PART 1

CHAPTER ONE

PLAYING PILGRIMS

“Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents,” grumbled Jo, lying

on the rug.

“It’s so dreadful to be poor!” sighed Meg, looking down at her old

dress.

“I don’t think it’s fair for some girls to have plenty of pretty

things, and other girls nothing at all,” added little Amy, with an

injured sniff.

“We’ve got Father and Mother, and each other,” said Beth contentedly

from her corner.

The four young faces on which the firelight shone brightened at the

cheerful words, but darkened again as Jo said sadly, “We haven’t got

Father, and shall not have him for a long time.” She didn’t say

“perhaps never,” but each silently added it, thinking of Father far

away, where the fighting was.

Nobody spoke for a minute; then Meg said in an altered tone, “You know

the reason Mother proposed not having any presents this Christmas was

because it is going to be a hard winter for everyone; and she thinks we

ought not to spend money for pleasure, when our men are suffering so in

the army. We can’t do much, but we can make our little sacrifices, and

ought to do it gladly. But I am afraid I don’t,” and Meg shook her

head, as she thought regretfully of all the pretty things she wanted.

“But I don’t think the little we should spend would do any good. We’ve

each got a dollar, and the army wouldn’t be much helped by our giving

that. I agree not to expect anything from Mother or you, but I do want

to buy _Undine and Sintran_ for myself. I’ve wanted it so long,” said

Jo, who was a bookworm.

“I planned to spend mine in new music,” said Beth, with a little sigh,

which no one heard but the hearth brush and kettle-holder.

“I shall get a nice box of Faber’s drawing pencils; I really need

them,” said Amy decidedly.

“Mother didn’t say anything about our money, and she won’t wish us to

give up everything. Let’s each buy what we want, and have a little fun;

I’m sure we work hard enough to earn it,” cried Jo, examining the heels

of her shoes in a gentlemanly manner.

“I know I do—teaching those tiresome children nearly all day, when I’m

longing to enjoy myself at home,” began Meg, in the complaining tone

again.

“You don’t have half such a hard time as I do,” said Jo. “How would you

like to be shut up for hours with a nervous, fussy old lady, who keeps

you trotting, is never satisfied, and worries you till you’re ready to

fly out the window or cry?”

“It’s naughty to fret, but I do think washing dishes and keeping things

tidy is the worst work in the world. It makes me cross, and my hands

get so stiff, I can’t practice well at all.” And Beth looked at her

rough hands with a sigh that any one could hear that time.

“I don’t believe any of you suffer as I do,” cried Amy, “for you don’t

have to go to school with impertinent girls, who plague you if you

don’t know your lessons, and laugh at your dresses, and label your

father if he isn’t rich, and insult you when your nose isn’t nice.”

“If you mean libel, I’d say so, and not talk about labels, as if Papa

was a pickle bottle,” advised Jo, laughing.

“I know what I mean, and you needn’t be statirical about it. It’s

proper to use good words, and improve your vocabilary,” returned Amy,

with dignity.

“Don’t peck at one another, children. Don’t you wish we had the money

Papa lost when we were little, Jo? Dear me! How happy and good we’d be,

if we had no worries!” said Meg, who could remember better times.

“You said the other day you thought we were a deal happier than the

King children, for they were fighting and fretting all the time, in

spite of their money.”

“So I did, Beth. Well, I think we are. For though we do have to work,

we make fun of ourselves, and are a pretty jolly set, as Jo would say.”

“Jo does use such slang words!” observed Amy, with a reproving look at

the long figure stretched on the rug.

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

whistle.

“Don’t, Jo. It’s so boyish!”

“That’s why I do it.”

“I detest rude, unladylike girls!”

“I hate affected, niminy-piminy chits!”

“Birds in their little nests agree,” sang Beth, the peacemaker, with

such a funny face that both sharp voices softened to a laugh, and the

“pecking” ended for that time.

“Really, girls, you are both to be blamed,” said Meg, beginning to

lecture in her elder-sisterly fashion. “You are old enough to leave off

boyish tricks, and to behave better, Josephine. It didn’t matter so

much when you were a little girl, but now you are so tall, and turn up

your hair, you should remember that you are a young lady.”

“I’m not! And if turning up my hair makes me one, I’ll wear it in two

tails till I’m twenty,” cried Jo, pulling off her net, and shaking down

a chestnut mane. “I hate to think I’ve got to grow up, and be Miss

March, and wear long gowns, and look as prim as a China Aster! It’s bad

enough to be a girl, anyway, when I like boy’s games and work and

manners! I can’t get over my disappointment in not being a boy. And

it’s worse than ever now, for I’m dying to go and fight with Papa. And

I can only stay home and knit, like a poky old woman!”

And Jo shook the blue army sock till the needles rattled like

castanets, and her ball bounded across the room.

“Poor Jo! It’s too bad, but it can’t be helped. So you must try to be

contented with making your name boyish, and playing brother to us

girls,” said Beth, stroking the rough head with a hand that all the

dish washing and dusting in the world could not make ungentle in its

touch.

“As for you, Amy,” continued Meg, “you are altogether too particular

and prim. Your airs are funny now, but you’ll grow up an affected

little goose, if you don’t take care. I like your nice manners and

refined ways of speaking, when you don’t try to be elegant. But your

absurd words are as bad as Jo’s slang.”

“If Jo is a tomboy and Amy a goose, what am I, please?” asked Beth,

ready to share the lecture.

“You’re a dear, and nothing else,” answered Meg warmly, and no one

contradicted her, for the ‘Mouse’ was the pet of the family.

As young readers like to know ‘how people look’, we will take this

moment to give them a little sketch of the four sisters, who sat

knitting away in the twilight, while the December snow fell quietly

without, and the fire crackled cheerfully within. It was a comfortable

room, though the carpet was faded and the furniture very plain, for a

good picture or two hung on the walls, books filled the recesses,

chrysanthemums and Christmas roses bloomed in the windows, and a

pleasant atmosphere of home peace pervaded it.

Margaret, the eldest of the four, was sixteen, and very pretty, being

plump and fair, with large eyes, plenty of soft brown hair, a sweet

mouth, and white hands, of which she was rather vain. Fifteen-year-old

Jo was very tall, thin, and brown, and reminded one of a colt, for she

never seemed to know what to do with her long limbs, which were very

much in her way. She had a decided mouth, a comical nose, and sharp,

gray eyes, which appeared to see everything, and were by turns fierce,

funny, or thoughtful. Her long, thick hair was her one beauty, but it

was usually bundled into a net, to be out of her way. Round shoulders

had Jo, big hands and feet, a flyaway look to her clothes, and the

uncomfortable appearance of a girl who was rapidly shooting up into a

woman and didn’t like it. Elizabeth, or Beth, as everyone called her,

was a rosy, smooth-haired, bright-eyed girl of thirteen, with a shy

manner, a timid voice, and a peaceful expression which was seldom

disturbed. Her father called her ‘Little Miss Tranquility’, and the

name suited her excellently, for she seemed to live in a happy world of

her own, only venturing out to meet the few whom she trusted and loved.

Amy, though the youngest, was a most important person, in her own

opinion at least. A regular snow maiden, with blue eyes, and yellow

hair curling on her shoulders, pale and slender, and always carrying

herself like a young lady mindful of her manners. What the characters

of the four sisters were we will leave to be found out.

The clock struck six and, having swept up the hearth, Beth put a pair

of slippers down to warm. Somehow the sight of the old shoes had a good

effect upon the girls, for Mother was coming, and everyone brightened

to welcome her. Meg stopped lecturing, and lighted the lamp, Amy got

out of the easy chair without being asked, and Jo forgot how tired she

was as she sat up to hold the slippers nearer to the blaze.

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

“I thought I’d get her some with my dollar,” said Beth.

“No, I shall!” cried Amy.

“I’m the oldest,” began Meg, but Jo cut in with a decided, “I’m the man

of the family now Papa is away, and I shall provide the slippers, for

he told me to take special care of Mother while he was gone.”

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said Beth, “let’s each get her something

for Christmas, and not get anything for ourselves.”

“That’s like you, dear! What will we get?” exclaimed Jo.

Everyone thought soberly for a minute, then Meg announced, as if the

idea was suggested by the sight of her own pretty hands, “I shall give

her a nice pair of gloves.”

“Army shoes, best to be had,” cried Jo.

“Some handkerchiefs, all hemmed,” said Beth.

“I’ll get a little bottle of cologne. She likes it, and it won’t cost

much, so I’ll have some left to buy my pencils,” added Amy.

“How will we give the things?” asked Meg.

“Put them on the table, and bring her in and see her open the bundles.

Don’t you remember how we used to do on our birthdays?” answered Jo.

“I used to be so frightened when it was my turn to sit in the chair

with the crown on, and see you all come marching round to give the

presents, with a kiss. I liked the things and the kisses, but it was

dreadful to have you sit looking at me while I opened the bundles,”

said Beth, who was toasting her face and the bread for tea at the same

time.

“Let Marmee think we are getting things for ourselves, and then

surprise her. We must go shopping tomorrow afternoon, Meg. There is so

much to do about the play for Christmas night,” said Jo, marching up

and down, with her hands behind her back, and her nose in the air.

“I don’t mean to act any more after this time. I’m getting too old for

such things,” observed Meg, who was as much a child as ever about

‘dressing-up’ frolics.

“You won’t stop, I know, as long as you can trail round in a white gown

with your hair down, and wear gold-paper jewelry. You are the best

actress we’ve got, and there’ll be an end of everything if you quit the

boards,” said Jo. “We ought to rehearse tonight. Come here, Amy, and do

the fainting scene, for you are as stiff as a poker in that.”

“I can’t help it. I never saw anyone faint, and I don’t choose to make

myself all black and blue, tumbling flat as you do. If I can go down

easily, I’ll drop. If I can’t, I shall fall into a chair and be

graceful. I don’t care if Hugo does come at me with a pistol,” returned

Amy, who was not gifted with dramatic power, but was chosen because she

was small enough to be borne out shrieking by the villain of the piece.

“Do it this way. Clasp your hands so, and stagger across the room,

crying frantically, ‘Roderigo! Save me! Save me!’” and away went Jo,

with a melodramatic scream which was truly thrilling.

Amy followed, but she poked her hands out stiffly before her, and

jerked herself along as if she went by machinery, and her “Ow!” was

more suggestive of pins being run into her than of fear and anguish. Jo

gave a despairing groan, and Meg laughed outright, while Beth let her

bread burn as she watched the fun with interest. “It’s no use! Do the

best you can when the time comes, and if the audience laughs, don’t

blame me. Come on, Meg.”

Then things went smoothly, for Don Pedro defied the world in a speech

of two pages without a single break. Hagar, the witch, chanted an awful

incantation over her kettleful of simmering toads, with weird effect.

Roderigo rent his chains asunder manfully, and Hugo died in agonies of

remorse and arsenic, with a wild, “Ha! Ha!”

“It’s the best we’ve had yet,” said Meg, as the dead villain sat up and

rubbed his elbows.

“I don’t see how you can write and act such splendid things, Jo. You’re

a regular Shakespeare!” exclaimed Beth, who firmly believed that her

sisters were gifted with wonderful genius in all things.

“Not quite,” replied Jo modestly. “I do think _The Witches Curse, an

Operatic Tragedy_ is rather a nice thing, but I’d like to try

_Macbeth_, if we only had a trapdoor for Banquo. I always wanted to do

the killing part. ‘Is that a dagger that I see before me?” muttered Jo,

rolling her eyes and clutching at the air, as she had seen a famous

tragedian do.

“No, it’s the toasting fork, with Mother’s shoe on it instead of the

bread. Beth’s stage-struck!” cried Meg, and the rehearsal ended in a

general burst of laughter.

“Glad to find you so merry, my girls,” said a cheery voice at the door,

and actors and audience turned to welcome a tall, motherly lady with a

‘can I help you’ look about her which was truly delightful. She was not

elegantly dressed, but a noble-looking woman, and the girls thought the

gray cloak and unfashionable bonnet covered the most splendid mother in

the world.

“Well, dearies, how have you got on today? There was so much to do,

getting the boxes ready to go tomorrow, that I didn’t come home to

dinner. Has anyone called, Beth? How is your cold, Meg? Jo, you look

tired to death. Come and kiss me, baby.”

While making these maternal inquiries Mrs. March got her wet things

off, her warm slippers on, and sitting down in the easy chair, drew Amy

to her lap, preparing to enjoy the happiest hour of her busy day. The

girls flew about, trying to make things comfortable, each in her own

way. Meg arranged the tea table, Jo brought wood and set chairs,

dropping, over-turning, and clattering everything she touched. Beth

trotted to and fro between parlor kitchen, quiet and busy, while Amy

gave directions to everyone, as she sat with her hands folded.

As they gathered about the table, Mrs. March said, with a particularly

happy face, “I’ve got a treat for you after supper.”

A quick, bright smile went round like a streak of sunshine. Beth

clapped her hands, regardless of the biscuit she held, and Jo tossed up

her napkin, crying, “A letter! A letter! Three cheers for Father!”

“Yes, a nice long letter. He is well, and thinks he shall get through

the cold season better than we feared. He sends all sorts of loving

wishes for Christmas, and an especial message to you girls,” said Mrs.

March, patting her pocket as if she had got a treasure there.

