To which pathetic appeal Daisy would answer with a coo, or Demi with a

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

soothed her solitude for the time being. But the pain increased as

politics absorbed John, who was always running over to discuss

interesting points with Scott, quite unconscious that Meg missed him.

Not a word did she say, however, till her mother found her in tears one

day, and insisted on knowing what the matter was, for Meg’s drooping

spirits had not escaped her observation.

“I wouldn’t tell anyone except you, Mother, but I really do need

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

replied Mrs. Brooke, drying her tears on Daisy’s bib with an injured

air.

“Goes on how, my dear?” asked her mother anxiously.

“He’s away all day, and at night when I want to see him, he is

continually going over to the Scotts’. It isn’t fair that I should have

the hardest work, and never any amusement. Men are very selfish, even

the best of them.”

“So are women. Don’t blame John till you see where you are wrong

yourself.”

“But it can’t be right for him to neglect me.”

“Don’t you neglect him?”

“Why, Mother, I thought you’d take my part!”

“So I do, as far as sympathizing goes, but I think the fault is yours,

Meg.”

“I don’t see how.”

“Let me show you. Did John ever neglect you, as you call it, while you

made it a point to give him your society of an evening, his only

leisure time?”

“No, but I can’t do it now, with two babies to tend.”

“I think you could, dear, and I think you ought. May I speak quite

freely, and will you remember that it’s Mother who blames as well as

Mother who sympathizes?”

“Indeed I will! Speak to me as if I were little Meg again. I often feel

as if I needed teaching more than ever since these babies look to me

for everything.”

Meg drew her low chair beside her mother’s, and with a little

interruption in either lap, the two women rocked and talked lovingly

together, feeling that the tie of motherhood made them more one than

ever.

“You have only made the mistake that most young wives make—forgotten

your duty to your husband in your love for your children. A very

natural and forgivable mistake, Meg, but one that had better be

remedied before you take to different ways, for children should draw

you nearer than ever, not separate you, as if they were all yours, and

John had nothing to do but support them. I’ve seen it for some weeks,

but have not spoken, feeling sure it would come right in time.”

“I’m afraid it won’t. If I ask him to stay, he’ll think I’m jealous,

and I wouldn’t insult him by such an idea. He doesn’t see that I want

him, and I don’t know how to tell him without words.”

“Make it so pleasant he won’t want to go away. My dear, he’s longing

for his little home, but it isn’t home without you, and you are always

in the nursery.”

“Oughtn’t I to be there?”

“Not all the time, too much confinement makes you nervous, and then you

are unfitted for everything. Besides, you owe something to John as well

as to the babies. Don’t neglect husband for children, don’t shut him

out of the nursery, but teach him how to help in it. His place is there

as well as yours, and the children need him. Let him feel that he has a

part to do, and he will do it gladly and faithfully, and it will be

better for you all.”

“You really think so, Mother?”

“I know it, Meg, for I’ve tried it, and I seldom give advice unless

I’ve proved its practicability. When you and Jo were little, I went on

just as you are, feeling as if I didn’t do my duty unless I devoted

myself wholly to you. Poor Father took to his books, after I had

refused all offers of help, and left me to try my experiment alone. I

struggled along as well as I could, but Jo was too much for me. I

nearly spoiled her by indulgence. You were poorly, and I worried about

you till I fell sick myself. Then Father came to the rescue, quietly

managed everything, and made himself so helpful that I saw my mistake,

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

secret of our home happiness. He does not let business wean him from

the little cares and duties that affect us all, and I try not to let

domestic worries destroy my interest in his pursuits. Each do our part

alone in many things, but at home we work together, always.”

“It is so, Mother, and my great wish is to be to my husband and

children what you have been to yours. Show me how, I’ll do anything you

say.”

“You always were my docile daughter. Well, dear, if I were you, I’d let

John have more to do with the management of Demi, for the boy needs

training, and it’s none too soon to begin. Then I’d do what I have

often proposed, let Hannah come and help you. She is a capital nurse,

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

housework. You need the exercise, Hannah would enjoy the rest, and John

would find his wife again. Go out more, keep cheerful as well as busy,

for you are the sunshine-maker of the family, and if you get dismal

there is no fair weather. Then I’d try to take an interest in whatever

John likes—talk with him, let him read to you, exchange ideas, and help

each other in that way. Don’t shut yourself up in a bandbox because you

are a woman, but understand what is going on, and educate yourself to

take your part in the world’s work, for it all affects you and yours.”

“John is so sensible, I’m afraid he will think I’m stupid if I ask

questions about politics and things.”

“I don’t believe he would. Love covers a multitude of sins, and of whom

could you ask more freely than of him? Try it, and see if he doesn’t

find your society far more agreeable than Mrs. Scott’s suppers.”

“I will. Poor John! I’m afraid I have neglected him sadly, but I

thought I was right, and he never said anything.”

“He tried not to be selfish, but he has felt rather forlorn, I fancy.

This is just the time, Meg, when young married people are apt to grow

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

first tenderness soon wears off, unless care is taken to preserve it.

And no time is so beautiful and precious to parents as the first years

of the little lives given to them to train. Don’t let John be a

stranger to the babies, for they will do more to keep him safe and

happy in this world of trial and temptation than anything else, and

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

Now, dear, good-by. Think over Mother’s preachment, act upon it if it

seems good, and God bless you all.”

Meg did think it over, found it good, and acted upon it, though the

first attempt was not made exactly as she planned to have it. Of course

the children tyrannized over her, and ruled the house as soon as they

found out that kicking and squalling brought them whatever they wanted.

Mamma was an abject slave to their caprices, but Papa was not so easily

subjugated, and occasionally afflicted his tender spouse by an attempt

at paternal discipline with his obstreperous son. For Demi inherited a

trifle of his sire’s firmness of character, we won’t call it obstinacy,

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

king’s horses and all the king’s men could not change that pertinacious

little mind. Mamma thought the dear too young to be taught to conquer

his prejudices, but Papa believed that it never was too soon to learn

obedience. So Master Demi early discovered that when he undertook to

‘wrastle’ with ‘Parpar’, he always got the worst of it, yet like the

Englishman, baby respected the man who conquered him, and loved the

father whose grave “No, no,” was more impressive than all Mamma’s love

pats.

A few days after the talk with her mother, Meg resolved to try a social

evening with John, so she ordered a nice supper, set the parlor in

order, dressed herself prettily, and put the children to bed early,

that nothing should interfere with her experiment. But unfortunately

Demi’s most unconquerable prejudice was against going to bed, and that

night he decided to go on a rampage. So poor Meg sang and rocked, told

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

in vain, the big eyes wouldn’t shut, and long after Daisy had gone to

byelow, like the chubby little bunch of good nature she was, naughty

Demi lay staring at the light, with the most discouragingly wide-awake

expression of countenance.

“Will Demi lie still like a good boy, while Mamma runs down and gives

poor Papa his tea?” asked Meg, as the hall door softly closed, and the

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

“Me has tea!” said Demi, preparing to join in the revel.

“No, but I’ll save you some little cakies for breakfast, if you’ll go

bye-bye like Daisy. Will you, lovey?”

“Iss!” and Demi shut his eyes tight, as if to catch sleep and hurry the

desired day.

Taking advantage of the propitious moment, Meg slipped away and ran

down to greet her husband with a smiling face and the little blue bow

in her hair which was his especial admiration. He saw it at once and

said with pleased surprise, “Why, little mother, how gay we are

tonight. Do you expect company?”

“Only you, dear.”

“Is it a birthday, anniversary, or anything?”

“No, I’m tired of being dowdy, so I dressed up as a change. You always

make yourself nice for table, no matter how tired you are, so why

shouldn’t I when I have the time?”

“I do it out of respect for you, my dear,” said old-fashioned John.

“Ditto, ditto, Mr. Brooke,” laughed Meg, looking young and pretty

again, as she nodded to him over the teapot.

“Well, it’s altogether delightful, and like old times. This tastes

right. I drink your health, dear.” and John sipped his tea with an air

of reposeful rapture, which was of very short duration however, for as

he put down his cup, the door handle rattled mysteriously, and a little

voice was heard, saying impatiently...

“Opy doy. Me’s tummin!”

“It’s that naughty boy. I told him to go to sleep alone, and here he

is, downstairs, getting his death a-cold pattering over that canvas,”

said Meg, answering the call.

“Mornin’ now,” announced Demi in joyful tone as he entered, with his

long nightgown gracefully festooned over his arm and every curl bobbing

gayly as he pranced about the table, eyeing the ‘cakies’ with loving

glances.

“No, it isn’t morning yet. You must go to bed, and not trouble poor

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

“Me loves Parpar,” said the artful one, preparing to climb the paternal

knee and revel in forbidden joys. But John shook his head, and said to

Meg...

“If you told him to stay up there, and go to sleep alone, make him do

it, or he will never learn to mind you.”

“Yes, of course. Come, Demi,” and Meg led her son away, feeling a

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

laboring under the delusion that the bribe was to be administered as

soon as they reached the nursery.

Nor was he disappointed, for that shortsighted woman actually gave him

a lump of sugar, tucked him into his bed, and forbade any more

promenades till morning.

“Iss!” said Demi the perjured, blissfully sucking his sugar, and

regarding his first attempt as eminently successful.

Meg returned to her place, and supper was progressing pleasantly, when

the little ghost walked again, and exposed the maternal delinquencies

by boldly demanding, “More sudar, Marmar.”

“Now this won’t do,” said John, hardening his heart against the

engaging little sinner. “We shall never know any peace till that child

learns to go to bed properly. You have made a slave of yourself long

enough. Give him one lesson, and then there will be an end of it. Put

him in his bed and leave him, Meg.”

“He won’t stay there, he never does unless I sit by him.”

“I’ll manage him. Demi, go upstairs, and get into your bed, as Mamma

bids you.”

“S’ant!” replied the young rebel, helping himself to the coveted

‘cakie’, and beginning to eat the same with calm audacity.

“You must never say that to Papa. I shall carry you if you don’t go

yourself.”

“Go ’way, me don’t love Parpar.” and Demi retired to his mother’s

skirts for protection.

But even that refuge proved unavailing, for he was delivered over to

the enemy, with a “Be gentle with him, John,” which struck the culprit

with dismay, for when Mamma deserted him, then the judgment day was at

hand. Bereft of his cake, defrauded of his frolic, and borne away by a

strong hand to that detested bed, poor Demi could not restrain his

wrath, but openly defied Papa, and kicked and screamed lustily all the

way upstairs. The minute he was put into bed on one side, he rolled out

on the other, and made for the door, only to be ignominiously caught up

by the tail of his little toga and put back again, which lively

performance was kept up till the young man’s strength gave out, when he

devoted himself to roaring at the top of his voice. This vocal exercise

usually conquered Meg, but John sat as unmoved as the post which is

popularly believed to be deaf. No coaxing, no sugar, no lullaby, no

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

enlivened the ‘big dark’ which Demi regarded with curiosity rather than

fear. This new order of things disgusted him, and he howled dismally

for ‘Marmar’, as his angry passions subsided, and recollections of his

tender bondwoman returned to the captive autocrat. The plaintive wail

which succeeded the passionate roar went to Meg’s heart, and she ran up

to say beseechingly...

