We've got Father and Mother, and each
other, said Beth contentedly from her
corner.

The four young faces on which the firelight
shone brightened at the cheerful words, but
darkened again as Jo said sadly, We
haven't got Father, and shall not have him
for a long time. She didn't say perhaps
never, but each silently added it, thinking of
Father far away, where the fighting was.

Nobody spoke for a minute; then Meg said
in an altered tone, You know the reason
Mother proposed not having any presents
this Christmas was because it is going to
be a hard winter for everyone; and she
thinks we ought not to spend money for
pleasure, when our men are suffering so in
the army. We can't do much, but we can
make our little sacrifices, and ought to do it
gladly. But I am afraid I don't And Meg
shook her head, as she thought regretfully
of all the pretty things she wanted.

But I don't think the little we should spend
would do any good. We've each got a dollar,
and the army wouldn't be much helped by
our giving that. I agree not to expect anything
from Mother or you, but I do want to buy
UNDINE AND SINTRAM for myself. I've
wanted it so long, said Jo, who was a
bookworm.

I planned to spend mine in new music, said
Beth, with a little sigh, which no one heard
but the hearth brush and kettle holder.

I shall get a nice box of Faber's drawing
pencils. I really need them, said Amy
decidedly.

Mother didn't say anything about our
money, and she won't wish us to give up
everything. Let's each buy what we want,
and have a little fun. I'm sure we work hard

You said the other day you thought we were
a deal happier than the King children, for
they were fighting and fretting all the time, in
spite of their money.

So I did, Beth. Well, I think we are. For
though we do have to work, we make fun of
ourselves, and are a pretty jolly set, as Jo
would say.

Jo does use such slang words! observed
Amy, with a reproving look at the long figure
stretched on the rug.

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

Don't, Jo. It's so boyish!

That's why I do it.

I detest rude, unladylike girls!

I hate affected, niminy-piminy chits!

Birds in their little nests agree, sang Beth,
the peacemaker, with such a funny face that
both sharp voices softened to a laugh, and
the pecking ended for that time.

Really, girls, you are both to be blamed,
said Meg, beginning to lecture in her elder-
sisterly fashion. You are old enough to leave
off boyish tricks, and to behave better,
Josephine. It didn't matter so much when
you were a little girl, but now you are so tall,
and turn up your hair, you should remember
that you are a young lady.

I'm not! And if turning up my hair makes me
one, I'll wear it in two tails till I'm twenty,
cried Jo, pulling off her net, and shaking
down a chestnut mane. I hate to think I've
got to grow up, and be Miss March, and
wear long gowns, and look as prim as a
China Aster! It's bad enough to be a girl,

and Christmas roses bloomed in the
windows, and a pleasant atmosphere of
home peace pervaded it.

Margaret, the eldest of the four, was
sixteen, and very pretty, being plump and
fair, with large eyes, plenty of soft brown
hair, a sweet mouth, and white hands, of
which she was rather vain. Fifteen-year-old
Jo was very tall, thin, and brown, and
reminded one of a colt, for she never
seemed to know what to do with her long
limbs, which were very much in her way.
She had a decided mouth, a comical nose,
and sharp, gray eyes, which appeared to
see everything, and were by turns fierce,
funny, or thoughtful. Her long, thick hair was
her one beauty, but it was usually bundled
into a net, to be out of her way. Round
shoulders had Jo, big hands and feet, a fly-
away look to her clothes, and the
uncomfortable appearance of a girl who
was rapidly shooting up into a woman and
didn't like it. Elizabeth, or Beth, as everyone
called her, was a rosy, smooth-haired,
bright-eyed girl of thirteen, with a shy
manner, a timid voice, and a ;peaceful
expression which was seldom disturbed.
Her father called her `Little Miss
Tranquillity', and the name suited her
excellently, for she seemed to live in a
happy world of her own, only venturing out to
meet the few whom she trusted and loved.
Amy, though the youngest, was a most
important person, in her own opinion at
least. A regular snow maiden, with blue
eyes, and yellow hair curling on her
shoulders, pale and slender, and always
carrying herself like a young lady mindful of
her manners. What the characters of the four
sisters were we will leave to be found out.

The clock struck six and, having swept up
the hearth, Beth put a pair of slippers down
to warm. Somehow the sight of the old
shoes had a good effect upon the girls, for

remember how we used to do on our
birthdays? answered Jo.

I used to be so frightened when it was my
turn to sit in the chair with the crown on, and
see you all come marching round to give the
presents, with a kiss. I liked the things and
the kisses, but it was dreadful to have you
sit looking at me while I opened the bundles,
said Beth, who was toasting her face and
the bread for tea at the same time.

Let Marmee think we are getting things for
ourselves, and then surprise her. We must
go shopping tomorrow afternoon, Meg.
There is so much to do about the play for
Christmas night, said Jo, marching up and
down, with her hands behind her back, and
her nose in the air.

I don't mean to act any more after this time.
I'm getting too old for such things, observed
Meg, who was as much a child as ever
about `dressing-up' frolics.

You won't stop, I know, as long as you can
trail round in a white gown with your hair
down, and wear gold-paper jewelry. You
are the best actress we've got, and there'll
be an end of everything if you quit the
boards, said Jo. We ought to rehearse
tonight. Come here, Amy, and do the
fainting scene, for you are as stiff as a
poker in that.

I can't help it. I never saw anyone faint, and I
don't choose to make myself all black and
blue, tumbling flat as you do. If I can go
down easily, I'll drop. If I can't, I shall fall into
a chair and be graceful. I don't care if Hugo
does come at me with a pistol, returned
Amy, who was not gifted with dramatic
power, but was chosen because she was
small enough to be borne out shrieking by
the villain of the piece.

No, it's the toasting fork, with Mother's
shoe on it instead of the bread. Beth's
stage-struck! cried Meg, and the rehearsal
ended in a general burst of laughter.

Glad to find you so merry, my girls, said a
cheery voice at the door, and actors and
audience turned to welcome a tall, motherly
lady with a `can I help you' look about her
which was truly delightful. She was not
elegantly dressed, but a noble-looking
woman, and the girls thought the gray cloak
and unfashionable bonnet covered the most
splendid mother in the world.

Well, dearies, how have you got on today?
There was so much to do, getting the boxes
ready to go tomorrow, that I didn't come
home to dinner. Has anyone called, Beth?
How is your cold, Meg? Jo, you look tired to
death. Come and kiss me, baby.

While making these maternal inquiries Mrs.
March got her wet things off, her warm
slippers on, and sitting down in the easy
chair, drew Amy to her lap, preparing to
enjoy the happiest hour of her busy day. The
girls flew about, trying to make things
comfortable, each in her own way. Meg
arranged the tea table, Jo brought wood
and set chairs, dropping, over-turning, and
clattering everything she touched. Beth
trotted to and fro between parlor kitchen,
quiet and busy, while Amy gave directions
to everyone, as she sat with her hands
folded.

