obeyed, on condition that she was never
asked to change her religion. She took a fancy to Mademoiselle,
and amused her very much, with odd stories of her life in France,
when Amy sat with her while she got up Madame’s laces. She
also allowed her to roam about the great house, and examine
the curious and pretty things stored away in the big wardrobes
and the ancient chests; for Aunt March hoarded like a magpie.
Amy’s chief delight was an Indian cabinet full of queer drawers,
little pigeonholes, and secret places in which were kept all sorts
of ornaments, some precious, some merely curious, all more or
less antique. To examine and arrange these things gave Amy
great satisfaction, especially the jewel cases; in which, on velvet
cushions, reposed the ornaments which had adorned a belle
forty years ago. There was the garnet set which Aunt March
wore when she came out, the pearls her father gave her on
her wedding day, her lover’s diamonds, the jet mourning rings
and pins, the queer lockets, with portraits of dead friends, and
weeping willows made of hair inside, the baby bracelets her one
little daughter had worn; Uncle March’s big watch, with the red
seal so many childish hands had played with, and in a box, all
by itself, lay Aunt March’s wedding ring, too small now for her
fat finger, but put carefully away, like the most precious jewel
of them all.

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“Which would Mademoiselle choose if she had her will?”
asked Esther, who always sat near to watch over and lock up
the valuables.
“I like the diamonds best, but there is no necklace among
them, and I’m fond of necklaces, they are so becoming. I
should choose this if I might,” replied Amy, looking with great
admiration at a string of gold and ebony beads, from which
hung a heavy cross of the same.
“I, too, covet that, but not as a necklace; ah, no! to me it is
a rosary, and as such I should use it like a good Catholic,” said
Esther, eyeing the handsome thing wistfully.
“Is it meant to use as you use the string of good‑smelling
wooden beads hanging over your glass?” asked Amy.
“Truly, yes, to pray with. It would be pleasing to the saints if
one used so fine a rosary as this, instead of wearing it as a vain
bijou.”
“You seem to take a deal of comfort in your prayers, Esther,
and always come down looking quiet and satisfied. I wish I
could.”
“If Mademoiselle was a Catholic, she would find true comfort;
but, as that is not to be, it would be well if you went apart each
day to meditate, and pray, as did the good mistress whom I
served before Madame. She had a little chapel, and in it found
solacement for much trouble.”
“Would it be right for me to do so too?” asked Amy, who, in
her loneliness, felt the need of help of some sort, and found
that she was apt to forget her little book, now that Beth was
not there to remind her of it.
“It would be excellent and charming; and I shall gladly arrange
the little dressing‑room for you, if you like it. Say nothing to
Madame, but when she sleeps go you and sit alone a while to
think good thoughts, and ask the dear God to preserve your
sister.”
Esther was truly pious, and quite sincere in her advice; for she
had an affectionate heart, and felt much for the sisters in their
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anxiety. Amy liked the idea, and gave her leave to arrange the
light closet next her room; hoping it would do her good.
“I wish I knew where all these pretty things would go when
Aunt March dies,” she said, as she slowly replaced the shining
rosary, and shut the jewel cases one by one.
“To you and your sisters. I know it; Madame confides in me; I
witnessed her will, and it is to be so,” whispered Esther, smiling.
“How nice! but I wish she’d let us have them now.
Pro‑cras‑ti‑nation is not agreeable,” observed Amy, taking a last
look at the diamonds.
“It is too soon yet for the young ladies to wear these things.
The first one who is affianced will have the pearls—Madame
has said it; and I have a fancy that the little turquoise ring will
be given to you when you go, for Madame approves your good
behavior and charming manners.”
“Do you think so? Oh, I’ll be a lamb, if I can only have that
lovely ring! It’s ever so much prettier than Kitty Bryant’s. I do
like Aunt March, after all;” and Amy tried on the blue ring with
a delighted face, and a firm resolve to earn it.
From that day she was a model of obedience, and the old
lady complacently admired the success of her training. Esther
fitted up the closet with a little table, placed a footstool before
it, and over it a picture, taken from one of the shut‑up rooms.
She thought it was of no great value, but, being appropriate, she
borrowed it, well knowing that Madame would never know it,
nor care if she did. It was, however, a very valuable copy of one
of the famous pictures of the world, and Amy’s beauty‑loving
eyes were never tired of looking up at the sweet face of the
divine mother, while tender thoughts of her own were busy
at her heart. On the table she laid her little Testament and
hymn‑book, kept a vase always full of the best flowers Laurie
brought her, and came every day to “sit alone, thinking good
thoughts, and praying the dear God to preserve her sister.”
Esther had given her a rosary of black beads, with a silver cross,

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but Amy hung it up, and did not use it, feeling doubtful as to its
fitness for Protestant prayers.
The little girl was very sincere in all this, for, being left alone
outside the safe home‑nest, she felt the need of some kind
hand to hold by so sorely, that she instinctively turned to the
strong and tender Friend, whose fatherly love most closely
surrounds His little children. She missed her mother’s help to
understand and rule herself, but having been taught where to
look, she did her best to find the way, and walk in it confidingly.
But Amy was a young pilgrim, and just now her burden seemed
very heavy. She tried to forget herself, to keep cheerful, and be
satisfied with doing right, though no one saw or praised her
for it. In her first effort at being very, very good, she decided to
make her will, as Aunt March had done; so that if she did fall ill
and die, her possessions might be justly and generously divided.
It cost her a pang even to think of giving up the little treasures
which in her eyes were as precious as the old lady’s jewels.
During one of her play hours she wrote out the important
document as well as she could, with some help from Esther
as to certain legal terms; and, when the good‑natured French
woman had signed her name, Amy felt relieved, and laid it by
to show Laurie, whom she wanted as a second witness. As it
was a rainy day, she went upstairs to amuse herself in one of
the large chambers, and took Polly with her for company. In
this room there was a wardrobe full of old‑fashioned costumes,
with which Esther allowed her to play, and it was her favorite
amusement to array herself in the faded brocades, and parade
up and down before the long mirror, making stately courtesies,;
and sweeping her train about, with a rustle which delighted
her ears. So busy was she on this day, that she did not hear
Laurie’s ring, nor see his face peeping in at her, as she gravely
promenaded to and fro, flirting her fan and tossing her head,
on which she wore a great pink turban, contrasting oddly with
her blue brocade dress and yellow quilted petticoat. She was
obliged to walk carefully, for she had on high‑heeled shoes, and,
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 Amy’s Will.
as Laurie told Jo afterward, it was a comical sight to see her
mince along in her gay suit, with Polly sidling and bridling just
behind her, imitating her as well as he could, and occasionally
stopping to laugh, or exclaim, “Ain’t we fine? Get along you
fright! Hold your tongue! Kiss me, dear; ha! ha!”
Having with difficulty restrained an explosion of merriment,
lest it should offend her majesty, Laurie tapped, and was
graciously received.
“Sit down and rest while I put these things away; then I want
to consult you about a very serious matter,” said Amy, when she
had shown her splendor, and driven Polly into a corner. “That
bird is the trial of my life,” she continued, removing the pink
mountain from her head, while Laurie seated himself astride
of a chair. “Yesterday, when aunt was asleep, and I was trying
to be as still as a mouse, Polly began to squall and flap about in
his cage; so I went to let him out, and found a big spider there.
I poked it out, and it ran under the book‑case; Polly marched
straight after it, stooped down and peeped under the book‑case,
saying, in his funny way, with a cock of his eye, ‘Come out and
take a walk, my dear.’ I couldn’t help laughing, which made Poll
swear, and aunt woke up and scolded us both.”
“Did the spider accept the old fellow’s invitation?” asked
Laurie, yawning.
“Yes; out it came, and away ran Polly, frightened to death, and
scrambled up on aunt’s chair, calling out, ‘Catch her! catch her!
catch her!’ as I chased the spider.”
“That’s a lie! Oh lor!” cried the parrot, pecking at Laurie’s toes.
“I’d wring your neck if you were mine, you old torment,” cried
Laurie, shaking his fist at the bird, who put his head on one side,
and gravely croaked, “Allyluyer! bless your buttons, dear!”
“Now I’m ready,” said Amy, shutting the wardrobe, and taking
a paper out of her pocket. “I want you to read that, please, and
tell me if it is legal and right. I felt that I ought to do it, for life is
uncertain, and I don’t want any ill‑feeling over my tomb.”

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

“my last will and testiment.

“I, Amy Curtis March, being in my sane mind, do give and
bequeethe all my earthly property—viz. to wit:—namely
“To my father, my best pictures, sketches, maps, and works
of art, including frames. Also my $100, to do what he likes with.
“To my mother, all my clothes, except the blue apron with
pockets,—also my likeness, and my medal, with much love.
“To my dear sister Margaret, I give my turkquoise ring (if I
get it), also my green box with the doves on it, also my piece
of real lace for her neck, and my sketch of her as a memorial of
her ‘little girl.’
“To Jo I leave my breast‑pin, the one mended with sealing wax,
also my bronze inkstand—she lost the cover,—and my most
precious plaster rabbit, because I am sorry I burnt up her story.
“To Beth (if she lives after me) I give my dolls and the little
bureau, my fan, my linen collars and my new slippers if she can
wear them being thin when she gets well. And I herewith also
leave her my regret that I ever made fun of old Joanna.
“To my friend and neighbor Theodore Laurence I bequeethe
my paper marshay portfolio, my clay model of a horse though
he did say it hadn’t any neck. Also in return for his great kindness
in the hour of affliction any one of my artistic works he likes,
Noter Dame is the best.
“To our venerable benefactor Mr. Laurence I leave my purple
box with a looking glass in the cover which will be nice for his
pens and remind him of the departed girl who thanks him for
his favors to her family, specially Beth.
“I wish my favorite playmate Kitty Bryant to have the blue silk
apron and my gold‑bead ring with a kiss.
“To Hannah I give the band‑box she wanted and all the patch
work I leave hoping she ‘will remember me, when it you see.’
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 Amy’s Will.
“And now having disposed of my most valuable property I
hope all will be satisfied and not blame the dead. I forgive every
one, and trust we may all meet when the trump shall sound.
Amen.
“To this will and testiment I set my hand and seal on this 20th
day of Nov. Anni Domino 1861.
“Amy Curtis March.

