She stayed till Hannah came to take her home to dinner, but she had no

appetite, and could only sit and smile upon everyone in a general state

of beatitude.

After that, the little brown hood slipped through the hedge nearly

every day, and the great drawing room was haunted by a tuneful spirit

that came and went unseen. She never knew that Mr. Laurence opened his

study door to hear the old-fashioned airs he liked. She never saw

Laurie mount guard in the hall to warn the servants away. She never

suspected that the exercise books and new songs which she found in the

rack were put there for her especial benefit, and when he talked to her

about music at home, she only thought how kind he was to tell things

that helped her so much. So she enjoyed herself heartily, and found,

what isn’t always the case, that her granted wish was all she had

hoped. Perhaps it was because she was so grateful for this blessing

that a greater was given her. At any rate she deserved both.

“Mother, I’m going to work Mr. Laurence a pair of slippers. He is so

kind to me, I must thank him, and I don’t know any other way. Can I do

it?” asked Beth, a few weeks after that eventful call of his.

“Yes, dear. It will please him very much, and be a nice way of thanking

him. The girls will help you about them, and I will pay for the making

up,” replied Mrs. March, who took peculiar pleasure in granting Beth’s

requests because she so seldom asked anything for herself.

After many serious discussions with Meg and Jo, the pattern was chosen,

the materials bought, and the slippers begun. A cluster of grave yet

cheerful pansies on a deeper purple ground was pronounced very

appropriate and pretty, and Beth worked away early and late, with

occasional lifts over hard parts. She was a nimble little needlewoman,

and they were finished before anyone got tired of them. Then she wrote

a short, simple note, and with Laurie’s help, got them smuggled onto

the study table one morning before the old gentleman was up.

When this excitement was over, Beth waited to see what would happen.

All day passed and a part of the next before any acknowledgement

arrived, and she was beginning to fear she had offended her crochety

friend. On the afternoon of the second day, she went out to do an

errand, and give poor Joanna, the invalid doll, her daily exercise. As

she came up the street, on her return, she saw three, yes, four heads

popping in and out of the parlor windows, and the moment they saw her,

several hands were waved, and several joyful voices screamed...

“Here’s a letter from the old gentleman! Come quick, and read it!”

“Oh, Beth, he’s sent you...” began Amy, gesticulating with unseemly

energy, but she got no further, for Jo quenched her by slamming down

the window.

Beth hurried on in a flutter of suspense. At the door her sisters

seized and bore her to the parlor in a triumphal procession, all

pointing and all saying at once, “Look there! Look there!” Beth did

look, and turned pale with delight and surprise, for there stood a

little cabinet piano, with a letter lying on the glossy lid, directed

like a sign board to “Miss Elizabeth March.”

“For me?” gasped Beth, holding onto Jo and feeling as if she should

tumble down, it was such an overwhelming thing altogether.

“Yes, all for you, my precious! Isn’t it splendid of him? Don’t you

think he’s the dearest old man in the world? Here’s the key in the

letter. We didn’t open it, but we are dying to know what he says,”

cried Jo, hugging her sister and offering the note.

“You read it! I can’t, I feel so queer! Oh, it is too lovely!” and Beth

hid her face in Jo’s apron, quite upset by her present.

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

were...

“Miss March: “Dear Madam—”

“How nice it sounds! I wish someone would write to me so!” said Amy,

who thought the old-fashioned address very elegant.

“‘I have had many pairs of slippers in my life, but I never had any

that suited me so well as yours,’” continues Jo. “‘Heart’s-ease is my

favorite flower, and these will always remind me of the gentle giver. I

like to pay my debts, so I know you will allow ‘the old gentleman’ to

send you something which once belonged to the little grand daughter he

lost. With hearty thanks and best wishes, I remain “‘Your grateful

friend and humble servant, ‘JAMES LAURENCE’.”

“There, Beth, that’s an honor to be proud of, I’m sure! Laurie told me

how fond Mr. Laurence used to be of the child who died, and how he kept

all her little things carefully. Just think, he’s given you her piano.

That comes of having big blue eyes and loving music,” said Jo, trying

to soothe Beth, who trembled and looked more excited than she had ever

been before.

“See the cunning brackets to hold candles, and the nice green silk,

puckered up, with a gold rose in the middle, and the pretty rack and

stool, all complete,” added Meg, opening the instrument and displaying

its beauties.

“‘Your humble servant, James Laurence’. Only think of his writing that

to you. I’ll tell the girls. They’ll think it’s splendid,” said Amy,

much impressed by the note.

“Try it, honey. Let’s hear the sound of the baby pianny,” said Hannah,

who always took a share in the family joys and sorrows.

So Beth tried it, and everyone pronounced it the most remarkable piano

ever heard. It had evidently been newly tuned and put in apple-pie

order, but, perfect as it was, I think the real charm lay in the

happiest of all happy faces which leaned over it, as Beth lovingly

touched the beautiful black and white keys and pressed the bright

pedals.

“You’ll have to go and thank him,” said Jo, by way of a joke, for the

idea of the child’s really going never entered her head.

“Yes, I mean to. I guess I’ll go now, before I get frightened thinking

about it.” And, to the utter amazement of the assembled family, Beth

walked deliberately down the garden, through the hedge, and in at the

Laurences’ door.

“Well, I wish I may die if it ain’t the queerest thing I ever see! The

pianny has turned her head! She’d never have gone in her right mind,”

cried Hannah, staring after her, while the girls were rendered quite

speechless by the miracle.

They would have been still more amazed if they had seen what Beth did

afterward. If you will believe me, she went and knocked at the study

door before she gave herself time to think, and when a gruff voice

called out, “come in!” she did go in, right up to Mr. Laurence, who

looked quite taken aback, and held out her hand, saying, with only a

small quaver in her voice, “I came to thank you, sir, for...” But she

didn’t finish, for he looked so friendly that she forgot her speech

and, only remembering that he had lost the little girl he loved, she

put both arms round his neck and kissed him.

If the roof of the house had suddenly flown off, the old gentleman

wouldn’t have been more astonished. But he liked it. Oh, dear, yes, he

liked it amazingly! And was so touched and pleased by that confiding

little kiss that all his crustiness vanished, and he just set her on

his knee, and laid his wrinkled cheek against her rosy one, feeling as

if he had got his own little granddaughter back again. Beth ceased to

fear him from that moment, and sat there talking to him as cozily as if

she had known him all her life, for love casts out fear, and gratitude

can conquer pride. When she went home, he walked with her to her own

gate, shook hands cordially, and touched his hat as he marched back

again, looking very stately and erect, like a handsome, soldierly old

gentleman, as he was.

When the girls saw that performance, Jo began to dance a jig, by way of

expressing her satisfaction, Amy nearly fell out of the window in her

surprise, and Meg exclaimed, with up-lifted hands, “Well, I do believe

the world is coming to an end.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

AMY’S VALLEY OF HUMILIATION

“That boy is a perfect cyclops, isn’t he?” said Amy one day, as Laurie

clattered by on horseback, with a flourish of his whip as he passed.

“How dare you say so, when he’s got both his eyes? And very handsome

ones they are, too,” cried Jo, who resented any slighting remarks about

her friend.

“I didn’t say anything about his eyes, and I don’t see why you need

fire up when I admire his riding.”

“Oh, my goodness! That little goose means a centaur, and she called him

a Cyclops,” exclaimed Jo, with a burst of laughter.

“You needn’t be so rude, it’s only a ‘lapse of lingy’, as Mr. Davis

says,” retorted Amy, finishing Jo with her Latin. “I just wish I had a

little of the money Laurie spends on that horse,” she added, as if to

herself, yet hoping her sisters would hear.

“Why?” asked Meg kindly, for Jo had gone off in another laugh at Amy’s

second blunder.

“I need it so much. I’m dreadfully in debt, and it won’t be my turn to

have the rag money for a month.”

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

“Why, I owe at least a dozen pickled limes, and I can’t pay them, you

know, till I have money, for Marmee forbade my having anything charged

at the shop.”

“Tell me all about it. Are limes the fashion now? It used to be

pricking bits of rubber to make balls.” And Meg tried to keep her

countenance, Amy looked so grave and important.

“Why, you see, the girls are always buying them, and unless you want to

be thought mean, you must do it too. It’s nothing but limes now, for

everyone is sucking them in their desks in schooltime, and trading them

off for pencils, bead rings, paper dolls, or something else, at recess.

If one girl likes another, she gives her a lime. If she’s mad with her,

she eats one before her face, and doesn’t offer even a suck. They treat

by turns, and I’ve had ever so many but haven’t returned them, and I

ought for they are debts of honor, you know.”

“How much will pay them off and restore your credit?” asked Meg, taking

out her purse.

“A quarter would more than do it, and leave a few cents over for a

treat for you. Don’t you like limes?”

“Not much. You may have my share. Here’s the money. Make it last as

long as you can, for it isn’t very plenty, you know.”

“Oh, thank you! It must be so nice to have pocket money! I’ll have a

grand feast, for I haven’t tasted a lime this week. I felt delicate

about taking any, as I couldn’t return them, and I’m actually suffering

for one.”

Next day Amy was rather late at school, but could not resist the

temptation of displaying, with pardonable pride, a moist brown-paper

parcel, before she consigned it to the inmost recesses of her desk.

During the next few minutes the rumor that Amy March had got

twenty-four delicious limes (she ate one on the way) and was going to

treat circulated through her ‘set’, and the attentions of her friends

became quite overwhelming. Katy Brown invited her to her next party on

the spot. Mary Kingsley insisted on lending her her watch till recess,

and Jenny Snow, a satirical young lady, who had basely twitted Amy upon

her limeless state, promptly buried the hatchet and offered to furnish

answers to certain appalling sums. But Amy had not forgotten Miss

Snow’s cutting remarks about ‘some persons whose noses were not too

flat to smell other people’s limes, and stuck-up people who were not

too proud to ask for them’, and she instantly crushed ‘that Snow

girl’s’ hopes by the withering telegram, “You needn’t be so polite all

of a sudden, for you won’t get any.”

A distinguished personage happened to visit the school that morning,

and Amy’s beautifully drawn maps received praise, which honor to her

foe rankled in the soul of Miss Snow, and caused Miss March to assume

the airs of a studious young peacock. But, alas, alas! Pride goes

before a fall, and the revengeful Snow turned the tables with

disastrous success. No sooner had the guest paid the usual stale

compliments and bowed himself out, than Jenny, under pretense of asking

an important question, informed Mr. Davis, the teacher, that Amy March

had pickled limes in her desk.

Now Mr. Davis had declared limes a contraband article, and solemnly

vowed to publicly ferrule the first person who was found breaking the

law. This much-enduring man had succeeded in banishing chewing gum

after a long and stormy war, had made a bonfire of the confiscated

novels and newspapers, had suppressed a private post office, had

forbidden distortions of the face, nicknames, and caricatures, and done

all that one man could do to keep half a hundred rebellious girls in

order. Boys are trying enough to human patience, goodness knows, but

girls are infinitely more so, especially to nervous gentlemen with

tyrannical tempers and no more talent for teaching than Dr. Blimber.

Mr. Davis knew any quantity of Greek, Latin, algebra, and ologies of

all sorts so he was called a fine teacher, and manners, morals,

feelings, and examples were not considered of any particular

importance. It was a most unfortunate moment for denouncing Amy, and

Jenny knew it. Mr. Davis had evidently taken his coffee too strong that

morning, there was an east wind, which always affected his neuralgia,

and his pupils had not done him the credit which he felt he deserved.

Therefore, to use the expressive, if not elegant, language of a

schoolgirl, “He was as nervous as a witch and as cross as a bear”. The

word ‘limes’ was like fire to powder, his yellow face flushed, and he

rapped on his desk with an energy which made Jenny skip to her seat

with unusual rapidity.

“Young ladies, attention, if you please!”

At the stern order the buzz ceased, and fifty pairs of blue, black,

gray, and brown eyes were obediently fixed upon his awful countenance.

“Miss March, come to the desk.”

Amy rose to comply with outward composure, but a secret fear oppressed

her, for the limes weighed upon her conscience.

“Bring with you the limes you have in your desk,” was the unexpected

command which arrested her before she got out of her seat.

“Don’t take all.” whispered her neighbor, a young lady of great

presence of mind.

Amy hastily shook out half a dozen and laid the rest down before Mr.

Davis, feeling that any man possessing a human heart would relent when

that delicious perfume met his nose. Unfortunately, Mr. Davis

particularly detested the odor of the fashionable pickle, and disgust

added to his wrath.

“Is that all?”

“Not quite,” stammered Amy.

“Bring the rest immediately.”

With a despairing glance at her set, she obeyed.

“You are sure there are no more?”

“I never lie, sir.”

“So I see. Now take these disgusting things two by two, and throw them

out of the window.”

There was a simultaneous sigh, which created quite a little gust, as

the last hope fled, and the treat was ravished from their longing lips.

Scarlet with shame and anger, Amy went to and fro six dreadful times,

and as each doomed couple, looking oh, so plump and juicy, fell from

her reluctant hands, a shout from the street completed the anguish of

the girls, for it told them that their feast was being exulted over by

the little Irish children, who were their sworn foes. This—this was too

much. All flashed indignant or appealing glances at the inexorable

Davis, and one passionate lime lover burst into tears.