As they gathered about the table, Mrs.
March said, with a particularly happy face,
I've got a treat for you after supper.

A quick, bright smile went round like a
streak of sunshine. Beth clapped her hands,
regardless of the biscuit she held, and Jo
tossed up her napkin, crying, A letter! A
letter! Three cheers for Father!

happen to be touching. Very few letters
were written in those hard times that were
not touching, especially those which fathers
sent home. In this one little was said of the
hardships endured, the dangers faced, or
the homesickness conquered. It was a
cheerful, hopeful letter, full of lively
descriptions of camp life, marches, and
military news, and only at the end did the
writer's heart over-flow with fatherly love
and longing for the little girls at home.

Give them all of my dear love and a kiss. Tell
them I think of them by day, pray for them by
night, and find my best comfort in their
affection at all times. A year seems very
long to wait before I see them, but remind
them that while we wait we may all work, so
that these hard days need not be wasted. I
know they will remember all I said to them,
that they will be loving children to you, will do
their duty faithfully, fight their bosom
enemies bravely, and conquer themselves
so beautifully that when I come back to them
I may be fonder and prouder than ever of my
little women.

Everybody sniffed when they came to that
part. Jo wasn't ashamed of the great tear
that dropped off the end of her nose, and
Amy never minded the rumpling of her curls
as she hid her face on her mother's
shoulder and sobbed out, I am a selfish girl!
But I'll truly try to be better, so he mayn't be
disappointed in me by-and-by.

We all will, cried Meg. I think too much of my
looks and hate to work, but won't any more,
if I can help it.

I'll try and be what he loves to call me, `a little
woman' and not be rough and wild, but do
my duty here instead of wanting to be
somewhere else, said Jo, thinking that
keeping her temper at home was a much
harder task than facing a rebel or two down

Celestial City. Now, my little pilgrims,
suppose you begin again, not in play, but in
earnest, and see how far on you can get
before Father comes home.

Really, Mother? Where are our bundles?
asked Amy, who was a very literal young
lady.

Each of you told what your burden was just
now, except Beth. I rather think she hasn't
got any, said her mother.

Yes, I have. Mine is dishes and dusters, and
envying girls with nice pianos, and being
afraid of people.

Beth's bundle was such a funny one that
everybody wanted to laugh, but nobody did,
for it would have hurt her feelings very much.

Let us do it, said Meg thoughtfully. It is only
another name for trying to be good, and the
story may help us, for though we do want to
be good, it's hard work and we forget, and
don't do our best.

We were in the Slough of Despond tonight,
and Mother came and pulled us out as Help
did in the book. We ought to have our roll of
directions, like Christian. What shall we do
about that? asked Jo, delighted with the
fancy which lent a little romance to the very
dull task of doing her duty.

Look under your pillows Christmas
morning, and you will find your guidebook,
replied Mrs. March.

They talked over the new plan while old
Hannah cleared the table, then out came the
four little work baskets, and the needles
flew as the girls made sheets for Aunt
March. It was uninteresting sewing, but
tonight no one grumbled. They adopted Jo's
plan of dividing the long seams into four

appeared, with the same picture inside,
and a few words written by their mother,
which made their one present very precious
in their eyes. Presently Beth and Amy woke
to rummage and find their little books also,
one dove-colored, the other blue, and all
sat looking at and talking about them, while
the east grew rosy with the coming day.

In spite of her small vanities, Margaret had a
sweet and pious nature, which
unconsciously influenced her sisters,
especially Jo, who loved her very tenderly,
and obeyed her because her advice was so
gently given.

Girls, said Meg seriously, looking from the
tumbled head beside her to the two little
night-capped ones in the room beyond,
Mother wants us to read and love and mind
these books, and we must begin at once.
We used to be faithful about it, but since
Father went away and all this war trouble
unsettled us, we have neglected many
things. You can do as you please, but I shall
keep my book on the table here and read a
little every morning as soon as I wake, for I
know it will do me good and help me
through the day.

Then she opened her new book and began
to read. Jo put her arm round her and,
leaning cheek to cheek, read also, with the
quiet expression so seldom seen on her
restless face.

How good Meg is! Come, Amy, let's do as
they do. I'll help you with the hard words,
and they'' explain things if we don't
understand, whispered Beth, very much
impressed by the pretty books and her
sisters, example.

I'm glad mine is blue, said Amy. and then
the rooms were every still while the pages
were softly turned, and the winter sunshine

It's all right, dear, and a very pretty idea,
quite sensible too, for no one can ever
mistake now. It will please her very much, I
know, said Meg, with a frown for Jo and a
smile for Beth.

There's Mother. Hide the basket, quick!
cried Jo, as a door slammed and steps
sounded in the hall.

Amy came in hastily, and looked rather
abashed when she saw her sisters all
waiting for her.

Where have you been, and what are you
hiding behind you? asked Meg, surprised to
see, by her hood and cloak, that lazy Amy
had been out so early.

Don't laugh at me, Jo! I didn't mean anyone
should know till the time came. I only meant
to change the little bottle for a bygone, and I
gave all my money to get it, and I'm truly
trying not to be selfish any more.

As she spoke, Amy showed the handsome
flask which replaced the cheap one, and
looked so earnest and humble in her little
effort to forget herself that Meg hugged her
on the spot, and Jo pronounced her `a
trump', while Beth ran to the window, and
picked her finest rose to ornament the
stately bottle.

You see I felt ashamed of my present, after
reading and talking about being good this
morning, so I ran round the corner and
changed it the minute I was up, and I'm so
glad, for mine is the handsomest now.

Another bang of the street door sent the
basket under the sofa, and the girls to the
table, eager for breakfast.

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

bedclothes, a sick mother, wailing baby,
and a group of pale, hungry children
cuddled under one old quilt, trying to keep
warm.

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

Ach, mein Gott! It is good angels come to
us! said the poor woman, crying for joy.

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

In a few minutes it really did seem as if kind
spirits had been at work there. Hannah, who
had carried wood, made a fire, and
stopped up the broken panes with old hats
and her own cloak. Mrs.March gave the
mother tea and gruel, and comforted her
with promises of help, while she dressed
the little baby as tenderly as if it had been
her own. The girls meantime spread the
table, set the children round the fire, and fed
them like so many hungry birds, laughing,
talking, and trying to understand the funny
broken English.

Das ist gut! Die Engel-kinder! cried the
poor things as they ate and warmed their
purple hands at the comfortable blaze.

The girls had never been called angel
children before, and thought it very
agreeable, especially Jo, who had been
considered `Sancho' ever since she was
born. That was a very happy breakfast,
though they didn't get any of it. And when
they went away, leaving comfort behind, I
think there were not in all the city four
merrier people than the hungry little girls
who gave away their breakfasts and
contented themselves with bread and milk
on Christmas morning.

That's loving our neighbor better than

guitars, antique lampshade of old-
fashioned butter boats covered with silver
paper, gorgeous robes of old cotton,
glittering with tin spangles from a pickle
factory, and armor covered with the same
useful diamond shaped bits left inn sheets
when the lids of preserve pots were cut out.
The big chamber was the scene of many
innocent revels.