“Hurry and get done! Don’t stop to quirk your little finger and simper

over your plate, Amy,” cried Jo, choking on her tea and dropping her

bread, butter side down, on the carpet in her haste to get at the

treat.

Beth ate no more, but crept away to sit in her shadowy corner and brood

over the delight to come, till the others were ready.

“I think it was so splendid in Father to go as chaplain when he was too

old to be drafted, and not strong enough for a soldier,” said Meg

warmly.

“Don’t I wish I could go as a drummer, a vivan—what’s its name? Or a

nurse, so I could be near him and help him,” exclaimed Jo, with a

groan.

“It must be very disagreeable to sleep in a tent, and eat all sorts of

bad-tasting things, and drink out of a tin mug,” sighed Amy.

“When will he come home, Marmee?” asked Beth, with a little quiver in

her voice.

“Not for many months, dear, unless he is sick. He will stay and do his

work faithfully as long as he can, and we won’t ask for him back a

minute sooner than he can be spared. Now come and hear the letter.”

They all drew to the fire, Mother in the big chair with Beth at her

feet, Meg and Amy perched on either arm of the chair, and Jo leaning on

the back, where no one would see any sign of emotion if the letter

should happen to be touching. Very few letters were written in those

hard times that were not touching, especially those which fathers sent

home. In this one little was said of the hardships endured, the dangers

faced, or the homesickness conquered. It was a cheerful, hopeful

letter, full of lively descriptions of camp life, marches, and military

news, and only at the end did the writer’s heart over-flow with

fatherly love and longing for the little girls at home.

“Give them all of my dear love and a kiss. Tell them I think of them by

day, pray for them by night, and find my best comfort in their

affection at all times. A year seems very long to wait before I see

them, but remind them that while we wait we may all work, so that these

hard days need not be wasted. I know they will remember all I said to

them, that they will be loving children to you, will do their duty

faithfully, fight their bosom enemies bravely, and conquer themselves

so beautifully that when I come back to them I may be fonder and

prouder than ever of my little women.” Everybody sniffed when they came

to that part. Jo wasn’t ashamed of the great tear that dropped off the

end of her nose, and Amy never minded the rumpling of her curls as she

hid her face on her mother’s shoulder and sobbed out, “I am a selfish

girl! But I’ll truly try to be better, so he mayn’t be disappointed in

me by-and-by.”

“We all will,” cried Meg. “I think too much of my looks and hate to

work, but won’t any more, if I can help it.”

“I’ll try and be what he loves to call me, ‘a little woman’ and not be

rough and wild, but do my duty here instead of wanting to be somewhere

else,” said Jo, thinking that keeping her temper at home was a much

harder task than facing a rebel or two down South.

Beth said nothing, but wiped away her tears with the blue army sock and

began to knit with all her might, losing no time in doing the duty that

lay nearest her, while she resolved in her quiet little soul to be all

that Father hoped to find her when the year brought round the happy

coming home.

Mrs. March broke the silence that followed Jo’s words, by saying in her

cheery voice, “Do you remember how you used to play Pilgrims Progress

when you were little things? Nothing delighted you more than to have me

tie my piece bags on your backs for burdens, give you hats and sticks

and rolls of paper, and let you travel through the house from the

cellar, which was the City of Destruction, up, up, to the housetop,

where you had all the lovely things you could collect to make a

Celestial City.”

“What fun it was, especially going by the lions, fighting Apollyon, and

passing through the valley where the hob-goblins were,” said Jo.

“I liked the place where the bundles fell off and tumbled downstairs,”

said Meg.

“I don’t remember much about it, except that I was afraid of the cellar

and the dark entry, and always liked the cake and milk we had up at the

top. If I wasn’t too old for such things, I’d rather like to play it

over again,” said Amy, who began to talk of renouncing childish things

at the mature age of twelve.

“We never are too old for this, my dear, because it is a play we are

playing all the time in one way or another. Our burdens are here, our

road is before us, and the longing for goodness and happiness is the

guide that leads us through many troubles and mistakes to the peace

which is a true Celestial City. Now, my little pilgrims, suppose you

begin again, not in play, but in earnest, and see how far on you can

get before Father comes home.”

“Really, Mother? Where are our bundles?” asked Amy, who was a very

literal young lady.

“Each of you told what your burden was just now, except Beth. I rather

think she hasn’t got any,” said her mother.

“Yes, I have. Mine is dishes and dusters, and envying girls with nice

pianos, and being afraid of people.”

Beth’s bundle was such a funny one that everybody wanted to laugh, but

nobody did, for it would have hurt her feelings very much.

“Let us do it,” said Meg thoughtfully. “It is only another name for

trying to be good, and the story may help us, for though we do want to

be good, it’s hard work and we forget, and don’t do our best.”

“We were in the Slough of Despond tonight, and Mother came and pulled

us out as Help did in the book. We ought to have our roll of

directions, like Christian. What shall we do about that?” asked Jo,

delighted with the fancy which lent a little romance to the very dull

task of doing her duty.

“Look under your pillows Christmas morning, and you will find your

guidebook,” replied Mrs. March.

They talked over the new plan while old Hannah cleared the table, then

out came the four little work baskets, and the needles flew as the

girls made sheets for Aunt March. It was uninteresting sewing, but

tonight no one grumbled. They adopted Jo’s plan of dividing the long

seams into four parts, and calling the quarters Europe, Asia, Africa,

and America, and in that way got on capitally, especially when they

talked about the different countries as they stitched their way through

them.

At nine they stopped work, and sang, as usual, before they went to bed.

No one but Beth could get much music out of the old piano, but she had

a way of softly touching the yellow keys and making a pleasant

accompaniment to the simple songs they sang. Meg had a voice like a

flute, and she and her mother led the little choir. Amy chirped like a

cricket, and Jo wandered through the airs at her own sweet will, always

coming out at the wrong place with a croak or a quaver that spoiled the

most pensive tune. They had always done this from the time they could

lisp...

Crinkle, crinkle, ’ittle ’tar,

and it had become a household custom, for the mother was a born singer.

The first sound in the morning was her voice as she went about the

house singing like a lark, and the last sound at night was the same

cheery sound, for the girls never grew too old for that familiar

lullaby.

CHAPTER TWO

A MERRY CHRISTMAS

Jo was the first to wake in the gray dawn of Christmas morning. No

stockings hung at the fireplace, and for a moment she felt as much

disappointed as she did long ago, when her little sock fell down

because it was crammed so full of goodies. Then she remembered her

mother’s promise and, slipping her hand under her pillow, drew out a

little crimson-covered book. She knew it very well, for it was that

beautiful old story of the best life ever lived, and Jo felt that it

was a true guidebook for any pilgrim going on a long journey. She woke

Meg with a “Merry Christmas,” and bade her see what was under her

pillow. A green-covered book appeared, with the same picture inside,

and a few words written by their mother, which made their one present

very precious in their eyes. Presently Beth and Amy woke to rummage and

find their little books also, one dove-colored, the other blue, and all

sat looking at and talking about them, while the east grew rosy with

the coming day.

In spite of her small vanities, Margaret had a sweet and pious nature,

which unconsciously influenced her sisters, especially Jo, who loved

her very tenderly, and obeyed her because her advice was so gently

given.

“Girls,” said Meg seriously, looking from the tumbled head beside her

to the two little night-capped ones in the room beyond, “Mother wants

us to read and love and mind these books, and we must begin at once. We

used to be faithful about it, but since Father went away and all this

war trouble unsettled us, we have neglected many things. You can do as

you please, but I shall keep my book on the table here and read a

little every morning as soon as I wake, for I know it will do me good

and help me through the day.”

Then she opened her new book and began to read. Jo put her arm round

her and, leaning cheek to cheek, read also, with the quiet expression

so seldom seen on her restless face.

“How good Meg is! Come, Amy, let’s do as they do. I’ll help you with

the hard words, and they’ll explain things if we don’t understand,”

whispered Beth, very much impressed by the pretty books and her

sisters’ example.

“I’m glad mine is blue,” said Amy. and then the rooms were very still

while the pages were softly turned, and the winter sunshine crept in to

touch the bright heads and serious faces with a Christmas greeting.

“Where is Mother?” asked Meg, as she and Jo ran down to thank her for

their gifts, half an hour later.

“Goodness only knows. Some poor creeter came a-beggin’, and your ma

went straight off to see what was needed. There never was such a woman

for givin’ away vittles and drink, clothes and firin’,” replied Hannah,

who had lived with the family since Meg was born, and was considered by

them all more as a friend than a servant.

“She will be back soon, I think, so fry your cakes, and have everything

ready,” said Meg, looking over the presents which were collected in a

basket and kept under the sofa, ready to be produced at the proper

time. “Why, where is Amy’s bottle of cologne?” she added, as the little

flask did not appear.

“She took it out a minute ago, and went off with it to put a ribbon on

it, or some such notion,” replied Jo, dancing about the room to take

the first stiffness off the new army slippers.

“How nice my handkerchiefs look, don’t they? Hannah washed and ironed

them for me, and I marked them all myself,” said Beth, looking proudly

at the somewhat uneven letters which had cost her such labor.

“Bless the child! She’s gone and put ‘Mother’ on them instead of ‘M.

March’. How funny!” cried Jo, taking one up.

“Isn’t that right? I thought it was better to do it so, because Meg’s

initials are M.M., and I don’t want anyone to use these but Marmee,”

said Beth, looking troubled.

“It’s all right, dear, and a very pretty idea, quite sensible too, for

no one can ever mistake now. It will please her very much, I know,”

said Meg, with a frown for Jo and a smile for Beth.

“There’s Mother. Hide the basket, quick!” cried Jo, as a door slammed

and steps sounded in the hall.

Amy came in hastily, and looked rather abashed when she saw her sisters

all waiting for her.

“Where have you been, and what are you hiding behind you?” asked Meg,

surprised to see, by her hood and cloak, that lazy Amy had been out so

early.

“Don’t laugh at me, Jo! I didn’t mean anyone should know till the time

came. I only meant to change the little bottle for a big one, and I

gave all my money to get it, and I’m truly trying not to be selfish any

more.”

As she spoke, Amy showed the handsome flask which replaced the cheap

one, and looked so earnest and humble in her little effort to forget

herself that Meg hugged her on the spot, and Jo pronounced her ‘a

trump’, while Beth ran to the window, and picked her finest rose to

ornament the stately bottle.

“You see I felt ashamed of my present, after reading and talking about

being good this morning, so I ran round the corner and changed it the

minute I was up, and I’m so glad, for mine is the handsomest now.”

Another bang of the street door sent the basket under the sofa, and the

girls to the table, eager for breakfast.

“Merry Christmas, Marmee! Many of them! Thank you for our books. We

read some, and mean to every day,” they all cried in chorus.

“Merry Christmas, little daughters! I’m glad you began at once, and

hope you will keep on. But I want to say one word before we sit down.

Not far away from here lies a poor woman with a little newborn baby.

Six children are huddled into one bed to keep from freezing, for they

have no fire. There is nothing to eat over there, and the oldest boy

came to tell me they were suffering hunger and cold. My girls, will you

give them your breakfast as a Christmas present?”

They were all unusually hungry, having waited nearly an hour, and for a

minute no one spoke, only a minute, for Jo exclaimed impetuously, “I’m

so glad you came before we began!”

“May I go and help carry the things to the poor little children?” asked

Beth eagerly.

“I shall take the cream and the muffings,” added Amy, heroically giving

up the article she most liked.

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

big plate.

“I thought you’d do it,” said Mrs. March, smiling as if satisfied. “You

shall all go and help me, and when we come back we will have bread and

milk for breakfast, and make it up at dinnertime.”

They were soon ready, and the procession set out. Fortunately it was

early, and they went through back streets, so few people saw them, and

no one laughed at the queer party.

A poor, bare, miserable room it was, with broken windows, no fire,

ragged bedclothes, a sick mother, wailing baby, and a group of pale,

hungry children cuddled under one old quilt, trying to keep warm.

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

“Ach, mein Gott! It is good angels come to us!” said the poor woman,

crying for joy.

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

In a few minutes it really did seem as if kind spirits had been at work

there. Hannah, who had carried wood, made a fire, and stopped up the

broken panes with old hats and her own cloak. Mrs. March gave the

mother tea and gruel, and comforted her with promises of help, while

she dressed the little baby as tenderly as if it had been her own. The

girls meantime spread the table, set the children round the fire, and

fed them like so many hungry birds, laughing, talking, and trying to

understand the funny broken English.

“Das ist gut!” “Die Engel-kinder!” cried the poor things as they ate

and warmed their purple hands at the comfortable blaze. The girls had

never been called angel children before, and thought it very agreeable,

especially Jo, who had been considered a ‘Sancho’ ever since she was

born. That was a very happy breakfast, though they didn’t get any of

it. And when they went away, leaving comfort behind, I think there were

not in all the city four merrier people than the hungry little girls

who gave away their breakfasts and contented themselves with bread and

milk on Christmas morning.

“That’s loving our neighbor better than ourselves, and I like it,” said

Meg, as they set out their presents while their mother was upstairs

collecting clothes for the poor Hummels.

Not a very splendid show, but there was a great deal of love done up in

the few little bundles, and the tall vase of red roses, white

chrysanthemums, and trailing vines, which stood in the middle, gave

quite an elegant air to the table.