As Amy returned from her last trip, Mr. Davis gave a portentous “Hem!”

and said, in his most impressive manner...

“Young ladies, you remember what I said to you a week ago. I am sorry

this has happened, but I never allow my rules to be infringed, and I

never break my word. Miss March, hold out your hand.”

Amy started, and put both hands behind her, turning on him an imploring

look which pleaded for her better than the words she could not utter.

She was rather a favorite with ‘old Davis’, as, of course, he was

called, and it’s my private belief that he would have broken his word

if the indignation of one irrepressible young lady had not found vent

in a hiss. That hiss, faint as it was, irritated the irascible

gentleman, and sealed the culprit’s fate.

“Your hand, Miss March!” was the only answer her mute appeal received,

and too proud to cry or beseech, Amy set her teeth, threw back her head

defiantly, and bore without flinching several tingling blows on her

little palm. They were neither many nor heavy, but that made no

difference to her. For the first time in her life she had been struck,

and the disgrace, in her eyes, was as deep as if he had knocked her

down.

“You will now stand on the platform till recess,” said Mr. Davis,

resolved to do the thing thoroughly, since he had begun.

That was dreadful. It would have been bad enough to go to her seat, and

see the pitying faces of her friends, or the satisfied ones of her few

enemies, but to face the whole school, with that shame fresh upon her,

seemed impossible, and for a second she felt as if she could only drop

down where she stood, and break her heart with crying. A bitter sense

of wrong and the thought of Jenny Snow helped her to bear it, and,

taking the ignominious place, she fixed her eyes on the stove funnel

above what now seemed a sea of faces, and stood there, so motionless

and white that the girls found it hard to study with that pathetic

figure before them.

During the fifteen minutes that followed, the proud and sensitive

little girl suffered a shame and pain which she never forgot. To others

it might seem a ludicrous or trivial affair, but to her it was a hard

experience, for during the twelve years of her life she had been

governed by love alone, and a blow of that sort had never touched her

before. The smart of her hand and the ache of her heart were forgotten

in the sting of the thought, “I shall have to tell at home, and they

will be so disappointed in me!”

The fifteen minutes seemed an hour, but they came to an end at last,

and the word ‘Recess!’ had never seemed so welcome to her before.

“You can go, Miss March,” said Mr. Davis, looking, as he felt,

uncomfortable.

He did not soon forget the reproachful glance Amy gave him, as she

went, without a word to anyone, straight into the anteroom, snatched

her things, and left the place “forever,” as she passionately declared

to herself. She was in a sad state when she got home, and when the

older girls arrived, some time later, an indignation meeting was held

at once. Mrs. March did not say much but looked disturbed, and

comforted her afflicted little daughter in her tenderest manner. Meg

bathed the insulted hand with glycerine and tears, Beth felt that even

her beloved kittens would fail as a balm for griefs like this, Jo

wrathfully proposed that Mr. Davis be arrested without delay, and

Hannah shook her fist at the ‘villain’ and pounded potatoes for dinner

as if she had him under her pestle.

No notice was taken of Amy’s flight, except by her mates, but the

sharp-eyed demoiselles discovered that Mr. Davis was quite benignant in

the afternoon, also unusually nervous. Just before school closed, Jo

appeared, wearing a grim expression as she stalked up to the desk, and

delivered a letter from her mother, then collected Amy’s property, and

departed, carefully scraping the mud from her boots on the door mat, as

if she shook the dust of the place off her feet.

“Yes, you can have a vacation from school, but I want you to study a

little every day with Beth,” said Mrs. March that evening. “I don’t

approve of corporal punishment, especially for girls. I dislike Mr.

Davis’s manner of teaching and don’t think the girls you associate with

are doing you any good, so I shall ask your father’s advice before I

send you anywhere else.”

“That’s good! I wish all the girls would leave, and spoil his old

school. It’s perfectly maddening to think of those lovely limes,”

sighed Amy, with the air of a martyr.

“I am not sorry you lost them, for you broke the rules, and deserved

some punishment for disobedience,” was the severe reply, which rather

disappointed the young lady, who expected nothing but sympathy.

“Do you mean you are glad I was disgraced before the whole school?”

cried Amy.

“I should not have chosen that way of mending a fault,” replied her

mother, “but I’m not sure that it won’t do you more good than a bolder

method. You are getting to be rather conceited, my dear, and it is

quite time you set about correcting it. You have a good many little

gifts and virtues, but there is no need of parading them, for conceit

spoils the finest genius. There is not much danger that real talent or

goodness will be overlooked long, even if it is, the consciousness of

possessing and using it well should satisfy one, and the great charm of

all power is modesty.”

“So it is!” cried Laurie, who was playing chess in a corner with Jo. “I

knew a girl once, who had a really remarkable talent for music, and she

didn’t know it, never guessed what sweet little things she composed

when she was alone, and wouldn’t have believed it if anyone had told

her.”

“I wish I’d known that nice girl. Maybe she would have helped me, I’m

so stupid,” said Beth, who stood beside him, listening eagerly.

“You do know her, and she helps you better than anyone else could,”

answered Laurie, looking at her with such mischievous meaning in his

merry black eyes that Beth suddenly turned very red, and hid her face

in the sofa cushion, quite overcome by such an unexpected discovery.

Jo let Laurie win the game to pay for that praise of her Beth, who

could not be prevailed upon to play for them after her compliment. So

Laurie did his best, and sang delightfully, being in a particularly

lively humor, for to the Marches he seldom showed the moody side of his

character. When he was gone, Amy, who had been pensive all evening,

said suddenly, as if busy over some new idea, “Is Laurie an

accomplished boy?”

“Yes, he has had an excellent education, and has much talent. He will

make a fine man, if not spoiled by petting,” replied her mother.

“And he isn’t conceited, is he?” asked Amy.

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

much.”

“I see. It’s nice to have accomplishments and be elegant, but not to

show off or get perked up,” said Amy thoughtfully.

“These things are always seen and felt in a person’s manner and

conversations, if modestly used, but it is not necessary to display

them,” said Mrs. March.

“Any more than it’s proper to wear all your bonnets and gowns and

ribbons at once, that folks may know you’ve got them,” added Jo, and

the lecture ended in a laugh.

CHAPTER EIGHT

JO MEETS APOLLYON

“Girls, where are you going?” asked Amy, coming into their room one

Saturday afternoon, and finding them getting ready to go out with an

air of secrecy which excited her curiosity.

“Never mind. Little girls shouldn’t ask questions,” returned Jo

sharply.

Now if there is anything mortifying to our feelings when we are young,

it is to be told that, and to be bidden to “run away, dear” is still

more trying to us. Amy bridled up at this insult, and determined to

find out the secret, if she teased for an hour. Turning to Meg, who

never refused her anything very long, she said coaxingly, “Do tell me!

I should think you might let me go, too, for Beth is fussing over her

piano, and I haven’t got anything to do, and am so lonely.”

“I can’t, dear, because you aren’t invited,” began Meg, but Jo broke in

impatiently, “Now, Meg, be quiet or you will spoil it all. You can’t

go, Amy, so don’t be a baby and whine about it.”

“You are going somewhere with Laurie, I know you are. You were

whispering and laughing together on the sofa last night, and you

stopped when I came in. Aren’t you going with him?”

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

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

pocket.

“I know! I know! You’re going to the theater to see the _Seven

Castles!_” she cried, adding resolutely, “and I shall go, for Mother

said I might see it, and I’ve got my rag money, and it was mean not to

tell me in time.”

“Just listen to me a minute, and be a good child,” said Meg soothingly.

“Mother doesn’t wish you to go this week, because your eyes are not

well enough yet to bear the light of this fairy piece. Next week you

can go with Beth and Hannah, and have a nice time.”

“I don’t like that half as well as going with you and Laurie. Please

let me. I’ve been sick with this cold so long, and shut up, I’m dying

for some fun. Do, Meg! I’ll be ever so good,” pleaded Amy, looking as

pathetic as she could.

“Suppose we take her. I don’t believe Mother would mind, if we bundle

her up well,” began Meg.

“If she goes I shan’t, and if I don’t, Laurie won’t like it, and it

will be very rude, after he invited only us, to go and drag in Amy. I

should think she’d hate to poke herself where she isn’t wanted,” said

Jo crossly, for she disliked the trouble of overseeing a fidgety child

when she wanted to enjoy herself.

Her tone and manner angered Amy, who began to put her boots on, saying,

in her most aggravating way, “I shall go. Meg says I may, and if I pay

for myself, Laurie hasn’t anything to do with it.”

“You can’t sit with us, for our seats are reserved, and you mustn’t sit

alone, so Laurie will give you his place, and that will spoil our

pleasure. Or he’ll get another seat for you, and that isn’t proper when

you weren’t asked. You shan’t stir a step, so you may just stay where

you are,” scolded Jo, crosser than ever, having just pricked her finger

in her hurry.

Sitting on the floor with one boot on, Amy began to cry and Meg to

reason with her, when Laurie called from below, and the two girls

hurried down, leaving their sister wailing. For now and then she forgot

her grown-up ways and acted like a spoiled child. Just as the party was

setting out, Amy called over the banisters in a threatening tone,

“You’ll be sorry for this, Jo March, see if you ain’t.”

“Fiddlesticks!” returned Jo, slamming the door.

They had a charming time, for _The Seven Castles Of The Diamond Lake_

was as brilliant and wonderful as heart could wish. But in spite of the

comical red imps, sparkling elves, and the gorgeous princes and

princesses, Jo’s pleasure had a drop of bitterness in it. The fairy

queen’s yellow curls reminded her of Amy, and between the acts she

amused herself with wondering what her sister would do to make her

‘sorry for it’. She and Amy had had many lively skirmishes in the

course of their lives, for both had quick tempers and were apt to be

violent when fairly roused. Amy teased Jo, and Jo irritated Amy, and

semioccasional explosions occurred, of which both were much ashamed

afterward. Although the oldest, Jo had the least self-control, and had

hard times trying to curb the fiery spirit which was continually

getting her into trouble. Her anger never lasted long, and having

humbly confessed her fault, she sincerely repented and tried to do

better. Her sisters used to say that they rather liked to get Jo into a

fury because she was such an angel afterward. Poor Jo tried desperately

to be good, but her bosom enemy was always ready to flame up and defeat

her, and it took years of patient effort to subdue it.

When they got home, they found Amy reading in the parlor. She assumed

an injured air as they came in, never lifted her eyes from her book, or

asked a single question. Perhaps curiosity might have conquered

resentment, if Beth had not been there to inquire and receive a glowing

description of the play. On going up to put away her best hat, Jo’s

first look was toward the bureau, for in their last quarrel Amy had

soothed her feelings by turning Jo’s top drawer upside down on the

floor. Everything was in its place, however, and after a hasty glance

into her various closets, bags, and boxes, Jo decided that Amy had

forgiven and forgotten her wrongs.

There Jo was mistaken, for next day she made a discovery which produced

a tempest. Meg, Beth, and Amy were sitting together, late in the

afternoon, when Jo burst into the room, looking excited and demanding

breathlessly, “Has anyone taken my book?”

Meg and Beth said, “No.” at once, and looked surprised. Amy poked the

fire and said nothing. Jo saw her color rise and was down upon her in a

minute.

“Amy, you’ve got it!”

“No, I haven’t.”

“You know where it is, then!”

“No, I don’t.”

“That’s a fib!” cried Jo, taking her by the shoulders, and looking

fierce enough to frighten a much braver child than Amy.

“It isn’t. I haven’t got it, don’t know where it is now, and don’t

care.”

“You know something about it, and you’d better tell at once, or I’ll

make you.” And Jo gave her a slight shake.

“Scold as much as you like, you’ll never see your silly old book

again,” cried Amy, getting excited in her turn.

“Why not?”

“I burned it up.”

“What! My little book I was so fond of, and worked over, and meant to

finish before Father got home? Have you really burned it?” said Jo,

turning very pale, while her eyes kindled and her hands clutched Amy

nervously.

“Yes, I did! I told you I’d make you pay for being so cross yesterday,

and I have, so...”

Amy got no farther, for Jo’s hot temper mastered her, and she shook Amy

till her teeth chattered in her head, crying in a passion of grief and

anger...

“You wicked, wicked girl! I never can write it again, and I’ll never

forgive you as long as I live.”

Meg flew to rescue Amy, and Beth to pacify Jo, but Jo was quite beside

herself, and with a parting box on her sister’s ear, she rushed out of

the room up to the old sofa in the garret, and finished her fight

alone.

The storm cleared up below, for Mrs. March came home, and, having heard

the story, soon brought Amy to a sense of the wrong she had done her

sister. Jo’s book was the pride of her heart, and was regarded by her

family as a literary sprout of great promise. It was only half a dozen

little fairy tales, but Jo had worked over them patiently, putting her

whole heart into her work, hoping to make something good enough to

print. She had just copied them with great care, and had destroyed the

old manuscript, so that Amy’s bonfire had consumed the loving work of

several years. It seemed a small loss to others, but to Jo it was a

dreadful calamity, and she felt that it never could be made up to her.

Beth mourned as for a departed kitten, and Meg refused to defend her

pet. Mrs. March looked grave and grieved, and Amy felt that no one

would love her till she had asked pardon for the act which she now

regretted more than any of them.