No gentleman were admitted, so Jo played
male parts to her heart's content and took
immense satisfaction in a pair of russet
leather boots given her by a friend, who
knew a lady who knew an actor. These
boots, an old foil, and a slashed doublet
once used by an artist for some picture,
were Jo's chief treasures and appeared on
all occasions. The smallness of the
company made it necessary for the two
principal actors to take several parts
apiece, and they certainly deserved some
credit for the hard work they did in learning
three or four different parts, whisking in and
out of various costumes, and managing the
stage besides. It was excellent drill for their
memories, a harmless amusement, and
employed many hours which otherwise
would have been idle, lonely, or spent in
less profitable society.

On Christmas night, a dozen girls piled onto
the bed which was the dress circle, and sat
before the blue and yellow chintz curtains in
a most flattering state of expectancy. There
was a good deal of rustling and whispering
behind the curtain, a trifle of lamp smoke,
and an occasional giggle from Amy, who
was apt to get hysterical in the excitement of
the moment. Presently a bell sounded, the
curtains flew apart, and the OPERATIC
TRAGEDY began.

A gloomy wood, according to the one
playbill, was represented by a few shrubs in
pots, green baize on the floor, and a cave in

Waving a wand, it sang . . .Hither I
come,From my airy home,Afar in the silver
moon.Take the magic spell,And use it
well,Or its power will vanish soon!

And dropping a small, gilded bottle at the
witch's feet, the spirit vanished. Another
chant from Hagar produced another
apparition, not a lovely one, for with a bang
an ugly black imp appeared and, having
croaked a reply, tossed a dark bottle at
Hugo and disappeared with a mocking
laugh. Having warbled his thanks and put
the potions in his boots, Hugo departed,
and Hagar informed the audience that as he
had killed a few of her friends in times past,
she had cursed him, and intends to thwart
his plans, and be revenged on him. Then the
curtain fell, and the audience reposed and
ate candy while discussing the merits of the
play.

A good deal of hammering went on before
the curtain rose again, but when it became
evident what a masterpiece of stage
carpentry had been got up, no one
murmured at the delay. It was truly superb. A
tower rose to the ceiling, halfway up
appeared a window with a lamp burning in
it, and behind the white curtain appeared
Zara in a lovely blue and silver dress,
waiting for Roderigo. He came in gorgeous
array, with plumed cap, red cloak, chestnut
love locks, a guitar, and the boots, of
course. Kneeling at the foot of the tower, he
sang a serenade in melting tones. Zara
replied and, after a musical dialogue,
consented to fly. Then came the grand
effect of the play. Roderigo produced a
rope ladder, with five steps to it, threw up
one end, and invited Zara to descend.
Timidly she crept from her lattice, put her
hand on Roderigo's shoulder, and was
about to leap gracefully down when Alas!
Alas for Zara! she forgot her train. It caught
in the window, the tower tottered, leaned

tumbling down of a quantity of long red hair
rather marred the effect of the villain's
death. He was called before the curtain,
and with great propriety appeared, leading
Hagar, whose singing was considered
more wonderful than all the rest of the
performance put together.

Act fourth displayed the despairing
Roderigo on the point of stabbing himself
because he has been told that Zara has
deserted him. Just as the dagger is at his
heart, a lovely song is sung under his
window, informing him that Zara is true but
in danger, and he can save her if he will. A
key is thrown in, which unlocks the door,
and in a spasm of rapture he tears off his
chains and rushes away to find and rescue
his lady love.

Act fifth opened with a stormy scene
between Zara and Don Pedro. He wishes
her to go into a convent, but she won't hear
of it, and after a touching appeal, is about to
faint when Roderigo dashes in and
demands her hand. Don Pedro refuses,
because he is not rich. They shout and
gesticulate tremendously but cannot agree,
and Rodrigo is about to bear away the
exhausted Zara, when the timid servant
enters with a letter and a bag from Hagar,
who has mysteriously disappeared. The
latter informs the party that she bequeaths
untold wealth to the young pair and an awful
doom to Don Pedro, if he doesn't make
them happy. The bag is opened, and
several quarts of tin money shower down
upon the stage till it is quite glorified with the
glitter. This entirely softens the stern sire. He
consents without a murmur, all join in a
joyful chorus, and the curtain falls upon the
lovers kneeling to receive Don Pedro's
blessing in attitudes of the most romantic
grace.

Tumultuous applause followed but received

Hannah told one of his servants about your
breakfast party. He is an odd old
gentleman, but that pleased him. He knew
my father years ago, and he sent me a
polite note this afternoon, saying he hoped I
would allow him to express his friendly
feeling toward my children by sending them
a few trifles in honor of the day. I could not
refuse, and so you have a little feast at night
to makeup for the bread-and-milk
breakfast.

That boy; put it into his head, I know he did!
He's a capital fellow, and I wish we could
get acquainted. He looks as if he'd like to
know us but he's bashful, and Meg is so
prim she won't let me speak to him when
we pass, said Jo, as the plates went round,
and the ice began to melt out of sight, with
ohs and ahs of satisfaction.

You mean the people who live in the big
house next door, don't you? asked one of
the girls. My mother knows old Mr.
Laurence, but says he's very proud and
doesn't like to mix with his neighbors. He
keeps his grandson shut up, when he isn't
riding or walking with his tutor, and makes
him study very hard. We invited him to our
party, but he didn't come. Mother says he's
very nice, though when ever speaks to us
girls.

Our cat ran away once, and he brought her
back, and we talked over the fence, and
were getting on capitally, all about cricket,
and so on, when he saw Meg coming, and
walked off. I mean to know him some day,
for he needs fun, I'm sure he does, said Jo
decidedly.

I like his manners, and he looks like a little
gentleman, soI've no objection to your
knowing him, if a proper opportunity comes.
He brought the flowers himself, and I should
have asked him in, if I had been sure what

`Mrs. Gardiner would be happy to see Miss
March and Miss Josephine at a little dance
on New Year's Eve.' Marmee is willing we
should go, now what shall we wear?

What's the use of asking that, when you
know we shall wear our poplins, because
we haven't got anything else? answered Jo
with her mouth full.

If I only had a silk! sighed Meg. Mother says I
may when I'm eighteen perhaps, but two
years is an everlasting time to wait.

I'm sure our pops look like silk, and they are
nice enough for us. Yours is as good as
new, but I forgot the burn and the tear in
mine. Whatever shall I do? The burn shows
badly, and I can't take any out.

You must sit still all you can and keep your
back out of sight. The front is all right. I shall
have a new ribbon for my hair, and Marmee
will lend me her little pearl pin, and my new
slippers are lovely, and my gloves will do,
though they aren't as nice as I'd like.

Mine are spoiled with lemonade, and I can't
get any new ones, so I shall have to go
without, said Jo, who never troubled herself
much about dress.