“Witnesses: Estelle Valnor,

 Theodore Laurence.”

The last name was written in pencil, and Amy explained that
he was to rewrite it in ink, and seal it up for her properly.
“What put it into your head? Did any one tell you about Beth’s
giving away her things?” asked Laurie, soberly, as Amy laid a bit
of red tape, with sealing‑wax, a taper, and a standish before him.
She explained; and then asked, anxiously, “What about Beth?”
“I’m sorry I spoke; but as I did, I’ll tell you. She felt so ill one
day, that she told Jo she wanted to give her piano to Meg, her
bird to you, and the poor old doll to Jo, who would love it for
her sake. She was sorry she had so little to give, and left locks
of hair to the rest of us, and her best love to grandpa. She never
thought of a will.”
Laurie was signing and sealing as he spoke, and did not look
up till a great tear dropped on the paper. Amy’s face was full of
trouble; but she only said, “Don’t people put sort of postscrips
to their wills, sometimes.”
“Yes; ‘codicils,’ they call them.”
“Put one in mine then—that I wish all my curls cut off, and
given round to my friends. I forgot it; but I want it done, though
it will spoil my looks.”
Laurie added it, smiling at Amy’s last and greatest sacrifice.
Then he amused her for an hour, and was much interested in
all her trials. But when he came to go, Amy held him back to

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whisper, with trembling lips, “Is there really any danger about
Beth?”
“I’m afraid there is; but we must hope for the best, so don’t
cry, dear;” and Laurie put his arm about her with a brotherly
gesture, which was very comforting.
When he had gone, she went to her little chapel, and, sitting
in the twilight, prayed for Beth with streaming tears and an
aching heart, feeling that a million turquoise rings would not
console her for the loss of her gentle little sister.

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 Chapter XX.

Confidential.
I don’t think I have any words in which to tell the meeting
of the mother and daughters; such hours are beautiful to live,
but very hard to describe, so I will leave it to the imagination
of my readers; merely saying that the house was full of genuine
happiness, and that Meg’s tender hope was realized; for when
Beth woke from that long, healing sleep, the first objects on
which her eyes fell were the little rose and mother’s face. Too
weak to wonder at anything, she only smiled, and nestled close
into the loving arms about her, feeling that the hungry longing
was satisfied at last. Then she slept again, and the girls waited
upon their mother, for she would not unclasp the thin hand
which clung to hers, even in sleep: Hannah had “dished up” an
astonishing breakfast for the traveller, finding it impossible
to vent her excitement in any other way; and Meg and Jo fed
their mother like dutiful young storks, while they listened to
her whispered account of father’s state, Mr. Brooke’s promise to
stay and nurse him, the delays which the storm occasioned on
the homeward journey, and the unspeakable comfort Laurie’s
hopeful face had given her when she arrived, worn out with
fatigue, anxiety and cold.

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What a strange, yet pleasant day that was! so brilliant and
gay without, for all the world seemed abroad to welcome the
first snow; so quiet and reposeful within, for every one slept,
spent with watching, and a Sabbath stillness reigned through
the house, while nodding Hannah mounted guard at the door.
With a blissful sense of burdens lifted off, Meg and Jo closed
their weary eyes, and lay at rest like storm‑beaten boats, safe
at anchor in a quiet harbor. Mrs. March would not leave Beth’s
side, but rested in the big chair, waking often to look at, touch,
and brood over her child, like a miser over some recovered
treasure.
Laurie, meanwhile, posted off to comfort Amy, and told his
story so well that Aunt March actually “sniffed” herself, and
never once said, “I told you so.” Amy came out so strong on
this occasion, that I think the good thoughts in the little chapel
really began to bear fruit. She dried her tears quickly, restrained
her impatience to see her mother, and never even thought of
the turquoise ring, when the old lady heartily agreed in Laurie’s
opinion, that she behaved “like a capital little woman.” Even
Polly seemed impressed, for he called her “good girl,” blessed
her buttons, and begged her to “come and take a walk, dear,” in
his most affable tone. She would very gladly have gone out to
enjoy the bright wintry weather; but, discovering that Laurie
was dropping with sleep in spite of manful efforts to conceal
the fact, she persuaded him to rest on the sofa, while she wrote
a note to her mother. She was a long time about it; and, when
returned, he was stretched out with both arms under his head,
sound asleep, while Aunt March had pulled down the curtains,
and sat doing nothing in an unusual fit of benignity.
After a while, they began to think he was not going to wake
till night, and I’m not sure that he would, had he not been
effectually roused by Amy’s cry of joy at sight of her mother.
There probably were a good many happy little girls in and about
the city that day, but it is my private opinion that Amy was the
happiest of all, when she sat in her mother’s lap and told her
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 Confidential.
trials, receiving consolation and compensation in the shape of
approving smiles and fond caresses. They were alone together
in the chapel, to which her mother did not object when its
purpose was explained to her.
“On the contrary, I like it very much, dear,” she said, looking
from the dusty rosary to the well‑worn little book, and the
lovely picture with its garland of evergreen. “It is an excellent
plan to have some place where we can go to be quiet, when
things vex or grieve us. There are a good many hard times in
this life of ours, but we can always bear them if we ask help in
the right way. I think my little girl is learning this?”
“Yes, mother; and when I go home I mean to have a corner
in the big closet to put my books, and the copy of that picture
which I’ve tried to make. The woman’s face is not good, it’s too
beautiful for me to draw, but the baby is done better, and I love
it very much. I like to think He was a little child once, for then I
don’t seem so far away, and that helps me.”
As Amy pointed to the smiling Christ‑child on his mother’s
knee, Mrs. March saw something on the lifted hand that made
her smile. She said nothing, but Amy understood the look, and,
after a minute’s pause, she added, gravely,—
“I wanted to speak to you about this, but I forgot it. Aunt
gave me the ring today; she called me to her and kissed me,
and put it on my finger, and said I was a credit to her, and she’d
like to keep me always. She gave that funny guard to keep the
torquoise on, as it’s too big. I’d like to wear them, mother; can I?”
“They are very pretty, but I think you’re rather too young for
such ornaments, Amy,” said Mrs. March, looking at the plump
little hand, with the hand of sky‑blue stones on the forefinger,
and the quaint guard, formed of two tiny, golden hands clasped
together.
“I’ll try not to be vain,” said Amy; “ I don’t think I like it, only
because it’s so pretty; but I want to wear it as the girl in the
story wore her bracelet, to remind me of something.”
“Do you mean Aunt March?” asked her mother, laughing.
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 Little Women
“No, to remind me not to be selfish.” Amy looked so earnest
and sincere about it, that her mother stopped laughing, and
listened respectfully to the little plan.
“I’ve thought a great deal lately about ‘my bundle of naughties,’
and being selfish is the largest one in it; so I’m going to try hard
to cure it, if I can. Beth isn’t selfish, and that’s the reason every
one loves her, and feels so bad at the thoughts of losing her.
People wouldn’t feel half so bad about me if I was sick, and I
don’t deserve to have them; but I’d like to be loved and missed
by a great many friends, so I’m going to try and be like Beth all
I can. I’m apt to forget my resolutions; but, if I had something
always about me to remind me, I guess I should do better. May
I try this way?”
“Yes; but I have more faith in the corner of the big closet.
Wear your ring, dear, and do your best; I think you will prosper,
for the sincere wish to be good is half the battle. Now, I must go
back to Beth. Keep up your heart, little daughter, and ww will
soon have you home again.”
That evening, while Meg was writing to her father, to report
the traveller’s safe arrival, Jo slipped upstairs into Beth’s room,
and, finding her mother in her usual place, stood a minute
twisting her fingers in her hair, with a worried gesture and an
undecided look.
“What is it, deary?” asked Mrs. March, holding out her hand
with a face which invited confidence.
“I want to tell you something, mother.”
“About Meg?”
“How quick you guessed! Yes, it’s about her, and though it’s a
little thing, it fidgets me.”
“Beth is asleep; speak low, and tell me all about it. That Moffat
hasn’t been here, I hope?” asked Mrs. March, rather sharply.
“No; I should have shut the door in his face if he had,” said Jo,
settling herself on the floor at her mother’s feet. “Last summer
Meg left a pair of gloves over at the Laurences, and only one
was returned. We forgot all about it, till Teddy told me that Mr.
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 Confidential.
Brooke had it. He kept it in his waistcoat pocket, and once it fell
out, and Teddy joked him about it, and Mr. Brooke owned that
he liked Meg, but didn’t dare say so, she was so young and he
so poor. Now isn’t it a dreadful state of things?”
“Do you think Meg cares for him?” asked Mrs. March, with an
anxious look.
“Mercy me! I don’t know anything about love, and such
nonsense!” cried Jo, with a funny mixture of interest and
contempt. “In novels, the girls show it by starting and blushing,
fainting away, growing thin, and acting like fools. Now Meg
don’t do anything of the sort; she eats and drinks, and sleeps,
like a sensible creature; she looks straight in my face when I talk
about that man, and only blushes a little bit when Teddy jokes
about lovers. I forbid him to do it, but he don’t mind me as he
ought.”
“Then you fancy that Meg is not interested in John?”
“Who?” cried Jo, staring.
“Mr. Brooke; I call him ‘John’ now; we fell into the way of
doing so at the hospital, and he likes it.”
“Oh, dear! I know you’ll take his part; he’s been good to father,
and you won’t send him away, but let Meg marry him, if she
wants to. Mean thing! to go petting pa and truckling to you,
just to wheedle you into liking him;” and Jo pulled her hair
again with a wrathful tweak.
“My dear, don’t get angry about it, and I will tell you how it
happened. John went with me at Mr. Laurence’s request, and
was so devoted to poor father, that we couldn’t help getting
fond of him. He was perfectly open and honorable about Meg,
for he told us he loved her; but would earn a comfortable home
before he asked her to marry him. He only wanted our leave to
love her and work for her, and the right to make her love him if
he could. He is a truly excellent young man, and we could not
refuse to listen to him; but I will not consent to Meg’s engaging
herself so young.”

