When Jo came home that spring,

she had been struck with the change in Beth.

No one spoke of it or seemed aware of it,

for it had come too gradually to startle those who saw her daily,

but to eyes sharpened by absence,

it was very plain and a heavy weight fell on Jo's heart as she saw her sister's face.

It was no paler and but littler thinner than in the autumn,

yet there was a strange,

transparent look about it,

as if the mortal was being slowly refined away,

and the immortal shining through the frail flesh with an indescribably pathetic beauty.

Jo saw and felt it,

but said nothing at the time,

and soon the first impression lost much of its power,

for Beth seemed happy,

no one appeared to doubt that she was better,

and presently in other cares Jo for a time forgot her fear.

But when Laurie was gone,

and peace prevailed again,

the vague anxiety returned and haunted her.

She had confessed her sins and been forgiven,

but when she showed her savings and proposed a mountain trip,

Beth had thanked her heartily,

but begged not to go so far away from home.

Another little visit to the seashore would suit her better,

and as Grandma could not be prevailed upon to leave the babies,

Jo took Beth down to the quiet place,

where she could live much in the open air,

and let the fresh sea breezes blow a little color into her pale cheeks.

It was not a fashionable place,

but even among the pleasant people there,

the girls made few friends,

preferring to live for one another.

Beth was too shy to enjoy society,

and Jo too wrapped up in her to care for anyone else.

So they were all in all to each other,

and came and went,

quite unconscious of the interest they exited in those about them,

who watched with sympathetic eyes the strong sister and the feeble one,

always together,

as if they felt instinctively that a long separation was not far away.

They did feel it,

yet neither spoke of it,

for often between ourselves and those nearest and dearest to us there exists a reserve which it is very hard to overcome.

Jo felt as if a veil had fallen between her heart and Beth's,

but when she put out her hand to lift it up,

there seemed something sacred in the silence,

and she waited for Beth to speak.

She wondered,

and was thankful also,

that her parents did not seem to see what she saw,

and during the quiet weeks when the shadows grew so plain to her,

she said nothing of it to those at home,

believing that it would tell itself when Beth came back no better.

She wondered still more if her sister really guessed the hard truth,

and what thoughts were passing through her mind during the long hours when she lay on the warm rocks with her head in Jo's lap,

while the winds blew healthfully over her and the sea made music at her feet.

One day Beth told her.

Jo thought she was asleep,

she lay so still,

and putting down her book,

sat looking at her with wistful eyes,

trying to see signs of hope in the faint color on Beth's cheeks.

But she could not find enough to satisfy her,

for the cheeks were very thin,

and the hands seemed too feeble to hold even the rosy little shells they had been collecting.

It came to her then more bitterly than ever that Beth was slowly drifting away from her,

and her arms instinctively tightened their hold upon the dearest treasure she possessed.

For a minute her eyes were too dim for seeing,

and when they cleared,

Beth was looking up at her so tenderly that there was hardly any need for her to say,



I'm glad you know it.

I've tried to tell you,

but I couldn't."

There was no answer except her sister's cheek against her own,

not even tears,

for when most deeply moved,

Jo did not cry.

She was the weaker then,

and Beth tried to comfort and sustain her,

with her arms about her and the soothing words she whispered in her ear.

"I've known it for a good while,


and now I'm used to it,

it isn't hard to think of or to bear.

Try to see it so and don't be troubled about me,

because it's best,

indeed it is."

"Is this what made you so unhappy in the autumn,


You did not feel it then,

and keep it to yourself so long,

did you?"

asked Jo,

refusing to see or say that it was best,

but glad to know that Laurie had no part in Beth's trouble.


I gave up hoping then,

but I didn't like to own it.

I tried to think it was a sick fancy,

and would not let it trouble anyone.

But when I saw you all so well and strong and full of happy plans,

it was hard to feel that I could never be like you,

and then I was miserable,




and you didn't tell me,

didn't let me comfort and help you?

How could you shut me out,

bear it all alone?"

Jo's voice was full of tender reproach,

and her heart ached to think of the solitary struggle that must have gone on while Beth learned to say goodbye to health,


and life,

and take up her cross so cheerfully.

"Perhaps it was wrong,

but I tried to do right.

I wasn't sure,

no one said anything,

and I hoped I was mistaken.

It would have been selfish to frighten you all when Marmee was so anxious about Meg,

and Amy away,

and you so happy with Laurie --at least I thought so then."

"And I thought you loved him,


and I went away because I couldn't,"

cried Jo,

glad to say all the truth.

Beth looked so amazed at the idea that Jo smiled in spite of her pain,

and added softly,

"Then you didn't,


I was afraid it was so,

and imagined your poor little heart full of lovelornity all that while."



how could I,

when he was so fond of you?"

asked Beth,

as innocently as a child.

"I do love him dearly.

He is so good to me,

how can I help It?

But he could never be anything to me but my brother.

I hope he truly will be,


"Not through me,"

said Jo decidedly.

"Amy is left for him,

and they would suit excellently,

but I have no heart for such things,


I don't care what becomes of anybody but you,


You must get well."

"I want to,


so much!

I try,

but every day I lose a little,

and feel more sure that I shall never gain it back.

It's like the tide,


when it turns,

it goes slowly,

but it can't be stopped."

"It shall be stopped,

your tide must not turn so soon,

nineteen is too young,


I can't let you go.

I'll work and pray and fight against it.

I'll keep you in spite of everything.

There must be ways,

it can't be too late.

God won't be so cruel as to take you from me,"

cried poor Jo rebelliously,

for her spirit was far less piously submissive than Beth's.


sincere people seldom speak much of their piety.

It shows itself in acts rather than in words,

and has more influence than homilies or protestations.

Beth could not reason upon or explain the faith that gave her courage and patience to give up life,

and cheerfully wait for death.

Like a confiding child,

she asked no questions,

but left everything to God and nature,

Father and Mother of us all,

feeling sure that they,

and they only,

could teach and strengthen heart and spirit for this life and the life to come.

She did not rebuke Jo with saintly speeches,

only loved her better for her passionate affection,

and clung more closely to the dear human love,

from which our Father never means us to be weaned,

but through which He draws us closer to Himself.

She could not say,

"I'm glad to go,"

for life was very sweet for her.

She could only sob out,

"I try to be willing,"

while she held fast to Jo,

as the first bitter wave of this great sorrow broke over them together.

By and by Beth said,

with recovered serenity,

"You'll tell them this when we go home?"

"I think they will see it without words,"

sighed Jo,

for now it seemed to her that Beth changed every day.

"Perhaps not.

I've heard that the people who love best are often blindest to such things.

If they don't see it,

you will tell them for me.

I don't want any secrets,

and it's kinder to prepare them.

Meg has John and the babies to comfort her,

but you must stand by Father and Mother,

won't you Jo?"

"If I can.



I don't give up yet.

I'm going to believe that it is a sick fancy,

and not let you think it's true."

said Jo,

trying to speak cheerfully.

Beth lay a minute thinking,

and then said in her quiet way,

"I don't know how to express myself,

and shouldn't try to anyone but you,

because I can't speak out except to my Jo.

I only mean to say that I have a feeling that it never was intended I should live long.

I'm not like the rest of you.

I never made any plans about what I'd do when I grew up.

I never thought of being married,

as you all did.

I couldn't seem to imagine myself anything but stupid little Beth,

trotting about at home,

of no use anywhere but there.

I never wanted to go away,

and the hard part now is the leaving you all.

I'm not afraid,

but it seems as if I should be homesick for you even in heaven."

Jo could not speak,

and for several minutes there was no sound but the sigh of the wind and the lapping of the tide.

A white-winged gull flew by,

with the flash of sunshine on its silvery breast.

Beth watched it till it vanished,

and her eyes were full of sadness.

A little gray-coated sand bird came tripping over the beach

'peeping' softly to itself,

as if enjoying the sun and sea.

It came quite close to Beth,

and looked at her with a friendly eye and sat upon a warm stone,

dressing its wet feathers,

quite at home.

Beth smiled and felt comforted,

for the tiny thing seemed to offer its small friendship and remind her that a pleasant world was still to be enjoyed.

"Dear little bird!



how tame it is.

I like peeps better than the gulls.

They are not so wild and handsome,

but they seem happy,

confiding little things.

I used to call them my birds last summer,

and Mother said they reminded her of me --busy,

quaker-colored creatures,

always near the shore,

and always chirping that contented little song of theirs.

You are the gull,


strong and wild,

fond of the storm and the wind,

flying far out to sea,

and happy all alone.

Meg is the turtledove,

and Amy is like the lark she writes about,

trying to get up among the clouds,

but always dropping down into its nest again.

Dear little girl!

She's so ambitious,

but her heart is good and tender,

and no matter how high she flies,

she never will forget home.

I hope I shall see her again,

but she seems so far away."

"She is coming in the spring,

and I mean that you shall be all ready to see and enjoy her.

I'm going to have you well and rosy by that time,"

began Jo,

feeling that of all the changes in Beth,

the talking change was the greatest,

for it seemed to cost no effort now,

and she thought aloud in a way quite unlike bashful Beth.



don't hope any more.

It won't do any good.

I'm sure of that.

We won't be miserable,

but enjoy being together while we wait.

We'll have happy times,

for I don't suffer much,

and I think the tide will go out easily,

if you help me."

Jo leaned down to kiss the tranquil face,

and with that silent kiss,

she dedicated herself soul and body to Beth.

She was right.

There was no need of any words when they got home,

for Father and Mother saw plainly now what they had prayed to be saved from seeing.

Tired with her short journey,

Beth went at once to bed,

saying how glad she was to be home,

and when Jo went down,

she found that she would be spared the hard task of telling Beth's secret.

Her father stood leaning his head on the mantelpiece and did not turn as she came in,

but her mother stretched out her arms as if for help,

and Jo went to comfort her without a word.



At three o'clock in the afternoon,

all the fashionable world at Nice may be seen on the Promenade des Anglais --a charming place,

for the wide walk,

bordered with palms,


and tropical shrubs,

is bounded on one side by the sea,

on the other by the grand drive,

lined with hotels and villas,

while beyond lie orange orchards and the hills.

Many nations are represented,

many languages spoken,

many costumes worn,

and on a sunny day the spectacle is as gay and brilliant as a carnival.

Haughty English,

lively French,

sober Germans,

handsome Spaniards,

ugly Russians,

meek Jews,

free-and-easy Americans,

all drive,


or saunter here,

chatting over the news,

and criticizing the latest celebrity who has arrived --Ristori or Dickens,

Victor Emmanuel or the Queen of the Sandwich Islands.

The equipages are as varied as the company and attract as much attention,

especially the low basket barouches in which ladies drive themselves,

with a pair of dashing ponies,

gay nets to keep their voluminous flounces from overflowing the diminutive vehicles,

and little grooms on the perch behind.

Along this walk,

on Christmas Day,

a tall young man walked slowly,

with his hands behind him,

and a somewhat absent expression of countenance.

He looked like an Italian,

was dressed like an Englishman,

and had the independent air of an American --a combination which caused sundry pairs of feminine eyes to look approvingly after him,

and sundry dandies in black velvet suits,

with rose-colored neckties,

buff gloves,

and orange flowers in their buttonholes,

to shrug their shoulders,

and then envy him his inches.

There were plenty of pretty faces to admire,

but the young man took little notice of them,

except to glance now and then at some blonde girl in blue.

Presently he strolled out of the promenade and stood a moment at the crossing,

as if undecided whether to go and listen to the band in the Jardin Publique,

or to wander along the beach toward Castle Hill.

The quick trot of ponies' feet made him look up,

as one of the little carriages,

containing a single young lady,

came rapidly down the street.

The lady was young,


and dressed in blue.

He stared a minute,

then his whole face woke up,


waving his hat like a boy,

he hurried forward to meet her.



is it really you?

I thought you'd never come!"

cried Amy,

dropping the reins and holding out both hands,

to the great scandalization of a French mamma,

who hastened her daughter's steps,

lest she should be demoralized by beholding the free manners of these

'mad English'.

"I was detained by the way,

but I promised to spend Christmas with you,

and here I am."

"How is your grandfather?

When did you come?

Where are you staying?"

"Very well --last night --at the Chauvain.

I called at your hotel,

but you were out."

"I have so much to say,

I don't know where to begin!

Get in and we can talk at our ease.

I was going for a drive and longing for company.

Flo's saving up for tonight."

"What happens then,

a ball?"

"A Christmas party at our hotel.

There are many Americans there,

and they give it in honor of the day.

You'll go with us,

of course?

Aunt will be charmed."

"Thank you.

Where now?"

asked Laurie,

leaning back and folding his arms,

a proceeding which suited Amy,

who preferred to drive,

for her parasol whip and blue reins over the white ponies' backs afforded her infinite satisfaction.

"I'm going to the bankers first for letters,

and then to Castle Hill.

The view is so lovely,

and I like to feed the peacocks.

Have you ever been there?"


years ago,

but I don't mind having a look at it."

"Now tell me all about yourself.

The last I heard of you,

your grandfather wrote that he expected you from Berlin."


I spent a month there and then joined him in Paris,

where he has settled for the winter.

He has friends there and finds plenty to amuse him,

so I go and come,

and we get on capitally."

"That's a sociable arrangement,"

said Amy,

missing something in Laurie's manner,

though she couldn't tell what.


you see,

he hates to travel,

and I hate to keep still,

so we each suit ourselves,

and there is no trouble.

I am often with him,

and he enjoys my adventures,

while I like to feel that someone is glad to see me when I get back from my wanderings.

Dirty old hole,

isn't it?"

he added,

with a look of disgust as they drove along the boulevard to the Place Napoleon in the old city.

"The dirt is picturesque,

so I don't mind.

The river and the hills are delicious,

and these glimpses of the narrow cross streets are my delight.

Now we shall have to wait for that procession to pass.

It's going to the Church of St. John."

While Laurie listlessly watched the procession of priests under their canopies,

white-veiled nuns bearing lighted tapers,

and some brotherhood in blue chanting as they walked,

Amy watched him,

and felt a new sort of shyness steal over her,

for he was changed,

and she could not find the merry-faced boy she left in the moody-looking man beside her.

He was handsomer than ever and greatly improved,

she thought,

but now that the flush of pleasure at meeting her was over,

he looked tired and spiritless --not sick,

nor exactly unhappy,

but older and graver than a year or two of prosperous life should have made him.

She couldn't understand it and did not venture to ask questions,

so she shook her head and touched up her ponies,

as the procession wound away across the arches of the Paglioni bridge and vanished in the church.

"Que pensez-vous?"

she said,

airing her French,

which had improved in quantity,

if not in quality,

since she came abroad.

"That mademoiselle has made good use of her time,

and the result is charming,"

replied Laurie,

bowing with his hand on his heart and an admiring look.

She blushed with pleasure,

but somehow the compliment did not satisfy her like the blunt praises he used to give her at home,

when he promenaded round her on festival occasions,

and told her she was

'altogether jolly',

with a hearty smile and an approving pat on the head.

She didn't like the new tone,

for though not blase,

it sounded indifferent in spite of the look.

"If that's the way he's going to grow up,

I wish he'd stay a boy,"

she thought,

with a curious sense of disappointment and discomfort,

trying meantime to seem quite easy and gay.