“She’s coming! Strike up, Beth! Open the door, Amy! Three cheers for

Marmee!” cried Jo, prancing about while Meg went to conduct Mother to

the seat of honor.

Beth played her gayest march, Amy threw open the door, and Meg enacted

escort with great dignity. Mrs. March was both surprised and touched,

and smiled with her eyes full as she examined her presents and read the

little notes which accompanied them. The slippers went on at once, a

new handkerchief was slipped into her pocket, well scented with Amy’s

cologne, the rose was fastened in her bosom, and the nice gloves were

pronounced a perfect fit.

There was a good deal of laughing and kissing and explaining, in the

simple, loving fashion which makes these home festivals so pleasant at

the time, so sweet to remember long afterward, and then all fell to

work.

The morning charities and ceremonies took so much time that the rest of

the day was devoted to preparations for the evening festivities. Being

still too young to go often to the theater, and not rich enough to

afford any great outlay for private performances, the girls put their

wits to work, and necessity being the mother of invention, made

whatever they needed. Very clever were some of their productions,

pasteboard guitars, antique lamps made of old-fashioned butter boats

covered with silver paper, gorgeous robes of old cotton, glittering

with tin spangles from a pickle factory, and armor covered with the

same useful diamond shaped bits left in sheets when the lids of

preserve pots were cut out. The big chamber was the scene of many

innocent revels.

No gentleman were admitted, so Jo played male parts to her heart’s

content and took immense satisfaction in a pair of russet leather boots

given her by a friend, who knew a lady who knew an actor. These boots,

an old foil, and a slashed doublet once used by an artist for some

picture, were Jo’s chief treasures and appeared on all occasions. The

smallness of the company made it necessary for the two principal actors

to take several parts apiece, and they certainly deserved some credit

for the hard work they did in learning three or four different parts,

whisking in and out of various costumes, and managing the stage

besides. It was excellent drill for their memories, a harmless

amusement, and employed many hours which otherwise would have been

idle, lonely, or spent in less profitable society.

On Christmas night, a dozen girls piled onto the bed which was the

dress circle, and sat before the blue and yellow chintz curtains in a

most flattering state of expectancy. There was a good deal of rustling

and whispering behind the curtain, a trifle of lamp smoke, and an

occasional giggle from Amy, who was apt to get hysterical in the

excitement of the moment. Presently a bell sounded, the curtains flew

apart, and the _operatic tragedy_ began.

“A gloomy wood,” according to the one playbill, was represented by a

few shrubs in pots, green baize on the floor, and a cave in the

distance. This cave was made with a clothes horse for a roof, bureaus

for walls, and in it was a small furnace in full blast, with a black

pot on it and an old witch bending over it. The stage was dark and the

glow of the furnace had a fine effect, especially as real steam issued

from the kettle when the witch took off the cover. A moment was allowed

for the first thrill to subside, then Hugo, the villain, stalked in

with a clanking sword at his side, a slouching hat, black beard,

mysterious cloak, and the boots. After pacing to and fro in much

agitation, he struck his forehead, and burst out in a wild strain,

singing of his hatred for Roderigo, his love for Zara, and his pleasing

resolution to kill the one and win the other. The gruff tones of Hugo’s

voice, with an occasional shout when his feelings overcame him, were

very impressive, and the audience applauded the moment he paused for

breath. Bowing with the air of one accustomed to public praise, he

stole to the cavern and ordered Hagar to come forth with a commanding,

“What ho, minion! I need thee!”

Out came Meg, with gray horsehair hanging about her face, a red and

black robe, a staff, and cabalistic signs upon her cloak. Hugo demanded

a potion to make Zara adore him, and one to destroy Roderigo. Hagar, in

a fine dramatic melody, promised both, and proceeded to call up the

spirit who would bring the love philter.

Hither, hither, from thy home,

Airy sprite, I bid thee come!

Born of roses, fed on dew,

Charms and potions canst thou brew?

Bring me here, with elfin speed,

The fragrant philter which I need.

Make it sweet and swift and strong,

Spirit, answer now my song!

A soft strain of music sounded, and then at the back of the cave

appeared a little figure in cloudy white, with glittering wings, golden

hair, and a garland of roses on its head. Waving a wand, it sang...

Hither I come,

From my airy home,

Afar in the silver moon.

Take the magic spell,

And use it well,

Or its power will vanish soon!

And dropping a small, gilded bottle at the witch’s feet, the spirit

vanished. Another chant from Hagar produced another apparition, not a

lovely one, for with a bang an ugly black imp appeared and, having

croaked a reply, tossed a dark bottle at Hugo and disappeared with a

mocking laugh. Having warbled his thanks and put the potions in his

boots, Hugo departed, and Hagar informed the audience that as he had

killed a few of her friends in times past, she had cursed him, and

intends to thwart his plans, and be revenged on him. Then the curtain

fell, and the audience reposed and ate candy while discussing the

merits of the play.

A good deal of hammering went on before the curtain rose again, but

when it became evident what a masterpiece of stage carpentery had been

got up, no one murmured at the delay. It was truly superb. A tower rose

to the ceiling, halfway up appeared a window with a lamp burning in it,

and behind the white curtain appeared Zara in a lovely blue and silver

dress, waiting for Roderigo. He came in gorgeous array, with plumed

cap, red cloak, chestnut lovelocks, a guitar, and the boots, of course.

Kneeling at the foot of the tower, he sang a serenade in melting tones.

Zara replied and, after a musical dialogue, consented to fly. Then came

the grand effect of the play. Roderigo produced a rope ladder, with

five steps to it, threw up one end, and invited Zara to descend.

Timidly she crept from her lattice, put her hand on Roderigo’s

shoulder, and was about to leap gracefully down when “Alas! Alas for

Zara!” she forgot her train. It caught in the window, the tower

tottered, leaned forward, fell with a crash, and buried the unhappy

lovers in the ruins.

A universal shriek arose as the russet boots waved wildly from the

wreck and a golden head emerged, exclaiming, “I told you so! I told you

so!” With wonderful presence of mind, Don Pedro, the cruel sire, rushed

in, dragged out his daughter, with a hasty aside...

“Don’t laugh! Act as if it was all right!” and, ordering Roderigo up,

banished him from the kingdom with wrath and scorn. Though decidedly

shaken by the fall from the tower upon him, Roderigo defied the old

gentleman and refused to stir. This dauntless example fired Zara. She

also defied her sire, and he ordered them both to the deepest dungeons

of the castle. A stout little retainer came in with chains and led them

away, looking very much frightened and evidently forgetting the speech

he ought to have made.

Act third was the castle hall, and here Hagar appeared, having come to

free the lovers and finish Hugo. She hears him coming and hides, sees

him put the potions into two cups of wine and bid the timid little

servant, “Bear them to the captives in their cells, and tell them I

shall come anon.” The servant takes Hugo aside to tell him something,

and Hagar changes the cups for two others which are harmless.

Ferdinando, the ‘minion’, carries them away, and Hagar puts back the

cup which holds the poison meant for Roderigo. Hugo, getting thirsty

after a long warble, drinks it, loses his wits, and after a good deal

of clutching and stamping, falls flat and dies, while Hagar informs him

what she has done in a song of exquisite power and melody.

This was a truly thrilling scene, though some persons might have

thought that the sudden tumbling down of a quantity of long red hair

rather marred the effect of the villain’s death. He was called before

the curtain, and with great propriety appeared, leading Hagar, whose

singing was considered more wonderful than all the rest of the

performance put together.

Act fourth displayed the despairing Roderigo on the point of stabbing

himself because he has been told that Zara has deserted him. Just as

the dagger is at his heart, a lovely song is sung under his window,

informing him that Zara is true but in danger, and he can save her if

he will. A key is thrown in, which unlocks the door, and in a spasm of

rapture he tears off his chains and rushes away to find and rescue his

lady love.

Act fifth opened with a stormy scene between Zara and Don Pedro. He

wishes her to go into a convent, but she won’t hear of it, and after a

touching appeal, is about to faint when Roderigo dashes in and demands

her hand. Don Pedro refuses, because he is not rich. They shout and

gesticulate tremendously but cannot agree, and Rodrigo is about to bear

away the exhausted Zara, when the timid servant enters with a letter

and a bag from Hagar, who has mysteriously disappeared. The latter

informs the party that she bequeaths untold wealth to the young pair

and an awful doom to Don Pedro, if he doesn’t make them happy. The bag

is opened, and several quarts of tin money shower down upon the stage

till it is quite glorified with the glitter. This entirely softens the

stern sire. He consents without a murmur, all join in a joyful chorus,

and the curtain falls upon the lovers kneeling to receive Don Pedro’s

blessing in attitudes of the most romantic grace.

Tumultuous applause followed but received an unexpected check, for the

cot bed, on which the dress circle was built, suddenly shut up and

extinguished the enthusiastic audience. Roderigo and Don Pedro flew to

the rescue, and all were taken out unhurt, though many were speechless

with laughter. The excitement had hardly subsided when Hannah appeared,

with “Mrs. March’s compliments, and would the ladies walk down to

supper.”

This was a surprise even to the actors, and when they saw the table,

they looked at one another in rapturous amazement. It was like Marmee

to get up a little treat for them, but anything so fine as this was

unheard of since the departed days of plenty. There was ice cream,

actually two dishes of it, pink and white, and cake and fruit and

distracting French bonbons and, in the middle of the table, four great

bouquets of hot house flowers.

It quite took their breath away, and they stared first at the table and

then at their mother, who looked as if she enjoyed it immensely.

“Is it fairies?” asked Amy.

“Santa Claus,” said Beth.

“Mother did it.” And Meg smiled her sweetest, in spite of her gray

beard and white eyebrows.

“Aunt March had a good fit and sent the supper,” cried Jo, with a

sudden inspiration.

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

“The Laurence boy’s grandfather! What in the world put such a thing

into his head? We don’t know him!” exclaimed Meg.

“Hannah told one of his servants about your breakfast party. He is an

odd old gentleman, but that pleased him. He knew my father years ago,

and he sent me a polite note this afternoon, saying he hoped I would

allow him to express his friendly feeling toward my children by sending

them a few trifles in honor of the day. I could not refuse, and so you

have a little feast at night to make up for the bread-and-milk

breakfast.”

“That boy put it into his head, I know he did! He’s a capital fellow,

and I wish we could get acquainted. He looks as if he’d like to know us

but he’s bashful, and Meg is so prim she won’t let me speak to him when

we pass,” said Jo, as the plates went round, and the ice began to melt

out of sight, with ohs and ahs of satisfaction.

“You mean the people who live in the big house next door, don’t you?”

asked one of the girls. “My mother knows old Mr. Laurence, but says

he’s very proud and doesn’t like to mix with his neighbors. He keeps

his grandson shut up, when he isn’t riding or walking with his tutor,

and makes him study very hard. We invited him to our party, but he

didn’t come. Mother says he’s very nice, though he never speaks to us

girls.”

“Our cat ran away once, and he brought her back, and we talked over the

fence, and were getting on capitally, all about cricket, and so on,

when he saw Meg coming, and walked off. I mean to know him some day,

for he needs fun, I’m sure he does,” said Jo decidedly.

“I like his manners, and he looks like a little gentleman, so I’ve no

objection to your knowing him, if a proper opportunity comes. He

brought the flowers himself, and I should have asked him in, if I had

been sure what was going on upstairs. He looked so wistful as he went

away, hearing the frolic and evidently having none of his own.”

“It’s a mercy you didn’t, Mother!” laughed Jo, looking at her boots.

“But we’ll have another play sometime that he can see. Perhaps he’ll

help act. Wouldn’t that be jolly?”

“I never had such a fine bouquet before! How pretty it is!” And Meg

examined her flowers with great interest.

“They are lovely. But Beth’s roses are sweeter to me,” said Mrs. March,

smelling the half-dead posy in her belt.

Beth nestled up to her, and whispered softly, “I wish I could send my

bunch to Father. I’m afraid he isn’t having such a merry Christmas as

we are.”

CHAPTER THREE

THE LAURENCE BOY

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

“Here!” answered a husky voice from above, and, running up, Meg found

her sister eating apples and crying over the Heir of Redclyffe, wrapped

up in a comforter on an old three-legged sofa by the sunny window. This

was Jo’s favorite refuge, and here she loved to retire with half a

dozen russets and a nice book, to enjoy the quiet and the society of a

pet rat who lived near by and didn’t mind her a particle. As Meg

appeared, Scrabble whisked into his hole. Jo shook the tears off her

cheeks and waited to hear the news.

“Such fun! Only see! A regular note of invitation from Mrs. Gardiner

for tomorrow night!” cried Meg, waving the precious paper and then

proceeding to read it with girlish delight.

“‘Mrs. Gardiner would be happy to see Miss March and Miss Josephine at

a little dance on New Year’s Eve.’ Marmee is willing we should go, now

what shall we wear?”

“What’s the use of asking that, when you know we shall wear our

poplins, because we haven’t got anything else?” answered Jo with her

mouth full.

“If I only had a silk!” sighed Meg. “Mother says I may when I’m

eighteen perhaps, but two years is an everlasting time to wait.”

“I’m sure our pops look like silk, and they are nice enough for us.

Yours is as good as new, but I forgot the burn and the tear in mine.