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“Of course not; it would be idiotic! I knew there was mischief
brewing; I felt it; and now it’s worse than I imagined. I just wish I
could marry Meg myself, and keep her safe in the family.”
This odd arrangement made Mrs. March smile; but she said,
gravely, “Jo, I confide in you, and don’t wish you to say anything
to Meg yet. When John comes back, and I see them together, I
can judge better of her feelings toward him.”
“She’ll see his in those handsome eyes that she talks about,
and then it will be all up with her. She’s got such a soft heart, it
will melt like butter in the sun if any one looks sentimentally at
her. She read the short reports he sent more than she did your
letters, and pinched me when I spoke of it, and likes brown eyes,
and don’t think John an ugly name, and she’ll go and fall in love,
and there’s an end of peace and fun, and cosy times, together.
I see it all! they’ll go lovering round the house, and we shall
have to dodge; Meg will be absorbed, and no good to me any
more; Brooke will scratch up a fortune somehow,—carry her off
and make a hole in the family; and I shall break my heart, and
everything will be abominably uncomfortable. Oh, deary me!
why weren’t we all boys? then there wouldn’t be any bother!”
Jo leaned her chin on her knees, in a disconsolate attitude,
and shook her fist at the reprehensible John. Mrs. March sighed,
and Jo looked up with an air of relief.
“You don’t like it, mother? I’m glad of it; let’s send him about
his business, and not tell Meg a word of it, but all be jolly
together as we always have been.”
“I did wrong to sigh, Jo. It is natural and right you should all
go to homes of your own, in time; but I do want to keep my
girls as long as I can; and I am sorry that this happened so soon,
for Meg is only seventeen, and it will be some years before John
can make a home for her. Your father and I have agreed that she
shall not bind herself in any way, nor be married, before twenty.
If she and John love one another, they can wait, and test the
love by doing so. She is conscientious, and I have no fear of her

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treating him unkindly. My pretty, tender‑hearted girl! I hope
things will go happily with her.”
“Hadn’t you rather have her marry a rich man?” asked Jo, as
her mother’s voice faltered a little over the last words.
“Money is a good and useful thing, Jo; and I hope my girls will
never feel the need of it too bitterly, nor be tempted by too
much. I should like to know that John was firmly established in
some good business, which gave him an income large enough
to keep free from debt, and make Meg comfortable. I’m not
ambitious for a splendid fortune, a fashionable position, or a
great name for my girls. If rank and money come with love and
virtue, also, I should accept them gratefully, and enjoy your
good fortune; but I know, by experience, how much genuine
happiness can be had in a plain little house, where the daily
bread is earned, and some privations give sweetness to the few
pleasures; I am content to see Meg begin humbly, for, if I am
not mistaken, she will be rich in the possession of a good man’s
heart, and that is better than a fortune.”
“I understand, mother, and quite agree; but I’m disappointed
about Meg, for I’d planned to have her marry Teddy by and by,
and sit in the lap of luxury all her days. Wouldn’t it be nice?”
asked Jo, looking up with a brighter face.
“He is younger than she, you know,” began Mrs. March; but
Jo broke in,—
“Oh, that don’t matter; he’s old for his age, and tall; and can
be quite grown‑up in his manners, if he likes. Then he’s rich, and
generous, and good, and loves us all; andI say it’s a pity my plan
is spoilt.”
“I’m afraid Laurie is hardly grown‑up enough for Meg, and
altogether too much of a weathercock, just now, for any one
to depend on. Don’t make plans, Jo; but let time and their
own hearts mate your friends. We can’t meddle safely in such
matters, and had better not get ‘romantic rubbish,’ as you call it,
into our heads, lest it spoil our friendship.”

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“Well, I won’t; but I hate to see things going all criss‑cross, and
getting snarled up, when a pull here, and a snip there, would
straighten it out. I wish wearing flat‑irons on our heads would
keep us from growing up. But buds will be roses, and kittens,
cats,—more’s the pity!”
“What’s that about flat‑irons and cats?” asked Meg, as she
crept into the room, with the finished letter in her hand.
“Only one of my stupid speeches. I’m going to bed; come on,
Peggy,” said Jo, unfolding herself, like an animated puzzle.
“Quite right, and beautifully written. Please add that I send
my love to John,” said Mrs. March, as she glanced over the letter,
and gave it back.
“Do you call him ‘John’?” asked Meg, smiling, with her
innocent eyes looking down into her mother’s.
“Yes; he has been like a son to us, and we are very fond of him,”
replied Mrs. March, returning the look with a keen one.
“I’m glad of that; he is so lonely. Good‑night, mother, dear. It
is so inexpressibly comfortable to have you here,” was Meg’s
quiet answer.
The kiss her mother gave her was a very tender one; and, as
she went away, Mrs. March said, with a mixture of satisfaction
and regret, “She does not love John yet, but will soon learn to.”

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 Chapter XXI.

Laurie Makes Mischief, and Jo Makes Peace.

J o’s face was a study next day, for the secret rather weighed
upon her, and she found it hard not to look mysterious and
important. Meg observed it, but did not trouble herself
to make inquiries, for she had learned that the best way to
manage Jo was by the law of contraries, so she felt sure of being
told everything if she did not ask. She was rather surprised,
therefore, when the silence remained unbroken, and Jo assumed
a patronizing air, which decidedly aggravated Meg, who in her
turn assumed an air of dignified reserve, and devoted herself to
her mother. This left Jo to her own devices; for Mrs. March had
taken her place as nurse, and bid her rest, exercise, and amuse
herself after her long confinement. Amy being gone, Laurie was
her only refuge; and, much as she enjoyed his society, she rather
dreaded him just then, for he was an incorrigible tease, and she
feared he would coax her secret from her.
She was quite right; for the mischief‑loving lad no sooner
suspected a mystery, than he set himself to finding it out, and led
Jo a trying life of it. He wheedled, bribed, ridiculed, threatened
and scolded; affected indifference, that he might surprise the
truth from her; declared he knew, then that he didn’t care;
and, at last, by dint of perseverance, he satisfied himself that it
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concerned Meg and Mr. Brooke. Feeling indignant that he was
not taken into his tutor’s confidence, he set his wits to work to
devise some proper retaliation for the slight.
Meg meanwhile had apparently forgotten the matter, and
was absorbed in preparations for her father’s return; but all of
a sudden a change seemed to come over her, and, for a day
or two, she was quite unlike herself. She started when spoken
to, blushed when looked at, was very quiet, and sat over her
sewing with a timid, troubled look on her face. To her mother’s
inquiries she answered that she was quite well, and Jo’s she
silenced by begging to be let alone.
“She feels it in the air—love, I mean—and she’s going very fast.
She’s got most of the symptoms, is twittery and cross, don’t eat,
lies awake, and mopes in corners. I caught her singing that song
about ‘the silver‑voiced brook,’ and once she said ‘John,’ as you
do, and then turned as red as a poppy. Whatever shall we do?”
said Jo, looking ready for any measures, however violent.
“Nothing but wait. Let her alone, be kind and patient, and
father’s coming will settle everything,” replied her mother.
“Here’s a note to you, Meg, all sealed up. How odd! Teddy
never seals mine,” said Jo, next day, as she distributed the
contents of the little post‑office.
Mrs. March and Jo were deep in their own affairs, when a
sound from Meg made them look up to see her staring at her
note, with a frightened face.
“My child, what is it?” cried her mother, running to her, while
Jo tried to take the paper which had done the mischief.
“It’s all a mistake—he didn’t send it—oh, Jo, how could you
do it?” and Meg hid her face in her hands, crying as if her heart
was quite broken.
“Me! I’ve done nothing! What’s she talking about?” cried Jo,
bewildered.
Meg’s mild eyes kindled with anger as she pulled a crumpled
note from her pocket, and threw it at Jo, saying, reproachfully,—

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 Laurie Makes Mischief, and Jo Makes Peace.
“You wrote it, and that bad boy helped you. How could you
be so rude, so mean, and cruel to us both?”
Jo hardly heard her, for she and her mother were reading the
note, which was written in a peculiar hand.

“My Dearest Margaret,—

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

“Oh, the little villain! that’s the way he meant to pay me for
keeping my word to mother. I’ll give him a hearty scolding, and
bring him over to beg pardon,” cried Jo, burning to execute
immediate justice. But her mother held her back, saying, with a
look she seldom wore,—
“Stop, Jo, you must clear yourself first. You have played so
many pranks, that I am afraid you have had a hand in this.”
“On my word, mother, I haven’t! I never saw that note before,
and don’t know anything about it, as true as I live!” said Jo, so
earnestly, that they believed her. “If I had taken a part in it I’d
have done it better than this, and have written a sensible note. I
should think you’d have known Mr. Brooke wouldn’t write such
stuff as that,” she added, scornfully tossing down the paper.
“It’s like his writing,” faltered Meg, comparing it with the note
in her hand.
“Oh, Meg, you didn’t answer it?” cried Mrs. March, quickly.
“Yes, I did!” and Meg hid her face again, overcome with shame.