When the tea bell rang, Jo appeared, looking so grim and unapproachable

that it took all Amy’s courage to say meekly...

“Please forgive me, Jo. I’m very, very sorry.”

“I never shall forgive you,” was Jo’s stern answer, and from that

moment she ignored Amy entirely.

No one spoke of the great trouble, not even Mrs. March, for all had

learned by experience that when Jo was in that mood words were wasted,

and the wisest course was to wait till some little accident, or her own

generous nature, softened Jo’s resentment and healed the breach. It was

not a happy evening, for though they sewed as usual, while their mother

read aloud from Bremer, Scott, or Edgeworth, something was wanting, and

the sweet home peace was disturbed. They felt this most when singing

time came, for Beth could only play, Jo stood dumb as a stone, and Amy

broke down, so Meg and Mother sang alone. But in spite of their efforts

to be as cheery as larks, the flutelike voices did not seem to chord as

well as usual, and all felt out of tune.

As Jo received her good-night kiss, Mrs. March whispered gently, “My

dear, don’t let the sun go down upon your anger. Forgive each other,

help each other, and begin again tomorrow.”

Jo wanted to lay her head down on that motherly bosom, and cry her

grief and anger all away, but tears were an unmanly weakness, and she

felt so deeply injured that she really couldn’t quite forgive yet. So

she winked hard, shook her head, and said gruffly because Amy was

listening, “It was an abominable thing, and she doesn’t deserve to be

forgiven.”

With that she marched off to bed, and there was no merry or

confidential gossip that night.

Amy was much offended that her overtures of peace had been repulsed,

and began to wish she had not humbled herself, to feel more injured

than ever, and to plume herself on her superior virtue in a way which

was particularly exasperating. Jo still looked like a thunder cloud,

and nothing went well all day. It was bitter cold in the morning, she

dropped her precious turnover in the gutter, Aunt March had an attack

of the fidgets, Meg was sensitive, Beth would look grieved and wistful

when she got home, and Amy kept making remarks about people who were

always talking about being good and yet wouldn’t even try when other

people set them a virtuous example.

“Everybody is so hateful, I’ll ask Laurie to go skating. He is always

kind and jolly, and will put me to rights, I know,” said Jo to herself,

and off she went.

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

exclamation.

“There! She promised I should go next time, for this is the last ice we

shall have. But it’s no use to ask such a crosspatch to take me.”

“Don’t say that. You were very naughty, and it is hard to forgive the

loss of her precious little book, but I think she might do it now, and

I guess she will, if you try her at the right minute,” said Meg. “Go

after them. Don’t say anything till Jo has got good-natured with

Laurie, than take a quiet minute and just kiss her, or do some kind

thing, and I’m sure she’ll be friends again with all her heart.”

“I’ll try,” said Amy, for the advice suited her, and after a flurry to

get ready, she ran after the friends, who were just disappearing over

the hill.

It was not far to the river, but both were ready before Amy reached

them. Jo saw her coming, and turned her back. Laurie did not see, for

he was carefully skating along the shore, sounding the ice, for a warm

spell had preceded the cold snap.

“I’ll go on to the first bend, and see if it’s all right before we

begin to race,” Amy heard him say, as he shot away, looking like a

young Russian in his fur-trimmed coat and cap.

Jo heard Amy panting after her run, stamping her feet and blowing on

her fingers as she tried to put her skates on, but Jo never turned and

went slowly zigzagging down the river, taking a bitter, unhappy sort of

satisfaction in her sister’s troubles. She had cherished her anger till

it grew strong and took possession of her, as evil thoughts and

feelings always do unless cast out at once. As Laurie turned the bend,

he shouted back...

“Keep near the shore. It isn’t safe in the middle.” Jo heard, but Amy

was struggling to her feet and did not catch a word. Jo glanced over

her shoulder, and the little demon she was harboring said in her ear...

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

Laurie had vanished round the bend, Jo was just at the turn, and Amy,

far behind, striking out toward the smoother ice in the middle of the

river. For a minute Jo stood still with a strange feeling in her heart,

then she resolved to go on, but something held and turned her round,

just in time to see Amy throw up her hands and go down, with a sudden

crash of rotten ice, the splash of water, and a cry that made Jo’s

heart stand still with fear. She tried to call Laurie, but her voice

was gone. She tried to rush forward, but her feet seemed to have no

strength in them, and for a second, she could only stand motionless,

staring with a terror-stricken face at the little blue hood above the

black water. Something rushed swiftly by her, and Laurie’s voice cried

out...

“Bring a rail. Quick, quick!”

How she did it, she never knew, but for the next few minutes she worked

as if possessed, blindly obeying Laurie, who was quite self-possessed,

and lying flat, held Amy up by his arm and hockey stick till Jo dragged

a rail from the fence, and together they got the child out, more

frightened than hurt.

“Now then, we must walk her home as fast as we can. Pile our things on

her, while I get off these confounded skates,” cried Laurie, wrapping

his coat round Amy, and tugging away at the straps which never seemed

so intricate before.

Shivering, dripping, and crying, they got Amy home, and after an

exciting time of it, she fell asleep, rolled in blankets before a hot

fire. During the bustle Jo had scarcely spoken but flown about, looking

pale and wild, with her things half off, her dress torn, and her hands

cut and bruised by ice and rails and refractory buckles. When Amy was

comfortably asleep, the house quiet, and Mrs. March sitting by the bed,

she called Jo to her and began to bind up the hurt hands.

“Are you sure she is safe?” whispered Jo, looking remorsefully at the

golden head, which might have been swept away from her sight forever

under the treacherous ice.

“Quite safe, dear. She is not hurt, and won’t even take cold, I think,

you were so sensible in covering and getting her home quickly,” replied

her mother cheerfully.

“Laurie did it all. I only let her go. Mother, if she should die, it

would be my fault.” And Jo dropped down beside the bed in a passion of

penitent tears, telling all that had happened, bitterly condemning her

hardness of heart, and sobbing out her gratitude for being spared the

heavy punishment which might have come upon her.

“It’s my dreadful temper! I try to cure it, I think I have, and then it

breaks out worse than ever. Oh, Mother, what shall I do? What shall I

do?” cried poor Jo, in despair.

“Watch and pray, dear, never get tired of trying, and never think it is

impossible to conquer your fault,” said Mrs. March, drawing the blowzy

head to her shoulder and kissing the wet cheek so tenderly that Jo

cried even harder.

“You don’t know, you can’t guess how bad it is! It seems as if I could

do anything when I’m in a passion. I get so savage, I could hurt anyone

and enjoy it. I’m afraid I shall do something dreadful some day, and

spoil my life, and make everybody hate me. Oh, Mother, help me, do help

me!”

“I will, my child, I will. Don’t cry so bitterly, but remember this

day, and resolve with all your soul that you will never know another

like it. Jo, dear, we all have our temptations, some far greater than

yours, and it often takes us all our lives to conquer them. You think

your temper is the worst in the world, but mine used to be just like

it.”

“Yours, Mother? Why, you are never angry!” And for the moment Jo forgot

remorse in surprise.

“I’ve been trying to cure it for forty years, and have only succeeded

in controlling it. I am angry nearly every day of my life, Jo, but I

have learned not to show it, and I still hope to learn not to feel it,

though it may take me another forty years to do so.”

The patience and the humility of the face she loved so well was a

better lesson to Jo than the wisest lecture, the sharpest reproof. She

felt comforted at once by the sympathy and confidence given her. The

knowledge that her mother had a fault like hers, and tried to mend it,

made her own easier to bear and strengthened her resolution to cure it,

though forty years seemed rather a long time to watch and pray to a

girl of fifteen.

“Mother, are you angry when you fold your lips tight together and go

out of the room sometimes, when Aunt March scolds or people worry you?”

asked Jo, feeling nearer and dearer to her mother than ever before.

“Yes, I’ve learned to check the hasty words that rise to my lips, and

when I feel that they mean to break out against my will, I just go away

for a minute, and give myself a little shake for being so weak and

wicked,” answered Mrs. March with a sigh and a smile, as she smoothed

and fastened up Jo’s disheveled hair.

“How did you learn to keep still? That is what troubles me, for the

sharp words fly out before I know what I’m about, and the more I say

the worse I get, till it’s a pleasure to hurt people’s feelings and say

dreadful things. Tell me how you do it, Marmee dear.”

“My good mother used to help me...”

“As you do us...” interrupted Jo, with a grateful kiss.

“But I lost her when I was a little older than you are, and for years

had to struggle on alone, for I was too proud to confess my weakness to

anyone else. I had a hard time, Jo, and shed a good many bitter tears

over my failures, for in spite of my efforts I never seemed to get on.

Then your father came, and I was so happy that I found it easy to be

good. But by-and-by, when I had four little daughters round me and we

were poor, then the old trouble began again, for I am not patient by

nature, and it tried me very much to see my children wanting anything.”

“Poor Mother! What helped you then?”

“Your father, Jo. He never loses patience, never doubts or complains,

but always hopes, and works and waits so cheerfully that one is ashamed

to do otherwise before him. He helped and comforted me, and showed me

that I must try to practice all the virtues I would have my little

girls possess, for I was their example. It was easier to try for your

sakes than for my own. A startled or surprised look from one of you

when I spoke sharply rebuked me more than any words could have done,

and the love, respect, and confidence of my children was the sweetest

reward I could receive for my efforts to be the woman I would have them

copy.”

“Oh, Mother, if I’m ever half as good as you, I shall be satisfied,”

cried Jo, much touched.

“I hope you will be a great deal better, dear, but you must keep watch

over your ‘bosom enemy’, as father calls it, or it may sadden, if not

spoil your life. You have had a warning. Remember it, and try with

heart and soul to master this quick temper, before it brings you

greater sorrow and regret than you have known today.”

“I will try, Mother, I truly will. But you must help me, remind me, and

keep me from flying out. I used to see Father sometimes put his finger

on his lips, and look at you with a very kind but sober face, and you

always folded your lips tight and went away. Was he reminding you

then?” asked Jo softly.

“Yes. I asked him to help me so, and he never forgot it, but saved me

from many a sharp word by that little gesture and kind look.”

Jo saw that her mother’s eyes filled and her lips trembled as she

spoke, and fearing that she had said too much, she whispered anxiously,

“Was it wrong to watch you and to speak of it? I didn’t mean to be

rude, but it’s so comfortable to say all I think to you, and feel so

safe and happy here.”

“My Jo, you may say anything to your mother, for it is my greatest

happiness and pride to feel that my girls confide in me and know how

much I love them.”

“I thought I’d grieved you.”

“No, dear, but speaking of Father reminded me how much I miss him, how

much I owe him, and how faithfully I should watch and work to keep his

little daughters safe and good for him.”

“Yet you told him to go, Mother, and didn’t cry when he went, and never

complain now, or seem as if you needed any help,” said Jo, wondering.

“I gave my best to the country I love, and kept my tears till he was

gone. Why should I complain, when we both have merely done our duty and

will surely be the happier for it in the end? If I don’t seem to need

help, it is because I have a better friend, even than Father, to

comfort and sustain me. My child, the troubles and temptations of your

life are beginning and may be many, but you can overcome and outlive

them all if you learn to feel the strength and tenderness of your

Heavenly Father as you do that of your earthly one. The more you love

and trust Him, the nearer you will feel to Him, and the less you will

depend on human power and wisdom. His love and care never tire or

change, can never be taken from you, but may become the source of

lifelong peace, happiness, and strength. Believe this heartily, and go

to God with all your little cares, and hopes, and sins, and sorrows, as

freely and confidingly as you come to your mother.”

Jo’s only answer was to hold her mother close, and in the silence which

followed the sincerest prayer she had ever prayed left her heart

without words. For in that sad yet happy hour, she had learned not only

the bitterness of remorse and despair, but the sweetness of self-denial

and self-control, and led by her mother’s hand, she had drawn nearer to

the Friend who always welcomes every child with a love stronger than

that of any father, tenderer than that of any mother.

Amy stirred and sighed in her sleep, and as if eager to begin at once

to mend her fault, Jo looked up with an expression on her face which it

had never worn before.

“I let the sun go down on my anger. I wouldn’t forgive her, and today,

if it hadn’t been for Laurie, it might have been too late! How could I

be so wicked?” said Jo, half aloud, as she leaned over her sister

softly stroking the wet hair scattered on the pillow.

As if she heard, Amy opened her eyes, and held out her arms, with a

smile that went straight to Jo’s heart. Neither said a word, but they

hugged one another close, in spite of the blankets, and everything was

forgiven and forgotten in one hearty kiss.

CHAPTER NINE

MEG GOES TO VANITY FAIR

“I do think it was the most fortunate thing in the world that those

children should have the measles just now,” said Meg, one April day, as

she stood packing the ‘go abroady’ trunk in her room, surrounded by her

sisters.

“And so nice of Annie Moffat not to forget her promise. A whole

fortnight of fun will be regularly splendid,” replied Jo, looking like

a windmill as she folded skirts with her long arms.

“And such lovely weather, I’m so glad of that,” added Beth, tidily

sorting neck and hair ribbons in her best box, lent for the great

occasion.

“I wish I was going to have a fine time and wear all these nice

things,” said Amy with her mouth full of pins, as she artistically

replenished her sister’s cushion.