“Let me stay with him, he’ll be good now, John.”

“No, my dear. I’ve told him he must go to sleep, as you bid him, and he

must, if I stay here all night.”

“But he’ll cry himself sick,” pleaded Meg, reproaching herself for

deserting her boy.

“No, he won’t, he’s so tired he will soon drop off and then the matter

is settled, for he will understand that he has got to mind. Don’t

interfere, I’ll manage him.”

“He’s my child, and I can’t have his spirit broken by harshness.”

“He’s my child, and I won’t have his temper spoiled by indulgence. Go

down, my dear, and leave the boy to me.”

When John spoke in that masterful tone, Meg always obeyed, and never

regretted her docility.

“Please let me kiss him once, John?”

“Certainly. Demi, say good night to Mamma, and let her go and rest, for

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

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

was given, Demi sobbed more quietly, and lay quite still at the bottom

of the bed, whither he had wriggled in his anguish of mind.

“Poor little man, he’s worn out with sleep and crying. I’ll cover him

up, and then go and set Meg’s heart at rest,” thought John, creeping to

the bedside, hoping to find his rebellious heir asleep.

But he wasn’t, for the moment his father peeped at him, Demi’s eyes

opened, his little chin began to quiver, and he put up his arms, saying

with a penitent hiccough, “Me’s dood, now.”

Sitting on the stairs outside Meg wondered at the long silence which

followed the uproar, and after imagining all sorts of impossible

accidents, she slipped into the room to set her fears at rest. Demi lay

fast asleep, not in his usual spreadeagle attitude, but in a subdued

bunch, cuddled close in the circle of his father’s arm and holding his

father’s finger, as if he felt that justice was tempered with mercy,

and had gone to sleep a sadder and wiser baby. So held, John had waited

with a womanly patience till the little hand relaxed its hold, and

while waiting had fallen asleep, more tired by that tussle with his son

than with his whole day’s work.

As Meg stood watching the two faces on the pillow, she smiled to

herself, and then slipped away again, saying in a satisfied tone, “I

never need fear that John will be too harsh with my babies. He does

know how to manage them, and will be a great help, for Demi is getting

too much for me.”

When John came down at last, expecting to find a pensive or reproachful

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

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

election, if he was not too tired. John saw in a minute that a

revolution of some kind was going on, but wisely asked no questions,

knowing that Meg was such a transparent little person, she couldn’t

keep a secret to save her life, and therefore the clue would soon

appear. He read a long debate with the most amiable readiness and then

explained it in his most lucid manner, while Meg tried to look deeply

interested, to ask intelligent questions, and keep her thoughts from

wandering from the state of the nation to the state of her bonnet. In

her secret soul, however, she decided that politics were as bad as

mathematics, and that the mission of politicians seemed to be calling

each other names, but she kept these feminine ideas to herself, and

when John paused, shook her head and said with what she thought

diplomatic ambiguity, “Well, I really don’t see what we are coming to.”

John laughed, and watched her for a minute, as she poised a pretty

little preparation of lace and flowers on her hand, and regarded it

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

“She is trying to like politics for my sake, so I’ll try and like

millinery for hers, that’s only fair,” thought John the Just, adding

aloud, “That’s very pretty. Is it what you call a breakfast cap?”

“My dear man, it’s a bonnet! My very best go-to-concert-and-theater

bonnet.”

“I beg your pardon, it was so small, I naturally mistook it for one of

the flyaway things you sometimes wear. How do you keep it on?”

“These bits of lace are fastened under the chin with a rosebud, so,”

and Meg illustrated by putting on the bonnet and regarding him with an

air of calm satisfaction that was irresistible.

“It’s a love of a bonnet, but I prefer the face inside, for it looks

young and happy again,” and John kissed the smiling face, to the great

detriment of the rosebud under the chin.

“I’m glad you like it, for I want you to take me to one of the new

concerts some night. I really need some music to put me in tune. Will

you, please?”

“Of course I will, with all my heart, or anywhere else you like. You

have been shut up so long, it will do you no end of good, and I shall

enjoy it, of all things. What put it into your head, little mother?”

“Well, I had a talk with Marmee the other day, and told her how nervous

and cross and out of sorts I felt, and she said I needed change and

less care, so Hannah is to help me with the children, and I’m to see to

things about the house more, and now and then have a little fun, just

to keep me from getting to be a fidgety, broken-down old woman before

my time. It’s only an experiment, John, and I want to try it for your

sake as much as for mine, because I’ve neglected you shamefully lately,

and I’m going to make home what it used to be, if I can. You don’t

object, I hope?”

Never mind what John said, or what a very narrow escape the little

bonnet had from utter ruin. All that we have any business to know is

that John did not appear to object, judging from the changes which

gradually took place in the house and its inmates. It was not all

Paradise by any means, but everyone was better for the division of

labor system. The children throve under the paternal rule, for

accurate, steadfast John brought order and obedience into Babydom,

while Meg recovered her spirits and composed her nerves by plenty of

wholesome exercise, a little pleasure, and much confidential

conversation with her sensible husband. Home grew homelike again, and

John had no wish to leave it, unless he took Meg with him. The Scotts

came to the Brookes’ now, and everyone found the little house a

cheerful place, full of happiness, content, and family love. Even

Sallie Moffatt liked to go there. “It is always so quiet and pleasant

here, it does me good, Meg,” she used to say, looking about her with

wistful eyes, as if trying to discover the charm, that she might use it

in her great house, full of splendid loneliness, for there were no

riotous, sunny-faced babies there, and Ned lived in a world of his own,

where there was no place for her.

This household happiness did not come all at once, but John and Meg had

found the key to it, and each year of married life taught them how to

use it, unlocking the treasuries of real home love and mutual

helpfulness, which the poorest may possess, and the richest cannot buy.

This is the sort of shelf on which young wives and mothers may consent

to be laid, safe from the restless fret and fever of the world, finding

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

undaunted by sorrow, poverty, or age, walking side by side, through

fair and stormy weather, with a faithful friend, who is, in the true

sense of the good old Saxon word, the ‘house-band’, and learning, as

Meg learned, that a woman’s happiest kingdom is home, her highest honor

the art of ruling it not as a queen, but as a wise wife and mother.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

LAZY LAURENCE

Laurie went to Nice intending to stay a week, and remained a month. He

was tired of wandering about alone, and Amy’s familiar presence seemed

to give a homelike charm to the foreign scenes in which she bore a

part. He rather missed the ‘petting’ he used to receive, and enjoyed a

taste of it again, for no attentions, however flattering, from

strangers, were half so pleasant as the sisterly adoration of the girls

at home. Amy never would pet him like the others, but she was very glad

to see him now, and quite clung to him, feeling that he was the

representative of the dear family for whom she longed more than she

would confess. They naturally took comfort in each other’s society and

were much together, riding, walking, dancing, or dawdling, for at Nice

no one can be very industrious during the gay season. But, while

apparently amusing themselves in the most careless fashion, they were

half-consciously making discoveries and forming opinions about each

other. Amy rose daily in the estimation of her friend, but he sank in

hers, and each felt the truth before a word was spoken. Amy tried to

please, and succeeded, for she was grateful for the many pleasures he

gave her, and repaid him with the little services to which womanly

women know how to lend an indescribable charm. Laurie made no effort of

any kind, but just let himself drift along as comfortably as possible,

trying to forget, and feeling that all women owed him a kind word

because one had been cold to him. It cost him no effort to be generous,

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

taken them, but at the same time he felt that he could not change the

opinion she was forming of him, and he rather dreaded the keen blue

eyes that seemed to watch him with such half-sorrowful, half-scornful

surprise.

“All the rest have gone to Monaco for the day. I preferred to stay at

home and write letters. They are done now, and I am going to Valrosa to

sketch, will you come?” said Amy, as she joined Laurie one lovely day

when he lounged in as usual, about noon.

“Well, yes, but isn’t it rather warm for such a long walk?” he answered

slowly, for the shaded salon looked inviting after the glare without.

“I’m going to have the little carriage, and Baptiste can drive, so

you’ll have nothing to do but hold your umbrella, and keep your gloves

nice,” returned Amy, with a sarcastic glance at the immaculate kids,

which were a weak point with Laurie.

“Then I’ll go with pleasure.” and he put out his hand for her

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

“Don’t trouble yourself. It’s no exertion to me, but you don’t look

equal to it.”

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

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

himself, and left little Baptiste nothing to do but fold his arms and

fall asleep on his perch.

The two never quarreled. Amy was too well-bred, and just now Laurie was

too lazy, so in a minute he peeped under her hatbrim with an inquiring

air. She answered him with a smile, and they went on together in the

most amicable manner.

It was a lovely drive, along winding roads rich in the picturesque

scenes that delight beauty-loving eyes. Here an ancient monastery,

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

bare-legged shepherd, in wooden shoes, pointed hat, and rough jacket

over one shoulder, sat piping on a stone while his goats skipped among

the rocks or lay at his feet. Meek, mouse-colored donkeys, laden with

panniers of freshly cut grass passed by, with a pretty girl in a

capaline sitting between the green piles, or an old woman spinning with

a distaff as she went. Brown, soft-eyed children ran out from the

quaint stone hovels to offer nosegays, or bunches of oranges still on

the bough. Gnarled olive trees covered the hills with their dusky

foliage, fruit hung golden in the orchard, and great scarlet anemones

fringed the roadside, while beyond green slopes and craggy heights, the

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

Valrosa well deserved its name, for in that climate of perpetual summer

roses blossomed everywhere. They overhung the archway, thrust

themselves between the bars of the great gate with a sweet welcome to

passers-by, and lined the avenue, winding through lemon trees and

feathery palms up to the villa on the hill. Every shadowy nook, where

seats invited one to stop and rest, was a mass of bloom, every cool

grotto had its marble nymph smiling from a veil of flowers and every

fountain reflected crimson, white, or pale pink roses, leaning down to

smile at their own beauty. Roses covered the walls of the house, draped

the cornices, climbed the pillars, and ran riot over the balustrade of

the wide terrace, whence one looked down on the sunny Mediterranean,

and the white-walled city on its shore.

“This is a regular honeymoon paradise, isn’t it? Did you ever see such

roses?” asked Amy, pausing on the terrace to enjoy the view, and a

luxurious whiff of perfume that came wandering by.

“No, nor felt such thorns,” returned Laurie, with his thumb in his

mouth, after a vain attempt to capture a solitary scarlet flower that

grew just beyond his reach.

“Try lower down, and pick those that have no thorns,” said Amy,

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

behind her. She put them in his buttonhole as a peace offering, and he

stood a minute looking down at them with a curious expression, for in

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

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

when imaginative young men find significance in trifles and food for

romance everywhere. He had thought of Jo in reaching after the thorny

red rose, for vivid flowers became her, and she had often worn ones

like that from the greenhouse at home. The pale roses Amy gave him were

the sort that the Italians lay in dead hands, never in bridal wreaths,

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

the next instant his American common sense got the better of

sentimentality, and he laughed a heartier laugh than Amy had heard

since he came.