You must have gloves, or I won't go, cried
Meg decidedly. Gloves are more important
than anything else. You can't dance without
them, and if you don't I should be so
mortified.

Then I'll stay still. I don't care much for
company dancing. It's no fun to go sailing
round. I like to fly about and cut capers.

You can't ask Mother for new ones, they are
so expensive, and you are so careless. She
said when you spoiled the others that she
shouldn't get you any more this winter. Can't

It's the dampness drying, replied Jo.

What a queer smell! It's like burned feathers,
observed Amy, smoothing her own pretty
curls with a superior air.

There, now I'll take off the papers and you'll
see a cloud of little ringlets, said Jo, putting
down the tongs.

She did take off the papers, but no cloud of
ringlets appeared, for the hair came with
the papers, and the horrified hairdresser
laid a row of little scorched bundles on the
bureau before her victim.

Oh, oh, oh! What have you done? I'm
spoiled! I can't go! My hair, oh, my hair!
wailed Meg, looking with despair at the
uneven frizzle on her forehead.

Just my luck! You shouldn't have asked me
to do it. I always spoil everything. I'm so
sorry, but the tongs were too hot, and so I've
made a mess, groaned poor Jo, regarding
the little black pancakes with tears of regret.

It isn't spoiled. Just frizzle it, and tie your
ribbon so the ends come on your forehead a
bit, and it will look like the last fashion. I've
seen many girls do it so, said Amy
consolingly.

Serves me right for trying to be fine. I wish
I'd let my hair alone, cried Meg petulantly.

So do I, it was so smooth and pretty. But it
will soon grow out again, said Beth, coming
to kiss and comfort the shorn sheep.

After various lesser mishaps, Meg was
finished at last, and by the united exertions
of the entire family Jo's hair was got up and
her dress on. They looked very well in their
simple suits, Meg's in silvery drab, with a
blue velvet snood, lace frills, and the pearl

eyebrows if anything is wrong, and nod if
you are all right. Now hold your shoulder
straight, and take short steps, and don't
shake hands if you are introduced to
anyone. It isn't the thing.

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

Down they went, feeling a trifle timid, for
they seldom went to parties, and informal
as this little gathering was, it was an event
to them. Mrs. Gardiner, a stately old lady,
greeted them kindly and handed them over
to the eldest of her six daughters. Meg knew
Sallie and was at her ease very soon, but
Jo, who didn't care much for girls or girlish
gossip, stood about, with her back carefully
against the wall, and felt as much out of
place as a colt in a flower garden. Half a
dozen jovial lads were talking about skates
in another part of the room, and she longed
to go and join them, for skating was one of
the joys of her life. She telegraphed her
wish to Meg, but the eyebrows went up so
alarmingly that she dared not stir. No one
came to talk to her, and one by one the
group dwindled away till she was left alone.
She could not roam about and amuse
herself, for the burned breadth would show,
so she stared at people rather forlornly till
the dancing began. Meg was asked at
once, and the tight slippers tripped about so
briskly that none would have guessed the
pain their wearer suffered smilingly. Jo saw
a big red headed youth approaching her
corner, and fearing he meant to engage
her, she slipped into a curtained recess,
intending to peep and enjoy herself in
peace. Unfortunately, another bashful
person had chosen the same refuge, for, as
the curtain fell behind her, she found herself
face to face with the `Laurence boy'.

Dear me, I didn't know anyone was here!
stammered Jo, preparing to back out as

My first name is Theodore, but I don't like it,
for the fellows called me Dora, so I made
the say Laurie instead.

I hate my name, too, so sentimental! I wish
every one would say Jo instead of
Josephine. How did you make the boys
stop calling you Dora?

I thrashed `em.

I can't thrash Aunt March, so I suppose I
shall have to bear it. And Jo resigned
herself with a sigh.

Don't you like to dance, Miss Jo? asked
Laurie, looking as if he thought the name
suited her.

I like it well enough if there is plenty of room,
and everyone is lively. In a place like this I'm
sure to upset something, tread on people's
toes, or do something dreadful, so I keep
out of mischief and let Meg sail about. Don't
you dance?

Sometimes. You see I've been abroad a
good many years, and haven't been into
company enough yet to know how you do
things here.

Abroad!. cried Jo. Oh, tell me about it! I love
dearly to hear people describe their travels.

Laurie didn't seem to know where to begin,
but Jo's eager questions soon set him
going, and he told her how he had been at
school in Vevay, where the boys never wore
hats and had a fleet of boats on the lake,
and for holiday fun went on walking trips
about Switzerland with their teachers.

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

We spent last winter there.

It was on the tip of Jo's tongue to ask, but
she checked herself in time and, with
unusual tact, tried to find out in around-
about way.

I suppose you are going to college soon? I
see you pegging away at your books, no, I
mean studying hard. And Jo blushed at the
dreadful `pegging' which had escaped her.

Laurie smiled but didn't seem shocked, and
answered with a shrug. Not for a year or
two. I won't go before seventeen, anyway.

Aren't you but fifteen? asked Jo, looking at
the tall lad, whom she had imagined
seventeen already.

Sixteen, next month.

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

I hate it! Nothing but grinding or skylarking.
And I don't like the way fellows do either, in
this country.

What do you like?

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

Jo wanted very much to ask what his own
way was, but his black brows looked rather
threatening as he knit them, so she changed
the subject by saying, as her foot kept time,
That's a splendid polka! Why don't you go
and try it?

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

I can't, for I told Meg I wouldn't, because . . .
There Jo stopped, and looked undecided
whether to tell or to laugh.

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

I can't have a carriage without its costing
ever so much. I dare say I can't get one at
all, for most people come in their own, and
it's a long way to the stable, and no one to
send.

I'll go.

No, indeed! It's past nine, and dark as
Egypt. I can't stop here, for the house is full.
Sallie has some girls staying with her. I'll
rest till Hannah comes, and then do the best
I can.

I'll ask Laurie. He will go, said Jo, looking
relieved as the idea occurred to her.

Mercy, no! Don't ask or tell anyone. Get me
my rubbers, and put these slippers with our
things. I can't dance anymore, but as soon
as supper is over, watch for Hannah and tell
me the minute she comes.

They are going out to supper now. I'll stay
with you. I'd rather.

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

So Meg reclined, with rubbers well hidden,
and Jo went blundering away to the dining
room, which she found after going into a
china closet, and opening the door of a
room where old Mr. Gardiner was taking a
little private refreshment. Making a dart at
the table, she secured the coffee, which
she immediately spilled, thereby making the
front of her dress as bad as the back.

Oh, dear, what a blunderbuss I am!
exclaimed Jo, finishing Meg's glove by
scrubbing her gown with it.

It's so early! You can't mean to go yet?
began Jo. looking relieved but hesitating to
accept the offer.

I always go early, I do, truly! Please let me
take you home. It's all on my way, you know,
and it rains, they say.