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“Here’s a scrape! Do let me bring that wicked boy over to
explain, and be lectured. I can’t rest till I get hold of him;” and
Jo made for the door again.
“Hush! let me manage this, for it is worse than I thought.
Margaret, tell me the whole story,” commanded Mrs. March,
sitting down by Meg, yet keeping hold of Jo, lest she should fly
off.
“I received the first letter from Laurie, who didn’t look as if
he knew anything about it,” began Meg, without looking up. “I
was worried at first, and meant to tell you; then I remembered
how you liked Mr. Brooke, so I thought you wouldn’t mind if
I kept my little secret for a few days. I’m so silly that I liked to
think no one knew; and, while I was deciding what to say, I felt
like the girls in books, who have such things to do. Forgive me,
mother, I’m paid for my silliness now; I never can look him in
the face again.”
“What did you say to him?” asked Mrs. March.
“I only said I was too young to do anything about it yet; that
I didn’t wish to have secrets from you, and he must speak to
father. I was very grateful for his kindness, and would be his
friend, but nothing more, for a long while.”
Mrs. March smiled, as if well pleased, and Jo clapped her
hands, exclaiming, with a laugh,—
“You are almost equal to Caroline Percy, who was a pattern of
prudence! Tell on, Meg. What did he say to that?”
“He writes in a different way entirely; telling me that he never
sent any love‑letter at all, and is very sorry that my roguish sister,
Jo, should take such liberties with our names. It’s very kind and
respectful, but think how dreadful for me!”
Meg leaned against her mother, looking the image of despair,
and Jo tramped about the room, calling Laurie names. All of
a sudden she stopped, caught up the two notes, and, after
looking at them closely, said, decidedly, “I don’t believe Brooke
ever saw either of these letters. Teddy wrote both, and keeps

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 Laurie Makes Mischief, and Jo Makes Peace.
yours to crow over me with, because I wouldn’t tell him my
secret.”
“Don’t have any secrets, Jo; tell it to mother, and keep out of
trouble, as I should have done,” said Meg, warningly.
“Bless you, child! mother told me.”
“That will do, Jo. I’ll comfort Meg while you go and get Laurie.
I shall sift the matter to the bottom, and put a stop to such
pranks at once.”
Away ran Jo, and Mrs. March gently told Meg Mr. Brooke’s
real feelings. “Now, dear, what are your own? Do you love him
enough to wait till he can make a home for you, or will you
keep yourself quite free for the present?”
“I’ve been so scared and worried, I don’t want to have
anything to do with lovers for a long while,—perhaps never,”
answered Meg, petulantly. “If John doesn’t know anything about
this nonsense, don’t tell him, and make Jo and Laurie hold their
tongues. I won’t be deceived and plagued, and made a fool of,—
it’s a shame!”
Seeing that Meg’s usually gentle temper was roused, and her
pride hurt by this mischievous joke, Mrs. March soothed her
by promises of entire silence, and great discretion for the future.
The instant Laurie’s step was heard in the hall, Meg fled into
the study, and Mrs. March received the culprit alone. Jo had
not told him why he was wanted, fearing he wouldn’t come;
but he knew the minute he saw Mrs. March’s face, and stood
twirling his hat with a guilty air, which convicted him at once.
Jo was dismissed, but chose to march up and down the hall like
a sentinel, having some fear that the prisoner might bolt. The
sound of voices in the parlor rose and fell for half an hour; but
what happened during that interview the girls never knew.
When they were called in, Laurie was standing by their
mother with such a penitent face, that Jo forgave him on the
spot, but did not think it wise to betray the fact. Meg received
his humble apology, and was much comforted by the assurance
that Brooke knew nothing of the joke.
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“I’ll never tell him to my dying day,—wild horses shan’t drag
it out of me; so you’ll forgive me, Meg, and I’ll do anything to
show how out‑and‑out sorry I am,” he added, looking very
much ashamed of himself.
“I’ll try; but it was a very ungentlemanly thing to do. I didn’t
think you could be so sly and malicious, Laurie,” replied
Meg, trying to hide her maidenly confusion under a gravely
reproachful air.
“It was altogether abominable, and I don’t deserve to be
spoken to for a month; but you will, though, won’t you?” and
Laurie folded his hands together, with such an imploring gesture,
and rolled up his eyes in such a meekly repentant way, as he
spoke in his irresistibly persuasive tone, that it was impossible
to frown upon him, in spite of his scandalous behavior. Meg
pardoned him, and Mrs. March’s grave face relaxed, in spite
of her efforts to keep sober, when she heard him declare that
he would atone for his sins by all sorts of penances, and abase
himself like a worm before the injured damsel.
Jo stood aloof, meanwhile, trying to harden her heart against
him, and succeeding only in primming up her face into an
expression of entire disapprobation. Laurie looked at her once
or twice, but, as she showed no sign of relenting, he felt injured,
and turned his back on her till the others were done with him,
when he made her a low bow, and walked off without a word.
As soon as he had gone, she wished she had been more
forgiving; and, when Meg and her mother went upstairs, she
felt lonely, and longed for Teddy. After resisting for some time,
she yielded to the impulse, and, armed with a book to return,
went over to the big house.
“Is Mr. Laurence in?” asked Jo, of a housemaid, who was
coming down stairs.
“Yes, miss; but I don’t believe he’s seeable just yet.”
“Why not; is he ill?”

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 Laurie Makes Mischief, and Jo Makes Peace.
“La, no, miss! but he’s had a scene with Mr. Laurie, who is
in one of his tantrums about something, which vexes the old
gentleman, so I dursn’t go nigh him.”
“Where is Laurie?”
“Shut up in his room, and he won’t answer, though I’ve been
a‑tapping. I don’t know what’s to become of the dinner, for it’s
ready, and there’s no one to eat it.”
“I’ll go and see what the matter is. I’m not afraid of either of
them.”
Up went Jo, and knocked smartly on the door of Laurie’s
little study.
“Stop that, or I’ll open the door and make you!” called out the
young gentleman, in a threatening tone.
Jo immediately pounded again; the door flew open, and in
she bounced, before Laurie could recover from his surprise.
Seeing that he really was out of temper, Jo, who knew how
to manage him, assumed a contrite expression, and, going
artistically down upon her knees, said, meekly, “Please forgive
me for being so cross. I came to make it up, and can’t go away
till I have.”
“It’s all right; get up, and don’t be a goose, Jo,” was the cavalier
reply to her petition.
“Thank you; I will. Could I ask what’s the matter? You don’t
look exactly easy in your mind.”
“I’ve been shaken, and I won’t bear it!” growled Laurie,
indignantly.
“Who did it?” demanded Jo.
“Grandfather; if it had been any one else I’d have—” and the
injured youth finished his sentence by an energetic gesture of
the right arm.
“That’s nothing; I often shake you, and you don’t mind,” said
Jo, soothingly.
“Pooh! you’re a girl, and it’s fun; but I’ll allow no man to shake
me.”

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 Little Women
“I don’t think any one would care to try it, if you looked
as much like a thunder‑cloud as you do now. Why were you
treated so?”
“Just because I wouldn’t say what your mother wanted me for.
I’d promised not to tell, and of course I wasn’t going to break
my word.”
“Couldn’t you satisfy your grandpa in any other way?”
“No; he would have the truth, the whole truth, and nothing
but the truth. I’d have told my part of the scrape, if I could,
without bringing Meg in. As I couldn’t, I held my tongue, and
bore the scolding till the old gentleman collared me. Then I got
angry, and bolted, for fear I should forget myself.”
“It wasn’t nice, but he’s sorry, I know; so go down and make
up. I’ll help you.”
“Hanged if I do! I’m not going to be lectured and pummelled
by every one, just for a bit of a frolic. I was sorry about Meg, and
begged pardon like a man; but I won’t do it again, when I wasn’t
in the wrong.”
“He didn’t know that.”
“He ought to trust me, and not act as if I was a baby. It’s no
use, Jo; he’s got to learn that I’m able to take care of myself, and
don’t need any one’s apron‑string to hold on by.”
“What pepper‑pots you are!” sighed Jo. “How do you mean to
settle this affair?”
“Well, he ought to beg pardon, and believe me when I say I
can’t tell him what the row’s about.”
“Bless you! he won’t do that.”
“I won’t go down till he does.”
“Now, Teddy, be sensible; let it pass, and I’ll explain what I can.
You can’t stay here, so what’s the use of being melodramatic?”
“I don’t intend to stay here long, any‑way. I’ll slip off and take
a journey somewhere, and when grandpa misses me he’ll come
round fast enough.”
“I dare say; but you ought not to go and worry him.”

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 Laurie Makes Mischief, and Jo Makes Peace.
“Don’t preach. I’ll go to Washington and see Brooke; it’s gay
there, and I’ll enjoy myself after the troubles.”
“What fun you’d have! I wish I could run off too!” said Jo,
forgetting her part of Mentor in lively visions of martial life at
the capital.
“Come on, then! Why not? You go and surprise your father,
and I’ll stir up old Brooke. It would be a glorious joke; let’s do it,
Jo! We’ll leave a letter saying we are all right, and trot off at once.
I’ve got money enough; it will do you good, and be no harm, as
you go to your father.”
For a moment Jo looked as if she would agree; for, wild
as the plan was, it just suited her. She was tired of care and
confinement, longed for change, and thoughts of her father
blended temptingly with the novel charms of camps and
hospitals, liberty and fun. Her eyes kindled as they turned
wistfully toward the window, but they fell on the old house
opposite, and she shook her head with sorrowful decision.
“If I was a boy, we’d run away together, and have a capital
time; but as I’m a miserable girl, I must be proper, and stop at
home. Don’t tempt me, Teddy, it’s a crazy plan.”
“That’s the fun of it!” began Laurie, who had got a wilful fit on
him, and was possessed to break out of bounds in some way.
“Hold your tongue!” cried Jo, covering her ears. ‘Prunes and
prisms’ are my doom, and I may as well make up my mind to
it. I came here to moralize, not to hear about things that make
me skip to think of.”
“I knew Meg would wet‑blanket such a proposal, but I thought
you had more spirit,” began Laurie, insinuatingly.
“Bad boy, be quiet. Sit down and think of your own sins, don’t
go making me add to mine. If I get your grandpa to apologize for
the shaking, will you give up running away?” asked Jo, seriously.
“Yes, but you won’t do it,” answered Laurie, who wished to
“make up,” but felt that his outraged dignity must be appeased
first.