Whatever shall I do? The burn shows badly, and I can’t take any out.”

“You must sit still all you can and keep your back out of sight. The

front is all right. I shall have a new ribbon for my hair, and Marmee

will lend me her little pearl pin, and my new slippers are lovely, and

my gloves will do, though they aren’t as nice as I’d like.”

“Mine are spoiled with lemonade, and I can’t get any new ones, so I

shall have to go without,” said Jo, who never troubled herself much

about dress.

“You must have gloves, or I won’t go,” cried Meg decidedly. “Gloves are

more important than anything else. You can’t dance without them, and if

you don’t I should be so mortified.”

“Then I’ll stay still. I don’t care much for company dancing. It’s no

fun to go sailing round. I like to fly about and cut capers.”

“You can’t ask Mother for new ones, they are so expensive, and you are

so careless. She said when you spoiled the others that she shouldn’t

get you any more this winter. Can’t you make them do?”

“I can hold them crumpled up in my hand, so no one will know how

stained they are. That’s all I can do. No! I’ll tell you how we can

manage, each wear one good one and carry a bad one. Don’t you see?”

“Your hands are bigger than mine, and you will stretch my glove

dreadfully,” began Meg, whose gloves were a tender point with her.

“Then I’ll go without. I don’t care what people say!” cried Jo, taking

up her book.

“You may have it, you may! Only don’t stain it, and do behave nicely.

Don’t put your hands behind you, or stare, or say ‘Christopher

Columbus!’ will you?”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be as prim as I can and not get into any

scrapes, if I can help it. Now go and answer your note, and let me

finish this splendid story.”

So Meg went away to ‘accept with thanks’, look over her dress, and sing

blithely as she did up her one real lace frill, while Jo finished her

story, her four apples, and had a game of romps with Scrabble.

On New Year’s Eve the parlor was deserted, for the two younger girls

played dressing maids and the two elder were absorbed in the

all-important business of ‘getting ready for the party’. Simple as the

toilets were, there was a great deal of running up and down, laughing

and talking, and at one time a strong smell of burned hair pervaded the

house. Meg wanted a few curls about her face, and Jo undertook to pinch

the papered locks with a pair of hot tongs.

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

“It’s the dampness drying,” replied Jo.

“What a queer smell! It’s like burned feathers,” observed Amy,

smoothing her own pretty curls with a superior air.

“There, now I’ll take off the papers and you’ll see a cloud of little

ringlets,” said Jo, putting down the tongs.

She did take off the papers, but no cloud of ringlets appeared, for the

hair came with the papers, and the horrified hairdresser laid a row of

little scorched bundles on the bureau before her victim.

“Oh, oh, oh! What have you done? I’m spoiled! I can’t go! My hair, oh,

my hair!” wailed Meg, looking with despair at the uneven frizzle on her

forehead.

“Just my luck! You shouldn’t have asked me to do it. I always spoil

everything. I’m so sorry, but the tongs were too hot, and so I’ve made

a mess,” groaned poor Jo, regarding the little black pancakes with

tears of regret.

“It isn’t spoiled. Just frizzle it, and tie your ribbon so the ends

come on your forehead a bit, and it will look like the last fashion.

I’ve seen many girls do it so,” said Amy consolingly.

“Serves me right for trying to be fine. I wish I’d let my hair alone,”

cried Meg petulantly.

“So do I, it was so smooth and pretty. But it will soon grow out

again,” said Beth, coming to kiss and comfort the shorn sheep.

After various lesser mishaps, Meg was finished at last, and by the

united exertions of the entire family Jo’s hair was got up and her

dress on. They looked very well in their simple suits, Meg’s in silvery

drab, with a blue velvet snood, lace frills, and the pearl pin. Jo in

maroon, with a stiff, gentlemanly linen collar, and a white

chrysanthemum or two for her only ornament. Each put on one nice light

glove, and carried one soiled one, and all pronounced the effect “quite

easy and fine”. Meg’s high-heeled slippers were very tight and hurt

her, though she would not own it, and Jo’s nineteen hairpins all seemed

stuck straight into her head, which was not exactly comfortable, but,

dear me, let us be elegant or die.

“Have a good time, dearies!” said Mrs. March, as the sisters went

daintily down the walk. “Don’t eat much supper, and come away at eleven

when I send Hannah for you.” As the gate clashed behind them, a voice

cried from a window...

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

“Yes, yes, spandy nice, and Meg has cologne on hers,” cried Jo, adding

with a laugh as they went on, “I do believe Marmee would ask that if we

were all running away from an earthquake.”

“It is one of her aristocratic tastes, and quite proper, for a real

lady is always known by neat boots, gloves, and handkerchief,” replied

Meg, who had a good many little ‘aristocratic tastes’ of her own.

“Now don’t forget to keep the bad breadth out of sight, Jo. Is my sash

right? And does my hair look very bad?” said Meg, as she turned from

the glass in Mrs. Gardiner’s dressing room after a prolonged prink.

“I know I shall forget. If you see me doing anything wrong, just remind

me by a wink, will you?” returned Jo, giving her collar a twitch and

her head a hasty brush.

“No, winking isn’t ladylike. I’ll lift my eyebrows if any thing is

wrong, and nod if you are all right. Now hold your shoulder straight,

and take short steps, and don’t shake hands if you are introduced to

anyone. It isn’t the thing.”

“How do you learn all the proper ways? I never can. Isn’t that music

gay?”

Down they went, feeling a trifle timid, for they seldom went to

parties, and informal as this little gathering was, it was an event to

them. Mrs. Gardiner, a stately old lady, greeted them kindly and handed

them over to the eldest of her six daughters. Meg knew Sallie and was

at her ease very soon, but Jo, who didn’t care much for girls or

girlish gossip, stood about, with her back carefully against the wall,

and felt as much out of place as a colt in a flower garden. Half a

dozen jovial lads were talking about skates in another part of the

room, and she longed to go and join them, for skating was one of the

joys of her life. She telegraphed her wish to Meg, but the eyebrows

went up so alarmingly that she dared not stir. No one came to talk to

her, and one by one the group dwindled away till she was left alone.

She could not roam about and amuse herself, for the burned breadth

would show, so she stared at people rather forlornly till the dancing

began. Meg was asked at once, and the tight slippers tripped about so

briskly that none would have guessed the pain their wearer suffered

smilingly. Jo saw a big red headed youth approaching her corner, and

fearing he meant to engage her, she slipped into a curtained recess,

intending to peep and enjoy herself in peace. Unfortunately, another

bashful person had chosen the same refuge, for, as the curtain fell

behind her, she found herself face to face with the ‘Laurence boy’.

“Dear me, I didn’t know anyone was here!” stammered Jo, preparing to

back out as speedily as she had bounced in.

But the boy laughed and said pleasantly, though he looked a little

startled, “Don’t mind me, stay if you like.”

“Shan’t I disturb you?”

“Not a bit. I only came here because I don’t know many people and felt

rather strange at first, you know.”

“So did I. Don’t go away, please, unless you’d rather.”

The boy sat down again and looked at his pumps, till Jo said, trying to

be polite and easy, “I think I’ve had the pleasure of seeing you

before. You live near us, don’t you?”

“Next door.” And he looked up and laughed outright, for Jo’s prim

manner was rather funny when he remembered how they had chatted about

cricket when he brought the cat home.

That put Jo at her ease and she laughed too, as she said, in her

heartiest way, “We did have such a good time over your nice Christmas

present.”

“Grandpa sent it.”

“But you put it into his head, didn’t you, now?”

“How is your cat, Miss March?” asked the boy, trying to look sober

while his black eyes shone with fun.

“Nicely, thank you, Mr. Laurence. But I am not Miss March, I’m only

Jo,” returned the young lady.

“I’m not Mr. Laurence, I’m only Laurie.”

“Laurie Laurence, what an odd name.”

“My first name is Theodore, but I don’t like it, for the fellows called

me Dora, so I made them say Laurie instead.”

“I hate my name, too, so sentimental! I wish every one would say Jo

instead of Josephine. How did you make the boys stop calling you Dora?”

“I thrashed ’em.”

“I can’t thrash Aunt March, so I suppose I shall have to bear it.” And

Jo resigned herself with a sigh.

“Don’t you like to dance, Miss Jo?” asked Laurie, looking as if he

thought the name suited her.

“I like it well enough if there is plenty of room, and everyone is

lively. In a place like this I’m sure to upset something, tread on

people’s toes, or do something dreadful, so I keep out of mischief and

let Meg sail about. Don’t you dance?”

“Sometimes. You see I’ve been abroad a good many years, and haven’t

been into company enough yet to know how you do things here.”

“Abroad!” cried Jo. “Oh, tell me about it! I love dearly to hear people

describe their travels.”

Laurie didn’t seem to know where to begin, but Jo’s eager questions

soon set him going, and he told her how he had been at school in Vevay,

where the boys never wore hats and had a fleet of boats on the lake,

and for holiday fun went on walking trips about Switzerland with their

teachers.

“Don’t I wish I’d been there!” cried Jo. “Did you go to Paris?”

“We spent last winter there.”

“Can you talk French?”

“We were not allowed to speak anything else at Vevay.”

“Do say some! I can read it, but can’t pronounce.”

“Quel nom a cette jeune demoiselle en les pantoufles jolis?”

“How nicely you do it! Let me see ... you said, ‘Who is the young lady

in the pretty slippers’, didn’t you?”

“Oui, mademoiselle.”

“It’s my sister Margaret, and you knew it was! Do you think she is

pretty?”

“Yes, she makes me think of the German girls, she looks so fresh and

quiet, and dances like a lady.”

Jo quite glowed with pleasure at this boyish praise of her sister, and

stored it up to repeat to Meg. Both peeped and criticized and chatted

till they felt like old acquaintances. Laurie’s bashfulness soon wore

off, for Jo’s gentlemanly demeanor amused and set him at his ease, and

Jo was her merry self again, because her dress was forgotten and nobody

lifted their eyebrows at her. She liked the ‘Laurence boy’ better than

ever and took several good looks at him, so that she might describe him

to the girls, for they had no brothers, very few male cousins, and boys

were almost unknown creatures to them.

“Curly black hair, brown skin, big black eyes, handsome nose, fine

teeth, small hands and feet, taller than I am, very polite, for a boy,

and altogether jolly. Wonder how old he is?”

It was on the tip of Jo’s tongue to ask, but she checked herself in

time and, with unusual tact, tried to find out in a round-about way.

“I suppose you are going to college soon? I see you pegging away at

your books, no, I mean studying hard.” And Jo blushed at the dreadful

‘pegging’ which had escaped her.

Laurie smiled but didn’t seem shocked, and answered with a shrug. “Not

for a year or two. I won’t go before seventeen, anyway.”

“Aren’t you but fifteen?” asked Jo, looking at the tall lad, whom she

had imagined seventeen already.

“Sixteen, next month.”

“How I wish I was going to college! You don’t look as if you liked it.”

“I hate it! Nothing but grinding or skylarking. And I don’t like the

way fellows do either, in this country.”

“What do you like?”

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

Jo wanted very much to ask what his own way was, but his black brows

looked rather threatening as he knit them, so she changed the subject

by saying, as her foot kept time, “That’s a splendid polka! Why don’t

you go and try it?”

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

“I can’t, for I told Meg I wouldn’t, because...” There Jo stopped, and

looked undecided whether to tell or to laugh.

“Because, what?”

“You won’t tell?”

“Never!”

“Well, I have a bad trick of standing before the fire, and so I burn my

frocks, and I scorched this one, and though it’s nicely mended, it

shows, and Meg told me to keep still so no one would see it. You may

laugh, if you want to. It is funny, I know.”

But Laurie didn’t laugh. He only looked down a minute, and the

expression of his face puzzled Jo when he said very gently, “Never mind

that. I’ll tell you how we can manage. There’s a long hall out there,

and we can dance grandly, and no one will see us. Please come.”

Jo thanked him and gladly went, wishing she had two neat gloves when

she saw the nice, pearl-colored ones her partner wore. The hall was

empty, and they had a grand polka, for Laurie danced well, and taught

her the German step, which delighted Jo, being full of swing and

spring. When the music stopped, they sat down on the stairs to get

their breath, and Laurie was in the midst of an account of a students’

festival at Heidelberg when Meg appeared in search of her sister. She

beckoned, and Jo reluctantly followed her into a side room, where she

found her on a sofa, holding her foot, and looking pale.

“I’ve sprained my ankle. That stupid high heel turned and gave me a sad

wrench. It aches so, I can hardly stand, and I don’t know how I’m ever

going to get home,” she said, rocking to and fro in pain.

“I knew you’d hurt your feet with those silly shoes. I’m sorry. But I

don’t see what you can do, except get a carriage, or stay here all

night,” answered Jo, softly rubbing the poor ankle as she spoke.

“I can’t have a carriage without its costing ever so much. I dare say I

can’t get one at all, for most people come in their own, and it’s a

long way to the stable, and no one to send.”

“I’ll go.”

“No, indeed! It’s past nine, and dark as Egypt. I can’t stop here, for

the house is full. Sallie has some girls staying with her. I’ll rest

till Hannah comes, and then do the best I can.”

“I’ll ask Laurie. He will go,” said Jo, looking relieved as the idea

occurred to her.