That settled it, and telling him of Meg's
mishap, Jo gratefully accepted and rushed
up to bring down the rest of the party.
Hannah hated rain as much as a cat does
so she made no trouble, and they rolled
away in the luxurious close carriage, feeling
very festive and elegant. Laurie went on the
box so Meg could keep her foot up, and the
girls talked over their party in freedom.

I had a capital time. Did you?' asked Jo,
rumpling up her hair, and making herself
comfortable.

Yes, till I hurt myself. Sallie's friend, Annie
Moffat, took a fancy to me, and asked me to
come and spend a week with her when
Sallie does. She is going in the spring when
the opera comes, and it will be perfectly
splendid, if Mother only lets me go,
answered Meg, cheering up at the thought.

I saw you dancing with the red headed man I
ran away from. Was she nice?

Oh. very! His hair is auburn, not red, and he
was very polite, and I had a delicious
redowa with him.

He looked like a grasshopper in a fit when
he did the new step. Laurie and I couldn't
help laughing. Did you hear us?

No, but it was very rude. What were you
about all that time, hidden away there?

Jo told her adventures, and by the time she
had finished they were at home. With many

know, and I always envy girls who do such
things, I'm so fond of luxury, said Meg,
trying to decide which of two shabby gowns
was the least shabby.

Well, we can't have it, so don't let us
grumble but shoulder our bundles and
trudge along as cheerfully as Marmee does.
I'm sure Aunt March is a regular Old Man of
the Sea to me, but I suppose when I've
learned to carry her without complaining,
she will tumble off, or get so light that I
shan't mind her.

This idea tickled Jo's fancy and put her in
good spirits, but Meg didn't brighten, for her
burden, consisting of four spoiled children,
seemed heavier than ever. She had not
heart enough even to make herself pretty as
usual by putting on a blue neck ribbon and
dressing her hair in the most becoming way.

Where's the use of looking nice, when no
one sees me but those cross midgets, and
no one cares whether I'm pretty or not? she
muttered, shutting her drawer with a jerk. I
shall have to toil and moil all my days, with
only little bits of fun now and then, and get
old and ugly and sour, because I'm poor
and can't enjoy my life as other girls do. It's
a shame!

So Meg went down, wearing an injured
look, and wasn't at all agreeable at
breakfast time. Everyone seemed rather
out of sorts and inclined to croak.

Beth had a headache and lay on the sofa,
trying to comfort herself with the cat and
three kittens. Amy was fretting because her
lessons were not learned, and she couldn't
find her rubbers. Jo would whistle and make
a great racket getting ready.

Mrs. March was very busy trying to finish a
letter, which must go at once, and Hannah

are a set of rascals this morning, but we'll
come home regular angels. Now then, Meg!
And Jo tramped away, feeling that the
pilgrims were not setting out as they ought
to do.

They always looked back before turning the
corner, for their mother was always at the
window to nod and smile, and wave her
hand to them. Somehow it seemed as if
they couldn't have got through the day
without that, for whatever their mood might
be, the last glimpse of that motherly face
was sure to affect them like sunshine.

If Marmee shook her fist instead of kissing
her hand to us, it would serve us right, for
more ungrateful wretches than we are were
never seen, cried Jo, taking a remorseful
satisfaction in the snowy walk and bitter
wind.

Don't use such dreadful expressions,
replied Meg from the depths of the veil in
which she had shrouded herself like a nun
sick of the world.

I like good strong words that mean
something, replied Jo, catching her hat as it
took a leap off her head preparatory to
flying away altogether.

Call yourself any names you like, but I am
neither a rascal nor a wretch and I don't
choose to be called so.

You're a blighted being, and decidedly
cross today because you can't sit in the lap
of luxury all the time. Poor dear, just wait till I
make my fortune, and you shall revel in
carriages and ice cream and high-heeled
slippers, and posies, and red-headed boys
to dance with.

How ridiculous you are, Jo! But Meg
laughed at the nonsense and felt better in

money lavished on trifles which would have
been so precious to her. Poor Meg seldom
complained, but a sense of injustice made
her feel bitter toward everyone sometimes,
for she had not yet learned to know how rich
she was in the blessings which alone can
make life happy.

Jo happened to suit Aunt March, who was
lame and needed an active person to wait
upon her. The childless old lady had offered
to adopt one of the girls when the troubles
came, and was much offended because
her offer was declined. Other friends told
the Marches that they had lost all chance of
being remembered in the rich old lady's will,
but the unworldly Marches only said . . .

We can't give up our girls for a dozen
fortunes. Rich or poor, we will keep
together and be happy in one another.

The old lady wouldn't speak to them for a
time, but happening to meet Jo at a
friend's, something in her comical face and
blunt manners struck the old lady's fancy,
and she proposed to take her for a
companion. This did not suit Jo at all, but
she accepted the place since nothing better
appeared and, to every one's surprise, got
on remarkably well with her irascible
relative. There was an occasional tempest,
and once Jo marched home, declaring she
couldn't bear it longer, but Aunt March
always cleared up quickly, and sent for her
to come back again with such urgency that
she could not refuse, for in her heart she
rather liked the peppery old lady.

I suspect that the real attraction was a large
library of fine books, which was left to dust
and spiders since Uncle March died. Jo
remembered the kind old gentleman, who
used to let her build railroads and bridges
with his big dictionaries, tell her stories
about queer pictures in his Latin books, and

and did the best she could. She was a
housewifely little creature, and helped
Hannah keep home neat and comfortable
for the workers, never thinking of any
reward but to be loved. Long, quiet days
she spent, not lonely nor idle, for her little
world was peopled with imaginary friends,
and she was by nature a busy bee. There
were six dolls to be taken up and dressed
every morning, for Beth was a child still and
loved her pets as well as ever. Not one
whole or handsome one among them, all
were outcasts till Beth took them in, for
when her sisters outgrew these idols, they
passed to her because Amy would have
nothing old or ugly. Beth cherished them all
the more tenderly for that very reason, and
set up a hospital for infirm dolls. No pins
were ever stuck into their cotton vitals, no
harsh words or blows were ever given
them, no neglect ever saddened the heart or
the most repulsive, but all were fed and
clothed, nursed and caressed with an
affection which never failed. One forlorn
fragment of dollanity had belonged to Jo
and, having led a tempestuous life, was left
a wreck in the rag bag, from which dreary
poorhouse it was rescued by Beth and
taken to her refuge. Having no top to its
head, she tied on a neat little cap, and as
both arms and legs were gone, she hid
these deficiencies by folding it in a blanket
and devoting her best bed to this chronic
invalid. If any had known the care lavished
on that dolly, I think it would have touched
their hearts, even while they laughed. She
brought it bits of bouquets, she read to it,
took it out to breathe fresh air, hidden under
her coat, she sang it lullabies and never
went to be without kissing its dirty face and
whispering tenderly, I hope you'll have a
good night, my poor dear.