At Avigdor's she found the precious home letters and,

giving the reins to Laurie,

read them luxuriously as they wound up the shady road between green hedges,

where tea roses bloomed as freshly as in June.

"Beth is very poorly,

Mother says.

I often think I ought to go home,

but they all say


So I do,

for I shall never have another chance like this,"

said Amy,

looking sober over one page.

"I think you are right,


You could do nothing at home,

and it is a great comfort to them to know that you are well and happy,

and enjoying so much,

my dear."

He drew a little nearer,

and looked more like his old self as he said that,

and the fear that sometimes weighed on Amy's heart was lightened,

for the look,

the act,

the brotherly

'my dear',

seemed to assure her that if any trouble did come,

she would not be alone in a strange land.

Presently she laughed and showed him a small sketch of Jo in her scribbling suit,

with the bow rampantly erect upon her cap,

and issuing from her mouth the words,

'Genius burns!'.

Laurie smiled,

took it,

put it in his vest pocket

'to keep it from blowing away',

and listened with interest to the lively letter Amy read him.

"This will be a regularly merry Christmas to me,

with presents in the morning,

you and letters in the afternoon,

and a party at night,"

said Amy,

as they alighted among the ruins of the old fort,

and a flock of splendid peacocks came trooping about them,

tamely waiting to be fed.

While Amy stood laughing on the bank above him as she scattered crumbs to the brilliant birds,

Laurie looked at her as she had looked at him,

with a natural curiosity to see what changes time and absence had wrought.

He found nothing to perplex or disappoint,

much to admire and approve,

for overlooking a few little affectations of speech and manner,

she was as sprightly and graceful as ever,

with the addition of that indescribable something in dress and bearing which we call elegance.

Always mature for her age,

she had gained a certain aplomb in both carriage and conversation,

which made her seem more of a woman of the world than she was,

but her old petulance now and then showed itself,

her strong will still held its own,

and her native frankness was unspoiled by foreign polish.

Laurie did not read all this while he watched her feed the peacocks,

but he saw enough to satisfy and interest him,

and carried away a pretty little picture of a bright-faced girl standing in the sunshine,

which brought out the soft hue of her dress,

the fresh color of her cheeks,

the golden gloss of her hair,

and made her a prominent figure in the pleasant scene.

As they came up onto the stone plateau that crowns the hill,

Amy waved her hand as if welcoming him to her favorite haunt,

and said,

pointing here and there,

"Do you remember the Cathedral and the Corso,

the fishermen dragging their nets in the bay,

and the lovely road to Villa Franca,

Schubert's Tower,

just below,

and best of all,

that speck far out to sea which they say is Corsica?"

"I remember.

It's not much changed,"

he answered without enthusiasm.

"What Jo would give for a sight of that famous speck!"

said Amy,

feeling in good spirits and anxious to see him so also.


was all he said,

but he turned and strained his eyes to see the island which a greater usurper than even Napoleon now made interesting in his sight.

"Take a good look at it for her sake,

and then come and tell me what you have been doing with yourself all this while,"

said Amy,

seating herself,

ready for a good talk.

But she did not get it,

for though he joined her and answered all her questions freely,

she could only learn that he had roved about the Continent and been to Greece.

So after idling away an hour,

they drove home again,

and having paid his respects to Mrs. Carrol,

Laurie left them,

promising to return in the evening.

It must be recorded of Amy that she deliberately prinked that night.

Time and absence had done its work on both the young people.

She had seen her old friend in a new light,

not as

'our boy',

but as a handsome and agreeable man,

and she was conscious of a very natural desire to find favor in his sight.

Amy knew her good points,

and made the most of them with the taste and skill which is a fortune to a poor and pretty woman.

Tarlatan and tulle were cheap at Nice,

so she enveloped herself in them on such occasions,

and following the sensible English fashion of simple dress for young girls,

got up charming little toilettes with fresh flowers,

a few trinkets,

and all manner of dainty devices,

which were both inexpensive and effective.

It must be confessed that the artist sometimes got possession of the woman,

and indulged in antique coiffures,

statuesque attitudes,

and classic draperies.


dear heart,

we all have our little weaknesses,

and find it easy to pardon such in the young,

who satisfy our eyes with their comeliness,

and keep our hearts merry with their artless vanities.

"I do want him to think I look well,

and tell them so at home,"

said Amy to herself,

as she put on Flo's old white silk ball dress,

and covered it with a cloud of fresh illusion,

out of which her white shoulders and golden head emerged with a most artistic effect.

Her hair she had the sense to let alone,

after gathering up the thick waves and curls into a Hebe-like knot at the back of her head.

"It's not the fashion,

but it's becoming,

and I can't afford to make a fright of myself,"

she used to say,

when advised to frizzle,


or braid,

as the latest style commanded.

Having no ornaments fine enough for this important occasion,

Amy looped her fleecy skirts with rosy clusters of azalea,

and framed the white shoulders in delicate green vines.

Remembering the painted boots,

she surveyed her white satin slippers with girlish satisfaction,

and chassed down the room,

admiring her aristocratic feet all by herself.

"My new fan just matches my flowers,

my gloves fit to a charm,

and the real lace on Aunt's mouchoir gives an air to my whole dress.

If I only had a classical nose and mouth I should be perfectly happy,"

she said,

surveying herself with a critical eye and a candle in each hand.

In spite of this affliction,

she looked unusually gay and graceful as she glided away.

She seldom ran --it did not suit her style,

she thought,

for being tall,

the stately and Junoesque was more appropriate than the sportive or piquante.

She walked up and down the long saloon while waiting for Laurie,

and once arranged herself under the chandelier,

which had a good effect upon her hair,

then she thought better of it,

and went away to the other end of the room,

as if ashamed of the girlish desire to have the first view a propitious one.

It so happened that she could not have done a better thing,

for Laurie came in so quietly she did not hear him,

and as she stood at the distant window,

with her head half turned and one hand gathering up her dress,

the slender,

white figure against the red curtains was as effective as a well-placed statue.

"Good evening,


said Laurie,

with the look of satisfaction she liked to see in his eyes when they rested on her.

"Good evening,


she answered,

smiling back at him,

for he too looked unusually debonair,

and the thought of entering the ballroom on the arm of such a personable man caused Amy to pity the four plain Misses Davis from the bottom of her heart.

"Here are your flowers.

I arranged them myself,

remembering that you didn't like what Hannah calls a


said Laurie,

handing her a delicate nosegay,

in a holder that she had long coveted as she daily passed it in Cardiglia's window.

"How kind you are!"

she exclaimed gratefully.

"If I'd known you were coming I'd have had something ready for you today,

though not as pretty as this,

I'm afraid."

"Thank you.

It isn't what it should be,

but you have improved it,"

he added,

as she snapped the silver bracelet on her wrist.

"Please don't."

"I thought you liked that sort of thing."

"Not from you,

it doesn't sound natural,

and I like your old bluntness better."

"I'm glad of it,"

he answered,

with a look of relief,

then buttoned her gloves for her,

and asked if his tie was straight,

just as he used to do when they went to parties together at home.

The company assembled in the long salle a manger,

that evening,

was such as one sees nowhere but on the Continent.

The hospitable Americans had invited every acquaintance they had in Nice,

and having no prejudice against titles,

secured a few to add luster to their Christmas ball.

A Russian prince condescended to sit in a corner for an hour and talk with a massive lady,

dressed like Hamlet's mother in black velvet with a pearl bridle under her chin.

A Polish count,

aged eighteen,

devoted himself to the ladies,

who pronounced him,

'a fascinating dear',

and a German Serene Something,

having come to supper alone,

roamed vaguely about,

seeking what he might devour.

Baron Rothschild's private secretary,

a large-nosed Jew in tight boots,

affably beamed upon the world,

as if his master's name crowned him with a golden halo.

A stout Frenchman,

who knew the Emperor,

came to indulge his mania for dancing,

and Lady de Jones,

a British matron,

adorned the scene with her little family of eight.

Of course,

there were many light-footed,

shrill-voiced American girls,


lifeless-looking English ditto,

and a few plain but piquante French demoiselles,

likewise the usual set of traveling young gentlemen who disported themselves gaily,

while mammas of all nations lined the walls and smiled upon them benignly when they danced with their daughters.

Any young girl can imagine Amy's state of mind when she

'took the stage' that night,

leaning on Laurie's arm.

She knew she looked well,

she loved to dance,

she felt that her foot was on her native heath in a ballroom,

and enjoyed the delightful sense of power which comes when young girls first discover the new and lovely kingdom they are born to rule by virtue of beauty,


and womanhood.

She did pity the Davis girls,

who were awkward,


and destitute of escort,

except a grim papa and three grimmer maiden aunts,

and she bowed to them in her friendliest manner as she passed,

which was good of her,

as it permitted them to see her dress,

and burn with curiosity to know who her distinguished-looking friend might be.

With the first burst of the band,

Amy's color rose,

her eyes began to sparkle,

and her feet to tap the floor impatiently,

for she danced well and wanted Laurie to know it.

Therefore the shock she received can better be imagined than described,

when he said in a perfectly tranquil tone,

"Do you care to dance?"

"One usually does at a ball."

Her amazed look and quick answer caused Laurie to repair his error as fast as possible.

"I meant the first dance.

May I have the honor?"

"I can give you one if I put off the Count.

He dances devinely,

but he will excuse me,

as you are an old friend,"

said Amy,

hoping that the name would have a good effect,

and show Laurie that she was not to be trifled with.

"Nice little boy,

but rather a short Pole to support ...

A daughter of the gods,

Devinely tall,

and most devinely fair,"

was all the satisfaction she got,


The set in which they found themselves was composed of English,

and Amy was compelled to walk decorously through a cotillion,

feeling all the while as if she could dance the tarantella with relish.

Laurie resigned her to the

'nice little boy',

and went to do his duty to Flo,

without securing Amy for the joys to come,

which reprehensible want of forethought was properly punished,

for she immediately engaged herself till supper,

meaning to relent if he then gave any signs penitence.

She showed him her ball book with demure satisfaction when he strolled instead of rushed up to claim her for the next,

a glorious polka redowa.

But his polite regrets didn't impose upon her,

and when she galloped away with the Count,

she saw Laurie sit down by her aunt with an actual expression of relief.

That was unpardonable,

and Amy took no more notice of him for a long while,

except a word now and then when she came to her chaperon between the dances for a necessary pin or a moment's rest.

Her anger had a good effect,


for she hid it under a smiling face,

and seemed unusually blithe and brilliant.

Laurie's eyes followed her with pleasure,

for she neither romped nor sauntered,

but danced with spirit and grace,

making the delightsome pastime what it should be.

He very naturally fell to studying her from this new point of view,

and before the evening was half over,

had decided that

'little Amy was going to make a very charming woman'.

It was a lively scene,

for soon the spirit of the social season took possession of everyone,

and Christmas merriment made all faces shine,

hearts happy,

and heels light.

The musicians fiddled,


and banged as if they enjoyed it,

everybody danced who could,

and those who couldn't admired their neighbors with uncommon warmth.

The air was dark with Davises,

and many Joneses gamboled like a flock of young giraffes.

The golden secretary darted through the room like a meteor with a dashing French-woman who carpeted the floor with her pink satin train.

The serene Teuton found the supper-table and was happy,

eating steadily through the bill of fare,

and dismayed the garcons by the ravages he committed.

But the Emperor's friend covered himself with glory,

for he danced everything,

whether he knew it or not,

and introduced impromptu pirouettes when the figures bewildered him.

The boyish abandon of that stout man was charming to behold,

for though he

'carried weight',

he danced like an India-rubber ball.

He ran,

he flew,

he pranced,

his face glowed,

his bald head shown,

his coattails waved wildly,

his pumps actually twinkled in the air,

and when the music stopped,

he wiped the drops from his brow,

and beamed upon his fellow men like a French Pickwick without glasses.

Amy and her Pole distinguished themselves by equal enthusiasm but more graceful agility,

and Laurie found himself involuntarily keeping time to the rhythmic rise and fall of the white slippers as they flew by as indefatigably as if winged.

When little Vladimir finally relinquished her,

with assurances that he was

'desolated to leave so early',

she was ready to rest,

and see how her recreant knight had borne his punishment.

It had been successful,

for at three-and-twenty,

blighted affections find a balm in friendly society,

and young nerves will thrill,

young blood dance,

and healthy young spirits rise,

when subjected to the enchantment of beauty,



and motion.

Laurie had a waked-up look as he rose to give her his seat,

and when he hurried away to bring her some supper,

she said to herself,

with a satisfied smile,


I thought that would do him good!"

"You look like Balzac's

'_Femme Peinte Par Elle-Meme_',"

he said,

as he fanned her with one hand and held her coffee cup in the other.

"My rouge won't come off."

and Amy rubbed her brilliant cheek,

and showed him her white glove with a sober simplicity that made him laugh outright.

"What do you call this stuff?"

he asked,

touching a fold of her dress that had blown over his knee.


"Good name for it.

It's very pretty --new thing,

isn't it?"

"It's as old as the hills.

You have seen it on dozens of girls,

and you never found out that it was pretty till now --stupide!"

"I never saw it on you before,

which accounts for the mistake,

you see."

"None of that,

it is forbidden.

I'd rather take coffee than compliments just now.


don't lounge,

it makes me nervous."

Laurie sat bold upright,

and meekly took her empty plate feeling an odd sort of pleasure in having

'little Amy' order him about,

for she had lost her shyness now,

and felt an irrestible desire to trample on him,

as girls have a delightful way of doing when lords of creation show any signs of subjection.

"Where did you learn all this sort of thing?"

he asked with a quizzical look.


'this sort of thing' is rather a vague expression,

would you kindly explain?"

returned Amy,

knowing perfectly well what he meant,

but wickedly leaving him to describe what is indescribable.

"Well --the general air,

the style,

the self-possession,

the --the --illusion --you know",

laughed Laurie,

breaking down and helping himself out of his quandary with the new word.

Amy was gratified,

but of course didn't show it,

and demurely answered,

"Foreign life polishes one in spite of one's self.

I study as well as play,

and as for this" --with a little gesture toward her dress --"why,

tulle is cheap,

posies to be had for nothing,

and I am used to making the most of my poor little things."

Amy rather regretted that last sentence,

fearing it wasn't in good taste,

but Laurie liked her better for it,

and found himself both admiring and respecting the brave patience that made the most of opportunity,

and the cheerful spirit that covered poverty with flowers.

Amy did not know why he looked at her so kindly,

nor why he filled up her book with his own name,

and devoted himself to her for the rest of the evening in the most delightful manner;

but the impulse that wrought this agreeable change was the result of one of the new impressions which both of them were unconsciously giving and receiving.



In France the young girls have a dull time of it till they are married,


'Vive la liberte!'

becomes their motto.

In America,

as everyone knows,

girls early sign the declaration of independence,

and enjoy their freedom with republican zest,

but the young matrons usually abdicate with the first heir to the throne and go into a seclusion almost as close as a French nunnery,

though by no means as quiet.

Whether they like it or not,

they are virtually put upon the shelf as soon as the wedding excitement is over,

and most of them might exclaim,

as did a very pretty woman the other day,

"I'm as handsome as ever,

but no one takes any notice of me because I'm married."