“I wish you were all going, but as you can’t, I shall keep my

adventures to tell you when I come back. I’m sure it’s the least I can

do when you have been so kind, lending me things and helping me get

ready,” said Meg, glancing round the room at the very simple outfit,

which seemed nearly perfect in their eyes.

“What did Mother give you out of the treasure box?” asked Amy, who had

not been present at the opening of a certain cedar chest in which Mrs.

March kept a few relics of past splendor, as gifts for her girls when

the proper time came.

“A pair of silk stockings, that pretty carved fan, and a lovely blue

sash. I wanted the violet silk, but there isn’t time to make it over,

so I must be contented with my old tarlaton.”

“It will look nice over my new muslin skirt, and the sash will set it

off beautifully. I wish I hadn’t smashed my coral bracelet, for you

might have had it,” said Jo, who loved to give and lend, but whose

possessions were usually too dilapidated to be of much use.

“There is a lovely old-fashioned pearl set in the treasure chest, but

Mother said real flowers were the prettiest ornament for a young girl,

and Laurie promised to send me all I want,” replied Meg. “Now, let me

see, there’s my new gray walking suit, just curl up the feather in my

hat, Beth, then my poplin for Sunday and the small party, it looks

heavy for spring, doesn’t it? The violet silk would be so nice. Oh,

dear!”

“Never mind, you’ve got the tarlaton for the big party, and you always

look like an angel in white,” said Amy, brooding over the little store

of finery in which her soul delighted.

“It isn’t low-necked, and it doesn’t sweep enough, but it will have to

do. My blue housedress looks so well, turned and freshly trimmed, that

I feel as if I’d got a new one. My silk sacque isn’t a bit the fashion,

and my bonnet doesn’t look like Sallie’s. I didn’t like to say

anything, but I was sadly disappointed in my umbrella. I told Mother

black with a white handle, but she forgot and bought a green one with a

yellowish handle. It’s strong and neat, so I ought not to complain, but

I know I shall feel ashamed of it beside Annie’s silk one with a gold

top,” sighed Meg, surveying the little umbrella with great disfavor.

“Change it,” advised Jo.

“I won’t be so silly, or hurt Marmee’s feelings, when she took so much

pains to get my things. It’s a nonsensical notion of mine, and I’m not

going to give up to it. My silk stockings and two pairs of new gloves

are my comfort. You are a dear to lend me yours, Jo. I feel so rich and

sort of elegant, with two new pairs, and the old ones cleaned up for

common.” And Meg took a refreshing peep at her glove box.

“Annie Moffat has blue and pink bows on her nightcaps. Would you put

some on mine?” she asked, as Beth brought up a pile of snowy muslins,

fresh from Hannah’s hands.

“No, I wouldn’t, for the smart caps won’t match the plain gowns without

any trimming on them. Poor folks shouldn’t rig,” said Jo decidedly.

“I wonder if I shall ever be happy enough to have real lace on my

clothes and bows on my caps?” said Meg impatiently.

“You said the other day that you’d be perfectly happy if you could only

go to Annie Moffat’s,” observed Beth in her quiet way.

“So I did! Well, I am happy, and I won’t fret, but it does seem as if

the more one gets the more one wants, doesn’t it? There now, the trays

are ready, and everything in but my ball dress, which I shall leave for

Mother to pack,” said Meg, cheering up, as she glanced from the

half-filled trunk to the many times pressed and mended white tarlaton,

which she called her ‘ball dress’ with an important air.

The next day was fine, and Meg departed in style for a fortnight of

novelty and pleasure. Mrs. March had consented to the visit rather

reluctantly, fearing that Margaret would come back more discontented

than she went. But she begged so hard, and Sallie had promised to take

good care of her, and a little pleasure seemed so delightful after a

winter of irksome work that the mother yielded, and the daughter went

to take her first taste of fashionable life.

The Moffats were very fashionable, and simple Meg was rather daunted,

at first, by the splendor of the house and the elegance of its

occupants. But they were kindly people, in spite of the frivolous life

they led, and soon put their guest at her ease. Perhaps Meg felt,

without understanding why, that they were not particularly cultivated

or intelligent people, and that all their gilding could not quite

conceal the ordinary material of which they were made. It certainly was

agreeable to fare sumptuously, drive in a fine carriage, wear her best

frock every day, and do nothing but enjoy herself. It suited her

exactly, and soon she began to imitate the manners and conversation of

those about her, to put on little airs and graces, use French phrases,

crimp her hair, take in her dresses, and talk about the fashions as

well as she could. The more she saw of Annie Moffat’s pretty things,

the more she envied her and sighed to be rich. Home now looked bare and

dismal as she thought of it, work grew harder than ever, and she felt

that she was a very destitute and much-injured girl, in spite of the

new gloves and silk stockings.

She had not much time for repining, however, for the three young girls

were busily employed in ‘having a good time’. They shopped, walked,

rode, and called all day, went to theaters and operas or frolicked at

home in the evening, for Annie had many friends and knew how to

entertain them. Her older sisters were very fine young ladies, and one

was engaged, which was extremely interesting and romantic, Meg thought.

Mr. Moffat was a fat, jolly old gentleman, who knew her father, and

Mrs. Moffat, a fat, jolly old lady, who took as great a fancy to Meg as

her daughter had done. Everyone petted her, and ‘Daisey’, as they

called her, was in a fair way to have her head turned.

When the evening for the small party came, she found that the poplin

wouldn’t do at all, for the other girls were putting on thin dresses

and making themselves very fine indeed. So out came the tarlatan,

looking older, limper, and shabbier than ever beside Sallie’s crisp new

one. Meg saw the girls glance at it and then at one another, and her

cheeks began to burn, for with all her gentleness she was very proud.

No one said a word about it, but Sallie offered to dress her hair, and

Annie to tie her sash, and Belle, the engaged sister, praised her white

arms. But in their kindness Meg saw only pity for her poverty, and her

heart felt very heavy as she stood by herself, while the others

laughed, chattered, and flew about like gauzy butterflies. The hard,

bitter feeling was getting pretty bad, when the maid brought in a box

of flowers. Before she could speak, Annie had the cover off, and all

were exclaiming at the lovely roses, heath, and fern within.

“It’s for Belle, of course, George always sends her some, but these are

altogether ravishing,” cried Annie, with a great sniff.

“They are for Miss March, the man said. And here’s a note,” put in the

maid, holding it to Meg.

“What fun! Who are they from? Didn’t know you had a lover,” cried the

girls, fluttering about Meg in a high state of curiosity and surprise.

“The note is from Mother, and the flowers from Laurie,” said Meg

simply, yet much gratified that he had not forgotten her.

“Oh, indeed!” said Annie with a funny look, as Meg slipped the note

into her pocket as a sort of talisman against envy, vanity, and false

pride, for the few loving words had done her good, and the flowers

cheered her up by their beauty.

Feeling almost happy again, she laid by a few ferns and roses for

herself, and quickly made up the rest in dainty bouquets for the

breasts, hair, or skirts of her friends, offering them so prettily that

Clara, the elder sister, told her she was ‘the sweetest little thing

she ever saw’, and they looked quite charmed with her small attention.

Somehow the kind act finished her despondency, and when all the rest

went to show themselves to Mrs. Moffat, she saw a happy, bright-eyed

face in the mirror, as she laid her ferns against her rippling hair and

fastened the roses in the dress that didn’t strike her as so very

shabby now.

She enjoyed herself very much that evening, for she danced to her

heart’s content. Everyone was very kind, and she had three compliments.

Annie made her sing, and some one said she had a remarkably fine voice.

Major Lincoln asked who ‘the fresh little girl with the beautiful eyes’

was, and Mr. Moffat insisted on dancing with her because she ‘didn’t

dawdle, but had some spring in her’, as he gracefully expressed it. So

altogether she had a very nice time, till she overheard a bit of

conversation, which disturbed her extremely. She was sitting just

inside the conservatory, waiting for her partner to bring her an ice,

when she heard a voice ask on the other side of the flowery wall...

“How old is he?”

“Sixteen or seventeen, I should say,” replied another voice.

“It would be a grand thing for one of those girls, wouldn’t it? Sallie

says they are very intimate now, and the old man quite dotes on them.”

“Mrs. M. has made her plans, I dare say, and will play her cards well,

early as it is. The girl evidently doesn’t think of it yet,” said Mrs.

Moffat.

“She told that fib about her momma, as if she did know, and colored up

when the flowers came quite prettily. Poor thing! She’d be so nice if

she was only got up in style. Do you think she’d be offended if we

offered to lend her a dress for Thursday?” asked another voice.

“She’s proud, but I don’t believe she’d mind, for that dowdy tarlaton

is all she has got. She may tear it tonight, and that will be a good

excuse for offering a decent one.”

Here Meg’s partner appeared, to find her looking much flushed and

rather agitated. She was proud, and her pride was useful just then, for

it helped her hide her mortification, anger, and disgust at what she

had just heard. For, innocent and unsuspicious as she was, she could

not help understanding the gossip of her friends. She tried to forget

it, but could not, and kept repeating to herself, “Mrs. M. has made her

plans,” “that fib about her mamma,” and “dowdy tarlaton,” till she was

ready to cry and rush home to tell her troubles and ask for advice. As

that was impossible, she did her best to seem gay, and being rather

excited, she succeeded so well that no one dreamed what an effort she

was making. She was very glad when it was all over and she was quiet in

her bed, where she could think and wonder and fume till her head ached

and her hot cheeks were cooled by a few natural tears. Those foolish,

yet well meant words, had opened a new world to Meg, and much disturbed

the peace of the old one in which till now she had lived as happily as

a child. Her innocent friendship with Laurie was spoiled by the silly

speeches she had overheard. Her faith in her mother was a little shaken

by the worldly plans attributed to her by Mrs. Moffat, who judged

others by herself, and the sensible resolution to be contented with the

simple wardrobe which suited a poor man’s daughter was weakened by the

unnecessary pity of girls who thought a shabby dress one of the

greatest calamities under heaven.

Poor Meg had a restless night, and got up heavy-eyed, unhappy, half

resentful toward her friends, and half ashamed of herself for not

speaking out frankly and setting everything right. Everybody dawdled

that morning, and it was noon before the girls found energy enough even

to take up their worsted work. Something in the manner of her friends

struck Meg at once. They treated her with more respect, she thought,

took quite a tender interest in what she said, and looked at her with

eyes that plainly betrayed curiosity. All this surprised and flattered

her, though she did not understand it till Miss Belle looked up from

her writing, and said, with a sentimental air...

“Daisy, dear, I’ve sent an invitation to your friend, Mr. Laurence, for

Thursday. We should like to know him, and it’s only a proper compliment

to you.”

Meg colored, but a mischievous fancy to tease the girls made her reply

demurely, “You are very kind, but I’m afraid he won’t come.”

“Why not, Cherie?” asked Miss Belle.

“He’s too old.”

“My child, what do you mean? What is his age, I beg to know!” cried

Miss Clara.

“Nearly seventy, I believe,” answered Meg, counting stitches to hide

the merriment in her eyes.

“You sly creature! Of course we meant the young man,” exclaimed Miss

Belle, laughing.

“There isn’t any, Laurie is only a little boy.” And Meg laughed also at

the queer look which the sisters exchanged as she thus described her

supposed lover.

“About your age,” Nan said.

“Nearer my sister Jo’s; I am seventeen in August,” returned Meg,

tossing her head.

“It’s very nice of him to send you flowers, isn’t it?” said Annie,

looking wise about nothing.

“Yes, he often does, to all of us, for their house is full, and we are

so fond of them. My mother and old Mr. Laurence are friends, you know,

so it is quite natural that we children should play together,” and Meg

hoped they would say no more.

“It’s evident Daisy isn’t out yet,” said Miss Clara to Belle with a

nod.

“Quite a pastoral state of innocence all round,” returned Miss Belle

with a shrug.

“I’m going out to get some little matters for my girls. Can I do

anything for you, young ladies?” asked Mrs. Moffat, lumbering in like

an elephant in silk and lace.

“No, thank you, ma’am,” replied Sallie. “I’ve got my new pink silk for

Thursday and don’t want a thing.”

“Nor I...” began Meg, but stopped because it occurred to her that she

did want several things and could not have them.

“What shall you wear?” asked Sallie.

“My old white one again, if I can mend it fit to be seen, it got sadly

torn last night,” said Meg, trying to speak quite easily, but feeling

very uncomfortable.

“Why don’t you send home for another?” said Sallie, who was not an

observing young lady.

“I haven’t got any other.” It cost Meg an effort to say that, but

Sallie did not see it and exclaimed in amiable surprise, “Only that?

How funny...” She did not finish her speech, for Belle shook her head

at her and broke in, saying kindly...

“Not at all. Where is the use of having a lot of dresses when she isn’t

out yet? There’s no need of sending home, Daisy, even if you had a

dozen, for I’ve got a sweet blue silk laid away, which I’ve outgrown,

and you shall wear it to please me, won’t you, dear?”

“You are very kind, but I don’t mind my old dress if you don’t, it does

well enough for a little girl like me,” said Meg.

“Now do let me please myself by dressing you up in style. I admire to

do it, and you’d be a regular little beauty with a touch here and

there. I shan’t let anyone see you till you are done, and then we’ll

burst upon them like Cinderella and her godmother going to the ball,”

said Belle in her persuasive tone.