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“If I can manage the young one I can the old one,” muttered
Jo, as she walked away, leaving Laurie bent over a railroad map,
with his head propped up on both hands.
“Come in!” and Mr. Laurence’s gruff voice sounded gruffer
than ever, as Jo tapped at his door.
“It’s only me, sir, come to return a book,” she said, blandly, as
she entered.
“Want any more?” asked the old gentleman, looking grim and
vexed, but trying not to show it.
“Yes, please, I like old Sam so well, I think I’ll try the second
volume,” returned Jo, hoping to propitiate him by accepting a
second dose of “Boswell’s Johnson,” as he had recommended
that lively work.
The shaggy eyebrows unbent a little, as he rolled the steps
toward the shelf where the Johnsonian literature was placed.
Jo skipped up, and, sitting on the top step, affected to be
searching for her book, but was really wondering how best
to introduce the dangerous object of her visit. Mr. Laurence
seemed to suspect that something was brewing in her mind;
for, after taking several brisk turns about the room, he faced
round on her, speaking so abruptly, that “Rasselas” tumbled
face downward on the floor.
“What has that boy been about? Don’t try to shield him, now!
I know he has been in mischief, by the way he acted when he
came home. I can’t get a word from him; and, when I threatened
to shake the truth out of him, he bolted upstairs, and locked
himself into his room.”
“He did do wrong, but we forgave him, and all promised not
to say a word to any one,” began Jo, reluctantly.
“That won’t do; he shall not shelter himself behind a promise
from you soft‑hearted girls. If he’s done anything amiss, he shall
confess, beg pardon, and be punished. Out with it, Jo! I won’t
be kept in the dark.”
Mr. Laurence looked so alarming, and spoke so sharply, that
Jo would have gladly run away, if she could, but she was perched
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 Laurie Makes Mischief, and Jo Makes Peace.
aloft on the steps, and he stood at the foot, a lion in the path, so
she had to stay and brave it out.
“Indeed, sir, I cannot tell, mother forbid it. Laurie has confessed,
asked pardon, and been punished quite enough. We don’t keep
silence to shield him, but some one else, and it will make more
trouble if you interfere. Please don’t; it was partly my fault, but
it’s all right now, so let’s forget it, and talk about the ‘Rambler,’
or something pleasant.”
“Hang the ‘Rambler!’ come down and give me your word
that this harum‑scarum boy of mine hasn’t done anything
ungrateful or impertinent. If he has, after all your kindness to
him, I’ll thrash him with my own hands.”
The threat sounded awful, but did not alarm Jo, for she
knew the irascible old man would never lift a finger against
his grandson, whatever he might say to the contrary. She
obediently descended, and made as light of the prank as she
could without betraying Meg, or forgetting the truth.
“Hum! ha! well, if the boy held his tongue because he’d
promised, and not from obstinacy, I’ll forgive him. He’s a
stubborn fellow, and hard to manage,” said Mr. Laurence,
rubbing up his hair till it looked as if he’d been out in a gale, and
smoothing the frown from his brow with an air of relief.
“So am I; but a kind word will govern me when all the king’s
horses and all the king’s men couldn’t,” said Jo, trying to say a
kind word for her friend, who seemed to get out of one scrape
only to fall into another.
“You think I’m not kind to him, hey?” was the sharp answer.
“Oh, dear, no, sir; you are rather too kind sometimes, and
then just a trifle hasty when he tries your patience. Don’t you
think you are?”
Jo was determined to have it out now, and tried to look quite
placid, though she quaked a little after her bold speech. To
her great relief and surprise, the old gentleman only threw his
spectacles on to the table with a rattle, and exclaimed, frankly,—

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“You’re right, girl, I am! I love the boy, but he tries my patience
past bearing, and I don’t know how it will end, if we go on so.”
“I’ll tell you,—he’ll run away.” Jo was sorry for that speech
the minute it was made; she meant to warn him that Laurie
would not bear much restraint, and hoped he would be more
forbearing with the lad.
Mr. Laurence’s ruddy face changed suddenly, and he sat
down with a troubled glance at the picture of a handsome man,
which hung over his table. It was Laurie’s father, who had run
away in his youth, and married against the imperious old man’s
will. Jo fancied he remembered and regretted the past, and she
wished she had held her tongue.
“He won’t do it, unless he is very much worried, and only
threatens it sometimes, when he gets tired of studying. I often
think I should like to, especially since my hair was cut; so, if you
ever miss us, you may advertise for two boys, and look among
the ships bound for India.”
She laughed as she spoke, and Mr. Laurence looked relieved,
evidently taking the whole as a joke.
“You hussy, how dare you talk in that way? where’s your
respect for me, and your proper bringing up? Bless the boys and
girls! what torments they are; yet we can’t do without them,” he
said, pinching her cheeks good‑humoredly.
“Go and bring that boy down to his dinner, tell him it’s all right,
and advise him not to put on tragedy airs with his grandfather;
I won’t bear it.”
“He won’t come, sir; he feels badly because you didn’t believe
him when he said he couldn’t tell. I think the shaking hurt his
feelings very much.”
Jo tried to look pathetic, but must have failed, for Mr.
Laurence began to laugh, and she knew the day was won.
“I’m sorry for that, and ought to thank him for not shaking
me, I suppose. What the dickens does the fellow expect?” and
the old gentleman looked a trifle ashamed of his own testiness.

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 Laurie Makes Mischief, and Jo Makes Peace.
“If I was you, I’d write him an apology, sir. He says he won’t
come down till he has one; and talks about Washington, and
goes on in an absurd way. A formal apology will make him see
how foolish he is, and bring him down quite amiable. Try it; he
likes fun, and this way is better than talking. I’ll carry it up, and
teach him his duty.”
Mr. Laurence gave her a sharp look, and put on his spectacles,
saying, slowly, “You’re a sly puss! but I don’t mind being managed
by you and Beth. Here, give me a bit of paper, and let us have
done with this nonsense.”
The note was written in the terms which one gentleman
would use to another after offering some deep insult. Jo
dropped a kiss on the top of Mr. Laurence’s bald head, and
ran up to slip the apology under Laurie’s door, advising him,
through the keyhole, to be submissive, decorous, and a few
other agreeable impossibilities. Finding the door locked again,
she left the note to do its work, and was going quietly away,
when the young gentleman slid down the banisters, and waited
for her at the bottom, saying, with his most virtuous expression
of countenance, “What a good fellow you are, Jo! Did you get
blown up?” he added, laughing.
“No; he was pretty clever, on the whole.”
“Ah! I got it all round! even you cast me off over there, and I
felt just ready to go to the deuce,” he began, apologetically.
“Don’t talk in that way; turn over a new leaf and begin again,
Teddy, my son.”
“I keep turning over new leaves, and spoiling them, as I used
to spoil my copy‑books; and I make so many beginnings there
never will be an end,” he said, dolefully.
“Go and eat your dinner; you’ll feel better after it. Men always
croak when they are hungry,” and Jo whisked out at the front
door after that.
“That’s a ‘label’ on my ‘sect,’ answered Laurie, quoting Amy, as
he went to partake of humble‑pie dutifully with his grandfather,

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who was quite saintly in temper, and overwhelmingly respectful
in manner, all the rest of the day.
Every one thought the matter ended, and the little cloud
blown over; but the mischief was done, for, though others
forgot it, Meg remembered. She never alluded to a certain
person, but she thought of him a good deal, dreamed dreams
more than ever; and, once, Jo, rummaging her sister’s desk for
stamps, found a bit of paper scribbled over with the words,
“Mrs. John Brooke;” whereat she groaned tragically, and cast it
into the fire, feeling that Laurie’s prank had hastened the evil
day for her.

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 Chapter XXII.

Pleasant Meadows.

L ike sunshine after storm were the peaceful weeks which

followed. The invalids improved rapidly, and Mr. March
began to talk of returning early in the new year. Beth was
soon able to lie on the study sofa all day, amusing herself with
the well‑beloved cats; at first, and, in time, with doll’s sewing,
which had fallen sadly behindhand. Her once active limbs were
so stiff and feeble that Jo took her a daily airing about the house,
in her strong arms. Meg cheerfully blackened and burnt her
white hands cooking delicate messes for “the dear;” while Amy,
a loyal slave of the ring, celebrated her return by giving away
as many of her treasures as she could prevail on her sisters to
accept.
As Christmas approached, the usual mysteries began to haunt
the house, and Jo frequently convulsed the family by proposing
utterly impossible, or magnificently absurd ceremonies, in
honor of this unusually merry Christmas. Laurie was equally
impracticable, and would have had bonfires, sky‑rockets,
and triumphal arches, if he had had his own way. After many
skirmishes and snubbings, the ambitious pair were considered
effectually quenched, and went about with forlorn faces, which

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

“The Jungfrau to Beth.

“God bless you, dear Queen Bess!

May nothing you dismay;
But health, and peace, and happiness,
Be yours, this Christmas‑day.

“Here’s fruit to feed our busy bee,

And flowers for her nose;
Here’s music for her pianee,—
An Afghan for her toes.

“A portrait of Joanna, see,

By Raphael No. 2,
Who labored with great industry,
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 Pleasant Meadows.
To make it fair and true.

“Accept a ribbon red I beg,

For Madam Purrer’s tail;
And ice cream made by lovely Peg,—
A Mont Blanc in a pail.

“Their dearest love my makers laid

Within my breast of snow,
Accept it; and the Alpine maid,
From Laurie and from Jo.”