Not being a belle or even a fashionable lady,

Meg did not experience this affliction till her babies were a year old,

for in her little world primitive customs prevailed,

and she found herself more admired and beloved than ever.

As she was a womanly little woman,

the maternal instinct was very strong,

and she was entirely absorbed in her children,

to the utter exclusion of everything and everybody else.

Day and night she brooded over them with tireless devotion and anxiety,

leaving John to the tender mercies of the help,

for an Irish lady now presided over the kitchen department.

Being a domestic man,

John decidedly missed the wifely attentions he had been accustomed to receive,

but as he adored his babies,

he cheerfully relinquished his comfort for a time,

supposing with masculine ignorance that peace would soon be restored.

But three months passed,

and there was no return of repose.

Meg looked worn and nervous,

the babies absorbed every minute of her time,

the house was neglected,

and Kitty,

the cook,

who took life


kept him on short commons.

When he went out in the morning he was bewildered by small commissions for the captive mamma,

if he came gaily in at night,

eager to embrace his family,

he was quenched by a "Hush!

They are just asleep after worrying all day."

If he proposed a little amusement at home,


it would disturb the babies."

If he hinted at a lecture or a concert,

he was answered with a reproachful look,

and a decided --"Leave my children for pleasure,


His sleep was broken by infant wails and visions of a phantom figure pacing noiselessly to and fro in the watches of the night.

His meals were interrupted by the frequent flight of the presiding genius,

who deserted him,


if a muffled chirp sounded from the nest above.

And when he read his paper of an evening,

Demi's colic got into the shipping list and Daisy's fall affected the price of stocks,

for Mrs. Brooke was only interested in domestic news.

The poor man was very uncomfortable,

for the children had bereft him of his wife,

home was merely a nursery and the perpetual

'hushing' made him feel like a brutal intruder whenever he entered the sacred precincts of Babyland.

He bore it very patiently for six months,

and when no signs of amendment appeared,

he did what other paternal exiles do --tried to get a little comfort elsewhere.

Scott had married and gone to housekeeping not far off,

and John fell into the way of running over for an hour or two of an evening,

when his own parlor was empty,

and his own wife singing lullabies that seemed to have no end.

Mrs. Scott was a lively,

pretty girl,

with nothing to do but be agreeable,

and she performed her mission most successfully.

The parlor was always bright and attractive,

the chessboard ready,

the piano in tune,

plenty of gay gossip,

and a nice little supper set forth in tempting style.

John would have preferred his own fireside if it had not been so lonely,

but as it was he gratefully took the next best thing and enjoyed his neighbor's society.

Meg rather approved of the new arrangement at first,

and found it a relief to know that John was having a good time instead of dozing in the parlor,

or tramping about the house and waking the children.

But by-and-by,

when the teething worry was over and the idols went to sleep at proper hours,

leaving Mamma time to rest,

she began to miss John,

and find her workbasket dull company,

when he was not sitting opposite in his old dressing gown,

comfortably scorching his slippers on the fender.

She would not ask him to stay at home,

but felt injured because he did not know that she wanted him without being told,

entirely forgetting the many evenings he had waited for her in vain.

She was nervous and worn out with watching and worry,

and in that unreasonable frame of mind which the best of mothers occasionally experience when domestic cares oppress them.

Want of exercise robs them of cheerfulness,

and too much devotion to that idol of American women,

the teapot,

makes them feel as if they were all nerve and no muscle.


she would say,

looking in the glass,

"I'm getting old and ugly.

John doesn't find me interesting any longer,

so he leaves his faded wife and goes to see his pretty neighbor,

who has no incumbrances.


the babies love me,

they don't care if I am thin and pale and haven't time to crimp my hair,

they are my comfort,

and some day John will see what I've gladly sacrificed for them,

won't he,

my precious?"

To which pathetic appeal Daisy would answer with a coo,

or Demi with a crow,

and Meg would put by her lamentations for a maternal revel,

which soothed her solitude for the time being.

But the pain increased as politics absorbed John,

who was always running over to discuss interesting points with Scott,

quite unconscious that Meg missed him.

Not a word did she say,


till her mother found her in tears one day,

and insisted on knowing what the matter was,

for Meg's drooping spirits had not escaped her observation.

"I wouldn't tell anyone except you,


but I really do need advice,

for if John goes on much longer I might as well be widowed,"

replied Mrs. Brooke,

drying her tears on Daisy's bib with an injured air.

"Goes on how,

my dear?"

asked her mother anxiously.

"He's away all day,

and at night when I want to see him,

he is continually going over to the Scotts'.

It isn't fair that I should have the hardest work,

and never any amusement.

Men are very selfish,

even the best of them."

"So are women.

Don't blame John till you see where you are wrong yourself."

"But it can't be right for him to neglect me."

"Don't you neglect him?"



I thought you'd take my part!"

"So I do,

as far as sympathizing goes,

but I think the fault is yours,


"I don't see how."

"Let me show you.

Did John ever neglect you,

as you call it,

while you made it a point to give him your society of an evening,

his only leisure time?"


but I can't do it now,

with two babies to tend."

"I think you could,


and I think you ought.

May I speak quite freely,

and will you remember that it's Mother who blames as well as Mother who sympathizes?"

"Indeed I will!

Speak to me as if I were little Meg again.

I often feel as if I needed teaching more than ever since these babies look to me for everything."

Meg drew her low chair beside her mother's,

and with a little interruption in either lap,

the two women rocked and talked lovingly together,

feeling that the tie of motherhood made them more one than ever.

"You have only made the mistake that most young wives make --forgotten your duty to your husband in your love for your children.

A very natural and forgivable mistake,


but one that had better be remedied before you take to different ways,

for children should draw you nearer than ever,

not separate you,

as if they were all yours,

and John had nothing to do but support them.

I've seen it for some weeks,

but have not spoken,

feeling sure it would come right in time."

"I'm afraid it won't.

If I ask him to stay,

he'll think I'm jealous,

and I wouldn't insult him by such an idea.

He doesn't see that I want him,

and I don't know how to tell him without words."

"Make it so pleasant he won't want to go away.

My dear,

he's longing for his little home,

but it isn't home without you,

and you are always in the nursery."

"Oughtn't I to be there?"

"Not all the time,

too much confinement makes you nervous,

and then you are unfitted for everything.


you owe something to John as well as to the babies.

Don't neglect husband for children,

don't shut him out of the nursery,

but teach him how to help in it.

His place is there as well as yours,

and the children need him.

Let him feel that he has a part to do,

and he will do it gladly and faithfully,

and it will be better for you all."

"You really think so,


"I know it,


for I've tried it,

and I seldom give advice unless I've proved its practicability.

When you and Jo were little,

I went on just as you are,

feeling as if I didn't do my duty unless I devoted myself wholly to you.

Poor Father took to his books,

after I had refused all offers of help,

and left me to try my experiment alone.

I struggled along as well as I could,

but Jo was too much for me.

I nearly spoiled her by indulgence.

You were poorly,

and I worried about you till I fell sick myself.

Then Father came to the rescue,

quietly managed everything,

and made himself so helpful that I saw my mistake,

and never have been able to get on without him since.

That is the secret of our home happiness.

He does not let business wean him from the little cares and duties that affect us all,

and I try not to let domestic worries destroy my interest in his pursuits.

Each do our part alone in many things,

but at home we work together,


"It is so,


and my great wish is to be to my husband and children what you have been to yours.

Show me how,

I'll do anything you say."

"You always were my docile daughter.



if I were you,

I'd let John have more to do with the management of Demi,

for the boy needs training,

and it's none too soon to begin.

Then I'd do what I have often proposed,

let Hannah come and help you.

She is a capital nurse,

and you may trust the precious babies to her while you do more housework.

You need the exercise,

Hannah would enjoy the rest,

and John would find his wife again.

Go out more,

keep cheerful as well as busy,

for you are the sunshine-maker of the family,

and if you get dismal there is no fair weather.

Then I'd try to take an interest in whatever John likes --talk with him,

let him read to you,

exchange ideas,

and help each other in that way.

Don't shut yourself up in a bandbox because you are a woman,

but understand what is going on,

and educate yourself to take your part in the world's work,

for it all affects you and yours."

"John is so sensible,

I'm afraid he will think I'm stupid if I ask questions about politics and things."

"I don't believe he would.

Love covers a multitude of sins,

and of whom could you ask more freely than of him?

Try it,

and see if he doesn't find your society far more agreeable than Mrs. Scott's suppers."

"I will.

Poor John!

I'm afraid I have neglected him sadly,

but I thought I was right,

and he never said anything."

"He tried not to be selfish,

but he has felt rather forlorn,

I fancy.

This is just the time,


when young married people are apt to grow apart,

and the very time when they ought to be most together,

for the first tenderness soon wears off,

unless care is taken to preserve it.

And no time is so beautiful and precious to parents as the first years of the little lives given to them to train.

Don't let John be a stranger to the babies,

for they will do more to keep him safe and happy in this world of trial and temptation than anything else,

and through them you will learn to know and love one another as you should.




Think over Mother's preachment,

act upon it if it seems good,

and God bless you all."

Meg did think it over,

found it good,

and acted upon it,

though the first attempt was not made exactly as she planned to have it.

Of course the children tyrannized over her,

and ruled the house as soon as they found out that kicking and squalling brought them whatever they wanted.

Mamma was an abject slave to their caprices,

but Papa was not so easily subjugated,

and occasionally afflicted his tender spouse by an attempt at paternal discipline with his obstreperous son.

For Demi inherited a trifle of his sire's firmness of character,

we won't call it obstinacy,

and when he made up his little mind to have or to do anything,

all the king's horses and all the king's men could not change that pertinacious little mind.

Mamma thought the dear too young to be taught to conquer his prejudices,

but Papa believed that it never was too soon to learn obedience.

So Master Demi early discovered that when he undertook to

'wrastle' with


he always got the worst of it,

yet like the Englishman,

baby respected the man who conquered him,

and loved the father whose grave "No,


was more impressive than all Mamma's love pats.

A few days after the talk with her mother,

Meg resolved to try a social evening with John,

so she ordered a nice supper,

set the parlor in order,

dressed herself prettily,

and put the children to bed early,

that nothing should interfere with her experiment.

But unfortunately Demi's most unconquerable prejudice was against going to bed,

and that night he decided to go on a rampage.

So poor Meg sang and rocked,

told stories and tried every sleep-prevoking wile she could devise,

but all in vain,

the big eyes wouldn't shut,

and long after Daisy had gone to byelow,

like the chubby little bunch of good nature she was,

naughty Demi lay staring at the light,

with the most discouragingly wide-awake expression of countenance.

"Will Demi lie still like a good boy,

while Mamma runs down and gives poor Papa his tea?"

asked Meg,

as the hall door softly closed,

and the well-known step went tip-toeing into the dining room.

"Me has tea!"

said Demi,

preparing to join in the revel.


but I'll save you some little cakies for breakfast,

if you'll go bye-bye like Daisy.

Will you,



and Demi shut his eyes tight,

as if to catch sleep and hurry the desired day.

Taking advantage of the propitious moment,

Meg slipped away and ran down to greet her husband with a smiling face and the little blue bow in her hair which was his especial admiration.

He saw it at once and said with pleased surprise,


little mother,

how gay we are tonight.

Do you expect company?"

"Only you,


"Is it a birthday,


or anything?"


I'm tired of being dowdy,

so I dressed up as a change.

You always make yourself nice for table,

no matter how tired you are,

so why shouldn't I when I have the time?"

"I do it out of respect for you,

my dear,"

said old-fashioned John.



Mr. Brooke,"

laughed Meg,

looking young and pretty again,

as she nodded to him over the teapot.


it's altogether delightful,

and like old times.

This tastes right.

I drink your health,


and John sipped his tea with an air of reposeful rapture,

which was of very short duration however,

for as he put down his cup,

the door handle rattled mysteriously,

and a little voice was heard,

saying impatiently ...

"Opy doy.

Me's tummin!"

"It's that naughty boy.

I told him to go to sleep alone,

and here he is,


getting his death a-cold pattering over that canvas,"

said Meg,

answering the call.

"Mornin' now,"

announced Demi in joyful tone as he entered,

with his long nightgown gracefully festooned over his arm and every curl bobbing gayly as he pranced about the table,

eyeing the

'cakies' with loving glances.


it isn't morning yet.

You must go to bed,

and not trouble poor Mamma.

Then you can have the little cake with sugar on it."

"Me loves Parpar,"

said the artful one,

preparing to climb the paternal knee and revel in forbidden joys.

But John shook his head,

and said to Meg ...

"If you told him to stay up there,

and go to sleep alone,

make him do it,

or he will never learn to mind you."


of course.



and Meg led her son away,

feeling a strong desire to spank the little marplot who hopped beside her,

laboring under the delusion that the bribe was to be administered as soon as they reached the nursery.

Nor was he disappointed,

for that shortsighted woman actually gave him a lump of sugar,

tucked him into his bed,

and forbade any more promenades till morning.


said Demi the perjured,

blissfully sucking his sugar,

and regarding his first attempt as eminently successful.

Meg returned to her place,

and supper was progressing pleasantly,

when the little ghost walked again,

and exposed the maternal delinquencies by boldly demanding,

"More sudar,


"Now this won't do,"

said John,

hardening his heart against the engaging little sinner.

"We shall never know any peace till that child learns to go to bed properly.

You have made a slave of yourself long enough.

Give him one lesson,

and then there will be an end of it.

Put him in his bed and leave him,


"He won't stay there,

he never does unless I sit by him."

"I'll manage him.


go upstairs,

and get into your bed,

as Mamma bids you."


replied the young rebel,

helping himself to the coveted


and beginning to eat the same with calm audacity.

"You must never say that to Papa.

I shall carry you if you don't go yourself."



me don't love Parpar."

and Demi retired to his mother's skirts for protection.

But even that refuge proved unavailing,

for he was delivered over to the enemy,

with a "Be gentle with him,


which struck the culprit with dismay,

for when Mamma deserted him,

then the judgment day was at hand.

Bereft of his cake,

defrauded of his frolic,

and borne away by a strong hand to that detested bed,

poor Demi could not restrain his wrath,

but openly defied Papa,

and kicked and screamed lustily all the way upstairs.

The minute he was put into bed on one side,

he rolled out on the other,

and made for the door,

only to be ignominiously caught up by the tail of his little toga and put back again,

which lively performance was kept up till the young man's strength gave out,

when he devoted himself to roaring at the top of his voice.

This vocal exercise usually conquered Meg,

but John sat as unmoved as the post which is popularly believed to be deaf.

No coaxing,

no sugar,

no lullaby,

no story,

even the light was put out and only the red glow of the fire enlivened the

'big dark' which Demi regarded with curiosity rather than fear.

This new order of things disgusted him,

and he howled dismally for


as his angry passions subsided,

and recollections of his tender bondwoman returned to the captive autocrat.

The plaintive wail which succeeded the passionate roar went to Meg's heart,

and she ran up to say beseechingly ...

"Let me stay with him,

he'll be good now,



my dear.