“Mercy, no! Don’t ask or tell anyone. Get me my rubbers, and put these

slippers with our things. I can’t dance anymore, but as soon as supper

is over, watch for Hannah and tell me the minute she comes.”

“They are going out to supper now. I’ll stay with you. I’d rather.”

“No, dear, run along, and bring me some coffee. I’m so tired I can’t

stir.”

So Meg reclined, with rubbers well hidden, and Jo went blundering away

to the dining room, which she found after going into a china closet,

and opening the door of a room where old Mr. Gardiner was taking a

little private refreshment. Making a dart at the table, she secured the

coffee, which she immediately spilled, thereby making the front of her

dress as bad as the back.

“Oh, dear, what a blunderbuss I am!” exclaimed Jo, finishing Meg’s

glove by scrubbing her gown with it.

“Can I help you?” said a friendly voice. And there was Laurie, with a

full cup in one hand and a plate of ice in the other.

“I was trying to get something for Meg, who is very tired, and someone

shook me, and here I am in a nice state,” answered Jo, glancing

dismally from the stained skirt to the coffee-colored glove.

“Too bad! I was looking for someone to give this to. May I take it to

your sister?”

“Oh, thank you! I’ll show you where she is. I don’t offer to take it

myself, for I should only get into another scrape if I did.”

Jo led the way, and as if used to waiting on ladies, Laurie drew up a

little table, brought a second installment of coffee and ice for Jo,

and was so obliging that even particular Meg pronounced him a ‘nice

boy’. They had a merry time over the bonbons and mottoes, and were in

the midst of a quiet game of _Buzz_, with two or three other young

people who had strayed in, when Hannah appeared. Meg forgot her foot

and rose so quickly that she was forced to catch hold of Jo, with an

exclamation of pain.

“Hush! Don’t say anything,” she whispered, adding aloud, “It’s nothing.

I turned my foot a little, that’s all,” and limped upstairs to put her

things on.

Hannah scolded, Meg cried, and Jo was at her wits’ end, till she

decided to take things into her own hands. Slipping out, she ran down

and, finding a servant, asked if he could get her a carriage. It

happened to be a hired waiter who knew nothing about the neighborhood

and Jo was looking round for help when Laurie, who had heard what she

said, came up and offered his grandfather’s carriage, which had just

come for him, he said.

“It’s so early! You can’t mean to go yet?” began Jo, looking relieved

but hesitating to accept the offer.

“I always go early, I do, truly! Please let me take you home. It’s all

on my way, you know, and it rains, they say.”

That settled it, and telling him of Meg’s mishap, Jo gratefully

accepted and rushed up to bring down the rest of the party. Hannah

hated rain as much as a cat does so she made no trouble, and they

rolled away in the luxurious close carriage, feeling very festive and

elegant. Laurie went on the box so Meg could keep her foot up, and the

girls talked over their party in freedom.

“I had a capital time. Did you?” asked Jo, rumpling up her hair, and

making herself comfortable.

“Yes, till I hurt myself. Sallie’s friend, Annie Moffat, took a fancy

to me, and asked me to come and spend a week with her when Sallie does.

She is going in the spring when the opera comes, and it will be

perfectly splendid, if Mother only lets me go,” answered Meg, cheering

up at the thought.

“I saw you dancing with the red headed man I ran away from. Was he

nice?”

“Oh, very! His hair is auburn, not red, and he was very polite, and I

had a delicious redowa with him.”

“He looked like a grasshopper in a fit when he did the new step. Laurie

and I couldn’t help laughing. Did you hear us?”

“No, but it was very rude. What were you about all that time, hidden

away there?”

Jo told her adventures, and by the time she had finished they were at

home. With many thanks, they said good night and crept in, hoping to

disturb no one, but the instant their door creaked, two little

nightcaps bobbed up, and two sleepy but eager voices cried out...

“Tell about the party! Tell about the party!”

With what Meg called ‘a great want of manners’ Jo had saved some

bonbons for the little girls, and they soon subsided, after hearing the

most thrilling events of the evening.

“I declare, it really seems like being a fine young lady, to come home

from the party in a carriage and sit in my dressing gown with a maid to

wait on me,” said Meg, as Jo bound up her foot with arnica and brushed

her hair.

“I don’t believe fine young ladies enjoy themselves a bit more than we

do, in spite of our burned hair, old gowns, one glove apiece and tight

slippers that sprain our ankles when we are silly enough to wear them.”

And I think Jo was quite right.

CHAPTER FOUR

BURDENS

“Oh, dear, how hard it does seem to take up our packs and go on,”

sighed Meg the morning after the party, for now the holidays were over,

the week of merrymaking did not fit her for going on easily with the

task she never liked.

“I wish it was Christmas or New Year’s all the time. Wouldn’t it be

fun?” answered Jo, yawning dismally.

“We shouldn’t enjoy ourselves half so much as we do now. But it does

seem so nice to have little suppers and bouquets, and go to parties,

and drive home, and read and rest, and not work. It’s like other

people, you know, and I always envy girls who do such things, I’m so

fond of luxury,” said Meg, trying to decide which of two shabby gowns

was the least shabby.

“Well, we can’t have it, so don’t let us grumble but shoulder our

bundles and trudge along as cheerfully as Marmee does. I’m sure Aunt

March is a regular Old Man of the Sea to me, but I suppose when I’ve

learned to carry her without complaining, she will tumble off, or get

so light that I shan’t mind her.”

This idea tickled Jo’s fancy and put her in good spirits, but Meg

didn’t brighten, for her burden, consisting of four spoiled children,

seemed heavier than ever. She had not heart enough even to make herself

pretty as usual by putting on a blue neck ribbon and dressing her hair

in the most becoming way.

“Where’s the use of looking nice, when no one sees me but those cross

midgets, and no one cares whether I’m pretty or not?” she muttered,

shutting her drawer with a jerk. “I shall have to toil and moil all my

days, with only little bits of fun now and then, and get old and ugly

and sour, because I’m poor and can’t enjoy my life as other girls do.

It’s a shame!”

So Meg went down, wearing an injured look, and wasn’t at all agreeable

at breakfast time. Everyone seemed rather out of sorts and inclined to

croak.

Beth had a headache and lay on the sofa, trying to comfort herself with

the cat and three kittens. Amy was fretting because her lessons were

not learned, and she couldn’t find her rubbers. Jo would whistle and

make a great racket getting ready.

Mrs. March was very busy trying to finish a letter, which must go at

once, and Hannah had the grumps, for being up late didn’t suit her.

“There never was such a cross family!” cried Jo, losing her temper when

she had upset an inkstand, broken both boot lacings, and sat down upon

her hat.

“You’re the crossest person in it!” returned Amy, washing out the sum

that was all wrong with the tears that had fallen on her slate.

“Beth, if you don’t keep these horrid cats down cellar I’ll have them

drowned,” exclaimed Meg angrily as she tried to get rid of the kitten

which had scrambled up her back and stuck like a burr just out of

reach.

Jo laughed, Meg scolded, Beth implored, and Amy wailed because she

couldn’t remember how much nine times twelve was.

“Girls, girls, do be quiet one minute! I must get this off by the early

mail, and you drive me distracted with your worry,” cried Mrs. March,

crossing out the third spoiled sentence in her letter.

There was a momentary lull, broken by Hannah, who stalked in, laid two

hot turnovers on the table, and stalked out again. These turnovers were

an institution, and the girls called them ‘muffs’, for they had no

others and found the hot pies very comforting to their hands on cold

mornings.

Hannah never forgot to make them, no matter how busy or grumpy she

might be, for the walk was long and bleak. The poor things got no other

lunch and were seldom home before two.

“Cuddle your cats and get over your headache, Bethy. Goodbye, Marmee.

We are a set of rascals this morning, but we’ll come home regular

angels. Now then, Meg!” And Jo tramped away, feeling that the pilgrims

were not setting out as they ought to do.

They always looked back before turning the corner, for their mother was

always at the window to nod and smile, and wave her hand to them.

Somehow it seemed as if they couldn’t have got through the day without

that, for whatever their mood might be, the last glimpse of that

motherly face was sure to affect them like sunshine.

“If Marmee shook her fist instead of kissing her hand to us, it would

serve us right, for more ungrateful wretches than we are were never

seen,” cried Jo, taking a remorseful satisfaction in the snowy walk and

bitter wind.

“Don’t use such dreadful expressions,” replied Meg from the depths of

the veil in which she had shrouded herself like a nun sick of the

world.

“I like good strong words that mean something,” replied Jo, catching

her hat as it took a leap off her head preparatory to flying away

altogether.

“Call yourself any names you like, but I am neither a rascal nor a

wretch and I don’t choose to be called so.”

“You’re a blighted being, and decidedly cross today because you can’t

sit in the lap of luxury all the time. Poor dear, just wait till I make

my fortune, and you shall revel in carriages and ice cream and

high-heeled slippers, and posies, and red-headed boys to dance with.”

“How ridiculous you are, Jo!” But Meg laughed at the nonsense and felt

better in spite of herself.

“Lucky for you I am, for if I put on crushed airs and tried to be

dismal, as you do, we should be in a nice state. Thank goodness, I can

always find something funny to keep me up. Don’t croak any more, but

come home jolly, there’s a dear.”

Jo gave her sister an encouraging pat on the shoulder as they parted

for the day, each going a different way, each hugging her little warm

turnover, and each trying to be cheerful in spite of wintry weather,

hard work, and the unsatisfied desires of pleasure-loving youth.

When Mr. March lost his property in trying to help an unfortunate

friend, the two oldest girls begged to be allowed to do something

toward their own support, at least. Believing that they could not begin

too early to cultivate energy, industry, and independence, their

parents consented, and both fell to work with the hearty good will

which in spite of all obstacles is sure to succeed at last.

Margaret found a place as nursery governess and felt rich with her

small salary. As she said, she was ‘fond of luxury’, and her chief

trouble was poverty. She found it harder to bear than the others

because she could remember a time when home was beautiful, life full of

ease and pleasure, and want of any kind unknown. She tried not to be

envious or discontented, but it was very natural that the young girl

should long for pretty things, gay friends, accomplishments, and a

happy life. At the Kings’ she daily saw all she wanted, for the

children’s older sisters were just out, and Meg caught frequent

glimpses of dainty ball dresses and bouquets, heard lively gossip about

theaters, concerts, sleighing parties, and merrymakings of all kinds,

and saw money lavished on trifles which would have been so precious to

her. Poor Meg seldom complained, but a sense of injustice made her feel

bitter toward everyone sometimes, for she had not yet learned to know

how rich she was in the blessings which alone can make life happy.

Jo happened to suit Aunt March, who was lame and needed an active

person to wait upon her. The childless old lady had offered to adopt

one of the girls when the troubles came, and was much offended because

her offer was declined. Other friends told the Marches that they had

lost all chance of being remembered in the rich old lady’s will, but

the unworldly Marches only said...

“We can’t give up our girls for a dozen fortunes. Rich or poor, we will

keep together and be happy in one another.”

The old lady wouldn’t speak to them for a time, but happening to meet

Jo at a friend’s, something in her comical face and blunt manners

struck the old lady’s fancy, and she proposed to take her for a

companion. This did not suit Jo at all, but she accepted the place

since nothing better appeared and, to every one’s surprise, got on

remarkably well with her irascible relative. There was an occasional

tempest, and once Jo marched home, declaring she couldn’t bear it

longer, but Aunt March always cleared up quickly, and sent for her to

come back again with such urgency that she could not refuse, for in her

heart she rather liked the peppery old lady.

I suspect that the real attraction was a large library of fine books,

which was left to dust and spiders since Uncle March died. Jo

remembered the kind old gentleman, who used to let her build railroads

and bridges with his big dictionaries, tell her stories about queer

pictures in his Latin books, and buy her cards of gingerbread whenever

he met her in the street. The dim, dusty room, with the busts staring

down from the tall bookcases, the cozy chairs, the globes, and best of

all, the wilderness of books in which she could wander where she liked,

made the library a region of bliss to her.

The moment Aunt March took her nap, or was busy with company, Jo

hurried to this quiet place, and curling herself up in the easy chair,

devoured poetry, romance, history, travels, and pictures like a regular

bookworm. But, like all happiness, it did not last long, for as sure as

she had just reached the heart of the story, the sweetest verse of a

song, or the most perilous adventure of her traveler, a shrill voice

called, “Josy-phine! Josy-phine!” and she had to leave her paradise to

wind yarn, wash the poodle, or read Belsham’s Essays by the hour

together.

Jo’s ambition was to do something very splendid. What it was, she had

no idea as yet, but left it for time to tell her, and meanwhile, found

her greatest affliction in the fact that she couldn’t read, run, and

ride as much as she liked. A quick temper, sharp tongue, and restless

spirit were always getting her into scrapes, and her life was a series

of ups and downs, which were both comic and pathetic. But the training

she received at Aunt March’s was just what she needed, and the thought

that she was doing something to support herself made her happy in spite

of the perpetual “Josy-phine!”