How Beth laughed when she saw it! how Laurie ran up and
down to bring in the gifts, and what ridiculous speeches Jo
made as she presented them!
“I’m so full of happiness, that, if father was only here, I
couldn’t hold one drop more,” said Beth, quite sighing with
contentment as Jo carried her off to the study to rest after the
excitement, and to refresh herself with some of the delicious
grapes the “Jungfrau” had sent her.
“So am I,” added Jo, slapping the pocket wherein reposed the
long‑desired Undine and Sintram.
“I’m sure I am,” echoed Amy, poring over the engraved copy
of the Madonna and Child, which her mother had given her, in
a pretty frame.
“Of course I am,” cried Meg, smoothing the silvery folds of her
first silk dress; for Mr. Laurence had insisted on giving it.
“How can I be otherwise!” said Mrs. March, gratefully, as
her eyes went from her husband’s letter to Beth’s smiling face,
and her hand caressed the brooch made of gray and golden,
chestnut and dark brown hair, which the girls had just fastened
on her breast.
Now and then, in this work‑a‑day world, things do happen
in the delightful story‑book fashion, and what a comfort that is.
Half an hour after every one had said they were so happy they
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 Little Women
could only hold one drop more, the drop came. Laurie opened
the parlor door, and popped his head in very quietly. He might
just as well have turned a somersault, and uttered an Indian
war‑whoop; for his face was so full of suppressed excitement,
and his voice so treacherously joyful, that every one jumped
up, though he only said, in a queer, breathless voice, “Here’s
another Christmas present for the March family.”
Before the words were well out of his mouth, he was whisked
away somehow, and in his place appeared a tall man, muffled
up to the eyes, leaning on the arm of another tall man, who tried
to say something and couldn’t. Of course there was a general
stampede; and for several minutes everybody seemed to lose
their wits, for the strangest things were done, and no one said a
word. Mr. March became invisible in the embrace of four pairs
of loving arms; Jo disgraced herself by nearly fainting away, and
had to be doctored by Laurie in the china closet; Mr. Brooke
kissed Meg entirely by mistake, as he somewhat incoherently
explained; and Amy, the dignified, tumbled over a stool, and,
never stopping to get up, hugged and cried over her father’s
boots in the most touching manner. Mrs. March was the first
to recover herself, and held up her hand with a warning, “Hush!
remember Beth!”
But it was too late; the study door flew open,—the little
red wrapper appeared on the threshold,—joy put strength
into the feeble limbs,—and Beth ran straight into her father’s
arms. Never mind what happened just after that; for the full
hearts overflowed, washing away the bitterness of the past, and
leaving only the sweetness of the present.
It was not at all romantic, but a hearty laugh set everybody
straight again,—for Hannah was discovered behind the door,
sobbing over the fat turkey, which she had forgotten to put
down when she rushed up from the kitchen. As the laugh
subsided, Mrs. March began to thank Mr. Brooke for his faithful
care of her husband, at which Mr. Brooke suddenly remembered
that Mr. March needed rest, and, seizing Laurie, he precipitately
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 Pleasant Meadows.
retired. Then the two invalids were ordered to repose, which
they did, by both sitting in one big chair, and talking hard.
Mr. March told how he had longed to surprise them, and
how, when the fine weather came, he had been allowed by
his doctor to take advantage of it; how devoted Brooke had
been, and how he was altogether a most estimable and upright
young man. Why Mr. March paused a minute just there, and,
after a glance at Meg, who was violently poking the fire, looked
at his wife with an inquiring lift of the eyebrows, I leave you
to imagine; also why Mrs. March gently nodded her head, and
asked, rather abruptly, if he wouldn’t have something to eat. Jo
saw and understood the look; and she stalked grimly away, to
get wine and beef tea, muttering to herself, as she slammed the
door, “I hate estimable young men with brown eyes!”
There never was such a Christmas dinner as they had that day.
The fat turkey was a sight to behold, when Hannah sent him
up, stuffed, browned and decorated. So was the plum‑pudding,
which quite melted in one’s mouth; likewise the jellies, in which
Amy revelled like a fly in a honey‑pot. Everything turned out
well; which was a mercy, Hannah said, “For my mind was that
flustered, mum, that it’s a merrycle I didn’t roast the pudding
and stuff the turkey with raisens, let alone bilin’ of it in a cloth.”
Mr. Laurence and his grandson dined with them; also Mr.
Brooke,—at whom Jo glowered darkly, to Laurie’s infinite
amusement. Two easy‑chairs stood side by side at the head of
the table, in which sat Beth and her father, feasting, modestly, on
chicken and a little fruit. They drank healths, told stories, sung
songs, “reminisced,” as the old folks say, and had a thoroughly
good time. A sleigh‑ride had been planned, but the girls would
not leave their father; so the guests departed early, and, as
twilight gathered, the happy family sat together round the fire.
“Just a year ago we were groaning over the dismal Christmas
we expected to have. Do you remember?” asked Jo, breaking
a short pause, which had followed a long conversation about
many things.
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 Little Women
“Rather a pleasant year on the whole!” said Meg, smiling
at the fire, and congratulating herself on having treated Mr.
Brooke with dignity.
“I think it’s been a pretty hard one,” observed Amy, watching
the light shine on her ring, with thoughtful eyes.
“I’m glad it’s over, because we’ve ’got you back,” whispered
Beth, who sat on her father’s knee.
“Rather a rough road for you to travel, my little pilgrims,
especially the latter part of it. But you have got on bravely; and
I think the burdens are in a fair way to tumble off very soon,”
said Mr. March, looking, with fatherly satisfaction, at the four
young faces gathered round him.
“How do you know? Did mother tell you?” asked Jo.
“Not much; straws show which way the wind blows; and I’ve
made several discoveries today.”
“Oh, tell us what they are!” cried Meg, who sat beside him.
“Here is one!” and, taking up the hand which lay on the arm
of his chair, he pointed to the roughened forefinger, a burn
on the back, and two or three little hard spots on the palm. “I
remember a time when this hand was white and smooth, and
your first care was to keep it so. It was very pretty then, but to
me it is much prettier now,—for in these seeming blemishes I
read a little history. A burnt offering has been made of vanity;
this hardened palm has earned something better than blisters,
and I’m sure the sewing done by these pricked fingers will last
a long time, so much good‑will went into the stitches. Meg, my
dear, I value the womanly skill which keeps home happy, more
than white hands or fashionable accomplishments; I’m proud
to shake this good, industrious little hand, and hope I shall not
soon be asked to give it away.”
If Meg had wanted a reward for hours of patient labor, she
received it in the hearty pressure of her father’s hand, and the
approving smile he gave her.

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 Pleasant Meadows.
“What about Jo? Please say something nice; for she has tried
so hard, and been so very, very good to me,” said Beth, in her
father’s ear.
He laughed, and looked across at the tall girl who sat opposite,
with an unusually mild expression in her brown face.
“In spite of the curly crop, I don’t see the ‘son Jo’ whom I left a
year ago,” said Mr. March. “I see a young lady who pins her collar
straight, laces her boots neatly, and neither whistles, talks slang,
nor lies on the rug, as she used to do. Her face is rather thin and
pale, just now, with watching and anxiety; but I like to look at
it, for it has grown gentler, and her voice is lower; she doesn’t
bounce, but moves quietly, and takes care of a certain little
person in a motherly way, which delights me. I rather miss my
wild girl; but if I get a strong, helpful, tender‑hearted woman
in her place, I shall feel quite satisfied. I don’t know whether
the shearing sobered our black sheep, but I do know that in
all Washington I couldn’t find anything beautiful enough to be
bought with the five‑and‑twenty dollars which my good girl
sent me.”
Jo’s keen eyes were rather dim for a minute, and her thin
face grew rosy in the firelight, as she received her father’s praise,
feeling that she did deserve a portion of it.
“Now Beth;” said Amy, longing for her turn, but ready to wait.
“There’s so little of her I’m afraid to say much, for fear she will
slip away altogether, though she is not so shy as she used to be,”
began their father, cheerfully; but, recollecting how nearly he
had lost her, he held her close, saying, tenderly, with her cheek
against his own, “I’ve got you safe, my Beth, and I’ll keep you so,
please God.”
After a minute’s silence, he looked down at Amy, who sat
on the cricket at his feet, and said, with a caress of the shining
hair,—
“I observed that Amy took drumsticks at dinner, ran errands
for her mother all the afternoon, gave Meg her place to‑night,
and has waited on every one with patience and good‑humor.
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 Little Women
I also observe that she does not fret much, nor prink at the
glass, and has not even mentioned a very pretty ring which
she wears; so I conclude that she has learned to think of other
people more, and of herself less, and has decided to try and
mould her character as carefully as she moulds her little clay
figures. I am glad of this; for though I should be very proud of
a graceful statue made by her, I shall be infinitely prouder of
a lovable daughter, with a talent for making life beautiful to
herself and others.”
“What are you thinking of, Beth?” asked Jo, when Amy had
thanked her father, and told about her ring.
“I read in ‘Pilgrim’s Progress’ today, how, after many troubles,
Christian and Hopeful came to a pleasant green meadow,
where lilies bloomed all the year round, and there they rested
happily, as we do now, before they went on to their journey’s
end,” answered Beth; adding, as she slipped out of her father’s
arms, and went slowly to the instrument, “It’s singing time now,
and I want to be in my old place. I’ll try to sing the song of the
shepherd boy which the Pilgrim’s heard. I made the music for
father, because he likes the verses.”
So, sitting at the dear little piano, Beth softly touched the
keys, and, in the sweet voice they had never thought to hear
again, sung, to her own accompaniment, the quaint hymn,
which was a singularly fitting song for her:—

“He that is down need fear no fall;

He that is low no pride;
He that is humble ever shall
Have God to be his guide.

“I am content with what I have,

Little be it or much;
And, Lord! contentment still I crave,
Because Thou savest such.

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 Pleasant Meadows.
“Fulness to them a burden is,
That go on Pilgrimage;
Here little, and hereafter bliss,
Is best from age to age!”

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Little Women

268
 Chapter XXIII.

Aunt March Settles the Question.