I've told him he must go to sleep,

as you bid him,

and he must,

if I stay here all night."

"But he'll cry himself sick,"

pleaded Meg,

reproaching herself for deserting her boy.


he won't,

he's so tired he will soon drop off and then the matter is settled,

for he will understand that he has got to mind.

Don't interfere,

I'll manage him."

"He's my child,

and I can't have his spirit broken by harshness."

"He's my child,

and I won't have his temper spoiled by indulgence.

Go down,

my dear,

and leave the boy to me."

When John spoke in that masterful tone,

Meg always obeyed,

and never regretted her docility.

"Please let me kiss him once,




say good night to Mamma,

and let her go and rest,

for she is very tired with taking care of you all day."

Meg always insisted upon it that the kiss won the victory,

for after it was given,

Demi sobbed more quietly,

and lay quite still at the bottom of the bed,

whither he had wriggled in his anguish of mind.

"Poor little man,

he's worn out with sleep and crying.

I'll cover him up,

and then go and set Meg's heart at rest,"

thought John,

creeping to the bedside,

hoping to find his rebellious heir asleep.

But he wasn't,

for the moment his father peeped at him,

Demi's eyes opened,

his little chin began to quiver,

and he put up his arms,

saying with a penitent hiccough,

"Me's dood,


Sitting on the stairs outside Meg wondered at the long silence which followed the uproar,

and after imagining all sorts of impossible accidents,

she slipped into the room to set her fears at rest.

Demi lay fast asleep,

not in his usual spreadeagle attitude,

but in a subdued bunch,

cuddled close in the circle of his father's arm and holding his father's finger,

as if he felt that justice was tempered with mercy,

and had gone to sleep a sadder and wiser baby.

So held,

John had waited with a womanly patience till the little hand relaxed its hold,

and while waiting had fallen asleep,

more tired by that tussle with his son than with his whole day's work.

As Meg stood watching the two faces on the pillow,

she smiled to herself,

and then slipped away again,

saying in a satisfied tone,

"I never need fear that John will be too harsh with my babies.

He does know how to manage them,

and will be a great help,

for Demi is getting too much for me."

When John came down at last,

expecting to find a pensive or reproachful wife,

he was agreeably surprised to find Meg placidly trimming a bonnet,

and to be greeted with the request to read something about the election,

if he was not too tired.

John saw in a minute that a revolution of some kind was going on,

but wisely asked no questions,

knowing that Meg was such a transparent little person,

she couldn't keep a secret to save her life,

and therefore the clue would soon appear.

He read a long debate with the most amiable readiness and then explained it in his most lucid manner,

while Meg tried to look deeply interested,

to ask intelligent questions,

and keep her thoughts from wandering from the state of the nation to the state of her bonnet.

In her secret soul,


she decided that politics were as bad as mathematics,

and that the mission of politicians seemed to be calling each other names,

but she kept these feminine ideas to herself,

and when John paused,

shook her head and said with what she thought diplomatic ambiguity,


I really don't see what we are coming to."

John laughed,

and watched her for a minute,

as she poised a pretty little preparation of lace and flowers on her hand,

and regarded it with the genuine interest which his harangue had failed to waken.

"She is trying to like politics for my sake,

so I'll try and like millinery for hers,

that's only fair,"

thought John the Just,

adding aloud,

"That's very pretty.

Is it what you call a breakfast cap?"

"My dear man,

it's a bonnet!

My very best go-to-concert-and-theater bonnet."

"I beg your pardon,

it was so small,

I naturally mistook it for one of the flyaway things you sometimes wear.

How do you keep it on?"

"These bits of lace are fastened under the chin with a rosebud,


and Meg illustrated by putting on the bonnet and regarding him with an air of calm satisfaction that was irresistible.

"It's a love of a bonnet,

but I prefer the face inside,

for it looks young and happy again,"

and John kissed the smiling face,

to the great detriment of the rosebud under the chin.

"I'm glad you like it,

for I want you to take me to one of the new concerts some night.

I really need some music to put me in tune.

Will you,


"Of course I will,

with all my heart,

or anywhere else you like.

You have been shut up so long,

it will do you no end of good,

and I shall enjoy it,

of all things.

What put it into your head,

little mother?"


I had a talk with Marmee the other day,

and told her how nervous and cross and out of sorts I felt,

and she said I needed change and less care,

so Hannah is to help me with the children,

and I'm to see to things about the house more,

and now and then have a little fun,

just to keep me from getting to be a fidgety,

broken-down old woman before my time.

It's only an experiment,


and I want to try it for your sake as much as for mine,

because I've neglected you shamefully lately,

and I'm going to make home what it used to be,

if I can.

You don't object,

I hope?"

Never mind what John said,

or what a very narrow escape the little bonnet had from utter ruin.

All that we have any business to know is that John did not appear to object,

judging from the changes which gradually took place in the house and its inmates.

It was not all Paradise by any means,

but everyone was better for the division of labor system.

The children throve under the paternal rule,

for accurate,

steadfast John brought order and obedience into Babydom,

while Meg recovered her spirits and composed her nerves by plenty of wholesome exercise,

a little pleasure,

and much confidential conversation with her sensible husband.

Home grew homelike again,

and John had no wish to leave it,

unless he took Meg with him.

The Scotts came to the Brookes' now,

and everyone found the little house a cheerful place,

full of happiness,


and family love.

Even Sallie Moffatt liked to go there.

"It is always so quiet and pleasant here,

it does me good,


she used to say,

looking about her with wistful eyes,

as if trying to discover the charm,

that she might use it in her great house,

full of splendid loneliness,

for there were no riotous,

sunny-faced babies there,

and Ned lived in a world of his own,

where there was no place for her.

This household happiness did not come all at once,

but John and Meg had found the key to it,

and each year of married life taught them how to use it,

unlocking the treasuries of real home love and mutual helpfulness,

which the poorest may possess,

and the richest cannot buy.

This is the sort of shelf on which young wives and mothers may consent to be laid,

safe from the restless fret and fever of the world,

finding loyal lovers in the little sons and daughters who cling to them,

undaunted by sorrow,


or age,

walking side by side,

through fair and stormy weather,

with a faithful friend,

who is,

in the true sense of the good old Saxon word,



and learning,

as Meg learned,

that a woman's happiest kingdom is home,

her highest honor the art of ruling it not as a queen,

but as a wise wife and mother.



Laurie went to Nice intending to stay a week,

and remained a month.

He was tired of wandering about alone,

and Amy's familiar presence seemed to give a homelike charm to the foreign scenes in which she bore a part.

He rather missed the

'petting' he used to receive,

and enjoyed a taste of it again,

for no attentions,

however flattering,

from strangers,

were half so pleasant as the sisterly adoration of the girls at home.

Amy never would pet him like the others,

but she was very glad to see him now,

and quite clung to him,

feeling that he was the representative of the dear family for whom she longed more than she would confess.

They naturally took comfort in each other's society and were much together,




or dawdling,

for at Nice no one can be very industrious during the gay season.


while apparently amusing themselves in the most careless fashion,

they were half-consciously making discoveries and forming opinions about each other.

Amy rose daily in the estimation of her friend,

but he sank in hers,

and each felt the truth before a word was spoken.

Amy tried to please,

and succeeded,

for she was grateful for the many pleasures he gave her,

and repaid him with the little services to which womanly women know how to lend an indescribable charm.

Laurie made no effort of any kind,

but just let himself drift along as comfortably as possible,

trying to forget,

and feeling that all women owed him a kind word because one had been cold to him.

It cost him no effort to be generous,

and he would have given Amy all the trinkets in Nice if she would have taken them,

but at the same time he felt that he could not change the opinion she was forming of him,

and he rather dreaded the keen blue eyes that seemed to watch him with such half-sorrowful,

half-scornful surprise.

"All the rest have gone to Monaco for the day.

I preferred to stay at home and write letters.

They are done now,

and I am going to Valrosa to sketch,

will you come?"

said Amy,

as she joined Laurie one lovely day when he lounged in as usual,

about noon.



but isn't it rather warm for such a long walk?"

he answered slowly,

for the shaded salon looked inviting after the glare without.

"I'm going to have the little carriage,

and Baptiste can drive,

so you'll have nothing to do but hold your umbrella,

and keep your gloves nice,"

returned Amy,

with a sarcastic glance at the immaculate kids,

which were a weak point with Laurie.

"Then I'll go with pleasure."

and he put out his hand for her sketchbook.

But she tucked it under her arm with a sharp ...

"Don't trouble yourself.

It's no exertion to me,

but you don't look equal to it."

Laurie lifted his eyebrows and followed at a leisurely pace as she ran downstairs,

but when they got into the carriage he took the reins himself,

and left little Baptiste nothing to do but fold his arms and fall asleep on his perch.

The two never quarreled.

Amy was too well-bred,

and just now Laurie was too lazy,

so in a minute he peeped under her hatbrim with an inquiring air.

She answered him with a smile,

and they went on together in the most amicable manner.

It was a lovely drive,

along winding roads rich in the picturesque scenes that delight beauty-loving eyes.

Here an ancient monastery,

whence the solemn chanting of the monks came down to them.

There a bare-legged shepherd,

in wooden shoes,

pointed hat,

and rough jacket over one shoulder,

sat piping on a stone while his goats skipped among the rocks or lay at his feet.


mouse-colored donkeys,

laden with panniers of freshly cut grass passed by,

with a pretty girl in a capaline sitting between the green piles,

or an old woman spinning with a distaff as she went.


soft-eyed children ran out from the quaint stone hovels to offer nosegays,

or bunches of oranges still on the bough.

Gnarled olive trees covered the hills with their dusky foliage,

fruit hung golden in the orchard,

and great scarlet anemones fringed the roadside,

while beyond green slopes and craggy heights,

the Maritime Alps rose sharp and white against the blue Italian sky.

Valrosa well deserved its name,

for in that climate of perpetual summer roses blossomed everywhere.

They overhung the archway,

thrust themselves between the bars of the great gate with a sweet welcome to passers-by,

and lined the avenue,

winding through lemon trees and feathery palms up to the villa on the hill.

Every shadowy nook,

where seats invited one to stop and rest,

was a mass of bloom,

every cool grotto had its marble nymph smiling from a veil of flowers and every fountain reflected crimson,


or pale pink roses,

leaning down to smile at their own beauty.

Roses covered the walls of the house,

draped the cornices,

climbed the pillars,

and ran riot over the balustrade of the wide terrace,

whence one looked down on the sunny Mediterranean,

and the white-walled city on its shore.

"This is a regular honeymoon paradise,

isn't it?

Did you ever see such roses?"

asked Amy,

pausing on the terrace to enjoy the view,

and a luxurious whiff of perfume that came wandering by.


nor felt such thorns,"

returned Laurie,

with his thumb in his mouth,

after a vain attempt to capture a solitary scarlet flower that grew just beyond his reach.

"Try lower down,

and pick those that have no thorns,"

said Amy,

gathering three of the tiny cream-colored ones that starred the wall behind her.

She put them in his buttonhole as a peace offering,

and he stood a minute looking down at them with a curious expression,

for in the Italian part of his nature there was a touch of superstition,

and he was just then in that state of half-sweet,

half-bitter melancholy,

when imaginative young men find significance in trifles and food for romance everywhere.

He had thought of Jo in reaching after the thorny red rose,

for vivid flowers became her,

and she had often worn ones like that from the greenhouse at home.

The pale roses Amy gave him were the sort that the Italians lay in dead hands,

never in bridal wreaths,

and for a moment he wondered if the omen was for Jo or for himself,

but the next instant his American common sense got the better of sentimentality,

and he laughed a heartier laugh than Amy had heard since he came.

"It's good advice,

you'd better take it and save your fingers,"

she said,

thinking her speech amused him.

"Thank you,

I will,"

he answered in jest,

and a few months later he did it in earnest.


when are you going to your grandfather?"

she asked presently,

as she settled herself on a rustic seat.

"Very soon."

"You have said that a dozen times within the last three weeks."

"I dare say,

short answers save trouble."

"He expects you,

and you really ought to go."

"Hospitable creature!

I know it."

"Then why don't you do it?"

"Natural depravity,

I suppose."

"Natural indolence,

you mean.

It's really dreadful!"

and Amy looked severe.

"Not so bad as it seems,

for I should only plague him if I went,

so I might as well stay and plague you a little longer,

you can bear it better,

in fact I think it agrees with you excellently,"

and Laurie composed himself for a lounge on the broad ledge of the balustrade.

Amy shook her head and opened her sketchbook with an air of resignation,

but she had made up her mind to lecture

'that boy' and in a minute she began again.

"What are you doing just now?"

"Watching lizards."



I mean what do you intend and wish to do?"

"Smoke a cigarette,

if you'll allow me."

"How provoking you are!

I don't approve of cigars and I will only allow it on condition that you let me put you into my sketch.

I need a figure."

"With all the pleasure in life.

How will you have me,

full length or three-quarters,

on my head or my heels?

I should respectfully suggest a recumbent posture,

then put yourself in also and call it

'Dolce far niente'."

"Stay as you are,

and go to sleep if you like.

I intend to work hard,"

said Amy in her most energetic tone.

"What delightful enthusiasm!"

and he leaned against a tall urn with an air of entire satisfaction.

"What would Jo say if she saw you now?"

asked Amy impatiently,

hoping to stir him up by the mention of her still more energetic sister's name.

"As usual,

'Go away,


I'm busy!'" He laughed as he spoke,

but the laugh was not natural,

and a shade passed over his face,

for the utterance of the familiar name touched the wound that was not healed yet.

Both tone and shadow struck Amy,

for she had seen and heard them before,

and now she looked up in time to catch a new expression on Laurie's face --a hard bitter look,

full of pain,


and regret.

It was gone before she could study it and the listless expression back again.

She watched him for a moment with artistic pleasure,

thinking how like an Italian he looked,

as he lay basking in the sun with uncovered head and eyes full of southern dreaminess,

for he seemed to have forgotten her and fallen into a reverie.

"You look like the effigy of a young knight asleep on his tomb,"

she said,

carefully tracing the well-cut profile defined against the dark stone.

"Wish I was!"

"That's a foolish wish,

unless you have spoiled your life.

You are so changed,

I sometimes think --" there Amy stopped,

with a half-timid,

half-wistful look,

more significant than her unfinished speech.

Laurie saw and understood the affectionate anxiety which she hesitated to express,

and looking straight into her eyes,


just as he used to say it to her mother,

"It's all right,


That satisfied her and set at rest the doubts that had begun to worry her lately.

It also touched her,

and she showed that it did,

by the cordial tone in which she said ...

"I'm glad of that!

I didn't think you'd been a very bad boy,

but I fancied you might have wasted money at that wicked Baden-Baden,

lost your heart to some charming Frenchwoman with a husband,

or got into some of the scrapes that young men seem to consider a necessary part of a foreign tour.

Don't stay out there in the sun,

come and lie on the grass here and

'let us be friendly',

as Jo used to say when we got in the sofa corner and told secrets."

Laurie obediently threw himself down on the turf,

and began to amuse himself by sticking daisies into the ribbons of Amy's hat,

that lay there.

"I'm all ready for the secrets."

and he glanced up with a decided expression of interest in his eyes.

"I've none to tell.