“It’s good advice, you’d better take it and save your fingers,” she

said, thinking her speech amused him.

“Thank you, I will,” he answered in jest, and a few months later he did

it in earnest.

“Laurie, when are you going to your grandfather?” she asked presently,

as she settled herself on a rustic seat.

“Very soon.”

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

“I dare say, short answers save trouble.”

“He expects you, and you really ought to go.”

“Hospitable creature! I know it.”

“Then why don’t you do it?”

“Natural depravity, I suppose.”

“Natural indolence, you mean. It’s really dreadful!” and Amy looked

severe.

“Not so bad as it seems, for I should only plague him if I went, so I

might as well stay and plague you a little longer, you can bear it

better, in fact I think it agrees with you excellently,” and Laurie

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

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

resignation, but she had made up her mind to lecture ‘that boy’ and in

a minute she began again.

“What are you doing just now?”

“Watching lizards.”

“No, no. I mean what do you intend and wish to do?”

“Smoke a cigarette, if you’ll allow me.”

“How provoking you are! I don’t approve of cigars and I will only allow

it on condition that you let me put you into my sketch. I need a

figure.”

“With all the pleasure in life. How will you have me, full length or

three-quarters, on my head or my heels? I should respectfully suggest a

recumbent posture, then put yourself in also and call it ‘Dolce far

niente’.”

“Stay as you are, and go to sleep if you like. I intend to work hard,”

said Amy in her most energetic tone.

“What delightful enthusiasm!” and he leaned against a tall urn with an

air of entire satisfaction.

“What would Jo say if she saw you now?” asked Amy impatiently, hoping

to stir him up by the mention of her still more energetic sister’s

name.

“As usual, ‘Go away, Teddy. I’m busy!’” He laughed as he spoke, but the

laugh was not natural, and a shade passed over his face, for the

utterance of the familiar name touched the wound that was not healed

yet. Both tone and shadow struck Amy, for she had seen and heard them

before, and now she looked up in time to catch a new expression on

Laurie’s face—a hard bitter look, full of pain, dissatisfaction, and

regret. It was gone before she could study it and the listless

expression back again. She watched him for a moment with artistic

pleasure, thinking how like an Italian he looked, as he lay basking in

the sun with uncovered head and eyes full of southern dreaminess, for

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

“You look like the effigy of a young knight asleep on his tomb,” she

said, carefully tracing the well-cut profile defined against the dark

stone.

“Wish I was!”

“That’s a foolish wish, unless you have spoiled your life. You are so

changed, I sometimes think—” there Amy stopped, with a half-timid,

half-wistful look, more significant than her unfinished speech.

Laurie saw and understood the affectionate anxiety which she hesitated

to express, and looking straight into her eyes, said, just as he used

to say it to her mother, “It’s all right, ma’am.”

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

her lately. It also touched her, and she showed that it did, by the

cordial tone in which she said...

“I’m glad of that! I didn’t think you’d been a very bad boy, but I

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

your heart to some charming Frenchwoman with a husband, or got into

some of the scrapes that young men seem to consider a necessary part of

a foreign tour. Don’t stay out there in the sun, come and lie on the

grass here and ‘let us be friendly’, as Jo used to say when we got in

the sofa corner and told secrets.”

Laurie obediently threw himself down on the turf, and began to amuse

himself by sticking daisies into the ribbons of Amy’s hat, that lay

there.

“I’m all ready for the secrets.” and he glanced up with a decided

expression of interest in his eyes.

“I’ve none to tell. You may begin.”

“Haven’t one to bless myself with. I thought perhaps you’d had some

news from home..”

“You have heard all that has come lately. Don’t you hear often? I

fancied Jo would send you volumes.”

“She’s very busy. I’m roving about so, it’s impossible to be regular,

you know. When do you begin your great work of art, Raphaella?” he

asked, changing the subject abruptly after another pause, in which he

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

“Never,” she answered, with a despondent but decided air. “Rome took

all the vanity out of me, for after seeing the wonders there, I felt

too insignificant to live and gave up all my foolish hopes in despair.”

“Why should you, with so much energy and talent?”

“That’s just why, because talent isn’t genius, and no amount of energy

can make it so. I want to be great, or nothing. I won’t be a

common-place dauber, so I don’t intend to try any more.”

“And what are you going to do with yourself now, if I may ask?”

“Polish up my other talents, and be an ornament to society, if I get

the chance.”

It was a characteristic speech, and sounded daring, but audacity

becomes young people, and Amy’s ambition had a good foundation. Laurie

smiled, but he liked the spirit with which she took up a new purpose

when a long-cherished one died, and spent no time lamenting.

“Good! And here is where Fred Vaughn comes in, I fancy.”

Amy preserved a discreet silence, but there was a conscious look in her

downcast face that made Laurie sit up and say gravely, “Now I’m going

to play brother, and ask questions. May I?”

“I don’t promise to answer.”

“Your face will, if your tongue won’t. You aren’t woman of the world

enough yet to hide your feelings, my dear. I heard rumors about Fred

and you last year, and it’s my private opinion that if he had not been

called home so suddenly and detained so long, something would have come

of it, hey?”

“That’s not for me to say,” was Amy’s grim reply, but her lips would

smile, and there was a traitorous sparkle of the eye which betrayed

that she knew her power and enjoyed the knowledge.

“You are not engaged, I hope?” and Laurie looked very elder-brotherly

and grave all of a sudden.

“No.”

“But you will be, if he comes back and goes properly down on his knees,

won’t you?”

“Very likely.”

“Then you are fond of old Fred?”

“I could be, if I tried.”

“But you don’t intend to try till the proper moment? Bless my soul,

what unearthly prudence! He’s a good fellow, Amy, but not the man I

fancied you’d like.”

“He is rich, a gentleman, and has delightful manners,” began Amy,

trying to be quite cool and dignified, but feeling a little ashamed of

herself, in spite of the sincerity of her intentions.

“I understand. Queens of society can’t get on without money, so you

mean to make a good match, and start in that way? Quite right and

proper, as the world goes, but it sounds odd from the lips of one of

your mother’s girls.”

“True, nevertheless.”

A short speech, but the quiet decision with which it was uttered

contrasted curiously with the young speaker. Laurie felt this

instinctively and laid himself down again, with a sense of

disappointment which he could not explain. His look and silence, as

well as a certain inward self-disapproval, ruffled Amy, and made her

resolve to deliver her lecture without delay.

“I wish you’d do me the favor to rouse yourself a little,” she said

sharply.

“Do it for me, there’s a dear girl.”

“I could, if I tried.” and she looked as if she would like doing it in

the most summary style.

“Try, then. I give you leave,” returned Laurie, who enjoyed having

someone to tease, after his long abstinence from his favorite pastime.

“You’d be angry in five minutes.”

“I’m never angry with you. It takes two flints to make a fire. You are

as cool and soft as snow.”

“You don’t know what I can do. Snow produces a glow and a tingle, if

applied rightly. Your indifference is half affectation, and a good

stirring up would prove it.”

“Stir away, it won’t hurt me and it may amuse you, as the big man said

when his little wife beat him. Regard me in the light of a husband or a

carpet, and beat till you are tired, if that sort of exercise agrees

with you.”

Being decidedly nettled herself, and longing to see him shake off the

apathy that so altered him, Amy sharpened both tongue and pencil, and

began.

“Flo and I have got a new name for you. It’s Lazy Laurence. How do you

like it?”

She thought it would annoy him, but he only folded his arms under his

head, with an imperturbable, “That’s not bad. Thank you, ladies.”

“Do you want to know what I honestly think of you?”

“Pining to be told.”

“Well, I despise you.”

If she had even said ‘I hate you’ in a petulant or coquettish tone, he

would have laughed and rather liked it, but the grave, almost sad,

accent in her voice made him open his eyes, and ask quickly...

“Why, if you please?”

“Because, with every chance for being good, useful, and happy, you are

faulty, lazy, and miserable.”

“Strong language, mademoiselle.”

“If you like it, I’ll go on.”

“Pray do, it’s quite interesting.”

“I thought you’d find it so. Selfish people always like to talk about

themselves.”

“Am I selfish?” the question slipped out involuntarily and in a tone of

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

“Yes, very selfish,” continued Amy, in a calm, cool voice, twice as

effective just then as an angry one. “I’ll show you how, for I’ve

studied you while we were frolicking, and I’m not at all satisfied with

you. Here you have been abroad nearly six months, and done nothing but

waste time and money and disappoint your friends.”

“Isn’t a fellow to have any pleasure after a four-year grind?”

“You don’t look as if you’d had much. At any rate, you are none the

better for it, as far as I can see. I said when we first met that you

had improved. Now I take it all back, for I don’t think you half so

nice as when I left you at home. You have grown abominably lazy, you

like gossip, and waste time on frivolous things, you are contented to

be petted and admired by silly people, instead of being loved and

respected by wise ones. With money, talent, position, health, and

beauty, ah you like that old Vanity! But it’s the truth, so I can’t

help saying it, with all these splendid things to use and enjoy, you

can find nothing to do but dawdle, and instead of being the man you

ought to be, you are only...” there she stopped, with a look that had

both pain and pity in it.

“Saint Laurence on a gridiron,” added Laurie, blandly finishing the

sentence. But the lecture began to take effect, for there was a

wide-awake sparkle in his eyes now and a half-angry, half-injured

expression replaced the former indifference.

“I supposed you’d take it so. You men tell us we are angels, and say we

can make you what we will, but the instant we honestly try to do you

good, you laugh at us and won’t listen, which proves how much your

flattery is worth.” Amy spoke bitterly, and turned her back on the

exasperating martyr at her feet.

In a minute a hand came down over the page, so that she could not draw,

and Laurie’s voice said, with a droll imitation of a penitent child, “I

will be good, oh, I will be good!”

But Amy did not laugh, for she was in earnest, and tapping on the

outspread hand with her pencil, said soberly, “Aren’t you ashamed of a

hand like that? It’s as soft and white as a woman’s, and looks as if it

never did anything but wear Jouvin’s best gloves and pick flowers for

ladies. You are not a dandy, thank Heaven, so I’m glad to see there are

no diamonds or big seal rings on it, only the little old one Jo gave

you so long ago. Dear soul, I wish she was here to help me!”

“So do I!”

The hand vanished as suddenly as it came, and there was energy enough

in the echo of her wish to suit even Amy. She glanced down at him with

a new thought in her mind, but he was lying with his hat half over his

face, as if for shade, and his mustache hid his mouth. She only saw his

chest rise and fall, with a long breath that might have been a sigh,

and the hand that wore the ring nestled down into the grass, as if to

hide something too precious or too tender to be spoken of. All in a

minute various hints and trifles assumed shape and significance in

Amy’s mind, and told her what her sister never had confided to her. She

remembered that Laurie never spoke voluntarily of Jo, she recalled the

shadow on his face just now, the change in his character, and the

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

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

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

alteration, and now she was sure of it. Her keen eyes filled, and when

she spoke again, it was in a voice that could be beautifully soft and

kind when she chose to make it so.