L ike bees swarming after their queen, mother and daughters

hovered about Mr. March the next day, neglecting
everything to look at, wait upon, and listen to, the new
invalid, who was in a fairway to be killed by kindness. As he sat
propped up in the big chair by Beth’s sofa, with the other three
close by, and Hannah popping in her head now and then, “to
peek at the dear man,” nothing seemed needed to complete
their happiness. But something was needed, and the elder ones
felt it, though none confessed the fact. Mr. and Mrs. March
looked at one another with an anxious expression, as their eyes
followed Meg. Jo had sudden fits of sobriety, and was seen to
shake her fist at Mr. Brooke’s umbrella, which had been left in
the hall; Meg was absent‑minded, shy and silent, started when
the bell rang, and colored when John’s name was mentioned;
Amy said “Every one seemed waiting for something, and
couldn’t settle down, which was queer, since father was safe
at home,” and Beth innocently wondered why their neighbors
didn’t run over as usual.
Laurie went by in the afternoon, and, seeing Meg at the
window, seemed suddenly possessed with a melodramatic fit,
for he fell down upon one knee in the snow, beat his breast,
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 Little Women
tore his hair, and clasped his hands imploringly, as if begging
some boon; and when Meg told him to behave himself, and
go away, he wrung imaginary tears out of his handkerchief, and
staggered round the corner as if in utter despair.
“What does the goose mean?” said Meg, laughing, and trying
to look unconscious.
“He’s showing you how your John will go on by and by.
Touching, isn’t it?” answered Jo, scornfully.
“Don’t say my John, it isn’t proper or true;” but Meg’s voice
lingered over the words as if they sounded pleasant to her.
“Please don’t plague me, Jo; I’ve told you I don’t care much about
him, and there isn’t to be anything said, but we are all to be
friendly, and go on as before.”
“We can’t, for something has been said, and Laurie’s mischief
has spoilt you for me. I see it, and so does mother; you are not
like your old self a bit, and seem ever so far away from me. I
don’t mean to plague you, and will bear it like a man, but I do
wish it was all settled. I hate to wait; so if you mean ever to do it,
make haste, and have it over quick,” said Jo, pettishly.
“I can’t say or do anything till he speaks, and he won’t, because
father said I was too young,” began Meg, bending over her work
with a queer little smile, which suggested that she did not quite
agree with her father on that point.
“If he did speak, you wouldn’t know what to say, but would
cry or blush, or let him have his own way, instead of giving a
good, decided, No.”
“I’m not so silly and weak as you think. I know just what I
should say, for I’ve planned it all, so I needn’t be taken unawares;
there’s no knowing what may happen, and I wished to be
prepared.”
Jo couldn’t help smiling at the important air which Meg had
unconsciously assumed, and which was as becoming as the
pretty color varying in her cheeks.
“Would you mind telling me what you’d say?” asked Jo, more
respectfully.
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 Aunt March Settles the Question.
“Not at all; you are sixteen now, quite old enough to be my
confidant, and my experience will be useful to you by and by,
perhaps, in your own affairs of this sort.”
“Don’t mean to have any; it’s fun to watch other people
philander, but I should feel like a fool doing it myself,” said Jo,
looking alarmed at the thought.
“I guess not, if you liked any one very much, and he liked you.”
Meg spoke as if to herself, and glanced out at the lane where she
had often seen lovers walking together in the summer twilight.
“I thought you were going to tell your speech to that man,”
said Jo, rudely shortening her sister’s little reverie.
“Oh, I should merely say, quite calmly and decidedly, ‘Thank
you, Mr. Brooke, you are very kind, but I agree with father, that
I am too young to enter into any engagement at present; so
please say no more, but let us be friends as we were.’”
“Hum! that’s stiff and cool enough. I don’t believe you’ll ever
say it, and I know he won’t be satisfied if you do. If he goes on
like the rejected lovers in books, you’ll give in, rather than hurt
his feelings.”
“No I won’t! I shall tell him I’ve made up my mind, and shall
walk out of the room with dignity.”
Meg rose as she spoke, and was just going to rehearse the
dignified exit, when a step in the hall made her fly into her
seat, and begin to sew as if her life depended on finishing
that particular seam in a given time. Jo smothered a laugh at
the sudden change, and, when some one gave a modest tap,
opened the door with a grim aspect, which was anything but
hospitable.
“Good afternoon, I came to get my umbrella,—that is, to see
how your father finds himself today,” said Mr. Brooke, getting
a trifle confused, as his eye went from one tell‑tale face to the
other.
“It’s very well, he’s in the rack, I’ll get him, and tell it you are
here,” and having jumbled her father and the umbrella well
together in her reply, Jo slipped out of the room to give Meg a
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 Little Women
chance to make her speech, and air her dignity. But the instant
she vanished, Meg began to sidle toward the door, murmuring,—
“Mother will like to see you, pray sit down, I’ll call her.”
“Don’t go; are you afraid of me, Margaret?” and Mr. Brooke
looked so hurt, that Meg thought she must have done
something very rude. She blushed up to the little curls on her
forehead, for he had never called her Margaret before, and she
was surprised to find how natural and sweet it seemed to hear
him say it. Anxious to appear friendly and at her ease, she put
out her hand with a confiding gesture, and said, gratefully,—
“How can I be afraid when you have been so kind to father? I
only wish I could thank you for it.”
“Shall I tell you how?” asked Mr. Brooke, holding the small
hand fast in both his big ones, and looking down at Meg with
so much love in the brown eyes, that her heart began to flutter,
and she both longed to run away and to stop and listen.
“Oh no, please don’t—I’d rather not,” she said, trying to
withdraw her hand, and looking frightened in spite of her denial.
“I won’t trouble you, I only want to know if you care for me a
little, Meg, I love you so much, dear,” added Mr. Brooke, tenderly.
This was the moment for the calm, proper speech, but Meg
didn’t make it, she forgot every word of it, hung her head, and
answered, “I don’t know,” so softly, that John had to stoop down
to catch the foolish little reply.
He seemed to think it was worth the trouble, for he smiled to
himself as if quite satisfied, pressed the plump hand gratefully,
and said, in his most persuasive tone, “Will you try and find
out? I want to know so much; for I can’t go to work with any
heart until I learn whether I am to have my reward in the end
or not.”
“I’m too young,” faltered Meg, wondering why she was so
fluttered, yet rather enjoying it.
“I’ll wait; and, in the meantime, you could be learning to like
me. Would it be a very hard lesson, dear?”
“Not if I chose to learn it, but—”
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 Aunt March Settles the Question.
“Please choose to learn, Meg. I love to teach, and this is easier
than German,” broke in John, getting possession of the other
hand, so that she had no way of hiding her face, as he bent to
look into it.
His tone was properly beseeching; but, stealing a shy look at
him, Meg saw that his eyes were merry as well as tender, and
that he wore the satisfied smile of one who had no doubt of
his success. This nettled her; Annie Moffat’s foolish lessons in
coquetry came into her mind, and the love of power, which
sleeps in the bosoms of the best of little women, woke up all
of a sudden, and took possession of her. She felt excited and
strange, and, not knowing what else to do, followed a capricious
impulse, and, withdrawing her hands, said, petulantly, “I don’t
choose; please go away, and let me be!”
Poor Mr. Brooke looked as if his lovely castle in the air was
tumbling about his ears, for he had never seen Meg in such a
mood before, and it rather bewildered him.
“Do you really mean that?” he asked, anxiously, following her
as she walked away.
“Yes, I do; I don’t want to be worried about such things. Father
says I needn’t; it’s too soon, and I’d rather not.”
“Mayn’t I hope you’ll change your mind by and by? I’ll wait,
and say nothing till you have had more time. Don’t play with
me, Meg. I didn’t think that of you.”
“Don’t think of me at all. I’d rather you wouldn’t,” said Meg,
taking a naughty satisfaction in trying her lover’s patience and
her own power.
He was grave and pale now, and looked decidedly more like
the novel heroes whom she admired; but he neither slapped
his forehead nor tramped about the room, as they did; he just
stood looking at her so wistfully, so tenderly, that she found her
heart relenting in spite of her. What would have happened next
I cannot say, if Aunt March had not come hobbling in at this
interesting minute.

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 Little Women
The old lady couldn’t resist her longing to see her nephew; for
she had met Laurie as she took her airing, and, hearing of Mr.
March’s arrival, drove straight out to see him. The family were
all busy in the back part of the house, and she had made her
way quietly in, hoping to surprise them. She did surprise two of
them so much, that Meg started as if she had seen a ghost, and
Mr. Brooke vanished into the study.
“Bless me! what’s all this?” cried the old lady, with a rap of
her cane, as she glanced from the pale young gentleman to the
scarlet young lady.
“It’s father’s friend. I’m so surprised to see you!” stammered
Meg, feeling that she was in for a lecture now.
“That’s evident,” returned Aunt March, sitting down. “But
what is father’s friend saying, to make you look like a peony?
There’s mischief going on, and I insist upon knowing what it is!”
with another rap.
“We were merely talking. Mr. Brooke came for his umbrella,”
began Meg, wishing that Mr. Brooke and the umbrella were
safely out of the house.
“Brooke? That boy’s tutor? Ah! I understand now. I know all
about it. Jo blundered into a wrong message in one of your pa’s
letters, and I made her tell me. You haven’t gone and accepted
him, child?” cried Aunt March, looking scandalized.
“Hush! he’ll hear! Shan’t I call mother?” said Meg, much
troubled.
“Not yet. I’ve something to say to you, and must free my mind
at once. Tell me, do you mean to marry this Cook? If you do, not
one penny of my money ever goes to you. Remember that, and
be a sensible girl,” said the old lady, impressively.
Now Aunt March possessed, in perfection, the art of rousing
the spirit of opposition in the gentlest people, and enjoyed
doing it. The best of us have a spice of perversity in us, especially
when we are young, and in love. If Aunt March had begged Meg
to accept John Brooke, she would probably have declared she
couldn’t think of it; but, as she was peremptorily ordered not
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 Aunt March Settles the Question.
to like him, she immediately made up her mind that she would.
Inclination as well as perversity made the decision easy, and,
being already much excited, Meg opposed the old lady with
unusual spirit.
“I shall marry whom I please, Aunt March, and you can leave
your money to any one you like,” she said, nodding her head
with a resolute air.
“Highty tighty! Is that the way you take my advice, miss? You’ll
be sorry for it, by and by, when you’ve tried love in a cottage,
and found it a failure.”
“It can’t be a worse one than some people find in big houses,”
retorted Meg.
Aunt March put on her glasses and took a look at the girl,—
for she did not know her in this new mood. Meg hardly knew
herself, she felt so brave and independent,—so glad to defend
John, and assert her right to love him, if she liked. Aunt March
saw that she had begun wrong, and, after a little pause, made
a fresh start, saying, as mildly as she could, “Now, Meg, my dear,
be reasonable, and take my advice. I mean it kindly, and don’t
want you to spoil your whole life by making a mistake at the
beginning. You ought to marry well, and help your family; it’s
your duty to make a rich match, and it ought to be impressed
upon you.”
“Father and mother don’t think so; they like John, though he
is poor.”
“Your pa and ma, my dear, have no more worldly wisdom
than two babies.”
“I’m glad of it,” cried Meg, stoutly.
Aunt March took no notice, but went on with her lecture.
“This Rook is poor, and hasn’t got any rich relations, has he?”
“No; but he has many warm friends.”
“You can’t live on friends; try it, and see how cool they’ll grow.
He hasn’t any business, has he?”
“Not yet; Mr. Laurence is going to help him.”