Meg couldn’t refuse the offer so kindly made, for a desire to see if

she would be ‘a little beauty’ after touching up caused her to accept

and forget all her former uncomfortable feelings toward the Moffats.

On the Thursday evening, Belle shut herself up with her maid, and

between them they turned Meg into a fine lady. They crimped and curled

her hair, they polished her neck and arms with some fragrant powder,

touched her lips with coralline salve to make them redder, and Hortense

would have added ‘a soupcon of rouge’, if Meg had not rebelled. They

laced her into a sky-blue dress, which was so tight she could hardly

breathe and so low in the neck that modest Meg blushed at herself in

the mirror. A set of silver filagree was added, bracelets, necklace,

brooch, and even earrings, for Hortense tied them on with a bit of pink

silk which did not show. A cluster of tea-rose buds at the bosom, and a

ruche, reconciled Meg to the display of her pretty, white shoulders,

and a pair of high-heeled silk boots satisfied the last wish of her

heart. A lace handkerchief, a plumy fan, and a bouquet in a shoulder

holder finished her off, and Miss Belle surveyed her with the

satisfaction of a little girl with a newly dressed doll.

“Mademoiselle is charmante, tres jolie, is she not?” cried Hortense,

clasping her hands in an affected rapture.

“Come and show yourself,” said Miss Belle, leading the way to the room

where the others were waiting.

As Meg went rustling after, with her long skirts trailing, her earrings

tinkling, her curls waving, and her heart beating, she felt as if her

fun had really begun at last, for the mirror had plainly told her that

she was ‘a little beauty’. Her friends repeated the pleasing phrase

enthusiastically, and for several minutes she stood, like a jackdaw in

the fable, enjoying her borrowed plumes, while the rest chattered like

a party of magpies.

“While I dress, do you drill her, Nan, in the management of her skirt

and those French heels, or she will trip herself up. Take your silver

butterfly, and catch up that long curl on the left side of her head,

Clara, and don’t any of you disturb the charming work of my hands,”

said Belle, as she hurried away, looking well pleased with her success.

“You don’t look a bit like yourself, but you are very nice. I’m nowhere

beside you, for Belle has heaps of taste, and you’re quite French, I

assure you. Let your flowers hang, don’t be so careful of them, and be

sure you don’t trip,” returned Sallie, trying not to care that Meg was

prettier than herself.

Keeping that warning carefully in mind, Margaret got safely down stairs

and sailed into the drawing rooms where the Moffats and a few early

guests were assembled. She very soon discovered that there is a charm

about fine clothes which attracts a certain class of people and secures

their respect. Several young ladies, who had taken no notice of her

before, were very affectionate all of a sudden. Several young

gentlemen, who had only stared at her at the other party, now not only

stared, but asked to be introduced, and said all manner of foolish but

agreeable things to her, and several old ladies, who sat on the sofas,

and criticized the rest of the party, inquired who she was with an air

of interest. She heard Mrs. Moffat reply to one of them...

“Daisy March—father a colonel in the army—one of our first families,

but reverses of fortune, you know; intimate friends of the Laurences;

sweet creature, I assure you; my Ned is quite wild about her.”

“Dear me!” said the old lady, putting up her glass for another

observation of Meg, who tried to look as if she had not heard and been

rather shocked at Mrs. Moffat’s fibs. The ‘queer feeling’ did not pass

away, but she imagined herself acting the new part of fine lady and so

got on pretty well, though the tight dress gave her a side-ache, the

train kept getting under her feet, and she was in constant fear lest

her earrings should fly off and get lost or broken. She was flirting

her fan and laughing at the feeble jokes of a young gentleman who tried

to be witty, when she suddenly stopped laughing and looked confused,

for just opposite, she saw Laurie. He was staring at her with

undisguised surprise, and disapproval also, she thought, for though he

bowed and smiled, yet something in his honest eyes made her blush and

wish she had her old dress on. To complete her confusion, she saw Belle

nudge Annie, and both glance from her to Laurie, who, she was happy to

see, looked unusually boyish and shy.

“Silly creatures, to put such thoughts into my head. I won’t care for

it, or let it change me a bit,” thought Meg, and rustled across the

room to shake hands with her friend.

“I’m glad you came, I was afraid you wouldn’t.” she said, with her most

grown-up air.

“Jo wanted me to come, and tell her how you looked, so I did,” answered

Laurie, without turning his eyes upon her, though he half smiled at her

maternal tone.

“What shall you tell her?” asked Meg, full of curiosity to know his

opinion of her, yet feeling ill at ease with him for the first time.

“I shall say I didn’t know you, for you look so grown-up and unlike

yourself, I’m quite afraid of you,” he said, fumbling at his glove

button.

“How absurd of you! The girls dressed me up for fun, and I rather like

it. Wouldn’t Jo stare if she saw me?” said Meg, bent on making him say

whether he thought her improved or not.

“Yes, I think she would,” returned Laurie gravely.

“Don’t you like me so?” asked Meg.

“No, I don’t,” was the blunt reply.

“Why not?” in an anxious tone.

He glanced at her frizzled head, bare shoulders, and fantastically

trimmed dress with an expression that abashed her more than his answer,

which had not a particle of his usual politeness in it.

“I don’t like fuss and feathers.”

That was altogether too much from a lad younger than herself, and Meg

walked away, saying petulantly, “You are the rudest boy I ever saw.”

Feeling very much ruffled, she went and stood at a quiet window to cool

her cheeks, for the tight dress gave her an uncomfortably brilliant

color. As she stood there, Major Lincoln passed by, and a minute after

she heard him saying to his mother...

“They are making a fool of that little girl. I wanted you to see her,

but they have spoiled her entirely. She’s nothing but a doll tonight.”

“Oh, dear!” sighed Meg. “I wish I’d been sensible and worn my own

things, then I should not have disgusted other people, or felt so

uncomfortable and ashamed of myself.”

She leaned her forehead on the cool pane, and stood half hidden by the

curtains, never minding that her favorite waltz had begun, till some

one touched her, and turning, she saw Laurie, looking penitent, as he

said, with his very best bow and his hand out...

“Please forgive my rudeness, and come and dance with me.”

“I’m afraid it will be too disagreeable to you,” said Meg, trying to

look offended and failing entirely.

“Not a bit of it, I’m dying to do it. Come, I’ll be good. I don’t like

your gown, but I do think you are just splendid.” And he waved his

hands, as if words failed to express his admiration.

Meg smiled and relented, and whispered as they stood waiting to catch

the time, “Take care my skirt doesn’t trip you up. It’s the plague of

my life and I was a goose to wear it.”

“Pin it round your neck, and then it will be useful,” said Laurie,

looking down at the little blue boots, which he evidently approved of.

Away they went fleetly and gracefully, for having practiced at home,

they were well matched, and the blithe young couple were a pleasant

sight to see, as they twirled merrily round and round, feeling more

friendly than ever after their small tiff.

“Laurie, I want you to do me a favor, will you?” said Meg, as he stood

fanning her when her breath gave out, which it did very soon though she

would not own why.

“Won’t I!” said Laurie, with alacrity.

“Please don’t tell them at home about my dress tonight. They won’t

understand the joke, and it will worry Mother.”

“Then why did you do it?” said Laurie’s eyes, so plainly that Meg

hastily added...

“I shall tell them myself all about it, and ‘fess’ to Mother how silly

I’ve been. But I’d rather do it myself. So you’ll not tell, will you?”

“I give you my word I won’t, only what shall I say when they ask me?”

“Just say I looked pretty well and was having a good time.”

“I’ll say the first with all my heart, but how about the other? You

don’t look as if you were having a good time. Are you?” And Laurie

looked at her with an expression which made her answer in a whisper...

“No, not just now. Don’t think I’m horrid. I only wanted a little fun,

but this sort doesn’t pay, I find, and I’m getting tired of it.”

“Here comes Ned Moffat. What does he want?” said Laurie, knitting his

black brows as if he did not regard his young host in the light of a

pleasant addition to the party.

“He put his name down for three dances, and I suppose he’s coming for

them. What a bore!” said Meg, assuming a languid air which amused

Laurie immensely.

He did not speak to her again till suppertime, when he saw her drinking

champagne with Ned and his friend Fisher, who were behaving ‘like a

pair of fools’, as Laurie said to himself, for he felt a brotherly sort

of right to watch over the Marches and fight their battles whenever a

defender was needed.

“You’ll have a splitting headache tomorrow, if you drink much of that.

I wouldn’t, Meg, your mother doesn’t like it, you know,” he whispered,

leaning over her chair, as Ned turned to refill her glass and Fisher

stooped to pick up her fan.

“I’m not Meg tonight, I’m ‘a doll’ who does all sorts of crazy things.

Tomorrow I shall put away my ‘fuss and feathers’ and be desperately

good again,” she answered with an affected little laugh.

“Wish tomorrow was here, then,” muttered Laurie, walking off,

ill-pleased at the change he saw in her.

Meg danced and flirted, chattered and giggled, as the other girls did.

After supper she undertook the German, and blundered through it, nearly

upsetting her partner with her long skirt, and romping in a way that

scandalized Laurie, who looked on and meditated a lecture. But he got

no chance to deliver it, for Meg kept away from him till he came to say

good night.

“Remember!” she said, trying to smile, for the splitting headache had

already begun.

“Silence a la mort,” replied Laurie, with a melodramatic flourish, as

he went away.

This little bit of byplay excited Annie’s curiosity, but Meg was too

tired for gossip and went to bed, feeling as if she had been to a

masquerade and hadn’t enjoyed herself as much as she expected. She was

sick all the next day, and on Saturday went home, quite used up with

her fortnight’s fun and feeling that she had ‘sat in the lap of luxury’

long enough.

“It does seem pleasant to be quiet, and not have company manners on all

the time. Home is a nice place, though it isn’t splendid,” said Meg,

looking about her with a restful expression, as she sat with her mother

and Jo on the Sunday evening.

“I’m glad to hear you say so, dear, for I was afraid home would seem

dull and poor to you after your fine quarters,” replied her mother, who

had given her many anxious looks that day. For motherly eyes are quick

to see any change in children’s faces.

Meg had told her adventures gayly and said over and over what a

charming time she had had, but something still seemed to weigh upon her

spirits, and when the younger girls were gone to bed, she sat

thoughtfully staring at the fire, saying little and looking worried. As

the clock struck nine and Jo proposed bed, Meg suddenly left her chair

and, taking Beth’s stool, leaned her elbows on her mother’s knee,

saying bravely...

“Marmee, I want to ‘fess’.”

“I thought so. What is it, dear?”

“Shall I go away?” asked Jo discreetly.

“Of course not. Don’t I always tell you everything? I was ashamed to

speak of it before the younger children, but I want you to know all the

dreadful things I did at the Moffats’.”

“We are prepared,” said Mrs. March, smiling but looking a little

anxious.

“I told you they dressed me up, but I didn’t tell you that they

powdered and squeezed and frizzled, and made me look like a

fashion-plate. Laurie thought I wasn’t proper. I know he did, though he

didn’t say so, and one man called me ‘a doll’. I knew it was silly, but

they flattered me and said I was a beauty, and quantities of nonsense,

so I let them make a fool of me.”

“Is that all?” asked Jo, as Mrs. March looked silently at the downcast

face of her pretty daughter, and could not find it in her heart to

blame her little follies.

“No, I drank champagne and romped and tried to flirt, and was

altogether abominable,” said Meg self-reproachfully.

“There is something more, I think.” And Mrs. March smoothed the soft

cheek, which suddenly grew rosy as Meg answered slowly...

“Yes. It’s very silly, but I want to tell it, because I hate to have

people say and think such things about us and Laurie.”

Then she told the various bits of gossip she had heard at the Moffats’,

and as she spoke, Jo saw her mother fold her lips tightly, as if ill

pleased that such ideas should be put into Meg’s innocent mind.

“Well, if that isn’t the greatest rubbish I ever heard,” cried Jo

indignantly. “Why didn’t you pop out and tell them so on the spot?”

“I couldn’t, it was so embarrassing for me. I couldn’t help hearing at

first, and then I was so angry and ashamed, I didn’t remember that I

ought to go away.”

“Just wait till I see Annie Moffat, and I’ll show you how to settle

such ridiculous stuff. The idea of having ‘plans’ and being kind to

Laurie because he’s rich and may marry us by-and-by! Won’t he shout

when I tell him what those silly things say about us poor children?”

And Jo laughed, as if on second thoughts the thing struck her as a good

joke.

“If you tell Laurie, I’ll never forgive you! She mustn’t, must she,

Mother?” said Meg, looking distressed.

“No, never repeat that foolish gossip, and forget it as soon as you

can,” said Mrs. March gravely. “I was very unwise to let you go among

people of whom I know so little, kind, I dare say, but worldly,

ill-bred, and full of these vulgar ideas about young people. I am more

sorry than I can express for the mischief this visit may have done you,

Meg.”

“Don’t be sorry, I won’t let it hurt me. I’ll forget all the bad and

remember only the good, for I did enjoy a great deal, and thank you

very much for letting me go. I’ll not be sentimental or dissatisfied,

Mother. I know I’m a silly little girl, and I’ll stay with you till I’m

fit to take care of myself. But it is nice to be praised and admired,

and I can’t help saying I like it,” said Meg, looking half ashamed of

the confession.