“I know I have no right to talk so to you, Laurie, and if you weren’t

the sweetest-tempered fellow in the world, you’d be very angry with me.

But we are all so fond and proud of you, I couldn’t bear to think they

should be disappointed in you at home as I have been, though, perhaps

they would understand the change better than I do.”

“I think they would,” came from under the hat, in a grim tone, quite as

touching as a broken one.

“They ought to have told me, and not let me go blundering and scolding,

when I should have been more kind and patient than ever. I never did

like that Miss Randal and now I hate her!” said artful Amy, wishing to

be sure of her facts this time.

“Hang Miss Randal!” and Laurie knocked the hat off his face with a look

that left no doubt of his sentiments toward that young lady.

“I beg pardon, I thought...” and there she paused diplomatically.

“No, you didn’t, you knew perfectly well I never cared for anyone but

Jo,” Laurie said that in his old, impetuous tone, and turned his face

away as he spoke.

“I did think so, but as they never said anything about it, and you came

away, I supposed I was mistaken. And Jo wouldn’t be kind to you? Why, I

was sure she loved you dearly.”

“She was kind, but not in the right way, and it’s lucky for her she

didn’t love me, if I’m the good-for-nothing fellow you think me. It’s

her fault though, and you may tell her so.”

The hard, bitter look came back again as he said that, and it troubled

Amy, for she did not know what balm to apply.

“I was wrong, I didn’t know. I’m very sorry I was so cross, but I can’t

help wishing you’d bear it better, Teddy, dear.”

“Don’t, that’s her name for me!” and Laurie put up his hand with a

quick gesture to stop the words spoken in Jo’s half-kind,

half-reproachful tone. “Wait till you’ve tried it yourself,” he added

in a low voice, as he pulled up the grass by the handful.

“I’d take it manfully, and be respected if I couldn’t be loved,” said

Amy, with the decision of one who knew nothing about it.

Now, Laurie flattered himself that he had borne it remarkably well,

making no moan, asking no sympathy, and taking his trouble away to live

it down alone. Amy’s lecture put the matter in a new light, and for the

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

failure, and shut himself up in moody indifference. He felt as if

suddenly shaken out of a pensive dream and found it impossible to go to

sleep again. Presently he sat up and asked slowly, “Do you think Jo

would despise me as you do?”

“Yes, if she saw you now. She hates lazy people. Why don’t you do

something splendid, and make her love you?”

“I did my best, but it was no use.”

“Graduating well, you mean? That was no more than you ought to have

done, for your grandfather’s sake. It would have been shameful to fail

after spending so much time and money, when everyone knew that you

could do well.”

“I did fail, say what you will, for Jo wouldn’t love me,” began Laurie,

leaning his head on his hand in a despondent attitude.

“No, you didn’t, and you’ll say so in the end, for it did you good, and

proved that you could do something if you tried. If you’d only set

about another task of some sort, you’d soon be your hearty, happy self

again, and forget your trouble.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Try it and see. You needn’t shrug your shoulders, and think, ‘Much she

knows about such things’. I don’t pretend to be wise, but I am

observing, and I see a great deal more than you’d imagine. I’m

interested in other people’s experiences and inconsistencies, and

though I can’t explain, I remember and use them for my own benefit.

Love Jo all your days, if you choose, but don’t let it spoil you, for

it’s wicked to throw away so many good gifts because you can’t have the

one you want. There, I won’t lecture any more, for I know you’ll wake

up and be a man in spite of that hardhearted girl.”

Neither spoke for several minutes. Laurie sat turning the little ring

on his finger, and Amy put the last touches to the hasty sketch she had

been working at while she talked. Presently she put it on his knee,

merely saying, “How do you like that?”

He looked and then he smiled, as he could not well help doing, for it

was capitally done, the long, lazy figure on the grass, with listless

face, half-shut eyes, and one hand holding a cigar, from which came the

little wreath of smoke that encircled the dreamer’s head.

“How well you draw!” he said, with a genuine surprise and pleasure at

her skill, adding, with a half-laugh, “Yes, that’s me.”

“As you are. This is as you were.” and Amy laid another sketch beside

the one he held.

It was not nearly so well done, but there was a life and spirit in it

which atoned for many faults, and it recalled the past so vividly that

a sudden change swept over the young man’s face as he looked. Only a

rough sketch of Laurie taming a horse. Hat and coat were off, and every

line of the active figure, resolute face, and commanding attitude was

full of energy and meaning. The handsome brute, just subdued, stood

arching his neck under the tightly drawn rein, with one foot

impatiently pawing the ground, and ears pricked up as if listening for

the voice that had mastered him. In the ruffled mane, the rider’s

breezy hair and erect attitude, there was a suggestion of suddenly

arrested motion, of strength, courage, and youthful buoyancy that

contrasted sharply with the supine grace of the ‘_Dolce far Niente_’

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

Amy saw him flush up and fold his lips together as if he read and

accepted the little lesson she had given him. That satisfied her, and

without waiting for him to speak, she said, in her sprightly way...

“Don’t you remember the day you played Rarey with Puck, and we all

looked on? Meg and Beth were frightened, but Jo clapped and pranced,

and I sat on the fence and drew you. I found that sketch in my

portfolio the other day, touched it up, and kept it to show you.”

“Much obliged. You’ve improved immensely since then, and I congratulate

you. May I venture to suggest in ‘a honeymoon paradise’ that five

o’clock is the dinner hour at your hotel?”

Laurie rose as he spoke, returned the pictures with a smile and a bow

and looked at his watch, as if to remind her that even moral lectures

should have an end. He tried to resume his former easy, indifferent

air, but it was an affectation now, for the rousing had been more

effacious than he would confess. Amy felt the shade of coldness in his

manner, and said to herself...

“Now, I’ve offended him. Well, if it does him good, I’m glad, if it

makes him hate me, I’m sorry, but it’s true, and I can’t take back a

word of it.”

They laughed and chatted all the way home, and little Baptiste, up

behind, thought that monsieur and madamoiselle were in charming

spirits. But both felt ill at ease. The friendly frankness was

disturbed, the sunshine had a shadow over it, and despite their

apparent gaiety, there was a secret discontent in the heart of each.

“Shall we see you this evening, mon frere?” asked Amy, as they parted

at her aunt’s door.

“Unfortunately I have an engagement. Au revoir, madamoiselle,” and

Laurie bent as if to kiss her hand, in the foreign fashion, which

became him better than many men. Something in his face made Amy say

quickly and warmly...

“No, be yourself with me, Laurie, and part in the good old way. I’d

rather have a hearty English handshake than all the sentimental

salutations in France.”

“Goodbye, dear,” and with these words, uttered in the tone she liked,

Laurie left her, after a handshake almost painful in its heartiness.

Next morning, instead of the usual call, Amy received a note which made

her smile at the beginning and sigh at the end.

My Dear Mentor, Please make my adieux to your aunt, and exult within

yourself, for ‘Lazy Laurence’ has gone to his grandpa, like the best of

boys. A pleasant winter to you, and may the gods grant you a blissful

honeymoon at Valrosa! I think Fred would be benefited by a rouser. Tell

him so, with my congratulations.

Yours gratefully, Telemachus

“Good boy! I’m glad he’s gone,” said Amy, with an approving smile. The

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

with an involuntary sigh, “Yes, I am glad, but how I shall miss him.”

CHAPTER FORTY

THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW

When the first bitterness was over, the family accepted the inevitable,

and tried to bear it cheerfully, helping one another by the increased

affection which comes to bind households tenderly together in times of

trouble. They put away their grief, and each did his or her part toward

making that last year a happy one.

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

gathered everything that she most loved, flowers, pictures, her piano,

the little worktable, and the beloved pussies. Father’s best books

found their way there, Mother’s easy chair, Jo’s desk, Amy’s finest

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

to make sunshine for Aunty Beth. John quietly set apart a little sum,

that he might enjoy the pleasure of keeping the invalid supplied with

the fruit she loved and longed for. Old Hannah never wearied of

concocting dainty dishes to tempt a capricious appetite, dropping tears

as she worked, and from across the sea came little gifts and cheerful

letters, seeming to bring breaths of warmth and fragrance from lands

that know no winter.

Here, cherished like a household saint in its shrine, sat Beth,

tranquil and busy as ever, for nothing could change the sweet,

unselfish nature, and even while preparing to leave life, she tried to

make it happier for those who should remain behind. The feeble fingers

were never idle, and one of her pleasures was to make little things for

the school children daily passing to and fro, to drop a pair of mittens

from her window for a pair of purple hands, a needlebook for some small

mother of many dolls, penwipers for young penmen toiling through

forests of pothooks, scrapbooks for picture-loving eyes, and all manner

of pleasant devices, till the reluctant climbers of the ladder of

learning found their way strewn with flowers, as it were, and came to

regard the gentle giver as a sort of fairy godmother, who sat above

there, and showered down gifts miraculously suited to their tastes and

needs. If Beth had wanted any reward, she found it in the bright little

faces always turned up to her window, with nods and smiles, and the

droll little letters which came to her, full of blots and gratitude.

The first few months were very happy ones, and Beth often used to look

round, and say “How beautiful this is!” as they all sat together in her

sunny room, the babies kicking and crowing on the floor, mother and

sisters working near, and father reading, in his pleasant voice, from

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

applicable now as when written centuries ago, a little chapel, where a

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

trying to show them that hope can comfort love, and faith make

resignation possible. Simple sermons, that went straight to the souls

of those who listened, for the father’s heart was in the minister’s

religion, and the frequent falter in the voice gave a double eloquence

to the words he spoke or read.

It was well for all that this peaceful time was given them as

preparation for the sad hours to come, for by-and-by, Beth said the

needle was ‘so heavy’, and put it down forever. Talking wearied her,

faces troubled her, pain claimed her for its own, and her tranquil

spirit was sorrowfully perturbed by the ills that vexed her feeble

flesh. Ah me! Such heavy days, such long, long nights, such aching

hearts and imploring prayers, when those who loved her best were forced

to see the thin hands stretched out to them beseechingly, to hear the

bitter cry, “Help me, help me!” and to feel that there was no help. A

sad eclipse of the serene soul, a sharp struggle of the young life with

death, but both were mercifully brief, and then the natural rebellion

over, the old peace returned more beautiful than ever. With the wreck

of her frail body, Beth’s soul grew strong, and though she said little,

those about her felt that she was ready, saw that the first pilgrim

called was likewise the fittest, and waited with her on the shore,

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

the river.

Jo never left her for an hour since Beth had said “I feel stronger when

you are here.” She slept on a couch in the room, waking often to renew

the fire, to feed, lift, or wait upon the patient creature who seldom

asked for anything, and ‘tried not to be a trouble’. All day she

haunted the room, jealous of any other nurse, and prouder of being

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

helpful hours to Jo, for now her heart received the teaching that it

needed. Lessons in patience were so sweetly taught her that she could

not fail to learn them, charity for all, the lovely spirit that can

forgive and truly forget unkindness, the loyalty to duty that makes the

hardest easy, and the sincere faith that fears nothing, but trusts

undoubtingly.