You may begin."

"Haven't one to bless myself with.

I thought perhaps you'd had some news from home.."

"You have heard all that has come lately.

Don't you hear often?

I fancied Jo would send you volumes."

"She's very busy.

I'm roving about so,

it's impossible to be regular,

you know.

When do you begin your great work of art,


he asked,

changing the subject abruptly after another pause,

in which he had been wondering if Amy knew his secret and wanted to talk about it.


she answered,

with a despondent but decided air.

"Rome took all the vanity out of me,

for after seeing the wonders there,

I felt too insignificant to live and gave up all my foolish hopes in despair."

"Why should you,

with so much energy and talent?"

"That's just why,

because talent isn't genius,

and no amount of energy can make it so.

I want to be great,

or nothing.

I won't be a common-place dauber,

so I don't intend to try any more."

"And what are you going to do with yourself now,

if I may ask?"

"Polish up my other talents,

and be an ornament to society,

if I get the chance."

It was a characteristic speech,

and sounded daring,

but audacity becomes young people,

and Amy's ambition had a good foundation.

Laurie smiled,

but he liked the spirit with which she took up a new purpose when a long-cherished one died,

and spent no time lamenting.


And here is where Fred Vaughn comes in,

I fancy."

Amy preserved a discreet silence,

but there was a conscious look in her downcast face that made Laurie sit up and say gravely,

"Now I'm going to play brother,

and ask questions.

May I?"

"I don't promise to answer."

"Your face will,

if your tongue won't.

You aren't woman of the world enough yet to hide your feelings,

my dear.

I heard rumors about Fred and you last year,

and it's my private opinion that if he had not been called home so suddenly and detained so long,

something would have come of it,


"That's not for me to say,"

was Amy's grim reply,

but her lips would smile,

and there was a traitorous sparkle of the eye which betrayed that she knew her power and enjoyed the knowledge.

"You are not engaged,

I hope?"

and Laurie looked very elder-brotherly and grave all of a sudden.


"But you will be,

if he comes back and goes properly down on his knees,

won't you?"

"Very likely."

"Then you are fond of old Fred?"

"I could be,

if I tried."

"But you don't intend to try till the proper moment?

Bless my soul,

what unearthly prudence!

He's a good fellow,


but not the man I fancied you'd like."

"He is rich,

a gentleman,

and has delightful manners,"

began Amy,

trying to be quite cool and dignified,

but feeling a little ashamed of herself,

in spite of the sincerity of her intentions.

"I understand.

Queens of society can't get on without money,

so you mean to make a good match,

and start in that way?

Quite right and proper,

as the world goes,

but it sounds odd from the lips of one of your mother's girls."



A short speech,

but the quiet decision with which it was uttered contrasted curiously with the young speaker.

Laurie felt this instinctively and laid himself down again,

with a sense of disappointment which he could not explain.

His look and silence,

as well as a certain inward self-disapproval,

ruffled Amy,

and made her resolve to deliver her lecture without delay.

"I wish you'd do me the favor to rouse yourself a little,"

she said sharply.

"Do it for me,

there's a dear girl."

"I could,

if I tried."

and she looked as if she would like doing it in the most summary style.



I give you leave,"

returned Laurie,

who enjoyed having someone to tease,

after his long abstinence from his favorite pastime.

"You'd be angry in five minutes."

"I'm never angry with you.

It takes two flints to make a fire.

You are as cool and soft as snow."

"You don't know what I can do.

Snow produces a glow and a tingle,

if applied rightly.

Your indifference is half affectation,

and a good stirring up would prove it."

"Stir away,

it won't hurt me and it may amuse you,

as the big man said when his little wife beat him.

Regard me in the light of a husband or a carpet,

and beat till you are tired,

if that sort of exercise agrees with you."

Being decidedly nettled herself,

and longing to see him shake off the apathy that so altered him,

Amy sharpened both tongue and pencil,

and began.

"Flo and I have got a new name for you.

It's Lazy Laurence.

How do you like it?"

She thought it would annoy him,

but he only folded his arms under his head,

with an imperturbable,

"That's not bad.

Thank you,


"Do you want to know what I honestly think of you?"

"Pining to be told."


I despise you."

If she had even said

'I hate you' in a petulant or coquettish tone,

he would have laughed and rather liked it,

but the grave,

almost sad,

accent in her voice made him open his eyes,

and ask quickly ...


if you please?"


with every chance for being good,


and happy,

you are faulty,


and miserable."

"Strong language,


"If you like it,

I'll go on."

"Pray do,

it's quite interesting."

"I thought you'd find it so.

Selfish people always like to talk about themselves."

"Am I selfish?"

the question slipped out involuntarily and in a tone of surprise,

for the one virtue on which he prided himself was generosity.


very selfish,"

continued Amy,

in a calm,

cool voice,

twice as effective just then as an angry one.

"I'll show you how,

for I've studied you while we were frolicking,

and I'm not at all satisfied with you.

Here you have been abroad nearly six months,

and done nothing but waste time and money and disappoint your friends."

"Isn't a fellow to have any pleasure after a four-year grind?"

"You don't look as if you'd had much.

At any rate,

you are none the better for it,

as far as I can see.

I said when we first met that you had improved.

Now I take it all back,

for I don't think you half so nice as when I left you at home.

You have grown abominably lazy,

you like gossip,

and waste time on frivolous things,

you are contented to be petted and admired by silly people,

instead of being loved and respected by wise ones.

With money,




and beauty,

ah you like that old Vanity!

But it's the truth,

so I can't help saying it,

with all these splendid things to use and enjoy,

you can find nothing to do but dawdle,

and instead of being the man you ought to be,

you are only ..."

there she stopped,

with a look that had both pain and pity in it.

"Saint Laurence on a gridiron,"

added Laurie,

blandly finishing the sentence.

But the lecture began to take effect,

for there was a wide-awake sparkle in his eyes now and a half-angry,

half-injured expression replaced the former indifference.

"I supposed you'd take it so.

You men tell us we are angels,

and say we can make you what we will,

but the instant we honestly try to do you good,

you laugh at us and won't listen,

which proves how much your flattery is worth."

Amy spoke bitterly,

and turned her back on the exasperating martyr at her feet.

In a minute a hand came down over the page,

so that she could not draw,

and Laurie's voice said,

with a droll imitation of a penitent child,

"I will be good,


I will be good!"

But Amy did not laugh,

for she was in earnest,

and tapping on the outspread hand with her pencil,

said soberly,

"Aren't you ashamed of a hand like that?

It's as soft and white as a woman's,

and looks as if it never did anything but wear Jouvin's best gloves and pick flowers for ladies.

You are not a dandy,

thank Heaven,

so I'm glad to see there are no diamonds or big seal rings on it,

only the little old one Jo gave you so long ago.

Dear soul,

I wish she was here to help me!"

"So do I!"

The hand vanished as suddenly as it came,

and there was energy enough in the echo of her wish to suit even Amy.

She glanced down at him with a new thought in her mind,

but he was lying with his hat half over his face,

as if for shade,

and his mustache hid his mouth.

She only saw his chest rise and fall,

with a long breath that might have been a sigh,

and the hand that wore the ring nestled down into the grass,

as if to hide something too precious or too tender to be spoken of.

All in a minute various hints and trifles assumed shape and significance in Amy's mind,

and told her what her sister never had confided to her.

She remembered that Laurie never spoke voluntarily of Jo,

she recalled the shadow on his face just now,

the change in his character,

and the wearing of the little old ring which was no ornament to a handsome hand.

Girls are quick to read such signs and feel their eloquence.

Amy had fancied that perhaps a love trouble was at the bottom of the alteration,

and now she was sure of it.

Her keen eyes filled,

and when she spoke again,

it was in a voice that could be beautifully soft and kind when she chose to make it so.

"I know I have no right to talk so to you,


and if you weren't the sweetest-tempered fellow in the world,

you'd be very angry with me.

But we are all so fond and proud of you,

I couldn't bear to think they should be disappointed in you at home as I have been,


perhaps they would understand the change better than I do."

"I think they would,"

came from under the hat,

in a grim tone,

quite as touching as a broken one.

"They ought to have told me,

and not let me go blundering and scolding,

when I should have been more kind and patient than ever.

I never did like that Miss Randal and now I hate her!"

said artful Amy,

wishing to be sure of her facts this time.

"Hang Miss Randal!"

and Laurie knocked the hat off his face with a look that left no doubt of his sentiments toward that young lady.

"I beg pardon,

I thought ..."

and there she paused diplomatically.


you didn't,

you knew perfectly well I never cared for anyone but Jo,"

Laurie said that in his old,

impetuous tone,

and turned his face away as he spoke.

"I did think so,

but as they never said anything about it,

and you came away,

I supposed I was mistaken.

And Jo wouldn't be kind to you?


I was sure she loved you dearly."

"She was kind,

but not in the right way,

and it's lucky for her she didn't love me,

if I'm the good-for-nothing fellow you think me.

It's her fault though,

and you may tell her so."

The hard,

bitter look came back again as he said that,

and it troubled Amy,

for she did not know what balm to apply.

"I was wrong,

I didn't know.

I'm very sorry I was so cross,

but I can't help wishing you'd bear it better,




that's her name for me!"

and Laurie put up his hand with a quick gesture to stop the words spoken in Jo's half-kind,

half-reproachful tone.

"Wait till you've tried it yourself,"

he added in a low voice,

as he pulled up the grass by the handful.

"I'd take it manfully,

and be respected if I couldn't be loved,"

said Amy,

with the decision of one who knew nothing about it.


Laurie flattered himself that he had borne it remarkably well,

making no moan,

asking no sympathy,

and taking his trouble away to live it down alone.

Amy's lecture put the matter in a new light,

and for the first time it did look weak and selfish to lose heart at the first failure,

and shut himself up in moody indifference.

He felt as if suddenly shaken out of a pensive dream and found it impossible to go to sleep again.

Presently he sat up and asked slowly,

"Do you think Jo would despise me as you do?"


if she saw you now.

She hates lazy people.

Why don't you do something splendid,

and make her love you?"

"I did my best,

but it was no use."

"Graduating well,

you mean?

That was no more than you ought to have done,

for your grandfather's sake.

It would have been shameful to fail after spending so much time and money,

when everyone knew that you could do well."

"I did fail,

say what you will,

for Jo wouldn't love me,"

began Laurie,

leaning his head on his hand in a despondent attitude.


you didn't,

and you'll say so in the end,

for it did you good,

and proved that you could do something if you tried.

If you'd only set about another task of some sort,

you'd soon be your hearty,

happy self again,

and forget your trouble."

"That's impossible."

"Try it and see.

You needn't shrug your shoulders,

and think,

'Much she knows about such things'.

I don't pretend to be wise,

but I am observing,

and I see a great deal more than you'd imagine.

I'm interested in other people's experiences and inconsistencies,

and though I can't explain,

I remember and use them for my own benefit.

Love Jo all your days,

if you choose,

but don't let it spoil you,

for it's wicked to throw away so many good gifts because you can't have the one you want.


I won't lecture any more,

for I know you'll wake up and be a man in spite of that hardhearted girl."

Neither spoke for several minutes.

Laurie sat turning the little ring on his finger,

and Amy put the last touches to the hasty sketch she had been working at while she talked.

Presently she put it on his knee,

merely saying,

"How do you like that?"

He looked and then he smiled,

as he could not well help doing,

for it was capitally done,

the long,

lazy figure on the grass,

with listless face,

half-shut eyes,

and one hand holding a cigar,

from which came the little wreath of smoke that encircled the dreamer's head.

"How well you draw!"

he said,

with a genuine surprise and pleasure at her skill,


with a half-laugh,


that's me."

"As you are.

This is as you were."

and Amy laid another sketch beside the one he held.

It was not nearly so well done,

but there was a life and spirit in it which atoned for many faults,

and it recalled the past so vividly that a sudden change swept over the young man's face as he looked.

Only a rough sketch of Laurie taming a horse.

Hat and coat were off,

and every line of the active figure,

resolute face,

and commanding attitude was full of energy and meaning.

The handsome brute,

just subdued,

stood arching his neck under the tightly drawn rein,

with one foot impatiently pawing the ground,

and ears pricked up as if listening for the voice that had mastered him.

In the ruffled mane,

the rider's breezy hair and erect attitude,

there was a suggestion of suddenly arrested motion,

of strength,


and youthful buoyancy that contrasted sharply with the supine grace of the

'_Dolce far Niente_' sketch.

Laurie said nothing but as his eye went from one to the other,

Amy saw him flush up and fold his lips together as if he read and accepted the little lesson she had given him.

That satisfied her,

and without waiting for him to speak,

she said,

in her sprightly way ...

"Don't you remember the day you played Rarey with Puck,

and we all looked on?

Meg and Beth were frightened,

but Jo clapped and pranced,

and I sat on the fence and drew you.

I found that sketch in my portfolio the other day,

touched it up,

and kept it to show you."

"Much obliged.

You've improved immensely since then,

and I congratulate you.

May I venture to suggest in

'a honeymoon paradise' that five o'clock is the dinner hour at your hotel?"

Laurie rose as he spoke,

returned the pictures with a smile and a bow and looked at his watch,

as if to remind her that even moral lectures should have an end.

He tried to resume his former easy,

indifferent air,

but it was an affectation now,

for the rousing had been more effacious than he would confess.

Amy felt the shade of coldness in his manner,

and said to herself ...


I've offended him.


if it does him good,

I'm glad,

if it makes him hate me,

I'm sorry,

but it's true,

and I can't take back a word of it."

They laughed and chatted all the way home,

and little Baptiste,

up behind,

thought that monsieur and madamoiselle were in charming spirits.

But both felt ill at ease.

The friendly frankness was disturbed,

the sunshine had a shadow over it,

and despite their apparent gaiety,

there was a secret discontent in the heart of each.

"Shall we see you this evening,

mon frere?"

asked Amy,

as they parted at her aunt's door.

"Unfortunately I have an engagement.

Au revoir,


and Laurie bent as if to kiss her hand,

in the foreign fashion,

which became him better than many men.

Something in his face made Amy say quickly and warmly ...


be yourself with me,


and part in the good old way.

I'd rather have a hearty English handshake than all the sentimental salutations in France."



and with these words,

uttered in the tone she liked,

Laurie left her,

after a handshake almost painful in its heartiness.

Next morning,

instead of the usual call,

Amy received a note which made her smile at the beginning and sigh at the end.

My Dear Mentor,

Please make my adieux to your aunt,

and exult within yourself,


'Lazy Laurence' has gone to his grandpa,

like the best of boys.

A pleasant winter to you,

and may the gods grant you a blissful honeymoon at Valrosa!

I think Fred would be benefited by a rouser.

Tell him so,

with my congratulations.

Yours gratefully,


"Good boy!

I'm glad he's gone,"

said Amy,

with an approving smile.

The next minute her face fell as she glanced about the empty room,


with an involuntary sigh,


I am glad,

but how I shall miss him."



When the first bitterness was over,

the family accepted the inevitable,

and tried to bear it cheerfully,

helping one another by the increased affection which comes to bind households tenderly together in times of trouble.

They put away their grief,

and each did his or her part toward making that last year a happy one.