“That is perfectly natural, and quite harmless, if the liking does not

become a passion and lead one to do foolish or unmaidenly things. Learn

to know and value the praise which is worth having, and to excite the

admiration of excellent people by being modest as well as pretty, Meg.”

Margaret sat thinking a moment, while Jo stood with her hands behind

her, looking both interested and a little perplexed, for it was a new

thing to see Meg blushing and talking about admiration, lovers, and

things of that sort. And Jo felt as if during that fortnight her sister

had grown up amazingly, and was drifting away from her into a world

where she could not follow.

“Mother, do you have ‘plans’, as Mrs. Moffat said?” asked Meg

bashfully.

“Yes, my dear, I have a great many, all mothers do, but mine differ

somewhat from Mrs. Moffat’s, I suspect. I will tell you some of them,

for the time has come when a word may set this romantic little head and

heart of yours right, on a very serious subject. You are young, Meg,

but not too young to understand me, and mothers’ lips are the fittest

to speak of such things to girls like you. Jo, your turn will come in

time, perhaps, so listen to my ‘plans’ and help me carry them out, if

they are good.”

Jo went and sat on one arm of the chair, looking as if she thought they

were about to join in some very solemn affair. Holding a hand of each,

and watching the two young faces wistfully, Mrs. March said, in her

serious yet cheery way...

“I want my daughters to be beautiful, accomplished, and good. To be

admired, loved, and respected. To have a happy youth, to be well and

wisely married, and to lead useful, pleasant lives, with as little care

and sorrow to try them as God sees fit to send. To be loved and chosen

by a good man is the best and sweetest thing which can happen to a

woman, and I sincerely hope my girls may know this beautiful

experience. It is natural to think of it, Meg, right to hope and wait

for it, and wise to prepare for it, so that when the happy time comes,

you may feel ready for the duties and worthy of the joy. My dear girls,

I am ambitious for you, but not to have you make a dash in the world,

marry rich men merely because they are rich, or have splendid houses,

which are not homes because love is wanting. Money is a needful and

precious thing, and when well used, a noble thing, but I never want you

to think it is the first or only prize to strive for. I’d rather see

you poor men’s wives, if you were happy, beloved, contented, than

queens on thrones, without self-respect and peace.”

“Poor girls don’t stand any chance, Belle says, unless they put

themselves forward,” sighed Meg.

“Then we’ll be old maids,” said Jo stoutly.

“Right, Jo. Better be happy old maids than unhappy wives, or unmaidenly

girls, running about to find husbands,” said Mrs. March decidedly.

“Don’t be troubled, Meg, poverty seldom daunts a sincere lover. Some of

the best and most honored women I know were poor girls, but so

love-worthy that they were not allowed to be old maids. Leave these

things to time. Make this home happy, so that you may be fit for homes

of your own, if they are offered you, and contented here if they are

not. One thing remember, my girls. Mother is always ready to be your

confidant, Father to be your friend, and both of us hope and trust that

our daughters, whether married or single, will be the pride and comfort

of our lives.”

“We will, Marmee, we will!” cried both, with all their hearts, as she

bade them good night.

CHAPTER TEN

THE P.C. AND P.O.

As spring came on, a new set of amusements became the fashion, and the

lengthening days gave long afternoons for work and play of all sorts.

The garden had to be put in order, and each sister had a quarter of the

little plot to do what she liked with. Hannah used to say, “I’d know

which each of them gardings belonged to, ef I see ’em in Chiny,” and so

she might, for the girls’ tastes differed as much as their characters.

Meg’s had roses and heliotrope, myrtle, and a little orange tree in it.

Jo’s bed was never alike two seasons, for she was always trying

experiments. This year it was to be a plantation of sun flowers, the

seeds of which cheerful and aspiring plant were to feed Aunt Cockle-top

and her family of chicks. Beth had old-fashioned fragrant flowers in

her garden, sweet peas and mignonette, larkspur, pinks, pansies, and

southernwood, with chickweed for the birds and catnip for the pussies.

Amy had a bower in hers, rather small and earwiggy, but very pretty to

look at, with honeysuckle and morning-glories hanging their colored

horns and bells in graceful wreaths all over it, tall white lilies,

delicate ferns, and as many brilliant, picturesque plants as would

consent to blossom there.

Gardening, walks, rows on the river, and flower hunts employed the fine

days, and for rainy ones, they had house diversions, some old, some

new, all more or less original. One of these was the ‘P.C.’, for as

secret societies were the fashion, it was thought proper to have one,

and as all of the girls admired Dickens, they called themselves the

Pickwick Club. With a few interruptions, they had kept this up for a

year, and met every Saturday evening in the big garret, on which

occasions the ceremonies were as follows: Three chairs were arranged in

a row before a table on which was a lamp, also four white badges, with

a big ‘P.C.’ in different colors on each, and the weekly newspaper

called, The Pickwick Portfolio, to which all contributed something,

while Jo, who reveled in pens and ink, was the editor. At seven

o’clock, the four members ascended to the clubroom, tied their badges

round their heads, and took their seats with great solemnity. Meg, as

the eldest, was Samuel Pickwick, Jo, being of a literary turn, Augustus

Snodgrass, Beth, because she was round and rosy, Tracy Tupman, and Amy,

who was always trying to do what she couldn’t, was Nathaniel Winkle.

Pickwick, the president, read the paper, which was filled with original

tales, poetry, local news, funny advertisements, and hints, in which

they good-naturedly reminded each other of their faults and short

comings. On one occasion, Mr. Pickwick put on a pair of spectacles

without any glass, rapped upon the table, hemmed, and having stared

hard at Mr. Snodgrass, who was tilting back in his chair, till he

arranged himself properly, began to read:

“THE PICKWICK PORTFOLIO”

MAY 20, 18—

POET’S CORNER

ANNIVERSARY ODE

Again we meet to celebrate

With badge and solemn rite,

Our fifty-second anniversary,

In Pickwick Hall, tonight.

We all are here in perfect health,

None gone from our small band:

Again we see each well-known face,

And press each friendly hand.

Our Pickwick, always at his post,

With reverence we greet,

As, spectacles on nose, he reads

Our well-filled weekly sheet.

Although he suffers from a cold,

We joy to hear him speak,

For words of wisdom from him fall,

In spite of croak or squeak.

Old six-foot Snodgrass looms on high,

With elephantine grace,

And beams upon the company,

With brown and jovial face.

Poetic fire lights up his eye,

He struggles ’gainst his lot.

Behold ambition on his brow,

And on his nose, a blot.

Next our peaceful Tupman comes,

So rosy, plump, and sweet,

Who chokes with laughter at the puns,

And tumbles off his seat.

Prim little Winkle too is here,

With every hair in place,

A model of propriety,

Though he hates to wash his face.

The year is gone, we still unite

To joke and laugh and read,

And tread the path of literature

That doth to glory lead.

Long may our paper prosper well,

Our club unbroken be,

And coming years their blessings pour

On the useful, gay ‘P. C.’.

A. SNODGRASS

THE MASKED MARRIAGE

(A Tale Of Venice)

Gondola after gondola swept up to the marble steps, and left its lovely

load to swell the brilliant throng that filled the stately halls of

Count Adelon. Knights and ladies, elves and pages, monks and flower

girls, all mingled gaily in the dance. Sweet voices and rich melody

filled the air, and so with mirth and music the masquerade went on.

“Has your Highness seen the Lady Viola tonight?” asked a gallant

troubadour of the fairy queen who floated down the hall upon his arm.

“Yes, is she not lovely, though so sad! Her dress is well chosen, too,

for in a week she weds Count Antonio, whom she passionately hates.”

“By my faith, I envy him. Yonder he comes, arrayed like a bridegroom,

except the black mask. When that is off we shall see how he regards the

fair maid whose heart he cannot win, though her stern father bestows

her hand,” returned the troubadour.

“Tis whispered that she loves the young English artist who haunts her

steps, and is spurned by the old Count,” said the lady, as they joined

the dance. The revel was at its height when a priest appeared, and

withdrawing the young pair to an alcove, hung with purple velvet, he

motioned them to kneel. Instant silence fell on the gay throng, and not

a sound, but the dash of fountains or the rustle of orange groves

sleeping in the moonlight, broke the hush, as Count de Adelon spoke

thus:

“My lords and ladies, pardon the ruse by which I have gathered you here

to witness the marriage of my daughter. Father, we wait your services.”

All eyes turned toward the bridal party, and a murmur of amazement went

through the throng, for neither bride nor groom removed their masks.

Curiosity and wonder possessed all hearts, but respect restrained all

tongues till the holy rite was over. Then the eager spectators gathered

round the count, demanding an explanation.

“Gladly would I give it if I could, but I only know that it was the

whim of my timid Viola, and I yielded to it. Now, my children, let the

play end. Unmask and receive my blessing.”

But neither bent the knee, for the young bridegroom replied in a tone

that startled all listeners as the mask fell, disclosing the noble face

of Ferdinand Devereux, the artist lover, and leaning on the breast

where now flashed the star of an English earl was the lovely Viola,

radiant with joy and beauty.

“My lord, you scornfully bade me claim your daughter when I could boast

as high a name and vast a fortune as the Count Antonio. I can do more,

for even your ambitious soul cannot refuse the Earl of Devereux and De

Vere, when he gives his ancient name and boundless wealth in return for

the beloved hand of this fair lady, now my wife.”

The count stood like one changed to stone, and turning to the

bewildered crowd, Ferdinand added, with a gay smile of triumph, “To

you, my gallant friends, I can only wish that your wooing may prosper

as mine has done, and that you may all win as fair a bride as I have by

this masked marriage.”

S. PICKWICK

Why is the P. C. like the Tower of Babel?

It is full of unruly members.

THE HISTORY OF A SQUASH

Once upon a time a farmer planted a little seed in his garden, and

after a while it sprouted and became a vine and bore many squashes. One

day in October, when they were ripe, he picked one and took it to

market. A grocerman bought and put it in his shop. That same morning, a

little girl in a brown hat and blue dress, with a round face and snub

nose, went and bought it for her mother. She lugged it home, cut it up,

and boiled it in the big pot, mashed some of it with salt and butter,

for dinner. And to the rest she added a pint of milk, two eggs, four

spoons of sugar, nutmeg, and some crackers, put it in a deep dish, and

baked it till it was brown and nice, and next day it was eaten by a

family named March.

T. TUPMAN

Mr. Pickwick, _Sir:_—

I address you upon the subject of sin the sinner I mean is a man

named Winkle who makes trouble in his club by laughing and

sometimes won’t write his piece in this fine paper I hope you will

pardon his badness and let him send a French fable because he can’t

write out of his head as he has so many lessons to do and no brains

in future I will try to take time by the fetlock and prepare some

work which will be all _commy la fo_ that means all right I am in

haste as it is nearly school time.

Yours respectably,

N. WINKLE

[The above is a manly and handsome acknowledgment of past misdemeanors.

If our young friend studied punctuation, it would be well.]

A SAD ACCIDENT

On Friday last, we were startled by a violent shock in our basement,

followed by cries of distress. On rushing in a body to the cellar, we

discovered our beloved President prostrate upon the floor, having

tripped and fallen while getting wood for domestic purposes. A perfect

scene of ruin met our eyes, for in his fall Mr. Pickwick had plunged

his head and shoulders into a tub of water, upset a keg of soft soap

upon his manly form, and torn his garments badly. On being removed from

this perilous situation, it was discovered that he had suffered no

injury but several bruises, and we are happy to add, is now doing well.

ED.

THE PUBLIC BEREAVEMENT

It is our painful duty to record the sudden and mysterious

disappearance of our cherished friend, Mrs. Snowball Pat Paw. This

lovely and beloved cat was the pet of a large circle of warm and

admiring friends; for her beauty attracted all eyes, her graces and

virtues endeared her to all hearts, and her loss is deeply felt by the

whole community.

When last seen, she was sitting at the gate, watching the butcher’s

cart, and it is feared that some villain, tempted by her charms,

basely stole her. Weeks have passed, but no trace of her has been

discovered, and we relinquish all hope, tie a black ribbon to her

basket, set aside her dish, and weep for her as one lost to us

forever.

A sympathizing friend sends the following gem:

A LAMENT

FOR S. B. PAT PAW

We mourn the loss of our little pet,

And sigh o’er her hapless fate,

For never more by the fire she’ll sit,

Nor play by the old green gate.

The little grave where her infant sleeps

Is ’neath the chestnut tree.

But o’er _her_ grave we may not weep,

We know not where it may be.

Her empty bed, her idle ball,

Will never see her more;

No gentle tap, no loving purr

Is heard at the parlor door.

Another cat comes after her mice,

A cat with a dirty face,

But she does not hunt as our darling did,

Nor play with her airy grace.

Her stealthy paws tread the very hall

Where Snowball used to play,

But she only spits at the dogs our pet

So gallantly drove away.

She is useful and mild, and does her best,

But she is not fair to see,

And we cannot give her your place dear,

Nor worship her as we worship thee.

A.S.

ADVERTISEMENTS

MISS ORANTHY BLUGGAGE, the accomplished strong-minded lecturer, will

deliver her famous lecture on “WOMAN AND HER POSITION” at Pickwick

Hall, next Saturday Evening, after the usual performances.