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

heard her singing softly, to beguile the sleepless night, or saw her

lean her face upon her hands, while slow tears dropped through the

transparent fingers, and Jo would lie watching her with thoughts too

deep for tears, feeling that Beth, in her simple, unselfish way, was

trying to wean herself from the dear old life, and fit herself for the

life to come, by sacred words of comfort, quiet prayers, and the music

she loved so well.

Seeing this did more for Jo than the wisest sermons, the saintliest

hymns, the most fervent prayers that any voice could utter. For with

eyes made clear by many tears, and a heart softened by the tenderest

sorrow, she recognized the beauty of her sister’s life—uneventful,

unambitious, yet full of the genuine virtues which ‘smell sweet, and

blossom in the dust’, the self-forgetfulness that makes the humblest on

earth remembered soonest in heaven, the true success which is possible

to all.

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

something to make her forget the mortal weariness that was almost as

hard to bear as pain, as she turned the leaves of her old favorite,

Pilgrims’s Progress, she found a little paper, scribbled over in Jo’s

hand. The name caught her eye and the blurred look of the lines made

her sure that tears had fallen on it.

“Poor Jo! She’s fast asleep, so I won’t wake her to ask leave. She

shows me all her things, and I don’t think she’ll mind if I look at

this”, thought Beth, with a glance at her sister, who lay on the rug,

with the tongs beside her, ready to wake up the minute the log fell

apart.

MY BETH

Sitting patient in the shadow

Till the blessed light shall come,

A serene and saintly presence

Sanctifies our troubled home.

Earthly joys and hopes and sorrows

Break like ripples on the strand

Of the deep and solemn river

Where her willing feet now stand.

O my sister, passing from me,

Out of human care and strife,

Leave me, as a gift, those virtues

Which have beautified your life.

Dear, bequeath me that great patience

Which has power to sustain

A cheerful, uncomplaining spirit

In its prison-house of pain.

Give me, for I need it sorely,

Of that courage, wise and sweet,

Which has made the path of duty

Green beneath your willing feet.

Give me that unselfish nature,

That with charity divine

Can pardon wrong for love’s dear sake—

Meek heart, forgive me mine!

Thus our parting daily loseth

Something of its bitter pain,

And while learning this hard lesson,

My great loss becomes my gain.

For the touch of grief will render

My wild nature more serene,

Give to life new aspirations,

A new trust in the unseen.

Henceforth, safe across the river,

I shall see forever more

A beloved, household spirit

Waiting for me on the shore.

Hope and faith, born of my sorrow,

Guardian angels shall become,

And the sister gone before me

By their hands shall lead me home.

Blurred and blotted, faulty and feeble as the lines were, they brought

a look of inexpressible comfort to Beth’s face, for her one regret had

been that she had done so little, and this seemed to assure her that

her life had not been useless, that her death would not bring the

despair she feared. As she sat with the paper folded between her hands,

the charred log fell asunder. Jo started up, revived the blaze, and

crept to the bedside, hoping Beth slept.

“Not asleep, but so happy, dear. See, I found this and read it. I knew

you wouldn’t care. Have I been all that to you, Jo?” she asked, with

wistful, humble earnestness.

“_Oh_, Beth, so much, so much!” and Jo’s head went down upon the pillow

beside her sister’s.

“Then I don’t feel as if I’d wasted my life. I’m not so good as you

make me, but I have tried to do right. And now, when it’s too late to

begin even to do better, it’s such a comfort to know that someone loves

me so much, and feels as if I’d helped them.”

“More than any one in the world, Beth. I used to think I couldn’t let

you go, but I’m learning to feel that I don’t lose you, that you’ll be

more to me than ever, and death can’t part us, though it seems to.”

“I know it cannot, and I don’t fear it any longer, for I’m sure I shall

be your Beth still, to love and help you more than ever. You must take

my place, Jo, and be everything to Father and Mother when I’m gone.

They will turn to you, don’t fail them, and if it’s hard to work alone,

remember that I don’t forget you, and that you’ll be happier in doing

that than writing splendid books or seeing all the world, for love is

the only thing that we can carry with us when we go, and it makes the

end so easy.”

“I’ll try, Beth.” and then and there Jo renounced her old ambition,

pledged herself to a new and better one, acknowledging the poverty of

other desires, and feeling the blessed solace of a belief in the

immortality of love.

So the spring days came and went, the sky grew clearer, the earth

greener, the flowers were up fairly early, and the birds came back in

time to say goodbye to Beth, who, like a tired but trustful child,

clung to the hands that had led her all her life, as Father and Mother

guided her tenderly through the Valley of the Shadow, and gave her up

to God.

Seldom except in books do the dying utter memorable words, see visions,

or depart with beatified countenances, and those who have sped many

parting souls know that to most the end comes as naturally and simply

as sleep. As Beth had hoped, the ‘tide went out easily’, and in the

dark hour before dawn, on the bosom where she had drawn her first

breath, she quietly drew her last, with no farewell but one loving

look, one little sigh.

With tears and prayers and tender hands, Mother and sisters made her

ready for the long sleep that pain would never mar again, seeing with

grateful eyes the beautiful serenity that soon replaced the pathetic

patience that had wrung their hearts so long, and feeling with reverent

joy that to their darling death was a benignant angel, not a phantom

full of dread.

When morning came, for the first time in many months the fire was out,

Jo’s place was empty, and the room was very still. But a bird sang

blithely on a budding bough, close by, the snowdrops blossomed freshly

at the window, and the spring sunshine streamed in like a benediction

over the placid face upon the pillow, a face so full of painless peace

that those who loved it best smiled through their tears, and thanked

God that Beth was well at last.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

LEARNING TO FORGET

Amy’s lecture did Laurie good, though, of course, he did not own it

till long afterward. Men seldom do, for when women are the advisers,

the lords of creation don’t take the advice till they have persuaded

themselves that it is just what they intended to do. Then they act upon

it, and, if it succeeds, they give the weaker vessel half the credit of

it. If it fails, they generously give her the whole. Laurie went back

to his grandfather, and was so dutifully devoted for several weeks that

the old gentleman declared the climate of Nice had improved him

wonderfully, and he had better try it again. There was nothing the

young gentleman would have liked better, but elephants could not have

dragged him back after the scolding he had received. Pride forbid, and

whenever the longing grew very strong, he fortified his resolution by

repeating the words that had made the deepest impression—“I despise

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

Laurie turned the matter over in his mind so often that he soon brought

himself to confess that he had been selfish and lazy, but then when a

man has a great sorrow, he should be indulged in all sorts of vagaries

till he has lived it down. He felt that his blighted affections were

quite dead now, and though he should never cease to be a faithful

mourner, there was no occasion to wear his weeds ostentatiously. Jo

wouldn’t love him, but he might make her respect and admire him by

doing something which should prove that a girl’s ‘No’ had not spoiled

his life. He had always meant to do something, and Amy’s advice was

quite unnecessary. He had only been waiting till the aforesaid blighted

affections were decently interred. That being done, he felt that he was

ready to ‘hide his stricken heart, and still toil on’.

As Goethe, when he had a joy or a grief, put it into a song, so Laurie

resolved to embalm his love sorrow in music, and to compose a Requiem

which should harrow up Jo’s soul and melt the heart of every hearer.

Therefore the next time the old gentleman found him getting restless

and moody and ordered him off, he went to Vienna, where he had musical

friends, and fell to work with the firm determination to distinguish

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

or music too ethereal to uplift a mortal woe, he soon discovered that

the Requiem was beyond him just at present. It was evident that his

mind was not in working order yet, and his ideas needed clarifying, for

often in the middle of a plaintive strain, he would find himself

humming a dancing tune that vividly recalled the Christmas ball at

Nice, especially the stout Frenchman, and put an effectual stop to

tragic composition for the time being.

Then he tried an opera, for nothing seemed impossible in the beginning,

but here again unforeseen difficulties beset him. He wanted Jo for his

heroine, and called upon his memory to supply him with tender

recollections and romantic visions of his love. But memory turned

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

only recall Jo’s oddities, faults, and freaks, would only show her in

the most unsentimental aspects—beating mats with her head tied up in a

bandanna, barricading herself with the sofa pillow, or throwing cold

water over his passion a la Gummidge—and an irresistable laugh spoiled

the pensive picture he was endeavoring to paint. Jo wouldn’t be put

into the opera at any price, and he had to give her up with a “Bless

that girl, what a torment she is!” and a clutch at his hair, as became

a distracted composer.

When he looked about him for another and a less intractable damsel to

immortalize in melody, memory produced one with the most obliging

readiness. This phantom wore many faces, but it always had golden hair,

was enveloped in a diaphanous cloud, and floated airily before his

mind’s eye in a pleasing chaos of roses, peacocks, white ponies, and

blue ribbons. He did not give the complacent wraith any name, but he

took her for his heroine and grew quite fond of her, as well he might,

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

her, unscathed, through trials which would have annihilated any mortal

woman.

Thanks to this inspiration, he got on swimmingly for a time, but

gradually the work lost its charm, and he forgot to compose, while he

sat musing, pen in hand, or roamed about the gay city to get some new

ideas and refresh his mind, which seemed to be in a somewhat unsettled

state that winter. He did not do much, but he thought a great deal and

was conscious of a change of some sort going on in spite of himself.

“It’s genius simmering, perhaps. I’ll let it simmer, and see what comes

of it,” he said, with a secret suspicion all the while that it wasn’t

genius, but something far more common. Whatever it was, it simmered to

some purpose, for he grew more and more discontented with his desultory

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

body, and finally came to the wise conclusion that everyone who loved

music was not a composer. Returning from one of Mozart’s grand operas,

splendidly performed at the Royal Theatre, he looked over his own,

played a few of the best parts, sat staring at the busts of

Mendelssohn, Beethoven, and Bach, who stared benignly back again. Then

suddenly he tore up his music sheets, one by one, and as the last

fluttered out of his hand, he said soberly to himself...

“She is right! Talent isn’t genius, and you can’t make it so. That

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

won’t be a humbug any longer. Now what shall I do?”

That seemed a hard question to answer, and Laurie began to wish he had

to work for his daily bread. Now if ever, occurred an eligible

opportunity for ‘going to the devil’, as he once forcibly expressed it,

for he had plenty of money and nothing to do, and Satan is proverbially

fond of providing employment for full and idle hands. The poor fellow

had temptations enough from without and from within, but he withstood

them pretty well, for much as he valued liberty, he valued good faith

and confidence more, so his promise to his grandfather, and his desire

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

and say “All’s well,” kept him safe and steady.