The pleasantest room in the house was set apart for Beth,

and in it was gathered everything that she most loved,



her piano,

the little worktable,

and the beloved pussies.

Father's best books found their way there,

Mother's easy chair,

Jo's desk,

Amy's finest sketches,

and every day Meg brought her babies on a loving pilgrimage,

to make sunshine for Aunty Beth.

John quietly set apart a little sum,

that he might enjoy the pleasure of keeping the invalid supplied with the fruit she loved and longed for.

Old Hannah never wearied of concocting dainty dishes to tempt a capricious appetite,

dropping tears as she worked,

and from across the sea came little gifts and cheerful letters,

seeming to bring breaths of warmth and fragrance from lands that know no winter.


cherished like a household saint in its shrine,

sat Beth,

tranquil and busy as ever,

for nothing could change the sweet,

unselfish nature,

and even while preparing to leave life,

she tried to make it happier for those who should remain behind.

The feeble fingers were never idle,

and one of her pleasures was to make little things for the school children daily passing to and fro,

to drop a pair of mittens from her window for a pair of purple hands,

a needlebook for some small mother of many dolls,

penwipers for young penmen toiling through forests of pothooks,

scrapbooks for picture-loving eyes,

and all manner of pleasant devices,

till the reluctant climbers of the ladder of learning found their way strewn with flowers,

as it were,

and came to regard the gentle giver as a sort of fairy godmother,

who sat above there,

and showered down gifts miraculously suited to their tastes and needs.

If Beth had wanted any reward,

she found it in the bright little faces always turned up to her window,

with nods and smiles,

and the droll little letters which came to her,

full of blots and gratitude.

The first few months were very happy ones,

and Beth often used to look round,

and say "How beautiful this is!"

as they all sat together in her sunny room,

the babies kicking and crowing on the floor,

mother and sisters working near,

and father reading,

in his pleasant voice,

from the wise old books which seemed rich in good and comfortable words,

as applicable now as when written centuries ago,

a little chapel,

where a paternal priest taught his flock the hard lessons all must learn,

trying to show them that hope can comfort love,

and faith make resignation possible.

Simple sermons,

that went straight to the souls of those who listened,

for the father's heart was in the minister's religion,

and the frequent falter in the voice gave a double eloquence to the words he spoke or read.

It was well for all that this peaceful time was given them as preparation for the sad hours to come,

for by-and-by,

Beth said the needle was

'so heavy',

and put it down forever.

Talking wearied her,

faces troubled her,

pain claimed her for its own,

and her tranquil spirit was sorrowfully perturbed by the ills that vexed her feeble flesh.

Ah me!

Such heavy days,

such long,

long nights,

such aching hearts and imploring prayers,

when those who loved her best were forced to see the thin hands stretched out to them beseechingly,

to hear the bitter cry,

"Help me,

help me!"

and to feel that there was no help.

A sad eclipse of the serene soul,

a sharp struggle of the young life with death,

but both were mercifully brief,

and then the natural rebellion over,

the old peace returned more beautiful than ever.

With the wreck of her frail body,

Beth's soul grew strong,

and though she said little,

those about her felt that she was ready,

saw that the first pilgrim called was likewise the fittest,

and waited with her on the shore,

trying to see the Shining Ones coming to receive her when she crossed the river.

Jo never left her for an hour since Beth had said "I feel stronger when you are here."

She slept on a couch in the room,

waking often to renew the fire,

to feed,


or wait upon the patient creature who seldom asked for anything,


'tried not to be a trouble'.

All day she haunted the room,

jealous of any other nurse,

and prouder of being chosen then than of any honor her life ever brought her.

Precious and helpful hours to Jo,

for now her heart received the teaching that it needed.

Lessons in patience were so sweetly taught her that she could not fail to learn them,

charity for all,

the lovely spirit that can forgive and truly forget unkindness,

the loyalty to duty that makes the hardest easy,

and the sincere faith that fears nothing,

but trusts undoubtingly.

Often when she woke Jo found Beth reading in her well-worn little book,

heard her singing softly,

to beguile the sleepless night,

or saw her lean her face upon her hands,

while slow tears dropped through the transparent fingers,

and Jo would lie watching her with thoughts too deep for tears,

feeling that Beth,

in her simple,

unselfish way,

was trying to wean herself from the dear old life,

and fit herself for the life to come,

by sacred words of comfort,

quiet prayers,

and the music she loved so well.

Seeing this did more for Jo than the wisest sermons,

the saintliest hymns,

the most fervent prayers that any voice could utter.

For with eyes made clear by many tears,

and a heart softened by the tenderest sorrow,

she recognized the beauty of her sister's life --uneventful,


yet full of the genuine virtues which

'smell sweet,

and blossom in the dust',

the self-forgetfulness that makes the humblest on earth remembered soonest in heaven,

the true success which is possible to all.

One night when Beth looked among the books upon her table,

to find something to make her forget the mortal weariness that was almost as hard to bear as pain,

as she turned the leaves of her old favorite,

Pilgrims's Progress,

she found a little paper,

scribbled over in Jo's hand.

The name caught her eye and the blurred look of the lines made her sure that tears had fallen on it.

"Poor Jo!

She's fast asleep,

so I won't wake her to ask leave.

She shows me all her things,

and I don't think she'll mind if I look at this",

thought Beth,

with a glance at her sister,

who lay on the rug,

with the tongs beside her,

ready to wake up the minute the log fell apart.


Sitting patient in the shadow Till the blessed light shall come,

A serene and saintly presence Sanctifies our troubled home.

Earthly joys and hopes and sorrows Break like ripples on the strand Of the deep and solemn river Where her willing feet now stand.

O my sister,

passing from me,

Out of human care and strife,

Leave me,

as a gift,

those virtues Which have beautified your life.


bequeath me that great patience Which has power to sustain A cheerful,

uncomplaining spirit In its prison-house of pain.

Give me,

for I need it sorely,

Of that courage,

wise and sweet,

Which has made the path of duty Green beneath your willing feet.

Give me that unselfish nature,

That with charity devine Can pardon wrong for love's dear sake -- Meek heart,

forgive me mine!

Thus our parting daily loseth Something of its bitter pain,

And while learning this hard lesson,

My great loss becomes my gain.

For the touch of grief will render My wild nature more serene,

Give to life new aspirations,

A new trust in the unseen.


safe across the river,

I shall see forever more A beloved,

household spirit Waiting for me on the shore.

Hope and faith,

born of my sorrow,

Guardian angels shall become,

And the sister gone before me By their hands shall lead me home.

Blurred and blotted,

faulty and feeble as the lines were,

they brought a look of inexpressible comfort to Beth's face,

for her one regret had been that she had done so little,

and this seemed to assure her that her life had not been useless,

that her death would not bring the despair she feared.

As she sat with the paper folded between her hands,

the charred log fell asunder.

Jo started up,

revived the blaze,

and crept to the bedside,

hoping Beth slept.

"Not asleep,

but so happy,



I found this and read it.

I knew you wouldn't care.

Have I been all that to you,


she asked,

with wistful,

humble earnestness.



so much,

so much!"

and Jo's head went down upon the pillow beside her sister's.

"Then I don't feel as if I'd wasted my life.

I'm not so good as you make me,

but I have tried to do right.

And now,

when it's too late to begin even to do better,

it's such a comfort to know that someone loves me so much,

and feels as if I'd helped them."

"More than any one in the world,


I used to think I couldn't let you go,

but I'm learning to feel that I don't lose you,

that you'll be more to me than ever,

and death can't part us,

though it seems to."

"I know it cannot,

and I don't fear it any longer,

for I'm sure I shall be your Beth still,

to love and help you more than ever.

You must take my place,


and be everything to Father and Mother when I'm gone.

They will turn to you,

don't fail them,

and if it's hard to work alone,

remember that I don't forget you,

and that you'll be happier in doing that than writing splendid books or seeing all the world,

for love is the only thing that we can carry with us when we go,

and it makes the end so easy."

"I'll try,


and then and there Jo renounced her old ambition,

pledged herself to a new and better one,

acknowledging the poverty of other desires,

and feeling the blessed solace of a belief in the immortality of love.

So the spring days came and went,

the sky grew clearer,

the earth greener,

the flowers were up fairly early,

and the birds came back in time to say goodbye to Beth,


like a tired but trustful child,

clung to the hands that had led her all her life,

as Father and Mother guided her tenderly through the Valley of the Shadow,

and gave her up to God.

Seldom except in books do the dying utter memorable words,

see visions,

or depart with beatified countenances,

and those who have sped many parting souls know that to most the end comes as naturally and simply as sleep.

As Beth had hoped,


'tide went out easily',

and in the dark hour before dawn,

on the bosom where she had drawn her first breath,

she quietly drew her last,

with no farewell but one loving look,

one little sigh.

With tears and prayers and tender hands,

Mother and sisters made her ready for the long sleep that pain would never mar again,

seeing with grateful eyes the beautiful serenity that soon replaced the pathetic patience that had wrung their hearts so long,

and feeling with reverent joy that to their darling death was a benignant angel,

not a phantom full of dread.

When morning came,

for the first time in many months the fire was out,

Jo's place was empty,

and the room was very still.

But a bird sang blithely on a budding bough,

close by,

the snowdrops blossomed freshly at the window,

and the spring sunshine streamed in like a benediction over the placid face upon the pillow,

a face so full of painless peace that those who loved it best smiled through their tears,

and thanked God that Beth was well at last.



Amy's lecture did Laurie good,


of course,

he did not own it till long afterward.

Men seldom do,

for when women are the advisers,

the lords of creation don't take the advice till they have persuaded themselves that it is just what they intended to do.

Then they act upon it,


if it succeeds,

they give the weaker vessel half the credit of it.

If it fails,

they generously give her the whole.

Laurie went back to his grandfather,

and was so dutifully devoted for several weeks that the old gentleman declared the climate of Nice had improved him wonderfully,

and he had better try it again.

There was nothing the young gentleman would have liked better,

but elephants could not have dragged him back after the scolding he had received.

Pride forbid,

and whenever the longing grew very strong,

he fortified his resolution by repeating the words that had made the deepest impression --"I despise you."

"Go and do something splendid that will make her love you."

Laurie turned the matter over in his mind so often that he soon brought himself to confess that he had been selfish and lazy,

but then when a man has a great sorrow,

he should be indulged in all sorts of vagaries till he has lived it down.

He felt that his blighted affections were quite dead now,

and though he should never cease to be a faithful mourner,

there was no occasion to wear his weeds ostentatiously.

Jo wouldn't love him,

but he might make her respect and admire him by doing something which should prove that a girl's

'No' had not spoiled his life.

He had always meant to do something,

and Amy's advice was quite unnecessary.

He had only been waiting till the aforesaid blighted affections were decently interred.

That being done,

he felt that he was ready to

'hide his stricken heart,

and still toil on'.

As Goethe,

when he had a joy or a grief,

put it into a song,

so Laurie resolved to embalm his love sorrow in music,

and to compose a Requiem which should harrow up Jo's soul and melt the heart of every hearer.

Therefore the next time the old gentleman found him getting restless and moody and ordered him off,

he went to Vienna,

where he had musical friends,

and fell to work with the firm determination to distinguish himself.

But whether the sorrow was too vast to be embodied in music,

or music too ethereal to uplift a mortal woe,

he soon discovered that the Requiem was beyond him just at present.

It was evident that his mind was not in working order yet,

and his ideas needed clarifying,

for often in the middle of a plaintive strain,

he would find himself humming a dancing tune that vividly recalled the Christmas ball at Nice,

especially the stout Frenchman,

and put an effectual stop to tragic composition for the time being.

Then he tried an opera,

for nothing seemed impossible in the beginning,

but here again unforeseen difficulties beset him.

He wanted Jo for his heroine,

and called upon his memory to supply him with tender recollections and romantic visions of his love.

But memory turned traitor,

and as if possessed by the perverse spirit of the girl,

would only recall Jo's oddities,


and freaks,

would only show her in the most unsentimental aspects --beating mats with her head tied up in a bandanna,

barricading herself with the sofa pillow,

or throwing cold water over his passion a la Gummidge --and an irresistable laugh spoiled the pensive picture he was endeavoring to paint.

Jo wouldn't be put into the opera at any price,

and he had to give her up with a "Bless that girl,

what a torment she is!"

and a clutch at his hair,

as became a distracted composer.

When he looked about him for another and a less intractable damsel to immortalize in melody,

memory produced one with the most obliging readiness.

This phantom wore many faces,

but it always had golden hair,

was enveloped in a diaphanous cloud,

and floated airily before his mind's eye in a pleasing chaos of roses,


white ponies,

and blue ribbons.

He did not give the complacent wraith any name,

but he took her for his heroine and grew quite fond of her,

as well he might,

for he gifted her with every gift and grace under the sun,

and escorted her,


through trials which would have annihilated any mortal woman.

Thanks to this inspiration,

he got on swimmingly for a time,

but gradually the work lost its charm,

and he forgot to compose,

while he sat musing,

pen in hand,

or roamed about the gay city to get some new ideas and refresh his mind,

which seemed to be in a somewhat unsettled state that winter.

He did not do much,

but he thought a great deal and was conscious of a change of some sort going on in spite of himself.

"It's genius simmering,


I'll let it simmer,

and see what comes of it,"

he said,

with a secret suspicion all the while that it wasn't genius,

but something far more common.

Whatever it was,

it simmered to some purpose,

for he grew more and more discontented with his desultory life,

began to long for some real and earnest work to go at,

soul and body,

and finally came to the wise conclusion that everyone who loved music was not a composer.

Returning from one of Mozart's grand operas,

splendidly performed at the Royal Theatre,

he looked over his own,

played a few of the best parts,

sat staring at the busts of Mendelssohn,


and Bach,

who stared benignly back again.

Then suddenly he tore up his music sheets,

one by one,

and as the last fluttered out of his hand,

he said soberly to himself ...

"She is right!

Talent isn't genius,

and you can't make it so.

That music has taken the vanity out of me as Rome took it out of her,

and I won't be a humbug any longer.

Now what shall I do?"

That seemed a hard question to answer,

and Laurie began to wish he had to work for his daily bread.

Now if ever,

occurred an eligible opportunity for

'going to the devil',

as he once forcibly expressed it,

for he had plenty of money and nothing to do,

and Satan is proverbially fond of providing employment for full and idle hands.

The poor fellow had temptations enough from without and from within,

but he withstood them pretty well,

for much as he valued liberty,

he valued good faith and confidence more,

so his promise to his grandfather,

and his desire to be able to look honestly into the eyes of the women who loved him,

and say "All's well,"

kept him safe and steady.

Very likely some Mrs. Grundy will observe,

"I don't believe it,

boys will be boys,

young men must sow their wild oats,

and women must not expect miracles."

I dare say you don't,

Mrs. Grundy,

but it's true nevertheless.

Women work a good many miracles,

and I have a persuasion that they may perform even that of raising the standard of manhood by refusing to echo such sayings.

Let the boys be boys,

the longer the better,

and let the young men sow their wild oats if they must.

But mothers,


and friends may help to make the crop a small one,

and keep many tares from spoiling the harvest,

by believing,

and showing that they believe,

in the possibility of loyalty to the virtues which make men manliest in good women's eyes.