A WEEKLY MEETING will be held at Kitchen Place, to teach young ladies

how to cook. Hannah Brown will preside, and all are invited to attend.

THE DUSTPAN SOCIETY will meet on Wednesday next, and parade in the

upper story of the Club House. All members to appear in uniform and

shoulder their brooms at nine precisely.

MRS. BETH BOUNCER will open her new assortment of Doll’s Millinery next

week. The latest Paris fashions have arrived, and orders are

respectfully solicited.

A NEW PLAY will appear at the Barnville Theatre, in the course of a few

weeks, which will surpass anything ever seen on the American stage.

“THE GREEK SLAVE, or Constantine the Avenger,” is the name of this

thrilling drama!!!

HINTS

If S.P. didn’t use so much soap on his hands, he wouldn’t always be

late at breakfast. A.S. is requested not to whistle in the street. T.T.

please don’t forget Amy’s napkin. N.W. must not fret because his dress

has not nine tucks.

WEEKLY REPORT

Meg—Good.

Jo—Bad.

Beth—Very Good.

Amy—Middling.

As the President finished reading the paper (which I beg leave to

assure my readers is a bona fide copy of one written by bona fide girls

once upon a time), a round of applause followed, and then Mr. Snodgrass

rose to make a proposition.

“Mr. President and gentlemen,” he began, assuming a parliamentary

attitude and tone, “I wish to propose the admission of a new member—one

who highly deserves the honor, would be deeply grateful for it, and

would add immensely to the spirit of the club, the literary value of

the paper, and be no end jolly and nice. I propose Mr. Theodore

Laurence as an honorary member of the P. C. Come now, do have him.”

Jo’s sudden change of tone made the girls laugh, but all looked rather

anxious, and no one said a word as Snodgrass took his seat.

“We’ll put it to a vote,” said the President. “All in favor of this

motion please to manifest it by saying, ‘Aye’.”

A loud response from Snodgrass, followed, to everybody’s surprise, by a

timid one from Beth.

“Contrary-minded say, ‘No’.”

Meg and Amy were contrary-minded, and Mr. Winkle rose to say with great

elegance, “We don’t wish any boys, they only joke and bounce about.

This is a ladies’ club, and we wish to be private and proper.”

“I’m afraid he’ll laugh at our paper, and make fun of us afterward,”

observed Pickwick, pulling the little curl on her forehead, as she

always did when doubtful.

Up rose Snodgrass, very much in earnest. “Sir, I give you my word as a

gentleman, Laurie won’t do anything of the sort. He likes to write, and

he’ll give a tone to our contributions and keep us from being

sentimental, don’t you see? We can do so little for him, and he does so

much for us, I think the least we can do is to offer him a place here,

and make him welcome if he comes.”

This artful allusion to benefits conferred brought Tupman to his feet,

looking as if he had quite made up his mind.

“Yes; we ought to do it, even if we are afraid. I say he may come, and

his grandpa, too, if he likes.”

This spirited burst from Beth electrified the club, and Jo left her

seat to shake hands approvingly. “Now then, vote again. Everybody

remember it’s our Laurie, and say, ‘Aye!’” cried Snodgrass excitedly.

“Aye! Aye! Aye!” replied three voices at once.

“Good! Bless you! Now, as there’s nothing like ‘taking time by the

fetlock’, as Winkle characteristically observes, allow me to present

the new member.” And, to the dismay of the rest of the club, Jo threw

open the door of the closet, and displayed Laurie sitting on a rag bag,

flushed and twinkling with suppressed laughter.

“You rogue! You traitor! Jo, how could you?” cried the three girls, as

Snodgrass led her friend triumphantly forth, and producing both a chair

and a badge, installed him in a jiffy.

“The coolness of you two rascals is amazing,” began Mr. Pickwick,

trying to get up an awful frown and only succeeding in producing an

amiable smile. But the new member was equal to the occasion, and

rising, with a grateful salutation to the Chair, said in the most

engaging manner, “Mr. President and ladies—I beg pardon,

gentlemen—allow me to introduce myself as Sam Weller, the very humble

servant of the club.”

“Good! Good!” cried Jo, pounding with the handle of the old warming pan

on which she leaned.

“My faithful friend and noble patron,” continued Laurie with a wave of

the hand, “who has so flatteringly presented me, is not to be blamed

for the base stratagem of tonight. I planned it, and she only gave in

after lots of teasing.”

“Come now, don’t lay it all on yourself. You know I proposed the

cupboard,” broke in Snodgrass, who was enjoying the joke amazingly.

“Never mind what she says. I’m the wretch that did it, sir,” said the

new member, with a Welleresque nod to Mr. Pickwick. “But on my honor, I

never will do so again, and henceforth devote myself to the interest of

this immortal club.”

“Hear! Hear!” cried Jo, clashing the lid of the warming pan like a

cymbal.

“Go on, go on!” added Winkle and Tupman, while the President bowed

benignly.

“I merely wish to say, that as a slight token of my gratitude for the

honor done me, and as a means of promoting friendly relations between

adjoining nations, I have set up a post office in the hedge in the

lower corner of the garden, a fine, spacious building with padlocks on

the doors and every convenience for the mails, also the females, if I

may be allowed the expression. It’s the old martin house, but I’ve

stopped up the door and made the roof open, so it will hold all sorts

of things, and save our valuable time. Letters, manuscripts, books, and

bundles can be passed in there, and as each nation has a key, it will

be uncommonly nice, I fancy. Allow me to present the club key, and with

many thanks for your favor, take my seat.”

Great applause as Mr. Weller deposited a little key on the table and

subsided, the warming pan clashed and waved wildly, and it was some

time before order could be restored. A long discussion followed, and

everyone came out surprising, for everyone did her best. So it was an

unusually lively meeting, and did not adjourn till a late hour, when it

broke up with three shrill cheers for the new member.

No one ever regretted the admittance of Sam Weller, for a more devoted,

well-behaved, and jovial member no club could have. He certainly did

add ‘spirit’ to the meetings, and ‘a tone’ to the paper, for his

orations convulsed his hearers and his contributions were excellent,

being patriotic, classical, comical, or dramatic, but never

sentimental. Jo regarded them as worthy of Bacon, Milton, or

Shakespeare, and remodeled her own works with good effect, she thought.

The P. O. was a capital little institution, and flourished wonderfully,

for nearly as many queer things passed through it as through the real

post office. Tragedies and cravats, poetry and pickles, garden seeds

and long letters, music and gingerbread, rubbers, invitations,

scoldings, and puppies. The old gentleman liked the fun, and amused

himself by sending odd bundles, mysterious messages, and funny

telegrams, and his gardener, who was smitten with Hannah’s charms,

actually sent a love letter to Jo’s care. How they laughed when the

secret came out, never dreaming how many love letters that little post

office would hold in the years to come.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

EXPERIMENTS

“The first of June! The Kings are off to the seashore tomorrow, and I’m

free. Three months’ vacation—how I shall enjoy it!” exclaimed Meg,

coming home one warm day to find Jo laid upon the sofa in an unusual

state of exhaustion, while Beth took off her dusty boots, and Amy made

lemonade for the refreshment of the whole party.

“Aunt March went today, for which, oh, be joyful!” said Jo. “I was

mortally afraid she’d ask me to go with her. If she had, I should have

felt as if I ought to do it, but Plumfield is about as gay as a

churchyard, you know, and I’d rather be excused. We had a flurry

getting the old lady off, and I had a fright every time she spoke to

me, for I was in such a hurry to be through that I was uncommonly

helpful and sweet, and feared she’d find it impossible to part from me.

I quaked till she was fairly in the carriage, and had a final fright,

for as it drove of, she popped out her head, saying, ‘Josyphine, won’t

you—?’ I didn’t hear any more, for I basely turned and fled. I did

actually run, and whisked round the corner where I felt safe.”

“Poor old Jo! She came in looking as if bears were after her,” said

Beth, as she cuddled her sister’s feet with a motherly air.

“Aunt March is a regular samphire, is she not?” observed Amy, tasting

her mixture critically.

“She means vampire, not seaweed, but it doesn’t matter. It’s too warm

to be particular about one’s parts of speech,” murmured Jo.

“What shall you do all your vacation?” asked Amy, changing the subject

with tact.

“I shall lie abed late, and do nothing,” replied Meg, from the depths

of the rocking chair. “I’ve been routed up early all winter and had to

spend my days working for other people, so now I’m going to rest and

revel to my heart’s content.”

“No,” said Jo, “that dozy way wouldn’t suit me. I’ve laid in a heap of

books, and I’m going to improve my shining hours reading on my perch in

the old apple tree, when I’m not having l——”

“Don’t say ‘larks!’” implored Amy, as a return snub for the ‘samphire’

correction.

“I’ll say ‘nightingales’ then, with Laurie. That’s proper and

appropriate, since he’s a warbler.”

“Don’t let us do any lessons, Beth, for a while, but play all the time

and rest, as the girls mean to,” proposed Amy.

“Well, I will, if Mother doesn’t mind. I want to learn some new songs,

and my children need fitting up for the summer. They are dreadfully out

of order and really suffering for clothes.”

“May we, Mother?” asked Meg, turning to Mrs. March, who sat sewing in

what they called ‘Marmee’s corner’.

“You may try your experiment for a week and see how you like it. I

think by Saturday night you will find that all play and no work is as

bad as all work and no play.”

“Oh, dear, no! It will be delicious, I’m sure,” said Meg complacently.

“I now propose a toast, as my ‘friend and pardner, Sairy Gamp’, says.

Fun forever, and no grubbing!” cried Jo, rising, glass in hand, as the

lemonade went round.

They all drank it merrily, and began the experiment by lounging for the

rest of the day. Next morning, Meg did not appear till ten o’clock. Her

solitary breakfast did not taste good, and the room seemed lonely and

untidy, for Jo had not filled the vases, Beth had not dusted, and Amy’s

books lay scattered about. Nothing was neat and pleasant but ‘Marmee’s

corner’, which looked as usual. And there Meg sat, to ‘rest and read’,

which meant to yawn and imagine what pretty summer dresses she would

get with her salary. Jo spent the morning on the river with Laurie and

the afternoon reading and crying over _The Wide, Wide World_, up in the

apple tree. Beth began by rummaging everything out of the big closet

where her family resided, but getting tired before half done, she left

her establishment topsy-turvy and went to her music, rejoicing that she

had no dishes to wash. Amy arranged her bower, put on her best white

frock, smoothed her curls, and sat down to draw under the honeysuckle,

hoping someone would see and inquire who the young artist was. As no

one appeared but an inquisitive daddy-longlegs, who examined her work

with interest, she went to walk, got caught in a shower, and came home

dripping.

At teatime they compared notes, and all agreed that it had been a

delightful, though unusually long day. Meg, who went shopping in the

afternoon and got a ‘sweet blue muslin’, had discovered, after she had

cut the breadths off, that it wouldn’t wash, which mishap made her

slightly cross. Jo had burned the skin off her nose boating, and got a

raging headache by reading too long. Beth was worried by the confusion

of her closet and the difficulty of learning three or four songs at

once, and Amy deeply regretted the damage done her frock, for Katy

Brown’s party was to be the next day and now like Flora McFlimsey, she

had ‘nothing to wear’. But these were mere trifles, and they assured

their mother that the experiment was working finely. She smiled, said

nothing, and with Hannah’s help did their neglected work, keeping home

pleasant and the domestic machinery running smoothly. It was

astonishing what a peculiar and uncomfortable state of things was

produced by the ‘resting and reveling’ process. The days kept getting

longer and longer, the weather was unusually variable and so were

tempers; an unsettled feeling possessed everyone, and Satan found

plenty of mischief for the idle hands to do. As the height of luxury,

Meg put out some of her sewing, and then found time hang so heavily,

that she fell to snipping and spoiling her clothes in her attempts to

furbish them up a la Moffat. Jo read till her eyes gave out and she was

sick of books, got so fidgety that even good-natured Laurie had a

quarrel with her, and so reduced in spirits that she desperately wished

she had gone with Aunt March. Beth got on pretty well, for she was

constantly forgetting that it was to be all play and no work, and fell

back into her old ways now and then. But something in the air affected

her, and more than once her tranquility was much disturbed, so much so

that on one occasion she actually shook poor dear Joanna and told her

she was ‘a fright’. Amy fared worst of all, for her resources were

small, and when her sisters left her to amuse herself, she soon found

that accomplished and important little self a great burden. She didn’t

like dolls, fairy tales were childish, and one couldn’t draw all the

time. Tea parties didn’t amount to much, neither did picnics, unless

very well conducted. “If one could have a fine house, full of nice

girls, or go traveling, the summer would be delightful, but to stay at

home with three selfish sisters and a grown-up boy was enough to try

the patience of a Boaz,” complained Miss Malaprop, after several days

devoted to pleasure, fretting, and ennui.

No one would own that they were tired of the experiment, but by Friday

night each acknowledged to herself that she was glad the week was

nearly done. Hoping to impress the lesson more deeply, Mrs. March, who

had a good deal of humor, resolved to finish off the trial in an

appropriate manner, so she gave Hannah a holiday and let the girls

enjoy the full effect of the play system.

When they got up on Saturday morning, there was no fire in the kitchen,

no breakfast in the dining room, and no mother anywhere to be seen.