Very likely some Mrs. Grundy will observe, “I don’t believe it, boys

will be boys, young men must sow their wild oats, and women must not

expect miracles.” I dare say you don’t, Mrs. Grundy, but it’s true

nevertheless. Women work a good many miracles, and I have a persuasion

that they may perform even that of raising the standard of manhood by

refusing to echo such sayings. Let the boys be boys, the longer the

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

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

and keep many tares from spoiling the harvest, by believing, and

showing that they believe, in the possibility of loyalty to the virtues

which make men manliest in good women’s eyes. If it is a feminine

delusion, leave us to enjoy it while we may, for without it half the

beauty and the romance of life is lost, and sorrowful forebodings would

embitter all our hopes of the brave, tenderhearted little lads, who

still love their mothers better than themselves and are not ashamed to

own it.

Laurie thought that the task of forgetting his love for Jo would absorb

all his powers for years, but to his great surprise he discovered it

grew easier every day. He refused to believe it at first, got angry

with himself, and couldn’t understand it, but these hearts of ours are

curious and contrary things, and time and nature work their will in

spite of us. Laurie’s heart wouldn’t ache. The wound persisted in

healing with a rapidity that astonished him, and instead of trying to

forget, he found himself trying to remember. He had not foreseen this

turn of affairs, and was not prepared for it. He was disgusted with

himself, surprised at his own fickleness, and full of a queer mixture

of disappointment and relief that he could recover from such a

tremendous blow so soon. He carefully stirred up the embers of his lost

love, but they refused to burst into a blaze. There was only a

comfortable glow that warmed and did him good without putting him into

a fever, and he was reluctantly obliged to confess that the boyish

passion was slowly subsiding into a more tranquil sentiment, very

tender, a little sad and resentful still, but that was sure to pass

away in time, leaving a brotherly affection which would last unbroken

to the end.

As the word ‘brotherly’ passed through his mind in one of his reveries,

he smiled, and glanced up at the picture of Mozart that was before

him...

“Well, he was a great man, and when he couldn’t have one sister he took

the other, and was happy.”

Laurie did not utter the words, but he thought them, and the next

instant kissed the little old ring, saying to himself, “No, I won’t! I

haven’t forgotten, I never can. I’ll try again, and if that fails, why

then...”

Leaving his sentence unfinished, he seized pen and paper and wrote to

Jo, telling her that he could not settle to anything while there was

the least hope of her changing her mind. Couldn’t she, wouldn’t she—and

let him come home and be happy? While waiting for an answer he did

nothing, but he did it energetically, for he was in a fever of

impatience. It came at last, and settled his mind effectually on one

point, for Jo decidedly couldn’t and wouldn’t. She was wrapped up in

Beth, and never wished to hear the word love again. Then she begged him

to be happy with somebody else, but always keep a little corner of his

heart for his loving sister Jo. In a postscript she desired him not to

tell Amy that Beth was worse, she was coming home in the spring and

there was no need of saddening the remainder of her stay. That would be

time enough, please God, but Laurie must write to her often, and not

let her feel lonely, homesick or anxious.

“So I will, at once. Poor little girl, it will be a sad going home for

her, I’m afraid,” and Laurie opened his desk, as if writing to Amy had

been the proper conclusion of the sentence left unfinished some weeks

before.

But he did not write the letter that day, for as he rummaged out his

best paper, he came across something which changed his purpose.

Tumbling about in one part of the desk among bills, passports, and

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

in another compartment were three notes from Amy, carefully tied up

with one of her blue ribbons and sweetly suggestive of the little dead

roses put away inside. With a half-repentant, half-amused expression,

Laurie gathered up all Jo’s letters, smoothed, folded, and put them

neatly into a small drawer of the desk, stood a minute turning the ring

thoughtfully on his finger, then slowly drew it off, laid it with the

letters, locked the drawer, and went out to hear High Mass at Saint

Stefan’s, feeling as if there had been a funeral, and though not

overwhelmed with affliction, this seemed a more proper way to spend the

rest of the day than in writing letters to charming young ladies.

The letter went very soon, however, and was promptly answered, for Amy

was homesick, and confessed it in the most delightfully confiding

manner. The correspondence flourished famously, and letters flew to and

fro with unfailing regularity all through the early spring. Laurie sold

his busts, made allumettes of his opera, and went back to Paris, hoping

somebody would arrive before long. He wanted desperately to go to Nice,

but would not till he was asked, and Amy would not ask him, for just

then she was having little experiences of her own, which made her

rather wish to avoid the quizzical eyes of ‘our boy’.

Fred Vaughn had returned, and put the question to which she had once

decided to answer, “Yes, thank you,” but now she said, “No, thank you,”

kindly but steadily, for when the time came, her courage failed her,

and she found that something more than money and position was needed to

satisfy the new longing that filled her heart so full of tender hopes

and fears. The words, “Fred is a good fellow, but not at all the man I

fancied you would ever like,” and Laurie’s face when he uttered them,

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

look, if not in words, “I shall marry for money.” It troubled her to

remember that now, she wished she could take it back, it sounded so

unwomanly. She didn’t want Laurie to think her a heartless, worldly

creature. She didn’t care to be a queen of society now half so much as

she did to be a lovable woman. She was so glad he didn’t hate her for

the dreadful things she said, but took them so beautifully and was

kinder than ever. His letters were such a comfort, for the home letters

were very irregular and not half so satisfactory as his when they did

come. It was not only a pleasure, but a duty to answer them, for the

poor fellow was forlorn, and needed petting, since Jo persisted in

being stonyhearted. She ought to have made an effort and tried to love

him. It couldn’t be very hard, many people would be proud and glad to

have such a dear boy care for them. But Jo never would act like other

girls, so there was nothing to do but be very kind and treat him like a

brother.

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

would be a much happier race of beings than they are. Amy never

lectured now. She asked his opinion on all subjects, she was interested

in everything he did, made charming little presents for him, and sent

him two letters a week, full of lively gossip, sisterly confidences,

and captivating sketches of the lovely scenes about her. As few

brothers are complimented by having their letters carried about in

their sister’s pockets, read and reread diligently, cried over when

short, kissed when long, and treasured carefully, we will not hint that

Amy did any of these fond and foolish things. But she certainly did

grow a little pale and pensive that spring, lost much of her relish for

society, and went out sketching alone a good deal. She never had much

to show when she came home, but was studying nature, I dare say, while

she sat for hours, with her hands folded, on the terrace at Valrosa, or

absently sketched any fancy that occurred to her, a stalwart knight

carved on a tomb, a young man asleep in the grass, with his hat over

his eyes, or a curly haired girl in gorgeous array, promenading down a

ballroom on the arm of a tall gentleman, both faces being left a blur

according to the last fashion in art, which was safe but not altogether

satisfactory.

Her aunt thought that she regretted her answer to Fred, and finding

denials useless and explanations impossible, Amy left her to think what

she liked, taking care that Laurie should know that Fred had gone to

Egypt. That was all, but he understood it, and looked relieved, as he

said to himself, with a venerable air...

“I was sure she would think better of it. Poor old fellow! I’ve been

through it all, and I can sympathize.”

With that he heaved a great sigh, and then, as if he had discharged his

duty to the past, put his feet up on the sofa and enjoyed Amy’s letter

luxuriously.

While these changes were going on abroad, trouble had come at home. But

the letter telling that Beth was failing never reached Amy, and when

the next found her the grass was green above her sister. The sad news

met her at Vevay, for the heat had driven them from Nice in May, and

they had travelled slowly to Switzerland, by way of Genoa and the

Italian lakes. She bore it very well, and quietly submitted to the

family decree that she should not shorten her visit, for since it was

too late to say goodbye to Beth, she had better stay, and let absence

soften her sorrow. But her heart was very heavy, she longed to be at

home, and every day looked wistfully across the lake, waiting for

Laurie to come and comfort her.

He did come very soon, for the same mail brought letters to them both,

but he was in Germany, and it took some days to reach him. The moment

he read it, he packed his knapsack, bade adieu to his fellow

pedestrians, and was off to keep his promise, with a heart full of joy

and sorrow, hope and suspense.

He knew Vevay well, and as soon as the boat touched the little quay, he

hurried along the shore to La Tour, where the Carrols were living en

pension. The garcon was in despair that the whole family had gone to

take a promenade on the lake, but no, the blonde mademoiselle might be

in the chateau garden. If monsieur would give himself the pain of

sitting down, a flash of time should present her. But monsieur could

not wait even a ‘flash of time’, and in the middle of the speech

departed to find mademoiselle himself.

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

rustling overhead, ivy climbing everywhere, and the black shadow of the

tower falling far across the sunny water. At one corner of the wide,

low wall was a seat, and here Amy often came to read or work, or

console herself with the beauty all about her. She was sitting here

that day, leaning her head on her hand, with a homesick heart and heavy

eyes, thinking of Beth and wondering why Laurie did not come. She did

not hear him cross the courtyard beyond, nor see him pause in the

archway that led from the subterranean path into the garden. He stood a

minute looking at her with new eyes, seeing what no one had ever seen

before, the tender side of Amy’s character. Everything about her mutely

suggested love and sorrow, the blotted letters in her lap, the black

ribbon that tied up her hair, the womanly pain and patience in her

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

Laurie, for he had given it to her, and she wore it as her only

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

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

dropping everything, she ran to him, exclaiming in a tone of

unmistakable love and longing...

“Oh, Laurie, Laurie, I knew you’d come to me!”

I think everything was said and settled then, for as they stood

together quite silent for a moment, with the dark head bent down

protectingly over the light one, Amy felt that no one could comfort and

sustain her so well as Laurie, and Laurie decided that Amy was the only

woman in the world who could fill Jo’s place and make him happy. He did

not tell her so, but she was not disappointed, for both felt the truth,

were satisfied, and gladly left the rest to silence.

In a minute Amy went back to her place, and while she dried her tears,

Laurie gathered up the scattered papers, finding in the sight of sundry

well-worn letters and suggestive sketches good omens for the future. As

he sat down beside her, Amy felt shy again, and turned rosy red at the

recollection of her impulsive greeting.

“I couldn’t help it, I felt so lonely and sad, and was so very glad to

see you. It was such a surprise to look up and find you, just as I was

beginning to fear you wouldn’t come,” she said, trying in vain to speak

quite naturally.

“I came the minute I heard. I wish I could say something to comfort you

for the loss of dear little Beth, but I can only feel, and...” He could

not get any further, for he too turned bashful all of a sudden, and did

not quite know what to say. He longed to lay Amy’s head down on his

shoulder, and tell her to have a good cry, but he did not dare, so took

her hand instead, and gave it a sympathetic squeeze that was better

than words.

“You needn’t say anything, this comforts me,” she said softly. “Beth is

well and happy, and I mustn’t wish her back, but I dread the going

home, much as I long to see them all. We won’t talk about it now, for

it makes me cry, and I want to enjoy you while you stay. You needn’t go

right back, need you?”

“Not if you want me, dear.”

“I do, so much. Aunt and Flo are very kind, but you seem like one of

the family, and it would be so comfortable to have you for a little

while.”

Amy spoke and looked so like a homesick child whose heart was full that

Laurie forgot his bashfulness all at once, and gave her just what she

wanted—the petting she was used to and the cheerful conversation she

needed.