If it is a feminine delusion,

leave us to enjoy it while we may,

for without it half the beauty and the romance of life is lost,

and sorrowful forebodings would embitter all our hopes of the brave,

tenderhearted little lads,

who still love their mothers better than themselves and are not ashamed to own it.

Laurie thought that the task of forgetting his love for Jo would absorb all his powers for years,

but to his great surprise he discovered it grew easier every day.

He refused to believe it at first,

got angry with himself,

and couldn't understand it,

but these hearts of ours are curious and contrary things,

and time and nature work their will in spite of us.

Laurie's heart wouldn't ache.

The wound persisted in healing with a rapidity that astonished him,

and instead of trying to forget,

he found himself trying to remember.

He had not foreseen this turn of affairs,

and was not prepared for it.

He was disgusted with himself,

surprised at his own fickleness,

and full of a queer mixture of disappointment and relief that he could recover from such a tremendous blow so soon.

He carefully stirred up the embers of his lost love,

but they refused to burst into a blaze.

There was only a comfortable glow that warmed and did him good without putting him into a fever,

and he was reluctantly obliged to confess that the boyish passion was slowly subsiding into a more tranquil sentiment,

very tender,

a little sad and resentful still,

but that was sure to pass away in time,

leaving a brotherly affection which would last unbroken to the end.

As the word

'brotherly' passed through his mind in one of his reveries,

he smiled,

and glanced up at the picture of Mozart that was before him ...


he was a great man,

and when he couldn't have one sister he took the other,

and was happy."

Laurie did not utter the words,

but he thought them,

and the next instant kissed the little old ring,

saying to himself,


I won't!

I haven't forgotten,

I never can.

I'll try again,

and if that fails,

why then ..."

Leaving his sentence unfinished,

he seized pen and paper and wrote to Jo,

telling her that he could not settle to anything while there was the least hope of her changing her mind.

Couldn't she,

wouldn't she --and let him come home and be happy?

While waiting for an answer he did nothing,

but he did it energetically,

for he was in a fever of impatience.

It came at last,

and settled his mind effectually on one point,

for Jo decidedly couldn't and wouldn't.

She was wrapped up in Beth,

and never wished to hear the word love again.

Then she begged him to be happy with somebody else,

but always keep a little corner of his heart for his loving sister Jo.

In a postscript she desired him not to tell Amy that Beth was worse,

she was coming home in the spring and there was no need of saddening the remainder of her stay.

That would be time enough,

please God,

but Laurie must write to her often,

and not let her feel lonely,

homesick or anxious.

"So I will,

at once.

Poor little girl,

it will be a sad going home for her,

I'm afraid,"

and Laurie opened his desk,

as if writing to Amy had been the proper conclusion of the sentence left unfinished some weeks before.

But he did not write the letter that day,

for as he rummaged out his best paper,

he came across something which changed his purpose.

Tumbling about in one part of the desk among bills,


and business documents of various kinds were several of Jo's letters,

and in another compartment were three notes from Amy,

carefully tied up with one of her blue ribbons and sweetly suggestive of the little dead roses put away inside.

With a half-repentant,

half-amused expression,

Laurie gathered up all Jo's letters,



and put them neatly into a small drawer of the desk,

stood a minute turning the ring thoughtfully on his finger,

then slowly drew it off,

laid it with the letters,

locked the drawer,

and went out to hear High Mass at Saint Stefan's,

feeling as if there had been a funeral,

and though not overwhelmed with affliction,

this seemed a more proper way to spend the rest of the day than in writing letters to charming young ladies.

The letter went very soon,


and was promptly answered,

for Amy was homesick,

and confessed it in the most delightfully confiding manner.

The correspondence flourished famously,

and letters flew to and fro with unfailing regularity all through the early spring.

Laurie sold his busts,

made allumettes of his opera,

and went back to Paris,

hoping somebody would arrive before long.

He wanted desperately to go to Nice,

but would not till he was asked,

and Amy would not ask him,

for just then she was having little experiences of her own,

which made her rather wish to avoid the quizzical eyes of

'our boy'.

Fred Vaughn had returned,

and put the question to which she had once decided to answer,


thank you,"

but now she said,


thank you,"

kindly but steadily,

for when the time came,

her courage failed her,

and she found that something more than money and position was needed to satisfy the new longing that filled her heart so full of tender hopes and fears.

The words,

"Fred is a good fellow,

but not at all the man I fancied you would ever like,"

and Laurie's face when he uttered them,

kept returning to her as pertinaciously as her own did when she said in look,

if not in words,

"I shall marry for money."

It troubled her to remember that now,

she wished she could take it back,

it sounded so unwomanly.

She didn't want Laurie to think her a heartless,

worldly creature.

She didn't care to be a queen of society now half so much as she did to be a lovable woman.

She was so glad he didn't hate her for the dreadful things she said,

but took them so beautifully and was kinder than ever.

His letters were such a comfort,

for the home letters were very irregular and not half so satisfactory as his when they did come.

It was not only a pleasure,

but a duty to answer them,

for the poor fellow was forlorn,

and needed petting,

since Jo persisted in being stonyhearted.

She ought to have made an effort and tried to love him.

It couldn't be very hard,

many people would be proud and glad to have such a dear boy care for them.

But Jo never would act like other girls,

so there was nothing to do but be very kind and treat him like a brother.

If all brothers were treated as well as Laurie was at this period,

they would be a much happier race of beings than they are.

Amy never lectured now.

She asked his opinion on all subjects,

she was interested in everything he did,

made charming little presents for him,

and sent him two letters a week,

full of lively gossip,

sisterly confidences,

and captivating sketches of the lovely scenes about her.

As few brothers are complimented by having their letters carried about in their sister's pockets,

read and reread diligently,

cried over when short,

kissed when long,

and treasured carefully,

we will not hint that Amy did any of these fond and foolish things.

But she certainly did grow a little pale and pensive that spring,

lost much of her relish for society,

and went out sketching alone a good deal.

She never had much to show when she came home,

but was studying nature,

I dare say,

while she sat for hours,

with her hands folded,

on the terrace at Valrosa,

or absently sketched any fancy that occurred to her,

a stalwart knight carved on a tomb,

a young man asleep in the grass,

with his hat over his eyes,

or a curly haired girl in gorgeous array,

promenading down a ballroom on the arm of a tall gentleman,

both faces being left a blur according to the last fashion in art,

which was safe but not altogether satisfactory.

Her aunt thought that she regretted her answer to Fred,

and finding denials useless and explanations impossible,

Amy left her to think what she liked,

taking care that Laurie should know that Fred had gone to Egypt.

That was all,

but he understood it,

and looked relieved,

as he said to himself,

with a venerable air ...

"I was sure she would think better of it.

Poor old fellow!

I've been through it all,

and I can sympathize."

With that he heaved a great sigh,

and then,

as if he had discharged his duty to the past,

put his feet up on the sofa and enjoyed Amy's letter luxuriously.

While these changes were going on abroad,

trouble had come at home.

But the letter telling that Beth was failing never reached Amy,

and when the next found her at Vevay,

for the heat had driven them from Nice in May,

and they had travelled slowly to Switzerland,

by way of Genoa and the Italian lakes.

She bore it very well,

and quietly submitted to the family decree that she should not shorten her visit,

for since it was too late to say goodbye to Beth,

she had better stay,

and let absence soften her sorrow.

But her heart was very heavy,

she longed to be at home,

and every day looked wistfully across the lake,

waiting for Laurie to come and comfort her.

He did come very soon,

for the same mail brought letters to them both,

but he was in Germany,

and it took some days to reach him.

The moment he read it,

he packed his knapsack,

bade adieu to his fellow pedestrians,

and was off to keep his promise,

with a heart full of joy and sorrow,

hope and suspense.

He knew Vevay well,

and as soon as the boat touched the little quay,

he hurried along the shore to La Tour,

where the Carrols were living en pension.

The garcon was in despair that the whole family had gone to take a promenade on the lake,

but no,

the blonde mademoiselle might be in the chateau garden.

If monsieur would give himself the pain of sitting down,

a flash of time should present her.

But monsieur could not wait even a

'flash of time',

and in the middle of the speech departed to find mademoiselle himself.

A pleasant old garden on the borders of the lovely lake,

with chestnuts rustling overhead,

ivy climbing everywhere,

and the black shadow of the tower falling far across the sunny water.

At one corner of the wide,

low wall was a seat,

and here Amy often came to read or work,

or console herself with the beauty all about her.

She was sitting here that day,

leaning her head on her hand,

with a homesick heart and heavy eyes,

thinking of Beth and wondering why Laurie did not come.

She did not hear him cross the courtyard beyond,

nor see him pause in the archway that led from the subterranean path into the garden.

He stood a minute looking at her with new eyes,

seeing what no one had ever seen before,

the tender side of Amy's character.

Everything about her mutely suggested love and sorrow,

the blotted letters in her lap,

the black ribbon that tied up her hair,

the womanly pain and patience in her face,

even the little ebony cross at her throat seemed pathetic to Laurie,

for he had given it to her,

and she wore it as her only ornament.

If he had any doubts about the reception she would give him,

they were set at rest the minute she looked up and saw him,

for dropping everything,

she ran to him,

exclaiming in a tone of unmistakable love and longing ...




I knew you'd come to me!"

I think everything was said and settled then,

for as they stood together quite silent for a moment,

with the dark head bent down protectingly over the light one,

Amy felt that no one could comfort and sustain her so well as Laurie,

and Laurie decided that Amy was the only woman in the world who could fill Jo's place and make him happy.

He did not tell her so,

but she was not disappointed,

for both felt the truth,

were satisfied,

and gladly left the rest to silence.

In a minute Amy went back to her place,

and while she dried her tears,

Laurie gathered up the scattered papers,

finding in the sight of sundry well-worn letters and suggestive sketches good omens for the future.

As he sat down beside her,

Amy felt shy again,

and turned rosy red at the recollection of her impulsive greeting.

"I couldn't help it,

I felt so lonely and sad,

and was so very glad to see you.

It was such a surprise to look up and find you,

just as I was beginning to fear you wouldn't come,"

she said,

trying in vain to speak quite naturally.

"I came the minute I heard.

I wish I could say something to comfort you for the loss of dear little Beth,

but I can only feel,

and ..."

He could not get any further,

for he too turned bashful all of a sudden,

and did not quite know what to say.

He longed to lay Amy's head down on his shoulder,

and tell her to have a good cry,

but he did not dare,

so took her hand instead,

and gave it a sympathetic squeeze that was better than words.

"You needn't say anything,

this comforts me,"

she said softly.

"Beth is well and happy,

and I mustn't wish her back,

but I dread the going home,

much as I long to see them all.

We won't talk about it now,

for it makes me cry,

and I want to enjoy you while you stay.

You needn't go right back,

need you?"

"Not if you want me,


"I do,

so much.

Aunt and Flo are very kind,

but you seem like one of the family,

and it would be so comfortable to have you for a little while."

Amy spoke and looked so like a homesick child whose heart was full that Laurie forgot his bashfulness all at once,

and gave her just what she wanted --the petting she was used to and the cheerful conversation she needed.

"Poor little soul,

you look as if you'd grieved yourself half sick!

I'm going to take care of you,

so don't cry any more,

but come and walk about with me,

the wind is too chilly for you to sit still,"

he said,

in the half-caressing,

half-commanding way that Amy liked,

as he tied on her hat,

drew her arm through his,

and began to pace up and down the sunny walk under the new-leaved chestnuts.

He felt more at ease upon his legs,

and Amy found it pleasant to have a strong arm to lean upon,

a familiar face to smile at her,

and a kind voice to talk delightfully for her alone.

The quaint old garden had sheltered many pairs of lovers,

and seemed expressly made for them,

so sunny and secluded was it,

with nothing but the tower to overlook them,

and the wide lake to carry away the echo of their words,

as it rippled by below.

For an hour this new pair walked and talked,

or rested on the wall,

enjoying the sweet influences which gave such a charm to time and place,

and when an unromantic dinner bell warned them away,

Amy felt as if she left her burden of loneliness and sorrow behind her in the chateau garden.

The moment Mrs. Carrol saw the girl's altered face,

she was illuminated with a new idea,

and exclaimed to herself,

"Now I understand it all --the child has been pining for young Laurence.

Bless my heart,

I never thought of such a thing!"

With praiseworthy discretion,

the good lady said nothing,

and betrayed no sign of enlightenment,

but cordially urged Laurie to stay and begged Amy to enjoy his society,

for it would do her more good than so much solitude.

Amy was a model of docility,

and as her aunt was a good deal occupied with Flo,

she was left to entertain her friend,

and did it with more than her usual success.

At Nice,

Laurie had lounged and Amy had scolded.

At Vevay,

Laurie was never idle,

but always walking,



or studying in the most energetic manner,

while Amy admired everything he did and followed his example as far and as fast as she could.

He said the change was owing to the climate,

and she did not contradict him,

being glad of a like excuse for her own recovered health and spirits.

The invigorating air did them both good,

and much exercise worked wholesome changes in minds as well as bodies.

They seemed to get clearer views of life and duty up there among the everlasting hills.

The fresh winds blew away desponding doubts,

delusive fancies,

and moody mists.

The warm spring sunshine brought out all sorts of aspiring ideas,

tender hopes,

and happy thoughts.

The lake seemed to wash away the troubles of the past,

and the grand old mountains to look benignly down upon them saying,

"Little children,

love one another."

In spite of the new sorrow,

it was a very happy time,

so happy that Laurie could not bear to disturb it by a word.

It took him a little while to recover from his surprise at the cure of his first,

and as he had firmly believed,

his last and only love.

He consoled himself for the seeming disloyalty by the thought that Jo's sister was almost the same as Jo's self,

and the conviction that it would have been impossible to love any other woman but Amy so soon and so well.

His first wooing had been of the tempestuous order,

and he looked back upon it as if through a long vista of years with a feeling of compassion blended with regret.

He was not ashamed of it,

but put it away as one of the bitter-sweet experiences of his life,

for which he could be grateful when the pain was over.

His second wooing,

he resolved,

should be as calm and simple as possible.

There was no need of having a scene,

hardly any need of telling Amy that he loved her,

she knew it without words and had given him his answer long ago.

It all came about so naturally that no one could complain,

and he knew that everybody would be pleased,

even Jo.

But when our first little passion has been crushed,

we are apt to be wary and slow in making a second trial,

so Laurie let the days pass,

enjoying every hour,

and leaving to chance the utterance of the word that would put an end to the first and sweetest part of his new romance.

He had rather imagined that the denoument would take place in the chateau garden by moonlight,

and in the most graceful and decorous manner,

but it turned out exactly the reverse,

for the matter was settled on the lake at noonday in a few blunt words.

They had been floating about all the morning,

from gloomy St. Gingolf to sunny Montreux,

with the Alps of Savoy on one side,

Mont St. Bernard and the Dent du Midi on the other,

pretty Vevay in the valley,

and Lausanne upon the hill beyond,

a cloudless blue sky overhead,

and the bluer lake below,

dotted with the picturesque boats that look like white-winged gulls.