Beth was too bashful to go to school. It had been tried, but she

suffered so much that it was given up, and she did her lessons at home

with her father. Even when he went away, and her mother was called to

devote her skill and energy to Soldiers’ Aid Societies, Beth went

faithfully on by herself and did the best she could. She was a

housewifely little creature, and helped Hannah keep home neat and

comfortable for the workers, never thinking of any reward but to be

loved. Long, quiet days she spent, not lonely nor idle, for her little

world was peopled with imaginary friends, and she was by nature a busy

bee. There were six dolls to be taken up and dressed every morning, for

Beth was a child still and loved her pets as well as ever. Not one

whole or handsome one among them, all were outcasts till Beth took them

in, for when her sisters outgrew these idols, they passed to her

because Amy would have nothing old or ugly. Beth cherished them all the

more tenderly for that very reason, and set up a hospital for infirm

dolls. No pins were ever stuck into their cotton vitals, no harsh words

or blows were ever given them, no neglect ever saddened the heart of

the most repulsive, but all were fed and clothed, nursed and caressed

with an affection which never failed. One forlorn fragment of dollanity

had belonged to Jo and, having led a tempestuous life, was left a wreck

in the rag bag, from which dreary poorhouse it was rescued by Beth and

taken to her refuge. Having no top to its head, she tied on a neat

little cap, and as both arms and legs were gone, she hid these

deficiencies by folding it in a blanket and devoting her best bed to

this chronic invalid. If anyone had known the care lavished on that

dolly, I think it would have touched their hearts, even while they

laughed. She brought it bits of bouquets, she read to it, took it out

to breathe fresh air, hidden under her coat, she sang it lullabies and

never went to bed without kissing its dirty face and whispering

tenderly, “I hope you’ll have a good night, my poor dear.”

Beth had her troubles as well as the others, and not being an angel but

a very human little girl, she often ‘wept a little weep’ as Jo said,

because she couldn’t take music lessons and have a fine piano. She

loved music so dearly, tried so hard to learn, and practiced away so

patiently at the jingling old instrument, that it did seem as if

someone (not to hint Aunt March) ought to help her. Nobody did,

however, and nobody saw Beth wipe the tears off the yellow keys, that

wouldn’t keep in tune, when she was all alone. She sang like a little

lark about her work, never was too tired for Marmee and the girls, and

day after day said hopefully to herself, “I know I’ll get my music some

time, if I’m good.”

There are many Beths in the world, shy and quiet, sitting in corners

till needed, and living for others so cheerfully that no one sees the

sacrifices till the little cricket on the hearth stops chirping, and

the sweet, sunshiny presence vanishes, leaving silence and shadow

behind.

If anybody had asked Amy what the greatest trial of her life was, she

would have answered at once, “My nose.” When she was a baby, Jo had

accidently dropped her into the coal hod, and Amy insisted that the

fall had ruined her nose forever. It was not big nor red, like poor

‘Petrea’s’, it was only rather flat, and all the pinching in the world

could not give it an aristocratic point. No one minded it but herself,

and it was doing its best to grow, but Amy felt deeply the want of a

Grecian nose, and drew whole sheets of handsome ones to console

herself.

“Little Raphael,” as her sisters called her, had a decided talent for

drawing, and was never so happy as when copying flowers, designing

fairies, or illustrating stories with queer specimens of art. Her

teachers complained that instead of doing her sums she covered her

slate with animals, the blank pages of her atlas were used to copy maps

on, and caricatures of the most ludicrous description came fluttering

out of all her books at unlucky moments. She got through her lessons as

well as she could, and managed to escape reprimands by being a model of

deportment. She was a great favorite with her mates, being

good-tempered and possessing the happy art of pleasing without effort.

Her little airs and graces were much admired, so were her

accomplishments, for besides her drawing, she could play twelve tunes,

crochet, and read French without mispronouncing more than two-thirds of

the words. She had a plaintive way of saying, “When Papa was rich we

did so-and-so,” which was very touching, and her long words were

considered ‘perfectly elegant’ by the girls.

Amy was in a fair way to be spoiled, for everyone petted her, and her

small vanities and selfishnesses were growing nicely. One thing,

however, rather quenched the vanities. She had to wear her cousin’s

clothes. Now Florence’s mama hadn’t a particle of taste, and Amy

suffered deeply at having to wear a red instead of a blue bonnet,

unbecoming gowns, and fussy aprons that did not fit. Everything was

good, well made, and little worn, but Amy’s artistic eyes were much

afflicted, especially this winter, when her school dress was a dull

purple with yellow dots and no trimming.

“My only comfort,” she said to Meg, with tears in her eyes, “is that

Mother doesn’t take tucks in my dresses whenever I’m naughty, as Maria

Parks’s mother does. My dear, it’s really dreadful, for sometimes she

is so bad her frock is up to her knees, and she can’t come to school.

When I think of this _deggerredation_, I feel that I can bear even my

flat nose and purple gown with yellow sky-rockets on it.”

Meg was Amy’s confidant and monitor, and by some strange attraction of

opposites Jo was gentle Beth’s. To Jo alone did the shy child tell her

thoughts, and over her big harum-scarum sister Beth unconsciously

exercised more influence than anyone in the family. The two older girls

were a great deal to one another, but each took one of the younger

sisters into her keeping and watched over her in her own way, ‘playing

mother’ they called it, and put their sisters in the places of

discarded dolls with the maternal instinct of little women.

“Has anybody got anything to tell? It’s been such a dismal day I’m

really dying for some amusement,” said Meg, as they sat sewing together

that evening.

“I had a queer time with Aunt today, and, as I got the best of it, I’ll

tell you about it,” began Jo, who dearly loved to tell stories. “I was

reading that everlasting Belsham, and droning away as I always do, for

Aunt soon drops off, and then I take out some nice book, and read like

fury till she wakes up. I actually made myself sleepy, and before she

began to nod, I gave such a gape that she asked me what I meant by

opening my mouth wide enough to take the whole book in at once.”

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

“Then she gave me a long lecture on my sins, and told me to sit and

think them over while she just ‘lost’ herself for a moment. She never

finds herself very soon, so the minute her cap began to bob like a

top-heavy dahlia, I whipped the _Vicar of Wakefield_ out of my pocket,

and read away, with one eye on him and one on Aunt. I’d just got to

where they all tumbled into the water when I forgot and laughed out

loud. Aunt woke up and, being more good-natured after her nap, told me

to read a bit and show what frivolous work I preferred to the worthy

and instructive Belsham. I did my very best, and she liked it, though

she only said...

“‘I don’t understand what it’s all about. Go back and begin it,

child.’”

“Back I went, and made the Primroses as interesting as ever I could.

Once I was wicked enough to stop in a thrilling place, and say meekly,

‘I’m afraid it tires you, ma’am. Shan’t I stop now?’”

“She caught up her knitting, which had dropped out of her hands, gave

me a sharp look through her specs, and said, in her short way, ‘Finish

the chapter, and don’t be impertinent, miss’.”

“Did she own she liked it?” asked Meg.

“Oh, bless you, no! But she let old Belsham rest, and when I ran back

after my gloves this afternoon, there she was, so hard at the Vicar

that she didn’t hear me laugh as I danced a jig in the hall because of

the good time coming. What a pleasant life she might have if only she

chose! I don’t envy her much, in spite of her money, for after all rich

people have about as many worries as poor ones, I think,” added Jo.

“That reminds me,” said Meg, “that I’ve got something to tell. It isn’t

funny, like Jo’s story, but I thought about it a good deal as I came

home. At the Kings’ today I found everybody in a flurry, and one of the

children said that her oldest brother had done something dreadful, and

Papa had sent him away. I heard Mrs. King crying and Mr. King talking

very loud, and Grace and Ellen turned away their faces when they passed

me, so I shouldn’t see how red and swollen their eyes were. I didn’t

ask any questions, of course, but I felt so sorry for them and was

rather glad I hadn’t any wild brothers to do wicked things and disgrace

the family.”

“I think being disgraced in school is a great deal try_inger_ than

anything bad boys can do,” said Amy, shaking her head, as if her

experience of life had been a deep one. “Susie Perkins came to school

today with a lovely red carnelian ring. I wanted it dreadfully, and

wished I was her with all my might. Well, she drew a picture of Mr.

Davis, with a monstrous nose and a hump, and the words, ‘Young ladies,

my eye is upon you!’ coming out of his mouth in a balloon thing. We

were laughing over it when all of a sudden his eye _was_ on us, and he

ordered Susie to bring up her slate. She was _parry_lized with fright,

but she went, and oh, what _do_ you think he did? He took her by the

ear—the ear! Just fancy how horrid!—and led her to the recitation

platform, and made her stand there half an hour, holding the slate so

everyone could see.”

“Didn’t the girls laugh at the picture?” asked Jo, who relished the

scrape.

“Laugh? Not one! They sat still as mice, and Susie cried quarts, I know

she did. I didn’t envy her then, for I felt that millions of carnelian

rings wouldn’t have made me happy after that. I never, never should

have got over such a agonizing mortification.” And Amy went on with her

work, in the proud consciousness of virtue and the successful utterance

of two long words in a breath.

“I saw something I liked this morning, and I meant to tell it at

dinner, but I forgot,” said Beth, putting Jo’s topsy-turvy basket in

order as she talked. “When I went to get some oysters for Hannah, Mr.

Laurence was in the fish shop, but he didn’t see me, for I kept behind

the fish barrel, and he was busy with Mr. Cutter the fish-man. A poor

woman came in with a pail and a mop, and asked Mr. Cutter if he would

let her do some scrubbing for a bit of fish, because she hadn’t any

dinner for her children, and had been disappointed of a day’s work. Mr.

Cutter was in a hurry and said ‘No’, rather crossly, so she was going

away, looking hungry and sorry, when Mr. Laurence hooked up a big fish

with the crooked end of his cane and held it out to her. She was so

glad and surprised she took it right into her arms, and thanked him

over and over. He told her to ‘go along and cook it’, and she hurried

off, so happy! Wasn’t it good of him? Oh, she did look so funny,

hugging the big, slippery fish, and hoping Mr. Laurence’s bed in heaven

would be ‘aisy’.”

When they had laughed at Beth’s story, they asked their mother for one,

and after a moments thought, she said soberly, “As I sat cutting out

blue flannel jackets today at the rooms, I felt very anxious about

Father, and thought how lonely and helpless we should be, if anything

happened to him. It was not a wise thing to do, but I kept on worrying

till an old man came in with an order for some clothes. He sat down

near me, and I began to talk to him, for he looked poor and tired and

anxious.

“‘Have you sons in the army?’ I asked, for the note he brought was not

to me.”

“Yes, ma’am. I had four, but two were killed, one is a prisoner, and

I’m going to the other, who is very sick in a Washington hospital.’ he

answered quietly.”

“‘You have done a great deal for your country, sir,’ I said, feeling

respect now, instead of pity.”

“‘Not a mite more than I ought, ma’am. I’d go myself, if I was any use.

As I ain’t, I give my boys, and give ’em free.’”

“He spoke so cheerfully, looked so sincere, and seemed so glad to give

his all, that I was ashamed of myself. I’d given one man and thought it

too much, while he gave four without grudging them. I had all my girls

to comfort me at home, and his last son was waiting, miles away, to say

good-by to him, perhaps! I felt so rich, so happy thinking of my

blessings, that I made him a nice bundle, gave him some money, and

thanked him heartily for the lesson he had taught me.”

“Tell another story, Mother, one with a moral to it, like this. I like

to think about them afterward, if they are real and not too preachy,”

said Jo, after a minute’s silence.

Mrs. March smiled and began at once, for she had told stories to this

little audience for many years, and knew how to please them.

“Once upon a time, there were four girls, who had enough to eat and

drink and wear, a good many comforts and pleasures, kind friends and

parents who loved them dearly, and yet they were not contented.” (Here

the listeners stole sly looks at one another, and began to sew

diligently.) “These girls were anxious to be good and made many

excellent resolutions, but they did not keep them very well, and were

constantly saying, ‘If only we had this,’ or ‘If we could only do

that,’ quite forgetting how much they already had, and how many things

they actually could do. So they asked an old woman what spell they

could use to make them happy, and she said, ‘When you feel

discontented, think over your blessings, and be grateful.’” (Here Jo

looked up quickly, as if about to speak, but changed her mind, seeing

that the story was not done yet.)

“Being sensible girls, they decided to try her advice, and soon were

surprised to see how well off they were. One discovered that money

couldn’t keep shame and sorrow out of rich people’s houses, another

that, though she was poor, she was a great deal happier, with her

youth, health, and good spirits, than a certain fretful, feeble old

lady who couldn’t enjoy her comforts, a third that, disagreeable as it

was to help get dinner, it was harder still to go begging for it and

the fourth, that even carnelian rings were not so valuable as good

behavior. So they agreed to stop complaining, to enjoy the blessings

already possessed, and try to deserve them, lest they should be taken

away entirely, instead of increased, and I believe they were never

disappointed or sorry that they took the old woman’s advice.”

“Now, Marmee, that is very cunning of you to turn our own stories

against us, and give us a sermon instead of a romance!” cried Meg.

“I like that kind of sermon. It’s the sort Father used to tell us,”

said Beth thoughtfully, putting the needles straight on Jo’s cushion.

“I don’t complain near as much as the others do, and I shall be more

careful than ever now, for I’ve had warning from Susie’s downfall,”

said Amy morally.

“We needed that lesson, and we won’t forget it. If we do so, you just

say to us, as old Chloe did in _Uncle Tom_, ‘Tink ob yer marcies,

chillen!’ ‘Tink ob yer marcies!’” added Jo, who could not, for the life

of her, help getting a morsel of fun out of the little sermon, though

she took it to heart as much as any of them.