“Poor little soul, you look as if you’d grieved yourself half sick! I’m

going to take care of you, so don’t cry any more, but come and walk

about with me, the wind is too chilly for you to sit still,” he said,

in the half-caressing, half-commanding way that Amy liked, as he tied

on her hat, drew her arm through his, and began to pace up and down the

sunny walk under the new-leaved chestnuts. He felt more at ease upon

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

a familiar face to smile at her, and a kind voice to talk delightfully

for her alone.

The quaint old garden had sheltered many pairs of lovers, and seemed

expressly made for them, so sunny and secluded was it, with nothing but

the tower to overlook them, and the wide lake to carry away the echo of

their words, as it rippled by below. For an hour this new pair walked

and talked, or rested on the wall, enjoying the sweet influences which

gave such a charm to time and place, and when an unromantic dinner bell

warned them away, Amy felt as if she left her burden of loneliness and

sorrow behind her in the chateau garden.

The moment Mrs. Carrol saw the girl’s altered face, she was illuminated

with a new idea, and exclaimed to herself, “Now I understand it all—the

child has been pining for young Laurence. Bless my heart, I never

thought of such a thing!”

With praiseworthy discretion, the good lady said nothing, and betrayed

no sign of enlightenment, but cordially urged Laurie to stay and begged

Amy to enjoy his society, for it would do her more good than so much

solitude. Amy was a model of docility, and as her aunt was a good deal

occupied with Flo, she was left to entertain her friend, and did it

with more than her usual success.

At Nice, Laurie had lounged and Amy had scolded. At Vevay, Laurie was

never idle, but always walking, riding, boating, or studying in the

most energetic manner, while Amy admired everything he did and followed

his example as far and as fast as she could. He said the change was

owing to the climate, and she did not contradict him, being glad of a

like excuse for her own recovered health and spirits.

The invigorating air did them both good, and much exercise worked

wholesome changes in minds as well as bodies. They seemed to get

clearer views of life and duty up there among the everlasting hills.

The fresh winds blew away desponding doubts, delusive fancies, and

moody mists. The warm spring sunshine brought out all sorts of aspiring

ideas, tender hopes, and happy thoughts. The lake seemed to wash away

the troubles of the past, and the grand old mountains to look benignly

down upon them saying, “Little children, love one another.”

In spite of the new sorrow, it was a very happy time, so happy that

Laurie could not bear to disturb it by a word. It took him a little

while to recover from his surprise at the cure of his first, and as he

had firmly believed, his last and only love. He consoled himself for

the seeming disloyalty by the thought that Jo’s sister was almost the

same as Jo’s self, and the conviction that it would have been

impossible to love any other woman but Amy so soon and so well. His

first wooing had been of the tempestuous order, and he looked back upon

it as if through a long vista of years with a feeling of compassion

blended with regret. He was not ashamed of it, but put it away as one

of the bitter-sweet experiences of his life, for which he could be

grateful when the pain was over. His second wooing, he resolved, should

be as calm and simple as possible. There was no need of having a scene,

hardly any need of telling Amy that he loved her, she knew it without

words and had given him his answer long ago. It all came about so

naturally that no one could complain, and he knew that everybody would

be pleased, even Jo. But when our first little passion has been

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

Laurie let the days pass, enjoying every hour, and leaving to chance

the utterance of the word that would put an end to the first and

sweetest part of his new romance.

He had rather imagined that the denoument would take place in the

chateau garden by moonlight, and in the most graceful and decorous

manner, but it turned out exactly the reverse, for the matter was

settled on the lake at noonday in a few blunt words. They had been

floating about all the morning, from gloomy St. Gingolf to sunny

Montreux, with the Alps of Savoy on one side, Mont St. Bernard and the

Dent du Midi on the other, pretty Vevay in the valley, and Lausanne

upon the hill beyond, a cloudless blue sky overhead, and the bluer lake

below, dotted with the picturesque boats that look like white-winged

gulls.

They had been talking of Bonnivard, as they glided past Chillon, and of

Rousseau, as they looked up at Clarens, where he wrote his Heloise.

Neither had read it, but they knew it was a love story, and each

privately wondered if it was half as interesting as their own. Amy had

been dabbling her hand in the water during the little pause that fell

between them, and when she looked up, Laurie was leaning on his oars

with an expression in his eyes that made her say hastily, merely for

the sake of saying something...

“You must be tired. Rest a little, and let me row. It will do me good,

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

“I’m not tired, but you may take an oar, if you like. There’s room

enough, though I have to sit nearly in the middle, else the boat won’t

trim,” returned Laurie, as if he rather liked the arrangement.

Feeling that she had not mended matters much, Amy took the offered

third of a seat, shook her hair over her face, and accepted an oar. She

rowed as well as she did many other things, and though she used both

hands, and Laurie but one, the oars kept time, and the boat went

smoothly through the water.

“How well we pull together, don’t we?” said Amy, who objected to

silence just then.

“So well that I wish we might always pull in the same boat. Will you,

Amy?” very tenderly.

“Yes, Laurie,” very low.

Then they both stopped rowing, and unconsciously added a pretty little

tableau of human love and happiness to the dissolving views reflected

in the lake.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

ALL ALONE

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

another, and heart and soul were purified by a sweet example. But when

the helpful voice was silent, the daily lesson over, the beloved

presence gone, and nothing remained but loneliness and grief, then Jo

found her promise very hard to keep. How could she ‘comfort Father and

Mother’ when her own heart ached with a ceaseless longing for her

sister, how could she ‘make the house cheerful’ when all its light and

warmth and beauty seemed to have deserted it when Beth left the old

home for the new, and where in all the world could she ‘find some

useful, happy work to do’, that would take the place of the loving

service which had been its own reward? She tried in a blind, hopeless

way to do her duty, secretly rebelling against it all the while, for it

seemed unjust that her few joys should be lessened, her burdens made

heavier, and life get harder and harder as she toiled along. Some

people seemed to get all sunshine, and some all shadow. It was not

fair, for she tried more than Amy to be good, but never got any reward,

only disappointment, trouble and hard work.

Poor Jo, these were dark days to her, for something like despair came

over her when she thought of spending all her life in that quiet house,

devoted to humdrum cares, a few small pleasures, and the duty that

never seemed to grow any easier. “I can’t do it. I wasn’t meant for a

life like this, and I know I shall break away and do something

desperate if somebody doesn’t come and help me,” she said to herself,

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

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

inevitable.

But someone did come and help her, though Jo did not recognize her good

angels at once because they wore familiar shapes and used the simple

spells best fitted to poor humanity. Often she started up at night,

thinking Beth called her, and when the sight of the little empty bed

made her cry with the bitter cry of unsubmissive sorrow, “Oh, Beth,

come back! Come back!” she did not stretch out her yearning arms in

vain. For, as quick to hear her sobbing as she had been to hear her

sister’s faintest whisper, her mother came to comfort her, not with

words only, but the patient tenderness that soothes by a touch, tears

that were mute reminders of a greater grief than Jo’s, and broken

whispers, more eloquent than prayers, because hopeful resignation went

hand-in-hand with natural sorrow. Sacred moments, when heart talked to

heart in the silence of the night, turning affliction to a blessing,

which chastened grief and strengthened love. Feeling this, Jo’s burden

seemed easier to bear, duty grew sweeter, and life looked more

endurable, seen from the safe shelter of her mother’s arms.

When aching heart was a little comforted, troubled mind likewise found

help, for one day she went to the study, and leaning over the good gray

head lifted to welcome her with a tranquil smile, she said very humbly,

“Father, talk to me as you did to Beth. I need it more than she did,

for I’m all wrong.”

“My dear, nothing can comfort me like this,” he answered, with a falter

in his voice, and both arms round her, as if he too, needed help, and

did not fear to ask for it.

Then, sitting in Beth’s little chair close beside him, Jo told her

troubles, the resentful sorrow for her loss, the fruitless efforts that

discouraged her, the want of faith that made life look so dark, and all

the sad bewilderment which we call despair. She gave him entire

confidence, he gave her the help she needed, and both found consolation

in the act. For the time had come when they could talk together not

only as father and daughter, but as man and woman, able and glad to

serve each other with mutual sympathy as well as mutual love. Happy,

thoughtful times there in the old study which Jo called ‘the church of

one member’, and from which she came with fresh courage, recovered

cheerfulness, and a more submissive spirit. For the parents who had

taught one child to meet death without fear, were trying now to teach

another to accept life without despondency or distrust, and to use its

beautiful opportunities with gratitude and power.

Other helps had Jo—humble, wholesome duties and delights that would not

be denied their part in serving her, and which she slowly learned to

see and value. Brooms and dishcloths never could be as distasteful as

they once had been, for Beth had presided over both, and something of

her housewifely spirit seemed to linger around the little mop and the

old brush, never thrown away. As she used them, Jo found herself

humming the songs Beth used to hum, imitating Beth’s orderly ways, and

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

cozy, which was the first step toward making home happy, though she

didn’t know it till Hannah said with an approving squeeze of the

hand...

“You thoughtful creeter, you’re determined we shan’t miss that dear

lamb ef you can help it. We don’t say much, but we see it, and the Lord

will bless you for’t, see ef He don’t.”

As they sat sewing together, Jo discovered how much improved her sister

Meg was, how well she could talk, how much she knew about good, womanly

impulses, thoughts, and feelings, how happy she was in husband and

children, and how much they were all doing for each other.

“Marriage is an excellent thing, after all. I wonder if I should

blossom out half as well as you have, if I tried it?, always

_‘perwisin’_ I could,” said Jo, as she constructed a kite for Demi in

the topsy-turvy nursery.

“It’s just what you need to bring out the tender womanly half of your

nature, Jo. You are like a chestnut burr, prickly outside, but

silky-soft within, and a sweet kernal, if one can only get at it. Love

will make you show your heart one day, and then the rough burr will

fall off.”

“Frost opens chestnut burrs, ma’am, and it takes a good shake to bring

them down. Boys go nutting, and I don’t care to be bagged by them,”

returned Jo, pasting away at the kite which no wind that blows would

ever carry up, for Daisy had tied herself on as a bob.

Meg laughed, for she was glad to see a glimmer of Jo’s old spirit, but

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

power, and the sisterly chats were not wasted, especially as two of

Meg’s most effective arguments were the babies, whom Jo loved tenderly.

Grief is the best opener of some hearts, and Jo’s was nearly ready for

the bag. A little more sunshine to ripen the nut, then, not a boy’s

impatient shake, but a man’s hand reached up to pick it gently from the

burr, and find the kernal sound and sweet. If she suspected this, she

would have shut up tight, and been more prickly than ever, fortunately

she wasn’t thinking about herself, so when the time came, down she

dropped.