Beth had her troubles as well as the others,
and not being an angel but a very human
little girl, she often `wept a little weep' as Jo

ludicrous description came fluttering out of
all her books at unlucky moments. She got
through her lessons as well as she could,
and managed to escape reprimands by
being a model of deportment. She was a
great favorite with her mates, being good-
tempered and possessing the happy art of
pleasing without effort. Her little airs and
graces were much admired, so were her
accomplishments, for besides her drawing,
she could play twelve tunes, crochet, and
read French without mispronouncing more
than two-thirds of the words. She had a
plaintive way of saying, When Papa was
rich we did so-and-so, which was very
touching, and her long words were
considered `perfectly elegant' by the girls.

Amy was in a fair way to be spoiled, for
everyone petted her, and her small vanities
and selfishness were growing nicely. One
thing, however, rather quenched the
vanities. She had to wear her cousin's
clothes. Now Florence's mama hadn't a
particle of taste, and Amy suffered deeply
at having to wear a red instead of a blue
bonnet, unbecoming gowns, and fussy
aprons that did not fit. Everything was good,
well made, and little worn, but Amy's artistic
eyes were much afflicted, especially this
winter, when her school dress was a dull
purple with yellow dots and no trimming.

My only comfort, she said to Meg, with tears
in her eyes, is that Mother doesn't take
tucks in my dresses whenever I'm naughty,
as Maria Paris's mother does. My dear, it's
really dreadful, for sometimes she is so bad
her frock is up to her knees, and she can't
come to school. When I think of this
degradation, I fell that I can bear even my
flat nose and purple gown with yellow
skyrockets on it.

Meg was Amy's confidante and monitor,
and by some strange attraction of

the worthy and instructive Belsham. I did my
very best, and she liked it, though she only
said . . .

I don't understand what it's all about. Go
back and begin it, child.

Back I went, and made the Primroses as
interesting as ever I could. Once I was
wicked enough to stop in a thrilling place,
and say meekly, I'm afraid it tires you,
ma'am. Shan't I stop now?

She caught up her knitting, which had
dropped out of her hands, gave me a sharp
look through her specs, and said, in her
short way, `Finish the chapter, and don't be
impertinent, miss'.

Did she own she liked it? asked Meg.

Oh, bless you, no! But she let old Belsham
rest, and when I ran back after my gloves
this afternoon, there she was, so hard at the
Vicar that she didn't hear me laugh as I
danced a jig in the hall because of the good
time coming. What a pleasant life she might
have if only she chose! I don't envy her
much, in spite of her money, for after all rich
people have about as many worries as poor
ones, I think, added Jo.

That reminds me, said Meg, that I've got
something to tell. It isn't funny, like Jo's
story, but I thought about it a good deal as I
came home. At the Kings' today I found
everybody in a flurry, and one of the children
said that her oldest brother had done
something dreadful, and Papa had sent him
away. I heard Mrs. King crying and Mr. King
talking very loud, and Grace and Ellen
turned away their faces when they passed
me, so I shouldn't see how red and swollen
their eyes were. I didn't ask any questions,
of course, but I felt so sorry for them and
was rather glad I hadn't any wild brothers to

scrubbing for a bit of fish, because she
hadn't any dinner for her children, and had
been disappointed of a day's work. Mr.
Cutter was in a hurry and said `No', rather
crossly, so she was going away, looking
hungry and sorry, when Mr. Laurence
hooked up a big fish with the crooked end
of his cane and held it out to her. She was
so glad and surprised she took it right into
her arms, and thanked him over and over.
He told her to `go along and cook it', and
she hurried off, so happy! Wasn't it good of
him? Oh, she did look so funny, hugging the
big, slippery fish, and hoping Mr.
Laurence's bed in heaven would be `aisy'.

When they had laughed at Beth's story, they
asked their mother for one, and after a
moments thought, she said soberly, As I sat
cutting out blue flannel jackets today at the
rooms, I felt very anxious about Father, and
thought how lonely and helpless we should
be , if anything happened to him. It was not a
wise thing to do, but I kept on worrying till an
old man came in with an order for some
clothes. He sat down near me, and I began
to talk to him, for he looked poor and tired
and anxious.

`Have you sons in the army?' I asked, for the
note he brought was not to me.

Yes, ma'am. I had four, but two were killed,
one is a prisoner, and I'm going to the other,
who is very sick in a Washington hospital.'
he answered quietly.

`You have done a great deal for your
country, sir,' I said, feeling respect now,
instead of pity.

`Not a mite more than I ought, ma'am. I'd go
myself, if I was any use. As I ain't, I give my
boys, and give 'em free.'

He spoke so cheerfully, looked so sincere,

though she was poor, she was a great deal
happier, with her youth, health, and good
spirits, than a certain fretful, feeble old lady
who couldn't enjoy her comforts, a third
that, disagreeable as it was to help get
dinner, it was harder still to go begging for it
and the fourth, that even carnelian rings
were not so valuable as good behavior. So
they agreed to stop complaining, to enjoy
the blessings already possessed, and try to
deserve them, lest they should be taken
away entirely, instead of increased, and I
believe they were never disappointed or
sorry that they took the old woman's advice.

Now, Marmee, that is very cunning of you to
turn our own stories against us, and give us
a sermon instead of a romance! cried Meg.

I like that kind of sermon. It's the sort Father
used to tell us, said Beth thoughtfully, putting
the needles straight on Jo's cushion.

I don't complain near as much as the others
do, and I shall be more careful than ever
now, for I've had warning from Susies's
downfall, said Amy morally.

We needed that lesson, and we won't forget
it. If we do so, you just say to us, as old
Chloe did in UNCLE TOM, `Tink ob yer
marcies, chillen! `Tink ob yer marcies!'
added Jo, who could not, for the life of her,
help getting a morsel of fun out of the little
sermon, though she took it to heart as much
as any of them.

Chapter Five Being Neighborly

What in the world are you going to do now,
Jo. asked Meg one snowy afternoon, as her
sister came tramping through the hall, in
rubber boots, old sack, and hood, with a
broom in one hand and a shovel in the other.

Going out for exercise, answered Jo with a

like to be known, if he only knew how to
begin. Since the party, she had been more
eager than ever, and had planned many
ways of making friends with him, but he had
not been seen lately, and Jo began to think
he had gone away, when she one day spied
a brown face at an upper window, looking
wistfully down into their garden, where Beth
and Amy were snow-balling one another.

That boy is suffering for society and fun, she
said to herself. His grandpa does not know
what's good for him, and keeps him shut up
all alone. He needs a party of jolly boys to
play with, or somebody young and lively. I've
a great mind to go over and tell the old
gentleman so!

The idea amused Jo. who liked to do daring
things and was always scandalizing Meg by
her queer performances. The plan of `going
over' was not forgotten. And when the
snowy afternoon came, Jo resolved to try
what could be done. She saw Mr. Lawrence
drive off, and then sallied out to dig her way
down to the hedge, where she paused and
took a survey. All quiet, curtains down at the
lower windows, servants out of sight, and
nothing human visible but a curly black head
leaning on a thin hand at the upper window.