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“That won’t last long. James Laurence is a crotchety old
fellow, and not to be depended on. So you intend to marry a
man without money, position, or business, and go on working
harder than you do now, when you might be comfortable all
your days by minding me, and doing better? I thought you had
more sense, Meg.”
“I couldn’t do better if I waited half my life! John is good and
wise; he’s got heaps of talent; he’s willing to work, and sure to
get on, he’s so energetic and brave. Every one likes and respects
him, and I’m proud to think he cares for me, though I’m so poor,
and young, and silly,” said Meg, looking prettier than ever in her
earnestness.
“He knows you have got rich relations, child; that’s the secret
of his liking, I suspect.”
“Aunt March, how dare you say such a thing? John is above
such meanness, and I won’t listen to you a minute if you talk so,”
cried Meg, indignantly, forgetting everything but the injustice
of the old lady’s suspicions. “My John wouldn’t marry for money,
any more than I would. We are willing to work, and we mean to
wait. I’m not afraid of being poor, for I’ve been happy so far, and
I know I shall be with him, because he loves me, and I—”
Meg stopped there, remembering, all of a sudden, that she
hadn’t made up her mind; that she had told “her John” to
go away, and that he might be overhearing her inconsistent
remarks.
Aunt March was very angry, for she had set her heart on
having her pretty niece make a fine match, and something in
the girl’s happy young face made the lonely old woman feel
both sad and sour.
“Well; I wash my hands of the whole affair! You are a wilful
child, and you’ve lost more than you know by this piece of folly.
No, I won’t stop; I’m disappointed in you, and haven’t spirits
to see your pa now. Don’t expect anything from me when you
are married; your Mr. Book’s friends must take care of you. I’m
done with you forever.”
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 Aunt March Settles the Question.
And, slamming the door in Meg’s face, Aunt March drove
off in high dudgeon. She seemed to take all the girl’s courage
with her; for, when left alone, Meg stood a moment undecided
whether to laugh or cry. Before she could make up her mind,
she was taken possession of by Mr. Brooke, who said, all in one
breath, “I couldn’t help hearing, Meg. Thank you for defending
me, and Aunt March for proving that you do care for me a little
bit.”
“I didn’t know how much, till she abused you,” began Meg.”
And I needn’t go away, but may stay and be happy—may I,
dear?”
Here was another fine chance to make the crushing speech
and the stately exit, but Meg never thought of doing either, and
disgraced herself forever in Jo’s eyes, by meekly whispering, “Yes,
John,” and hiding her face on Mr. Brooke’s waistcoat.
Fifteen minutes after Aunt March’s departure, Jo came softly
down stairs, paused an instant at the parlor door, and, hearing
no sound within, nodded and smiled, with a satisfied expression,
saying to herself, “She has sent him away as we planned, and
that affair is settled. I’ll go and hear the fun, and have a good
laugh over it.”
But poor Jo never got her laugh, for she was transfixed upon
the threshold by a spectacle which held her there, staring with
her mouth nearly as wide open as her eyes. Going in to exult
over a fallen enemy, and to praise a strong‑minded sister for the
banishment of an objectionable lover, it certainly was a shock
to behold the aforesaid enemy serenely sitting on the sofa, with
the strong‑minded sister enthroned upon his knee, and wearing
an expression of the most abject submission. Jo gave a sort of
gasp, as if a cold shower‑bath had suddenly fallen upon her,—
for such an unexpected turning of the tables actually took her
breath away. At the odd sound, the lovers turned and saw her.
Meg jumped up, looking both proud and shy; but “that man,”
as Jo called him, actually laughed, and said, coolly, as he kissed
the astonished new comer, “Sister Jo, congratulate us!”
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That was adding insult to injury! it was altogether too much!
and, making some wild demonstration with her hands, Jo
vanished without a word. Rushing upstairs, she startled the
invalids by exclaiming, tragically, as she burst into the room, “Oh,
do somebody go down quick! John Brooke is acting dreadfully,
and Meg likes it!”
Mr. and Mrs. March left the room with speed; and, casting
herself upon the bed, Jo cried and scolded tempestuously as she
told the awful news to Beth and Amy. The little girls, however,
considered it a most agreeable and interesting event, and Jo got
little comfort from them; so she went up to her refuge in the
garret, and confided her troubles to the rats.
Nobody ever knew what went on in the parlor that
afternoon; but a great deal of talking was done, and quiet Mr.
Brooke astonished his friends by the eloquence and spirit with
which he pleaded his suit, told his plans, and persuaded them
to arrange everything just as he wanted it.
The tea‑bell rang before he had finished describing the
paradise which he meant to earn for Meg, and he proudly
took her into supper, both looking so happy, that Jo hadn’t the
heart to be jealous or dismal. Amy was very much impressed by
John’s devotion and Meg’s dignity. Beth beamed at them from a
distance, while Mr. and Mrs. March surveyed the young couple
with such tender satisfaction, that it was perfectly evident
Aunt March was right in calling them as “unworldly as a pair
of babies.” No one ate much, but every one looked very happy,
and the old room seemed to brighten up amazingly when the
first romance of the family began there.
“You can’t say ‘nothing pleasant ever happens now,’ can you,
Meg?” said Amy, trying to decide how she would group the
lovers in the sketch she was planning to take.
“No, I’m sure I can’t. How much has happened since I said that!
It seems a year ago,” answered Meg, who was in a blissful dream,
lifted far above such common things as bread and butter.

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 Aunt March Settles the Question.
“The joys come close upon the sorrows this time, and I rather
think the changes have begun,” said Mrs. March. “In most
families there comes, now and then, a year full of events; this
has been such an one, but it ends well, after all.”
“Hope the next will end better,” muttered Jo, who found it
very hard to see Meg absorbed in a stranger before her face; for
Jo loved a few persons very dearly, and dreaded to have their
affection lost or lessened in any way.
“I hope the third year from this will end better; I mean it shall,
if I live to work out my plans,” said Mr. Brooke, smiling at Meg,
as if everything had become possible to him now.
“Doesn’t it seem very long to wait?” asked Amy, who was in a
hurry for the wedding.
“I’ve got so much to learn before I shall be ready, it seems a
short time to me,” answered Meg, with a sweet gravity in her
face, never seen there before.
“You have only to wait. I am to do the work,” said John,
beginning his labors; by picking up Meg’s napkin, with an
expression which caused Jo to shake her head, and then say
to herself, with an air of relief, as the front door banged, “Here
comes Laurie; now we shall have a little sensible conversation.”
But Jo was mistaken; for Laurie came prancing in, overflowing
with spirits, bearing a great bridal‑looking bouquet for “Mrs.
John Brooke,” and evidently laboring under the delusion that
the whole affair had been brought about by his excellent
management.
“I knew Brooke would have it all his own way,—he always does;
for when he makes up his mind to accomplish anything, it’s
done, though the sky falls,” said Laurie, when he had presented
his offering and his congratulations.
“Much obliged for that recommendation. I take it as a good
omen for the future, and invite you to my wedding on the spot,”
answered Mr. Brooke, who felt at peace with all mankind, even
his mischievous pupil.

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“I’ll come if I’m at the ends of the earth; for the sight of Jo’s
face alone, on that occasion, would be worth a long journey.
You don’t look festive, ma’am; what’s the matter?” asked
Laurie, following her into a corner of the parlor, whither all had
adjourned to greet Mr. Laurence.
“I don’t approve of the match, but I’ve made up my mind to
bear it, and shall not say a word against it,” said Jo, solemnly.
“You can’t know how hard it is for me to give up Meg,” she
continued, with a little quiver in her voice.
“You don’t give her up. You only go halves,” said Laurie,
consolingly.
“It never can be the same again. I’ve lost my dearest friend,
sighed Jo.”
“You’ve got me, anyhow. I’m not good for much, I know; but
I’ll stand by you, Jo, all the days of my life; upon my word I will!”
and Laurie meant what he said.
“I know you will, and I’m ever so much obliged; you are always
a great comfort to me, Teddy,” returned Jo, gratefully shaking
hands.
“Well, now, don’t be dismal, there’s a good fellow. It’s all right,
you see. Meg is happy; Brooke will fly round and get settled
immediately; grandpa will attend to him, and it will be very
jolly to see Meg in her own little house. We’ll have capital times
after she is gone, for I shall be through college before long, and
then we’ll go abroad, or some nice trip or other. Wouldn’t that
console you?”
“I rather think it would; but there’s no knowing what may
happen in three years,” said Jo, thoughtfully.
“That’s true! Don’t you wish you could take a look forward,
and see where we shall all be then? I do,” returned Laurie.
“I think not, for I might see something sad; and every one looks
so happy now, I don’t believe they could be much improved,”
and Jo’s eyes went slowly round the room, brightening as they
looked, for the prospect was a pleasant one.

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 Aunt March Settles the Question.
Father and mother sat together quietly re‑living the first
chapter of the romance which for them began some twenty
years ago. Amy was drawing the lovers, who sat apart in a
beautiful world of their own, the light of which touched their
faces with a grace the little artist could not copy. Beth lay on
her sofa talking cheerily with her old friend, who held her little
hand as if he felt that it possessed the power to lead him along
the peaceful ways she walked. Jo lounged in her favorite low
seat, with the grave, quiet look which best became her; and
Laurie, leaning on the back of her chair, his chin on a level with
her curly head, smiled with his friendliest aspect, and nodded
at her in the long glass which reflected them both.
So grouped the curtain falls upon Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy.
Whether it ever rises again, depends upon the reception given
to the first act of the domestic drama, called “Little Women.”

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 Aunt March Settles the Question.

Bibliography
Alcott, Louisa M. Little Women or Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy. Boston, MA:
Roberts Brothers, 1868.

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