Now, if she had been the heroine of a moral storybook, she ought at

this period of her life to have become quite saintly, renounced the

world, and gone about doing good in a mortified bonnet, with tracts in

her pocket. But, you see, Jo wasn’t a heroine, she was only a

struggling human girl like hundreds of others, and she just acted out

her nature, being sad, cross, listless, or energetic, as the mood

suggested. It’s highly virtuous to say we’ll be good, but we can’t do

it all at once, and it takes a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull all

together before some of us even get our feet set in the right way. Jo

had got so far, she was learning to do her duty, and to feel unhappy if

she did not, but to do it cheerfully, ah, that was another thing! She

had often said she wanted to do something splendid, no matter how hard,

and now she had her wish, for what could be more beautiful than to

devote her life to Father and Mother, trying to make home as happy to

them as they had to her? And if difficulties were necessary to increase

the splendor of the effort, what could be harder for a restless,

ambitious girl than to give up her own hopes, plans, and desires, and

cheerfully live for others?

Providence had taken her at her word. Here was the task, not what she

had expected, but better because self had no part in it. Now, could she

do it? She decided that she would try, and in her first attempt she

found the helps I have suggested. Still another was given her, and she

took it, not as a reward, but as a comfort, as Christian took the

refreshment afforded by the little arbor where he rested, as he climbed

the hill called Difficulty.

“Why don’t you write? That always used to make you happy,” said her

mother once, when the desponding fit over-shadowed Jo.

“I’ve no heart to write, and if I had, nobody cares for my things.”

“We do. Write something for us, and never mind the rest of the world.

Try it, dear. I’m sure it would do you good, and please us very much.”

“Don’t believe I can.” But Jo got out her desk and began to overhaul

her half-finished manuscripts.

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

away, with her black pinafore on, and an absorbed expression, which

caused Mrs. March to smile and slip away, well pleased with the success

of her suggestion. Jo never knew how it happened, but something got

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

for when her family had laughed and cried over it, her father sent it,

much against her will, to one of the popular magazines, and to her

utter surprise, it was not only paid for, but others requested. Letters

from several persons, whose praise was honor, followed the appearance

of the little story, newspapers copied it, and strangers as well as

friends admired it. For a small thing it was a great success, and Jo

was more astonished than when her novel was commended and condemned all

at once.

“I don’t understand it. What can there be in a simple little story like

that to make people praise it so?” she said, quite bewildered.

“There is truth in it, Jo, that’s the secret. Humor and pathos make it

alive, and you have found your style at last. You wrote with no

thoughts of fame and money, and put your heart into it, my daughter.

You have had the bitter, now comes the sweet. Do your best, and grow as

happy as we are in your success.”

“If there is anything good or true in what I write, it isn’t mine. I

owe it all to you and Mother and Beth,” said Jo, more touched by her

father’s words than by any amount of praise from the world.

So taught by love and sorrow, Jo wrote her little stories, and sent

them away to make friends for themselves and her, finding it a very

charitable world to such humble wanderers, for they were kindly

welcomed, and sent home comfortable tokens to their mother, like

dutiful children whom good fortune overtakes.

When Amy and Laurie wrote of their engagement, Mrs. March feared that

Jo would find it difficult to rejoice over it, but her fears were soon

set at rest, for though Jo looked grave at first, she took it very

quietly, and was full of hopes and plans for ‘the children’ before she

read the letter twice. It was a sort of written duet, wherein each

glorified the other in loverlike fashion, very pleasant to read and

satisfactory to think of, for no one had any objection to make.

“You like it, Mother?” said Jo, as they laid down the closely written

sheets and looked at one another.

“Yes, I hoped it would be so, ever since Amy wrote that she had refused

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

‘mercenary spirit’ had come over her, and a hint here and there in her

letters made me suspect that love and Laurie would win the day.”

“How sharp you are, Marmee, and how silent! You never said a word to

me.”

“Mothers have need of sharp eyes and discreet tongues when they have

girls to manage. I was half afraid to put the idea into your head, lest

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

“I’m not the scatterbrain I was. You may trust me. I’m sober and

sensible enough for anyone’s confidante now.”

“So you are, my dear, and I should have made you mine, only I fancied

it might pain you to learn that your Teddy loved someone else.”

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

after I’d refused his love, when it was freshest, if not best?”

“I knew you were sincere then, Jo, but lately I have thought that if he

came back, and asked again, you might perhaps, feel like giving another

answer. Forgive me, dear, I can’t help seeing that you are very lonely,

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

heart. So I fancied that your boy might fill the empty place if he

tried now.”

“No, Mother, it is better as it is, and I’m glad Amy has learned to

love him. But you are right in one thing. I am lonely, and perhaps if

Teddy had tried again, I might have said ‘Yes’, not because I love him

any more, but because I care more to be loved than when he went away.”

“I’m glad of that, Jo, for it shows that you are getting on. There are

plenty to love you, so try to be satisfied with Father and Mother,

sisters and brothers, friends and babies, till the best lover of all

comes to give you your reward.”

“Mothers are the best lovers in the world, but I don’t mind whispering

to Marmee that I’d like to try all kinds. It’s very curious, but the

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

more I seem to want. I’d no idea hearts could take in so many. Mine is

so elastic, it never seems full now, and I used to be quite contented

with my family. I don’t understand it.”

“I do,” and Mrs. March smiled her wise smile, as Jo turned back the

leaves to read what Amy said of Laurie.

“It is so beautiful to be loved as Laurie loves me. He isn’t

sentimental, doesn’t say much about it, but I see and feel it in all he

says and does, and it makes me so happy and so humble that I don’t seem

to be the same girl I was. I never knew how good and generous and

tender he was till now, for he lets me read his heart, and I find it

full of noble impulses and hopes and purposes, and am so proud to know

it’s mine. He says he feels as if he ‘could make a prosperous voyage

now with me aboard as mate, and lots of love for ballast’. I pray he

may, and try to be all he believes me, for I love my gallant captain

with all my heart and soul and might, and never will desert him, while

God lets us be together. Oh, Mother, I never knew how much like heaven

this world could be, when two people love and live for one another!”

“And that’s our cool, reserved, and worldly Amy! Truly, love does work

miracles. How very, very happy they must be!” and Jo laid the rustling

sheets together with a careful hand, as one might shut the covers of a

lovely romance, which holds the reader fast till the end comes, and he

finds himself alone in the workaday world again.

By-and-by Jo roamed away upstairs, for it was rainy, and she could not

walk. A restless spirit possessed her, and the old feeling came again,

not bitter as it once was, but a sorrowfully patient wonder why one

sister should have all she asked, the other nothing. It was not true,

she knew that and tried to put it away, but the natural craving for

affection was strong, and Amy’s happiness woke the hungry longing for

someone to ‘love with heart and soul, and cling to while God let them

be together’. Up in the garret, where Jo’s unquiet wanderings ended

stood four little wooden chests in a row, each marked with its owners

name, and each filled with relics of the childhood and girlhood ended

now for all. Jo glanced into them, and when she came to her own, leaned

her chin on the edge, and stared absently at the chaotic collection,

till a bundle of old exercise books caught her eye. She drew them out,

turned them over, and relived that pleasant winter at kind Mrs.

Kirke’s. She had smiled at first, then she looked thoughtful, next sad,

and when she came to a little message written in the Professor’s hand,

her lips began to tremble, the books slid out of her lap, and she sat

looking at the friendly words, as they took a new meaning, and touched

a tender spot in her heart.

“Wait for me, my friend. I may be a little late, but I shall surely

come.”

“Oh, if he only would! So kind, so good, so patient with me always, my

dear old Fritz. I didn’t value him half enough when I had him, but now

how I should love to see him, for everyone seems going away from me,

and I’m all alone.”

And holding the little paper fast, as if it were a promise yet to be

fulfilled, Jo laid her head down on a comfortable rag bag, and cried,

as if in opposition to the rain pattering on the roof.

Was it all self-pity, loneliness, or low spirits? Or was it the waking

up of a sentiment which had bided its time as patiently as its

inspirer? Who shall say?

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

SURPRISES

Jo was alone in the twilight, lying on the old sofa, looking at the

fire, and thinking. It was her favorite way of spending the hour of

dusk. No one disturbed her, and she used to lie there on Beth’s little

red pillow, planning stories, dreaming dreams, or thinking tender

thoughts of the sister who never seemed far away. Her face looked

tired, grave, and rather sad, for tomorrow was her birthday, and she

was thinking how fast the years went by, how old she was getting, and

how little she seemed to have accomplished. Almost twenty-five, and

nothing to show for it. Jo was mistaken in that. There was a good deal

to show, and by-and-by she saw, and was grateful for it.

“An old maid, that’s what I’m to be. A literary spinster, with a pen

for a spouse, a family of stories for children, and twenty years hence

a morsel of fame, perhaps, when, like poor Johnson, I’m old and can’t

enjoy it, solitary, and can’t share it, independent, and don’t need it.

Well, I needn’t be a sour saint nor a selfish sinner, and, I dare say,

old maids are very comfortable when they get used to it, but...” and

there Jo sighed, as if the prospect was not inviting.

It seldom is, at first, and thirty seems the end of all things to

five-and-twenty. But it’s not as bad as it looks, and one can get on

quite happily if one has something in one’s self to fall back upon. At

twenty-five, girls begin to talk about being old maids, but secretly

resolve that they never will be. At thirty they say nothing about it,

but quietly accept the fact, and if sensible, console themselves by

remembering that they have twenty more useful, happy years, in which

they may be learning to grow old gracefully. Don’t laugh at the

spinsters, dear girls, for often very tender, tragic romances are

hidden away in the hearts that beat so quietly under the sober gowns,

and many silent sacrifices of youth, health, ambition, love itself,

make the faded faces beautiful in God’s sight. Even the sad, sour

sisters should be kindly dealt with, because they have missed the

sweetest part of life, if for no other reason. And looking at them with

compassion, not contempt, girls in their bloom should remember that

they too may miss the blossom time. That rosy cheeks don’t last

forever, that silver threads will come in the bonnie brown hair, and

that, by-and-by, kindness and respect will be as sweet as love and

admiration now.

Gentlemen, which means boys, be courteous to the old maids, no matter

how poor and plain and prim, for the only chivalry worth having is that

which is the readiest to pay deference to the old, protect the feeble,

and serve womankind, regardless of rank, age, or color. Just recollect

the good aunts who have not only lectured and fussed, but nursed and

petted, too often without thanks, the scrapes they have helped you out

of, the tips they have given you from their small store, the stitches

the patient old fingers have set for you, the steps the willing old

feet have taken, and gratefully pay the dear old ladies the little

attentions that women love to receive as long as they live. The

bright-eyed girls are quick to see such traits, and will like you all

the better for them, and if death, almost the only power that can part

mother and son, should rob you of yours, you will be sure to find a

tender welcome and maternal cherishing from some Aunt Priscilla, who

has kept the warmest corner of her lonely old heart for ‘the best nevvy

in the world’.

Jo must have fallen asleep (as I dare say my reader has during this

little homily), for suddenly Laurie’s ghost seemed to stand before her,

a substantial, lifelike ghost, leaning over her with the very look he

used to wear when he felt a good deal and didn’t like to show it. But,

like Jenny in the ballad...