There he is, thought Jo, Poor boy! All alone
and sick this dismal day. It's a shame! I'll
toss up a snowball and make him look out,
and then say a kind word to him.

Up went a handful of soft snow, and the
head turned at once, showing a face which
lost its listless look in a minute, as the big
eyes brightened and the mouth began to
smile. Jo nodded and laughed, and
flourished her broom as she called out . . .

How do you do? Are you sick?

Laurie opened the window, and croaked

as Mrs. March said, he was `a little
gentleman'. and did honor to the coming
guest by brushing his curly pate, putting on a
fresh color, and trying tidy up the room,
which in spite of half a dozen servants, was
anything but neat. Presently there came a
loud ring, than a decided voice, asking for
`Mr. Laurie', and a surprised-looking
servant came running up to announce a
young lady.

All right, show her up, it's Miss Jo, said
Laurie, going to the door of his little parlor to
meet Jo, who appeared, looking rosy and
quite at her ease, with a covered dish in one
hand and Beth's three kittens in the other.

Here I am, bag and baggage, she said
briskly. Mother sent her love, and was glad
if I could do anything for you. Meg wanted
me to bring some of her blancmange, she
makes it very nicely, and Beth thought her
cats would be comforting. I knew you'd
laugh at them, but I couldn't refuse, she was
so anxious to do something.

It so happened that Beth's funny loan was
just the thing, for in laughing over the kits,
Laurie forgot his bashfulness, and grew
sociable at once.

That looks too pretty to eat, he said, smiling
with pleasure, as Jo uncovered the dish,
and showed the blancmange, surrounded
by a garland of green leaves, and the
scarlet flowers of Amy's pet geranium.

It isn't anything, only they all felt kindly and
wanted to show it. Tell the girl to put it away
for your tea. It's so simple you can eat it, and
being soft, it will slip down without hurting
your sore throat. What a cozy room this is!

It might be it was kept nice, but the maids
are lazy, and I don't know how to make them
mind. It worries me though.

sometimes you forget to put down the
curtain at the window where the flowers are.
And when the lamps are lighted, it's like
looking at a picture to see the fire, and you
all around the table with your mother. Her
face is right opposite, and it looks so sweet
behind the flowers, I can't help watching it. I
haven't got any mother, you know. And
Laurie poked the fire to hide a little twitching
of the lips that he could not control.

The solitary, hungry look in his eyes went
straight to Jo's warm heart. she had been
so simply taught that there was no nonsense
in her head, and at fifteen she was as
innocent and frank as any child. Laurie was
sick and lonely, and feeling how rich she
was in home and happiness, she gladly
tried to share it with him. Her face was very
friendly and her sharp voice unusually gentle
as she said . . .

We'll never draw that curtain any more, and I
give you leave to look as much as you like. I
just wish, though, instead of peeping, you'd
come over and see us. Mother is so
splendid, she'd do you heaps of good, and
Beth would sing to you if I begged her to,
and Amy would dance. Meg and I would
make you laugh over our funny stage
properties, and we'd have jolly times.
Wouldn't your grandpa let you?

I think he would, if your mother asked him.
He's very kind, though he does not look so,
and he lets me do what I like, pretty much,
only he's afraid I might be a bother to
strangers, began Laurie, brightening more
and more.

We are not strangers, we are neighbors,
and you needn't think you'd be a bother. We
want to know you, and I've been trying to do
it this ever so long. We haven't been here a
great while, you know, but we have got
acquainted with all our neighbors but you.

boy lay back and laughed till the tears ran
down his cheeks, and a maid popped her
head in to see what was the matter.

Oh! That does me no end of good. Tell on,
please, he said, taking his face out of the
sofa cushion, red and shining with
merriment.

Much elated with her success, Jo did `tell
on', all about their plays and plans, their
hopes and fears for Father, and the most
interesting events of the little world in which
the sisters lived. Then they got to talking
about books, and to Jo's delight, she found
that Laurie loved them as well as she did,
and had read even more than herself.

If you like them so much, come down and
see ours. Grand father is out, so you
needn't be afraid, said Laurie, getting up.

I'm not afraid of anything, returned Jo, with
a toss of the head.

I don't believe you are! exclaimed the boy,
looking at her with much admiration, though
he privately thought she would have good
reason to be a trifle afraid of the old
gentleman, if she met hem in some of his
moods.

The atmosphere of the whole house being
summer like, Laurie led the way from room
to room, letting Jo stop to examine
whatever struck her fancy. And so, at last
they came to the library, where she clapped
her hands and pranced, as she always did
when especially delighted. It was lined with
books, and there were pictures and
statues, and distracting little cabinets full of
coins and curiosities, and Sleepy Hollow
chairs, and queer tables, and bronzes, and
best of all, a great open fireplace with
quaint tiles all round it.

own. He isn't as handsome as my
grandfather, but I like him.

Thank you, ma'am, said a gruff voice
behind her, and there, to her great dismay,
stood old Mr. Laurence.

Poor Jo blushed till she couldn't blush any
redder, and her heart began to beat
uncomfortably fast as she thought what she
had said. For a minute a wild desire to run
away possessed her, but that was
cowardly, and the girls would laugh at her,
so she resolved to stay and get out of the
scrape as she could. A second look
showed her that the living eyes, under the
bushy eyebrows, were kinder even than the
painted ones, and there was a sly twinkle in
them, which lessened her fear a good deal.
The gruff voice was gruffer than ever, as the
old gentleman said abruptly, after the
dreadful pause, So you're not afraid of me,
hey?

Not much, sir.

And you don't think me as handsome as
your grandfather?

Not quite, sir.

And I've got a tremendous will, have I?

I only said I thought so.

But you like me in spite of it?

Yes, I do, sir.

That answer pleased the old gentleman. He
gave a short laugh, shook hands with her,
and, putting his finger under her chin, turned
up her face, examined it gravely, and let it
go, saying with a nod, You've got your
grandfather's spirit, if you haven't his face.
He was a fine man, my dear, but what is

danced with fun as she imagined herself
telling the story at home.

Hey! Why, what the dickens has come to the
fellow? said the old gentleman, as Laurie
came running downstairs and brought up
with a start of surprise at the astounding
sight of Jo arm in arm with his redoubtable
grandfather.

I didn't know you'd come, sir, he began, as
Jo gave him a triumphant little glance.

That's evident, by the way you racket
downstairs. Come to your tea, sir, and
behave like a gentleman. And having pulled
the boy's hair by way of a caress, Mr.
Laurence walked on, while Laurie went
through a series of comic evolutions behind
their backs, which nearly produced an
explosion of laughter from Jo.

The old gentleman did not say much as he
drank his four cups of tea, but he watched
the young people, who soon chatted away
like old friends, and the change in his
grandson did not escape him. There was
color, light, and life in the boy's face now,
vivacity in his manner, and genuine
merriment in his laugh.