They had been talking of Bonnivard,

as they glided past Chillon,

and of Rousseau,

as they looked up at Clarens,

where he wrote his Heloise.

Neither had read it,

but they knew it was a love story,

and each privately wondered if it was half as interesting as their own.

Amy had been dabbling her hand in the water during the little pause that fell between them,

and when she looked up,

Laurie was leaning on his oars with an expression in his eyes that made her say hastily,

merely for the sake of saying something ...

"You must be tired.

Rest a little,

and let me row.

It will do me good,

for since you came I have been altogether lazy and luxurious."

"I'm not tired,

but you may take an oar,

if you like.

There's room enough,

though I have to sit nearly in the middle,

else the boat won't trim,"

returned Laurie,

as if he rather liked the arrangement.

Feeling that she had not mended matters much,

Amy took the offered third of a seat,

shook her hair over her face,

and accepted an oar.

She rowed as well as she did many other things,

and though she used both hands,

and Laurie but one,

the oars kept time,

and the boat went smoothly through the water.

"How well we pull together,

don't we?"

said Amy,

who objected to silence just then.

"So well that I wish we might always pull in the same boat.

Will you,


very tenderly.



very low.

Then they both stopped rowing,

and unconsciously added a pretty little tableau of human love and happiness to the dissolving views reflected in the lake.



It was easy to promise self-abnegation when self was wrapped up in another,

and heart and soul were purified by a sweet example.

But when the helpful voice was silent,

the daily lesson over,

the beloved presence gone,

and nothing remained but loneliness and grief,

then Jo found her promise very hard to keep.

How could she

'comfort Father and Mother' when her own heart ached with a ceaseless longing for her sister,

how could she

'make the house cheerful' when all its light and warmth and beauty seemed to have deserted it when Beth left the old home for the new,

and where in all the world could she

'find some useful,

happy work to do',

that would take the place of the loving service which had been its own reward?

She tried in a blind,

hopeless way to do her duty,

secretly rebelling against it all the while,

for it seemed unjust that her few joys should be lessened,

her burdens made heavier,

and life get harder and harder as she toiled along.

Some people seemed to get all sunshine,

and some all shadow.

It was not fair,

for she tried more than Amy to be good,

but never got any reward,

only disappointment,

trouble and hard work.

Poor Jo,

these were dark days to her,

for something like despair came over her when she thought of spending all her life in that quiet house,

devoted to humdrum cares,

a few small pleasures,

and the duty that never seemed to grow any easier.

"I can't do it.

I wasn't meant for a life like this,

and I know I shall break away and do something desperate if somebody doesn't come and help me,"

she said to herself,

when her first efforts failed and she fell into the moody,

miserable state of mind which often comes when strong wills have to yield to the inevitable.

But someone did come and help her,

though Jo did not recognize her good angels at once because they wore familiar shapes and used the simple spells best fitted to poor humanity.

Often she started up at night,

thinking Beth called her,

and when the sight of the little empty bed made her cry with the bitter cry of unsubmissive sorrow,



come back!

Come back!"

she did not stretch out her yearning arms in vain.


as quick to hear her sobbing as she had been to hear her sister's faintest whisper,

her mother came to comfort her,

not with words only,

but the patient tenderness that soothes by a touch,

tears that were mute reminders of a greater grief than Jo's,

and broken whispers,

more eloquent than prayers,

because hopeful resignation went hand-in-hand with natural sorrow.

Sacred moments,

when heart talked to heart in the silence of the night,

turning affliction to a blessing,

which chastened grief and strengthned love.

Feeling this,

Jo's burden seemed easier to bear,

duty grew sweeter,

and life looked more endurable,

seen from the safe shelter of her mother's arms.

When aching heart was a little comforted,

troubled mind likewise found help,

for one day she went to the study,

and leaning over the good gray head lifted to welcome her with a tranquil smile,

she said very humbly,


talk to me as you did to Beth.

I need it more than she did,

for I'm all wrong."

"My dear,

nothing can comfort me like this,"

he answered,

with a falter in his voice,

and both arms round her,

as if he too,

needed help,

and did not fear to ask for it.


sitting in Beth's little chair close beside him,

Jo told her troubles,

the resentful sorrow for her loss,

the fruitless efforts that discouraged her,

the want of faith that made life look so dark,

and all the sad bewilderment which we call despair.

She gave him entire confidence,

he gave her the help she needed,

and both found consolation in the act.

For the time had come when they could talk together not only as father and daughter,

but as man and woman,

able and glad to serve each other with mutual sympathy as well as mutual love.


thoughtful times there in the old study which Jo called

'the church of one member',

and from which she came with fresh courage,

recovered cheerfulness,

and a more submissive spirit.

For the parents who had taught one child to meet death without fear,

were trying now to teach another to accept life without despondency or distrust,

and to use its beautiful opportunities with gratitude and power.

Other helps had Jo --humble,

wholesome duties and delights that would not be denied their part in serving her,

and which she slowly learned to see and value.

Brooms and dishcloths never could be as distasteful as they once had been,

for Beth had presided over both,

and something of her housewifely spirit seemed to linger around the little mop and the old brush,

never thrown away.

As she used them,

Jo found herself humming the songs Beth used to hum,

imitating Beth's orderly ways,

and giving the little touches here and there that kept everything fresh and cozy,

which was the first step toward making home happy,

though she didn't know it till Hannah said with an approving squeeze of the hand ...

"You thoughtful creeter,

you're determined we shan't miss that dear lamb ef you can help it.

We don't say much,

but we see it,

and the Lord will bless you for't,

see ef He don't."

As they sat sewing together,

Jo discovered how much improved her sister Meg was,

how well she could talk,

how much she knew about good,

womanly impulses,


and feelings,

how happy she was in husband and children,

and how much they were all doing for each other.

"Marriage is an excellent thing,

after all.

I wonder if I should blossom out half as well as you have,

if I tried it?,

always _'perwisin'_ I could,"

said Jo,

as she constructed a kite for Demi in the topsy-turvy nursery.

"It's just what you need to bring out the tender womanly half of your nature,


You are like a chestnut burr,

prickly outside,

but silky-soft within,

and a sweet kernal,

if one can only get at it.

Love will make you show your heart one day,

and then the rough burr will fall off."

"Frost opens chestnut burrs,


and it takes a good shake to bring them down.

Boys go nutting,

and I don't care to be bagged by them,"

returned Jo,

pasting away at the kite which no wind that blows would ever carry up,

for Daisy had tied herself on as a bob.

Meg laughed,

for she was glad to see a glimmer of Jo's old spirit,

but she felt it her duty to enforce her opinion by every argument in her power,

and the sisterly chats were not wasted,

especially as two of Meg's most effective arguments were the babies,

whom Jo loved tenderly.

Grief is the best opener of some hearts,

and Jo's was nearly ready for the bag.

A little more sunshine to ripen the nut,


not a boy's impatient shake,

but a man's hand reached up to pick it gently from the burr,

and find the kernal sound and sweet.

If she suspected this,

she would have shut up tight,

and been more prickly than ever,

fortunately she wasn't thinking about herself,

so when the time came,

down she dropped.


if she had been the heroine of a moral storybook,

she ought at this period of her life to have become quite saintly,

renounced the world,

and gone about doing good in a mortified bonnet,

with tracts in her pocket.


you see,

Jo wasn't a heroine,

she was only a struggling human girl like hundreds of others,

and she just acted out her nature,

being sad,



or energetic,

as the mood suggested.

It's highly virtuous to say we'll be good,

but we can't do it all at once,

and it takes a long pull,

a strong pull,

and a pull all together before some of us even get our feet set in the right way.

Jo had got so far,

she was learning to do her duty,

and to feel unhappy if she did not,

but to do it cheerfully,


that was another thing!

She had often said she wanted to do something splendid,

no matter how hard,

and now she had her wish,

for what could be more beautiful than to devote her life to Father and Mother,

trying to make home as happy to them as they had to her?

And if difficulties were necessary to increase the splendor of the effort,

what could be harder for a restless,

ambitious girl than to give up her own hopes,


and desires,

and cheerfully live for others?

Providence had taken her at her word.

Here was the task,

not what she had expected,

but better because self had no part in it.


could she do it?

She decided that she would try,

and in her first attempt she found the helps I have suggested.

Still another was given her,

and she took it,

not as a reward,

but as a comfort,

as Christian took the refreshment afforded by the little arbor where he rested,

as he climbed the hill called Difficulty.

"Why don't you write?

That always used to make you happy,"

said her mother once,

when the desponding fit over-shadowed Jo.

"I've no heart to write,

and if I had,

nobody cares for my things."

"We do.

Write something for us,

and never mind the rest of the world.

Try it,


I'm sure it would do you good,

and please us very much."

"Don't believe I can."

But Jo got out her desk and began to overhaul her half-finished manuscripts.

An hour afterward her mother peeped in and there she was,

scratching away,

with her black pinafore on,

and an absorbed expression,

which caused Mrs. March to smile and slip away,

well pleased with the success of her suggestion.

Jo never knew how it happened,

but something got into that story that went straight to the hearts of those who read it,

for when her family had laughed and cried over it,

her father sent it,

much against her will,

to one of the popular magazines,

and to her utter surprise,

it was not only paid for,

but others requested.

Letters from several persons,

whose praise was honor,

followed the appearance of the little story,

newspapers copied it,

and strangers as well as friends admired it.

For a small thing it was a great success,

and Jo was more astonished than when her novel was commended and condemned all at once.

"I don't understand it.

What can there be in a simple little story like that to make people praise it so?"

she said,

quite bewildered.

"There is truth in it,


that's the secret.

Humor and pathos make it alive,

and you have found your style at last.

You wrote with no thoughts of fame and money,

and put your heart into it,

my daughter.

You have had the bitter,

now comes the sweet.

Do your best,

and grow as happy as we are in your success."

"If there is anything good or true in what I write,

it isn't mine.

I owe it all to you and Mother and Beth,"

said Jo,

more touched by her father's words than by any amount of praise from the world.

So taught by love and sorrow,

Jo wrote her little stories,

and sent them away to make friends for themselves and her,

finding it a very charitable world to such humble wanderers,

for they were kindly welcomed,

and sent home comfortable tokens to their mother,

like dutiful children whom good fortune overtakes.

When Amy and Laurie wrote of their engagement,

Mrs. March feared that Jo would find it difficult to rejoice over it,

but her fears were soon set at rest,

for though Jo looked grave at first,

she took it very quietly,

and was full of hopes and plans for

'the children' before she read the letter twice.

It was a sort of written duet,

wherein each glorified the other in loverlike fashion,

very pleasant to read and satisfactory to think of,

for no one had any objection to make.

"You like it,


said Jo,

as they laid down the closely written sheets and looked at one another.


I hoped it would be so,

ever since Amy wrote that she had refused Fred.

I felt sure then that something better than what you call the

'mercenary spirit' had come over her,

and a hint here and there in her letters made me suspect that love and Laurie would win the day."

"How sharp you are,


and how silent!

You never said a word to me."

"Mothers have need of sharp eyes and discreet tongues when they have girls to manage.

I was half afraid to put the idea into your head,

lest you should write and congratulate them before the thing was settled."

"I'm not the scatterbrain I was.

You may trust me.

I'm sober and sensible enough for anyone's confidante now."

"So you are,

my dear,

and I should have made you mine,

only I fancied it might pain you to learn that your Teddy loved someone else."



did you really think I could be so silly and selfish,

after I'd refused his love,

when it was freshest,

if not best?"

"I knew you were sincere then,


but lately I have thought that if he came back,

and asked again,

you might perhaps,

feel like giving another answer.

Forgive me,


I can't help seeing that you are very lonely,

and sometimes there is a hungry look in your eyes that goes to my heart.

So I fancied that your boy might fill the empty place if he tried now."



it is better as it is,

and I'm glad Amy has learned to love him.

But you are right in one thing.

I am lonely,

and perhaps if Teddy had tried again,

I might have said


not because I love him any more,

but because I care more to be loved than when he went away."

"I'm glad of that,


for it shows that you are getting on.

There are plenty to love you,

so try to be satisfied with Father and Mother,

sisters and brothers,

friends and babies,

till the best lover of all comes to give you your reward."

"Mothers are the best lovers in the world,

but I don't mind whispering to Marmee that I'd like to try all kinds.

It's very curious,

but the more I try to satisfy myself with all sorts of natural affections,

the more I seem to want.

I'd no idea hearts could take in so many.

Mine is so elastic,

it never seems full now,

and I used to be quite contented with my family.

I don't understand it."

"I do,"

and Mrs. March smiled her wise smile,

as Jo turned back the leaves to read what Amy said of Laurie.

"It is so beautiful to be loved as Laurie loves me.

He isn't sentimental,

doesn't say much about it,

but I see and feel it in all he says and does,

and it makes me so happy and so humble that I don't seem to be the same girl I was.

I never knew how good and generous and tender he was till now,

for he lets me read his heart,

and I find it full of noble impulses and hopes and purposes,

and am so proud to know it's mine.

He says he feels as if he

'could make a prosperous voyage now with me aboard as mate,

and lots of love for ballast'.

I pray he may,

and try to be all he believes me,

for I love my gallant captain with all my heart and soul and might,

and never will desert him,

while God lets us be together.



I never knew how much like heaven this world could be,

when two people love and live for one another!"

"And that's our cool,


and worldly Amy!


love does work miracles.

How very,

very happy they must be!"

and Jo laid the rustling sheets together with a careful hand,

as one might shut the covers of a lovely romance,

which holds the reader fast till the end comes,

and he finds himself alone in the workaday world again.

By-and-by Jo roamed away upstairs,

for it was rainy,

and she could not walk.

A restless spirit possessed her,

and the old feeling came again,

not bitter as it once was,

but a sorrowfully patient wonder why one sister should have all she asked,

the other nothing.

It was not true,

she knew that and tried to put it away,

but the natural craving for affection was strong,

and Amy's happiness woke the hungry longing for someone to

'love with heart and soul,

and cling to while God let them be together'.

Up in the garret,

where Jo's unquiet wanderings ended stood four little wooden chests in a row,

each marked with its owners name,

and each filled with relics of the childhood and girlhood ended now for all.

Jo glanced into them,

and when she came to her own,

leaned her chin on the edge,

and stared absently at the chaotic collection,

till a bundle of old exercise books caught her eye.

She drew them out,

turned them over,

and relived that pleasant winter at kind Mrs. Kirke's.

She had smiled at first,

then she looked thoughtful,

next sad,

and when she came to a little message written in the Professor's hand,

her lips began to tremble,

the books slid out of her lap,

and she sat looking at the friendly words,

as they took a new meaning,

and touched a tender spot in her heart.

"Wait for me,

my friend.

I may be a little late,

but I shall surely come."


if he only would!

So kind,

so good,

so patient with me always,

my dear old Fritz.

I didn't value him half enough when I had him,

but now how I should love to see him,

for everyone seems going away from me,

and I'm all alone."

And holding the little paper fast,

as if it were a promise yet to be fulfilled,

Jo laid her head down on a comfortable rag bag,

and cried,

as if in opposition to the rain pattering on the roof.

Was it all self-pity,


or low spirits?

Or was it the waking up of a sentiment which had bided its time as patiently as its inspirer?

Who shall say?