“Mercy on us! What has happened?” cried Jo, staring about her in

dismay.

Meg ran upstairs and soon came back again, looking relieved but rather

bewildered, and a little ashamed.

“Mother isn’t sick, only very tired, and she says she is going to stay

quietly in her room all day and let us do the best we can. It’s a very

queer thing for her to do, she doesn’t act a bit like herself. But she

says it has been a hard week for her, so we mustn’t grumble but take

care of ourselves.”

“That’s easy enough, and I like the idea, I’m aching for something to

do, that is, some new amusement, you know,” added Jo quickly.

In fact it was an immense relief to them all to have a little work, and

they took hold with a will, but soon realized the truth of Hannah’s

saying, “Housekeeping ain’t no joke.” There was plenty of food in the

larder, and while Beth and Amy set the table, Meg and Jo got breakfast,

wondering as they did why servants ever talked about hard work.

“I shall take some up to Mother, though she said we were not to think

of her, for she’d take care of herself,” said Meg, who presided and

felt quite matronly behind the teapot.

So a tray was fitted out before anyone began, and taken up with the

cook’s compliments. The boiled tea was very bitter, the omelet

scorched, and the biscuits speckled with saleratus, but Mrs. March

received her repast with thanks and laughed heartily over it after Jo

was gone.

“Poor little souls, they will have a hard time, I’m afraid, but they

won’t suffer, and it will do them good,” she said, producing the more

palatable viands with which she had provided herself, and disposing of

the bad breakfast, so that their feelings might not be hurt, a motherly

little deception for which they were grateful.

Many were the complaints below, and great the chagrin of the head cook

at her failures. “Never mind, I’ll get the dinner and be servant, you

be mistress, keep your hands nice, see company, and give orders,” said

Jo, who knew still less than Meg about culinary affairs.

This obliging offer was gladly accepted, and Margaret retired to the

parlor, which she hastily put in order by whisking the litter under the

sofa and shutting the blinds to save the trouble of dusting. Jo, with

perfect faith in her own powers and a friendly desire to make up the

quarrel, immediately put a note in the office, inviting Laurie to

dinner.

“You’d better see what you have got before you think of having

company,” said Meg, when informed of the hospitable but rash act.

“Oh, there’s corned beef and plenty of potatoes, and I shall get some

asparagus and a lobster, ‘for a relish’, as Hannah says. We’ll have

lettuce and make a salad. I don’t know how, but the book tells. I’ll

have blanc mange and strawberries for dessert, and coffee too, if you

want to be elegant.”

“Don’t try too many messes, Jo, for you can’t make anything but

gingerbread and molasses candy fit to eat. I wash my hands of the

dinner party, and since you have asked Laurie on your own

responsibility, you may just take care of him.”

“I don’t want you to do anything but be civil to him and help to the

pudding. You’ll give me your advice if I get in a muddle, won’t you?”

asked Jo, rather hurt.

“Yes, but I don’t know much, except about bread and a few trifles. You

had better ask Mother’s leave before you order anything,” returned Meg

prudently.

“Of course I shall. I’m not a fool.” And Jo went off in a huff at the

doubts expressed of her powers.

“Get what you like, and don’t disturb me. I’m going out to dinner and

can’t worry about things at home,” said Mrs. March, when Jo spoke to

her. “I never enjoyed housekeeping, and I’m going to take a vacation

today, and read, write, go visiting, and amuse myself.”

The unusual spectacle of her busy mother rocking comfortably and

reading early in the morning made Jo feel as if some unnatural

phenomenon had occurred, for an eclipse, an earthquake, or a volcanic

eruption would hardly have seemed stranger.

“Everything is out of sorts, somehow,” she said to herself, going

downstairs. “There’s Beth crying, that’s a sure sign that something is

wrong in this family. If Amy is bothering, I’ll shake her.”

Feeling very much out of sorts herself, Jo hurried into the parlor to

find Beth sobbing over Pip, the canary, who lay dead in the cage with

his little claws pathetically extended, as if imploring the food for

want of which he had died.

“It’s all my fault, I forgot him, there isn’t a seed or a drop left.

Oh, Pip! Oh, Pip! How could I be so cruel to you?” cried Beth, taking

the poor thing in her hands and trying to restore him.

Jo peeped into his half-open eye, felt his little heart, and finding

him stiff and cold, shook her head, and offered her domino box for a

coffin.

“Put him in the oven, and maybe he will get warm and revive,” said Amy

hopefully.

“He’s been starved, and he shan’t be baked now he’s dead. I’ll make him

a shroud, and he shall be buried in the garden, and I’ll never have

another bird, never, my Pip! for I am too bad to own one,” murmured

Beth, sitting on the floor with her pet folded in her hands.

“The funeral shall be this afternoon, and we will all go. Now, don’t

cry, Bethy. It’s a pity, but nothing goes right this week, and Pip has

had the worst of the experiment. Make the shroud, and lay him in my

box, and after the dinner party, we’ll have a nice little funeral,”

said Jo, beginning to feel as if she had undertaken a good deal.

Leaving the others to console Beth, she departed to the kitchen, which

was in a most discouraging state of confusion. Putting on a big apron,

she fell to work and got the dishes piled up ready for washing, when

she discovered that the fire was out.

“Here’s a sweet prospect!” muttered Jo, slamming the stove door open,

and poking vigorously among the cinders.

Having rekindled the fire, she thought she would go to market while the

water heated. The walk revived her spirits, and flattering herself that

she had made good bargains, she trudged home again, after buying a very

young lobster, some very old asparagus, and two boxes of acid

strawberries. By the time she got cleared up, the dinner arrived and

the stove was red-hot. Hannah had left a pan of bread to rise, Meg had

worked it up early, set it on the hearth for a second rising, and

forgotten it. Meg was entertaining Sallie Gardiner in the parlor, when

the door flew open and a floury, crocky, flushed, and disheveled figure

appeared, demanding tartly...

“I say, isn’t bread ‘riz’ enough when it runs over the pans?”

Sallie began to laugh, but Meg nodded and lifted her eyebrows as high

as they would go, which caused the apparition to vanish and put the

sour bread into the oven without further delay. Mrs. March went out,

after peeping here and there to see how matters went, also saying a

word of comfort to Beth, who sat making a winding sheet, while the dear

departed lay in state in the domino box. A strange sense of

helplessness fell upon the girls as the gray bonnet vanished round the

corner, and despair seized them when a few minutes later Miss Crocker

appeared, and said she’d come to dinner. Now this lady was a thin,

yellow spinster, with a sharp nose and inquisitive eyes, who saw

everything and gossiped about all she saw. They disliked her, but had

been taught to be kind to her, simply because she was old and poor and

had few friends. So Meg gave her the easy chair and tried to entertain

her, while she asked questions, criticized everything, and told stories

of the people whom she knew.

Language cannot describe the anxieties, experiences, and exertions

which Jo underwent that morning, and the dinner she served up became a

standing joke. Fearing to ask any more advice, she did her best alone,

and discovered that something more than energy and good will is

necessary to make a cook. She boiled the asparagus for an hour and was

grieved to find the heads cooked off and the stalks harder than ever.

The bread burned black; for the salad dressing so aggravated her that

she could not make it fit to eat. The lobster was a scarlet mystery to

her, but she hammered and poked till it was unshelled and its meager

proportions concealed in a grove of lettuce leaves. The potatoes had to

be hurried, not to keep the asparagus waiting, and were not done at the

last. The blanc mange was lumpy, and the strawberries not as ripe as

they looked, having been skilfully ‘deaconed’.

“Well, they can eat beef and bread and butter, if they are hungry, only

it’s mortifying to have to spend your whole morning for nothing,”

thought Jo, as she rang the bell half an hour later than usual, and

stood, hot, tired, and dispirited, surveying the feast spread before

Laurie, accustomed to all sorts of elegance, and Miss Crocker, whose

tattling tongue would report them far and wide.

Poor Jo would gladly have gone under the table, as one thing after

another was tasted and left, while Amy giggled, Meg looked distressed,

Miss Crocker pursed her lips, and Laurie talked and laughed with all

his might to give a cheerful tone to the festive scene. Jo’s one strong

point was the fruit, for she had sugared it well, and had a pitcher of

rich cream to eat with it. Her hot cheeks cooled a trifle, and she drew

a long breath as the pretty glass plates went round, and everyone

looked graciously at the little rosy islands floating in a sea of

cream. Miss Crocker tasted first, made a wry face, and drank some water

hastily. Jo, who refused, thinking there might not be enough, for they

dwindled sadly after the picking over, glanced at Laurie, but he was

eating away manfully, though there was a slight pucker about his mouth

and he kept his eye fixed on his plate. Amy, who was fond of delicate

fare, took a heaping spoonful, choked, hid her face in her napkin, and

left the table precipitately.

“Oh, what is it?” exclaimed Jo, trembling.

“Salt instead of sugar, and the cream is sour,” replied Meg with a

tragic gesture.

Jo uttered a groan and fell back in her chair, remembering that she had

given a last hasty powdering to the berries out of one of the two boxes

on the kitchen table, and had neglected to put the milk in the

refrigerator. She turned scarlet and was on the verge of crying, when

she met Laurie’s eyes, which would look merry in spite of his heroic

efforts. The comical side of the affair suddenly struck her, and she

laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. So did everyone else, even

‘Croaker’ as the girls called the old lady, and the unfortunate dinner

ended gaily, with bread and butter, olives and fun.

“I haven’t strength of mind enough to clear up now, so we will sober

ourselves with a funeral,” said Jo, as they rose, and Miss Crocker made

ready to go, being eager to tell the new story at another friend’s

dinner table.

They did sober themselves for Beth’s sake. Laurie dug a grave under the

ferns in the grove, little Pip was laid in, with many tears by his

tender-hearted mistress, and covered with moss, while a wreath of

violets and chickweed was hung on the stone which bore his epitaph,

composed by Jo while she struggled with the dinner.

Here lies Pip March,

Who died the 7th of June;

Loved and lamented sore,

And not forgotten soon.

At the conclusion of the ceremonies, Beth retired to her room, overcome

with emotion and lobster, but there was no place of repose, for the

beds were not made, and she found her grief much assuaged by beating up

the pillows and putting things in order. Meg helped Jo clear away the

remains of the feast, which took half the afternoon and left them so

tired that they agreed to be contented with tea and toast for supper.

Laurie took Amy to drive, which was a deed of charity, for the sour

cream seemed to have had a bad effect upon her temper. Mrs. March came

home to find the three older girls hard at work in the middle of the

afternoon, and a glance at the closet gave her an idea of the success

of one part of the experiment.

Before the housewives could rest, several people called, and there was

a scramble to get ready to see them. Then tea must be got, errands

done, and one or two necessary bits of sewing neglected until the last

minute. As twilight fell, dewy and still, one by one they gathered on

the porch where the June roses were budding beautifully, and each

groaned or sighed as she sat down, as if tired or troubled.

“What a dreadful day this has been!” began Jo, usually the first to

speak.

“It has seemed shorter than usual, but so uncomfortable,” said Meg.

“Not a bit like home,” added Amy.

“It can’t seem so without Marmee and little Pip,” sighed Beth, glancing

with full eyes at the empty cage above her head.

“Here’s Mother, dear, and you shall have another bird tomorrow, if you

want it.”

As she spoke, Mrs. March came and took her place among them, looking as

if her holiday had not been much pleasanter than theirs.

“Are you satisfied with your experiment, girls, or do you want another

week of it?” she asked, as Beth nestled up to her and the rest turned

toward her with brightening faces, as flowers turn toward the sun.

“I don’t!” cried Jo decidedly.

“Nor I,” echoed the others.

“You think then, that it is better to have a few duties and live a

little for others, do you?”

“Lounging and larking doesn’t pay,” observed Jo, shaking her head. “I’m

tired of it and mean to go to work at something right off.”

“Suppose you learn plain cooking. That’s a useful accomplishment, which

no woman should be without,” said Mrs. March, laughing inaudibly at the

recollection of Jo’s dinner party, for she had met Miss Crocker and

heard her account of it.

“Mother, did you go away and let everything be, just to see how we’d

get on?” cried Meg, who had had suspicions all day.

“Yes, I wanted you to see how the comfort of all depends on each doing

her share faithfully. While Hannah and I did your work, you got on

pretty well, though I don’t think you were very happy or amiable. So I

thought, as a little lesson, I would show you what happens when

everyone thinks only of herself. Don’t you feel that it is pleasanter

to help one another, to have daily duties which make leisure sweet when

it comes, and to bear and forbear, that home may be comfortable and

lovely to us all?”

“We do, Mother, we do!” cried the girls.

“Then let me advise you to take up your little burdens again, for

though they seem heavy sometimes, they are good for us, and lighten as

we learn to carry them. Work is wholesome, and there is plenty for

everyone. It keeps us from ennui and mischief, is good for health and

spirits, and gives us a sense of power and independence better than

money or fashion.”

“We’ll work like bees, and love it too, see if we don’t,” said Jo.

“I’ll learn plain cooking for my holiday task, and the next dinner

party I have shall be a success.”

“I’ll make the set of shirts for father, instead of letting you do it,

Marmee. I can and I will, though I’m not fond of sewing. That will be

better than fussing over my own things, which are plenty nice enough as

they are.” said Meg.