CHAPTER FIVE

BEING NEIGHBORLY

“What in the world are you going to do now, Jo?” asked Meg one snowy

afternoon, as her sister came tramping through the hall, in rubber

boots, old sack, and hood, with a broom in one hand and a shovel in the

other.

“Going out for exercise,” answered Jo with a mischievous twinkle in her

eyes.

“I should think two long walks this morning would have been enough!

It’s cold and dull out, and I advise you to stay warm and dry by the

fire, as I do,” said Meg with a shiver.

“Never take advice! Can’t keep still all day, and not being a pussycat,

I don’t like to doze by the fire. I like adventures, and I’m going to

find some.”

Meg went back to toast her feet and read _Ivanhoe_, and Jo began to dig

paths with great energy. The snow was light, and with her broom she

soon swept a path all round the garden, for Beth to walk in when the

sun came out and the invalid dolls needed air. Now, the garden

separated the Marches’ house from that of Mr. Laurence. Both stood in a

suburb of the city, which was still country-like, with groves and

lawns, large gardens, and quiet streets. A low hedge parted the two

estates. On one side was an old, brown house, looking rather bare and

shabby, robbed of the vines that in summer covered its walls and the

flowers, which then surrounded it. On the other side was a stately

stone mansion, plainly betokening every sort of comfort and luxury,

from the big coach house and well-kept grounds to the conservatory and

the glimpses of lovely things one caught between the rich curtains.

Yet it seemed a lonely, lifeless sort of house, for no children

frolicked on the lawn, no motherly face ever smiled at the windows, and

few people went in and out, except the old gentleman and his grandson.

To Jo’s lively fancy, this fine house seemed a kind of enchanted

palace, full of splendors and delights which no one enjoyed. She had

long wanted to behold these hidden glories, and to know the Laurence

boy, who looked as if he would like to be known, if he only knew how to

begin. Since the party, she had been more eager than ever, and had

planned many ways of making friends with him, but he had not been seen

lately, and Jo began to think he had gone away, when she one day spied

a brown face at an upper window, looking wistfully down into their

garden, where Beth and Amy were snow-balling one another.

“That boy is suffering for society and fun,” she said to herself. “His

grandpa does not know what’s good for him, and keeps him shut up all

alone. He needs a party of jolly boys to play with, or somebody young

and lively. I’ve a great mind to go over and tell the old gentleman

so!”

The idea amused Jo, who liked to do daring things and was always

scandalizing Meg by her queer performances. The plan of ‘going over’

was not forgotten. And when the snowy afternoon came, Jo resolved to

try what could be done. She saw Mr. Lawrence drive off, and then

sallied out to dig her way down to the hedge, where she paused and took

a survey. All quiet, curtains down at the lower windows, servants out

of sight, and nothing human visible but a curly black head leaning on a

thin hand at the upper window.

“There he is,” thought Jo, “Poor boy! All alone and sick this dismal

day. It’s a shame! I’ll toss up a snowball and make him look out, and

then say a kind word to him.”

Up went a handful of soft snow, and the head turned at once, showing a

face which lost its listless look in a minute, as the big eyes

brightened and the mouth began to smile. Jo nodded and laughed, and

flourished her broom as she called out...

“How do you do? Are you sick?”

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

“Better, thank you. I’ve had a bad cold, and been shut up a week.”

“I’m sorry. What do you amuse yourself with?”

“Nothing. It’s dull as tombs up here.”

“Don’t you read?”

“Not much. They won’t let me.”

“Can’t somebody read to you?”

“Grandpa does sometimes, but my books don’t interest him, and I hate to

ask Brooke all the time.”

“Have someone come and see you then.”

“There isn’t anyone I’d like to see. Boys make such a row, and my head

is weak.”

“Isn’t there some nice girl who’d read and amuse you? Girls are quiet

and like to play nurse.”

“Don’t know any.”

“You know us,” began Jo, then laughed and stopped.

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

“I’m not quiet and nice, but I’ll come, if Mother will let me. I’ll go

ask her. Shut the window, like a good boy, and wait till I come.”

With that, Jo shouldered her broom and marched into the house,

wondering what they would all say to her. Laurie was in a flutter of

excitement at the idea of having company, and flew about to get ready,

for as Mrs. March said, he was ‘a little gentleman’, and did honor to

the coming guest by brushing his curly pate, putting on a fresh color,

and trying to tidy up the room, which in spite of half a dozen

servants, was anything but neat. Presently there came a loud ring, then

a decided voice, asking for ‘Mr. Laurie’, and a surprised-looking

servant came running up to announce a young lady.

“All right, show her up, it’s Miss Jo,” said Laurie, going to the door

of his little parlor to meet Jo, who appeared, looking rosy and quite

at her ease, with a covered dish in one hand and Beth’s three kittens

in the other.

“Here I am, bag and baggage,” she said briskly. “Mother sent her love,

and was glad if I could do anything for you. Meg wanted me to bring

some of her blanc mange, she makes it very nicely, and Beth thought her

cats would be comforting. I knew you’d laugh at them, but I couldn’t

refuse, she was so anxious to do something.”

It so happened that Beth’s funny loan was just the thing, for in

laughing over the kits, Laurie forgot his bashfulness, and grew

sociable at once.

“That looks too pretty to eat,” he said, smiling with pleasure, as Jo

uncovered the dish, and showed the blanc mange, surrounded by a garland

of green leaves, and the scarlet flowers of Amy’s pet geranium.

“It isn’t anything, only they all felt kindly and wanted to show it.

Tell the girl to put it away for your tea. It’s so simple you can eat

it, and being soft, it will slip down without hurting your sore throat.

What a cozy room this is!”

“It might be if it was kept nice, but the maids are lazy, and I don’t

know how to make them mind. It worries me though.”

“I’ll right it up in two minutes, for it only needs to have the hearth

brushed, so—and the things made straight on the mantelpiece, so—and the

books put here, and the bottles there, and your sofa turned from the

light, and the pillows plumped up a bit. Now then, you’re fixed.”

And so he was, for, as she laughed and talked, Jo had whisked things

into place and given quite a different air to the room. Laurie watched

her in respectful silence, and when she beckoned him to his sofa, he

sat down with a sigh of satisfaction, saying gratefully...

“How kind you are! Yes, that’s what it wanted. Now please take the big

chair and let me do something to amuse my company.”

“No, I came to amuse you. Shall I read aloud?” and Jo looked

affectionately toward some inviting books near by.

“Thank you! I’ve read all those, and if you don’t mind, I’d rather

talk,” answered Laurie.

“Not a bit. I’ll talk all day if you’ll only set me going. Beth says I

never know when to stop.”

“Is Beth the rosy one, who stays at home good deal and sometimes goes

out with a little basket?” asked Laurie with interest.

“Yes, that’s Beth. She’s my girl, and a regular good one she is, too.”

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

“How did you find that out?”

Laurie colored up, but answered frankly, “Why, you see I often hear you

calling to one another, and when I’m alone up here, I can’t help

looking over at your house, you always seem to be having such good

times. I beg your pardon for being so rude, but sometimes you forget to

put down the curtain at the window where the flowers are. And when the

lamps are lighted, it’s like looking at a picture to see the fire, and

you all around the table with your mother. Her face is right opposite,

and it looks so sweet behind the flowers, I can’t help watching it. I

haven’t got any mother, you know.” And Laurie poked the fire to hide a

little twitching of the lips that he could not control.

The solitary, hungry look in his eyes went straight to Jo’s warm heart.

She had been so simply taught that there was no nonsense in her head,

and at fifteen she was as innocent and frank as any child. Laurie was

sick and lonely, and feeling how rich she was in home and happiness,

she gladly tried to share it with him. Her face was very friendly and

her sharp voice unusually gentle as she said...

“We’ll never draw that curtain any more, and I give you leave to look

as much as you like. I just wish, though, instead of peeping, you’d

come over and see us. Mother is so splendid, she’d do you heaps of

good, and Beth would sing to you if I begged her to, and Amy would

dance. Meg and I would make you laugh over our funny stage properties,

and we’d have jolly times. Wouldn’t your grandpa let you?”

“I think he would, if your mother asked him. He’s very kind, though he

does not look so, and he lets me do what I like, pretty much, only he’s

afraid I might be a bother to strangers,” began Laurie, brightening

more and more.

“We are not strangers, we are neighbors, and you needn’t think you’d be

a bother. We want to know you, and I’ve been trying to do it this ever

so long. We haven’t been here a great while, you know, but we have got

acquainted with all our neighbors but you.”

“You see, Grandpa lives among his books, and doesn’t mind much what

happens outside. Mr. Brooke, my tutor, doesn’t stay here, you know, and

I have no one to go about with me, so I just stop at home and get on as

I can.”

“That’s bad. You ought to make an effort and go visiting everywhere you

are asked, then you’ll have plenty of friends, and pleasant places to

go to. Never mind being bashful. It won’t last long if you keep going.”

Laurie turned red again, but wasn’t offended at being accused of

bashfulness, for there was so much good will in Jo it was impossible

not to take her blunt speeches as kindly as they were meant.

“Do you like your school?” asked the boy, changing the subject, after a

little pause, during which he stared at the fire and Jo looked about

her, well pleased.

“Don’t go to school, I’m a businessman—girl, I mean. I go to wait on my

great-aunt, and a dear, cross old soul she is, too,” answered Jo.

Laurie opened his mouth to ask another question, but remembering just

in time that it wasn’t manners to make too many inquiries into people’s

affairs, he shut it again, and looked uncomfortable.

Jo liked his good breeding, and didn’t mind having a laugh at Aunt

March, so she gave him a lively description of the fidgety old lady,

her fat poodle, the parrot that talked Spanish, and the library where

she reveled.

Laurie enjoyed that immensely, and when she told about the prim old

gentleman who came once to woo Aunt March, and in the middle of a fine

speech, how Poll had tweaked his wig off to his great dismay, the boy

lay back and laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks, and a maid

popped her head in to see what was the matter.

“Oh! That does me no end of good. Tell on, please,” he said, taking his

face out of the sofa cushion, red and shining with merriment.

Much elated with her success, Jo did ‘tell on’, all about their plays

and plans, their hopes and fears for Father, and the most interesting

events of the little world in which the sisters lived. Then they got to

talking about books, and to Jo’s delight, she found that Laurie loved

them as well as she did, and had read even more than herself.

“If you like them so much, come down and see ours. Grandfather is out,

so you needn’t be afraid,” said Laurie, getting up.

“I’m not afraid of anything,” returned Jo, with a toss of the head.

“I don’t believe you are!” exclaimed the boy, looking at her with much

admiration, though he privately thought she would have good reason to

be a trifle afraid of the old gentleman, if she met him in some of his

moods.

The atmosphere of the whole house being summerlike, Laurie led the way

from room to room, letting Jo stop to examine whatever struck her

fancy. And so, at last they came to the library, where she clapped her

hands and pranced, as she always did when especially delighted. It was

lined with books, and there were pictures and statues, and distracting

little cabinets full of coins and curiosities, and Sleepy Hollow

chairs, and queer tables, and bronzes, and best of all, a great open

fireplace with quaint tiles all round it.

“What richness!” sighed Jo, sinking into the depth of a velour chair

and gazing about her with an air of intense satisfaction. “Theodore

Laurence, you ought to be the happiest boy in the world,” she added

impressively.

“A fellow can’t live on books,” said Laurie, shaking his head as he

perched on a table opposite.

Before he could say more, a bell rang, and Jo flew up, exclaiming with

alarm, “Mercy me! It’s your grandpa!”

“Well, what if it is? You are not afraid of anything, you know,”

returned the boy, looking wicked.

“I think I am a little bit afraid of him, but I don’t know why I should

be. Marmee said I might come, and I don’t think you’re any the worse

for it,” said Jo, composing herself, though she kept her eyes on the

door.

“I’m a great deal better for it, and ever so much obliged. I’m only

afraid you are very tired of talking to me. It was so pleasant, I

couldn’t bear to stop,” said Laurie gratefully.

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

“Would you mind if I left you for a minute? I suppose I must see him,”

said Laurie.

“Don’t mind me. I’m happy as a cricket here,” answered Jo.

Laurie went away, and his guest amused herself in her own way. She was

standing before a fine portrait of the old gentleman when the door

opened again, and without turning, she said decidedly, “I’m sure now

that I shouldn’t be afraid of him, for he’s got kind eyes, though his

mouth is grim, and he looks as if he had a tremendous will of his own.

He isn’t as handsome as my grandfather, but I like him.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” said a gruff voice behind her, and there, to her

great dismay, stood old Mr. Laurence.

Poor Jo blushed till she couldn’t blush any redder, and her heart began

to beat uncomfortably fast as she thought what she had said. For a

minute a wild desire to run away possessed her, but that was cowardly,

and the girls would laugh at her, so she resolved to stay and get out

of the scrape as she could. A second look showed her that the living

eyes, under the bushy eyebrows, were kinder even than the painted ones,

and there was a sly twinkle in them, which lessened her fear a good

deal. The gruff voice was gruffer than ever, as the old gentleman said

abruptly, after the dreadful pause, “So you’re not afraid of me, hey?”

“Not much, sir.”

“And you don’t think me as handsome as your grandfather?”

“Not quite, sir.”

“And I’ve got a tremendous will, have I?”

“I only said I thought so.”

“But you like me in spite of it?”

“Yes, I do, sir.”

That answer pleased the old gentleman. He gave a short laugh, shook

hands with her, and, putting his finger under her chin, turned up her

face, examined it gravely, and let it go, saying with a nod, “You’ve

got your grandfather’s spirit, if you haven’t his face. He was a fine

man, my dear, but what is better, he was a brave and an honest one, and

I was proud to be his friend.”

“Thank you, sir,” And Jo was quite comfortable after that, for it

suited her exactly.

“What have you been doing to this boy of mine, hey?” was the next

question, sharply put.

“Only trying to be neighborly, sir.” And Jo told how her visit came

about.

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

“Yes, sir, he seems a little lonely, and young folks would do him good

perhaps. We are only girls, but we should be glad to help if we could,

for we don’t forget the splendid Christmas present you sent us,” said

Jo eagerly.

“Tut, tut, tut! That was the boy’s affair. How is the poor woman?”

“Doing nicely, sir.” And off went Jo, talking very fast, as she told

all about the Hummels, in whom her mother had interested richer friends

than they were.

“Just her father’s way of doing good. I shall come and see your mother

some fine day. Tell her so. There’s the tea bell, we have it early on

the boy’s account. Come down and go on being neighborly.”

“If you’d like to have me, sir.”

“Shouldn’t ask you, if I didn’t.” And Mr. Laurence offered her his arm

with old-fashioned courtesy.

“What would Meg say to this?” thought Jo, as she was marched away,

while her eyes danced with fun as she imagined herself telling the

story at home.

“Hey! Why, what the dickens has come to the fellow?” said the old

gentleman, as Laurie came running downstairs and brought up with a

start of surprise at the astounding sight of Jo arm in arm with his

redoubtable grandfather.

“I didn’t know you’d come, sir,” he began, as Jo gave him a triumphant

little glance.

“That’s evident, by the way you racket downstairs. Come to your tea,

sir, and behave like a gentleman.” And having pulled the boy’s hair by

way of a caress, Mr. Laurence walked on, while Laurie went through a

series of comic evolutions behind their backs, which nearly produced an

explosion of laughter from Jo.

The old gentleman did not say much as he drank his four cups of tea,

but he watched the young people, who soon chatted away like old

friends, and the change in his grandson did not escape him. There was

color, light, and life in the boy’s face now, vivacity in his manner,

and genuine merriment in his laugh.

“She’s right, the lad is lonely. I’ll see what these little girls can

do for him,” thought Mr. Laurence, as he looked and listened. He liked

Jo, for her odd, blunt ways suited him, and she seemed to understand

the boy almost as well as if she had been one herself.

If the Laurences had been what Jo called ‘prim and poky’, she would not

have got on at all, for such people always made her shy and awkward.

But finding them free and easy, she was so herself, and made a good

impression. When they rose she proposed to go, but Laurie said he had

something more to show her, and took her away to the conservatory,

which had been lighted for her benefit. It seemed quite fairylike to

Jo, as she went up and down the walks, enjoying the blooming walls on

either side, the soft light, the damp sweet air, and the wonderful

vines and trees that hung about her, while her new friend cut the

finest flowers till his hands were full. Then he tied them up, saying,

with the happy look Jo liked to see, “Please give these to your mother,

and tell her I like the medicine she sent me very much.”

They found Mr. Laurence standing before the fire in the great drawing

room, but Jo’s attention was entirely absorbed by a grand piano, which

stood open.

“Do you play?” she asked, turning to Laurie with a respectful

expression.

“Sometimes,” he answered modestly.

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

“Won’t you first?”

“Don’t know how. Too stupid to learn, but I love music dearly.”

So Laurie played and Jo listened, with her nose luxuriously buried in

heliotrope and tea roses. Her respect and regard for the ‘Laurence’ boy

increased very much, for he played remarkably well and didn’t put on

any airs. She wished Beth could hear him, but she did not say so, only

praised him till he was quite abashed, and his grandfather came to his

rescue.

“That will do, that will do, young lady. Too many sugarplums are not

good for him. His music isn’t bad, but I hope he will do as well in

more important things. Going? well, I’m much obliged to you, and I hope

you’ll come again. My respects to your mother. Good night, Doctor Jo.”

He shook hands kindly, but looked as if something did not please him.

When they got into the hall, Jo asked Laurie if she had said something

amiss. He shook his head.

“No, it was me. He doesn’t like to hear me play.”

“Why not?”

“I’ll tell you some day. John is going home with you, as I can’t.”

“No need of that. I am not a young lady, and it’s only a step. Take

care of yourself, won’t you?”

“Yes, but you will come again, I hope?”

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

“I will.”

“Good night, Laurie!”

“Good night, Jo, good night!”

When all the afternoon’s adventures had been told, the family felt

inclined to go visiting in a body, for each found something very

attractive in the big house on the other side of the hedge. Mrs. March

wanted to talk of her father with the old man who had not forgotten

him, Meg longed to walk in the conservatory, Beth sighed for the grand

piano, and Amy was eager to see the fine pictures and statues.

“Mother, why didn’t Mr. Laurence like to have Laurie play?” asked Jo,

who was of an inquiring disposition.

“I am not sure, but I think it was because his son, Laurie’s father,

married an Italian lady, a musician, which displeased the old man, who

is very proud. The lady was good and lovely and accomplished, but he

did not like her, and never saw his son after he married. They both

died when Laurie was a little child, and then his grandfather took him

home. I fancy the boy, who was born in Italy, is not very strong, and

the old man is afraid of losing him, which makes him so careful. Laurie

comes naturally by his love of music, for he is like his mother, and I

dare say his grandfather fears that he may want to be a musician. At

any rate, his skill reminds him of the woman he did not like, and so he

‘glowered’ as Jo said.”

“Dear me, how romantic!” exclaimed Meg.

“How silly!” said Jo. “Let him be a musician if he wants to, and not

plague his life out sending him to college, when he hates to go.”

“That’s why he has such handsome black eyes and pretty manners, I

suppose. Italians are always nice,” said Meg, who was a little

sentimental.

“What do you know about his eyes and his manners? You never spoke to

him, hardly,” cried Jo, who was not sentimental.

“I saw him at the party, and what you tell shows that he knows how to

behave. That was a nice little speech about the medicine Mother sent

him.”

“He meant the blanc mange, I suppose.”

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

“Did he?” And Jo opened her eyes as if it had never occurred to her

before.

“I never saw such a girl! You don’t know a compliment when you get it,”

said Meg, with the air of a young lady who knew all about the matter.

“I think they are great nonsense, and I’ll thank you not to be silly

and spoil my fun. Laurie’s a nice boy and I like him, and I won’t have

any sentimental stuff about compliments and such rubbish. We’ll all be

good to him because he hasn’t got any mother, and he may come over and

see us, mayn’t he, Marmee?”

“Yes, Jo, your little friend is very welcome, and I hope Meg will

remember that children should be children as long as they can.”

“I don’t call myself a child, and I’m not in my teens yet,” observed

Amy. “What do you say, Beth?”

“I was thinking about our ‘_Pilgrim’s Progress_’,” answered Beth, who

had not heard a word. “How we got out of the Slough and through the

Wicket Gate by resolving to be good, and up the steep hill by trying,

and that maybe the house over there, full of splendid things, is going

to be our Palace Beautiful.”

“We have got to get by the lions first,” said Jo, as if she rather

liked the prospect.

CHAPTER SIX

BETH FINDS THE PALACE BEAUTIFUL

The big house did prove a Palace Beautiful, though it took some time

for all to get in, and Beth found it very hard to pass the lions. Old

Mr. Laurence was the biggest one, but after he had called, said

something funny or kind to each one of the girls, and talked over old

times with their mother, nobody felt much afraid of him, except timid

Beth. The other lion was the fact that they were poor and Laurie rich,

for this made them shy of accepting favors which they could not return.

But, after a while, they found that he considered them the benefactors,

and could not do enough to show how grateful he was for Mrs. March’s

motherly welcome, their cheerful society, and the comfort he took in

that humble home of theirs. So they soon forgot their pride and

interchanged kindnesses without stopping to think which was the

greater.

All sorts of pleasant things happened about that time, for the new

friendship flourished like grass in spring. Every one liked Laurie, and

he privately informed his tutor that “the Marches were regularly

splendid girls.” With the delightful enthusiasm of youth, they took the

solitary boy into their midst and made much of him, and he found

something very charming in the innocent companionship of these

simple-hearted girls. Never having known mother or sisters, he was

quick to feel the influences they brought about him, and their busy,

lively ways made him ashamed of the indolent life he led. He was tired

of books, and found people so interesting now that Mr. Brooke was

obliged to make very unsatisfactory reports, for Laurie was always

playing truant and running over to the Marches’.

“Never mind, let him take a holiday, and make it up afterward,” said

the old gentleman. “The good lady next door says he is studying too

hard and needs young society, amusement, and exercise. I suspect she is

right, and that I’ve been coddling the fellow as if I’d been his

grandmother. Let him do what he likes, as long as he is happy. He can’t

get into mischief in that little nunnery over there, and Mrs. March is

doing more for him than we can.”

What good times they had, to be sure. Such plays and tableaux, such

sleigh rides and skating frolics, such pleasant evenings in the old

parlor, and now and then such gay little parties at the great house.

Meg could walk in the conservatory whenever she liked and revel in

bouquets, Jo browsed over the new library voraciously, and convulsed

the old gentleman with her criticisms, Amy copied pictures and enjoyed

beauty to her heart’s content, and Laurie played ‘lord of the manor’ in

the most delightful style.

But Beth, though yearning for the grand piano, could not pluck up

courage to go to the ‘Mansion of Bliss’, as Meg called it. She went

once with Jo, but the old gentleman, not being aware of her infirmity,

stared at her so hard from under his heavy eyebrows, and said “Hey!” so

loud, that he frightened her so much her ‘feet chattered on the floor’,

she never told her mother, and she ran away, declaring she would never

go there any more, not even for the dear piano. No persuasions or

enticements could overcome her fear, till, the fact coming to Mr.

Laurence’s ear in some mysterious way, he set about mending matters.

During one of the brief calls he made, he artfully led the conversation

to music, and talked away about great singers whom he had seen, fine

organs he had heard, and told such charming anecdotes that Beth found

it impossible to stay in her distant corner, but crept nearer and

nearer, as if fascinated. At the back of his chair she stopped and

stood listening, with her great eyes wide open and her cheeks red with

excitement of this unusual performance. Taking no more notice of her

than if she had been a fly, Mr. Laurence talked on about Laurie’s

lessons and teachers. And presently, as if the idea had just occurred

to him, he said to Mrs. March...

“The boy neglects his music now, and I’m glad of it, for he was getting

too fond of it. But the piano suffers for want of use. Wouldn’t some of

your girls like to run over, and practice on it now and then, just to

keep it in tune, you know, ma’am?”

Beth took a step forward, and pressed her hands tightly together to

keep from clapping them, for this was an irresistible temptation, and

the thought of practicing on that splendid instrument quite took her

breath away. Before Mrs. March could reply, Mr. Laurence went on with

an odd little nod and smile...

“They needn’t see or speak to anyone, but run in at any time. For I’m

shut up in my study at the other end of the house, Laurie is out a

great deal, and the servants are never near the drawing room after nine

o’clock.”

Here he rose, as if going, and Beth made up her mind to speak, for that

last arrangement left nothing to be desired. “Please, tell the young

ladies what I say, and if they don’t care to come, why, never mind.”

Here a little hand slipped into his, and Beth looked up at him with a

face full of gratitude, as she said, in her earnest yet timid way...

“Oh sir, they do care, very very much!”

“Are you the musical girl?” he asked, without any startling “Hey!” as

he looked down at her very kindly.

“I’m Beth. I love it dearly, and I’ll come, if you are quite sure

nobody will hear me, and be disturbed,” she added, fearing to be rude,

and trembling at her own boldness as she spoke.

“Not a soul, my dear. The house is empty half the day, so come and drum

away as much as you like, and I shall be obliged to you.”

“How kind you are, sir!”

Beth blushed like a rose under the friendly look he wore, but she was

not frightened now, and gave the hand a grateful squeeze because she

had no words to thank him for the precious gift he had given her. The

old gentleman softly stroked the hair off her forehead, and, stooping

down, he kissed her, saying, in a tone few people ever heard...

“I had a little girl once, with eyes like these. God bless you, my

dear! Good day, madam.” And away he went, in a great hurry.

Beth had a rapture with her mother, and then rushed up to impart the

glorious news to her family of invalids, as the girls were not home.

How blithely she sang that evening, and how they all laughed at her

because she woke Amy in the night by playing the piano on her face in

her sleep. Next day, having seen both the old and young gentleman out

of the house, Beth, after two or three retreats, fairly got in at the

side door, and made her way as noiselessly as any mouse to the drawing

room where her idol stood. Quite by accident, of course, some pretty,

easy music lay on the piano, and with trembling fingers and frequent

stops to listen and look about, Beth at last touched the great

instrument, and straightway forgot her fear, herself, and everything

else but the unspeakable delight which the music gave her, for it was

like the voice of a beloved friend.