She's right, the lad is lonely. I'll see what
these little girls can do for him, thought Mr.
Laurence, as he looked and listened. He
liked Jo, for her odd, blunt ways suited him,
and she seemed to understand the boy
almost as well as if she had been one
herself.

If the Laurences had been what Jo called
`prim and poky', she would not have got on
at all, for such people always made her shy
and awkward. But finding them free and
easy, she was so herself, and made a good
impression. When they rose she proposed
to go, but Laurie said he had something

much obliged to you, and I hope you'll come
again. My respects to your mother. Good
night, Doctor Jo.

He shook hands kindly, but looked as if
something did not please him. When they
got into the hall, Jo asked Laurie if she had
said something amiss. He shook his head.

No, it was me. He doesn't like to hear me
play.

Why not?

I'll tell you some day. John is going home
with you, as I can't.

No need of that. I am not a young lady, and
it's only a step. Take care of yourself, won't
you?

Yes, but you will come again, I hope?

If you promise to come and see us after you
are well.

I will.

Good night, Laurie!

Good night, Jo, good night!

When all the afternoon's adventures had
been told, the family felt inclined to go
visiting in a body, for each found something
very attractive in the big house on the other
side of the hedge. Mrs. March wanted to
talk of her father with the old man who had
not forgotten him, Meg longed to walk in the
conservatory, Beth sighed for the grand
piano. and Amy was eager to see the fine
pictures and statues.

Mother, why didn't Mr. Laurence like to have
Laurie play? asked Jo, who was of an
inquiring disposition.

I never saw such a girl! You don't know a
compliment when you get it, said Meg, with
the air of a young lady who knew all about
the matter.

I think they are great nonsense, and I'll thank
you not to be silly and spoil my fun. Laurie's
a nice boy and I like him, and I won't have
any sentimental stuff about compliments
and such rubbish. We'll all be good to him
because he hasn't got any mother, and he
may come over and see us, mayn't he,
Marmee?

Yes, Jo, your little friend is very welcome,
and I hope Meg will remember that children
should be children as long as they can.

I don't call myself a child, and I'm not in my
teens yet, observed Amy. What do you say,
Beth?

I was thinking about our `PILGRIM'S
PROGRESS', answered Beth, who had not
heard a word. How we got out of the Slough
and through the Wicket Gate by resolving to
be good, and up the steep hill by trying, and
that maybe the house over there, full of
splendid things, is going to be our Palace
Beautiful.

We have got to get by the lions first, said Jo,
as if she rather liked the prospect.

Chapter Six Beth Finds the Palace
Beautiful

The big house did prove a Palace Beautiful,
though it took some time for all to get in, and
Beth found it very hard to pass the lions. Old
Mr. Laurence was the biggest one, but after
he had called, said something funny or kind
to each one of the girls, and talked over old
times with their mother, nobody felt much
afraid of him, except timid Beth. The other
lion was the fact that they were poor and

plays and tableaux, such sleigh rides and
skating frolics, such pleasant evenings in
the old parlor, and now and then such gay
little parties at the great house. Meg could
walk in the conservatory whenever she liked
and revel in bouquets, Jo browsed over the
new library voraciously, and convulsed the
old gentleman with her criticisms, Amy
copied pictures and enjoyed beauty to her
heart's content, and Laurie played `lord of
the manor' in the most delightful style.

But Beth, though yearning for the grand
piano, could not pluck up courage to go to
the `Mansion of Bliss', as Meg called it. She
went once with Jo, but the old gentleman,
not being aware of her infirmity, stared at
her so hard from under his heavy eyebrows,
and said Hey! so loud, that he frightened her
so much her `feet chattered on the floor',
she never told her mother, and she ran
away, declaring she would never go there
any more, not even for the dear piano. No
persuasions or enticements could
overcome her fear, till, the fact coming to
Mr. Laurence's ear in some mysterious
way, he set about mending matters. During
one of the brief calls he made, he artfully led
the conversation to music, and talked away
about great singers whom he had seen, fine
organs he had heard, and told such
charming anecdotes that Beth found it
impossible to stay in her distant corner, but
crept nearer and nearer, as if fascinated. At
the back of his chair she stopped and stood
listening, with her great eyes wide open and
her cheeks red with excitement of this
unusual performance. Taking no more
notice of her than if she had been a fly, Mr.
Laurence talked on about Laurie's lessons
and teachers. And presently, as if the idea
had just occurred to him, he said to Mrs.
March . . .

The boy neglects his music now, and I'm
glad of it, for he was getting too fond of it.

Beth blushed like a rose under the friendly
look he wore, but she was not frightened
now, and gave the hand a grateful squeeze
because she had no words to thank him for
the precious gift he had given her. The old
gentleman softly stroked the hair off her
forehead, and, stooping down, he kissed
her, saying, in a tone few people ever heard
. . .

I had a little girl once, with eyes like these.
God bless you, my dear! Good day.
madam. And away he went, in a great hurry.

Beth had a rapture with her mother, and
then rushed up to impart the glorious news
to her family of invalids, as the girls were not
home. How blithely she sang that evening,
and how they all laughed at her because she
woke Amy in the night by playing the piano
on her face in her sleep. Next day, having
seen both the old and young gentleman out
of the house, Beth, after two or three
retreats, fairly got in at the side door, and
made her way as noiselessly as any mouse
to the drawing room where her idol stood.
Quite by accident, of course, some pretty,
easy music lay on the piano, and with
trembling fingers and frequent stops to
listen and look about, Beth at last touched
the great instrument, and straightway forgot
her fear, herself, and everything else but the
unspeakable delight which the music gave
her, for it was like the voice of a beloved
friend.

She stayed till Hannah came to take her
home to dinner, but she had no appetite,
and could only sit and smile upon everyone
in a general state of beatitude.

After that, the little brown hood slipped
through the hedge nearly every day, and the
great drawing room was haunted by a
tuneful spirit that came and went unseen.
She never knew that Mr. Laurence opened

to see what would happen. All day passed a
part of the next before any acknowledgment
arrived, and she was beginning to fear she
had offended her crotchety friend. On the
afternoon of the second day, she went out
to do an errand, and give poor Joanna, the
invalid doll, her daily exercise. As she came
up the street, on her return, she saw three,
yes, four heads popping in and out of the
parlor windows, and the moment they saw
her, several hands were waved, and
several joyful voices screamed . . .

Here's a letter from the old gentleman!
Come quick, and read it!

Oh, Beth, he's sent you . . . began Amy,
gesticulating with unseemly energy, but she
got no further, for Jo quenched her by
slamming down the window.

Beth hurried on in a flutter of suspense. At
the door her sisters seized and bore her to
the parlor in a triumphal procession, all
pointing and all saying at once, Look there!
Look there! Beth did look, and turned pale
with delight and surprise, for there stood a
little cabinet piano, with a letter lying on the
glossy lid, directed like a sign board to Miss
Elizabeth March.

For me? gasped Beth, holding onto Jo and
feeling as if she should tumble down, it was
such an overwhelming thing altogether.

Yes, all for you, my precious! Isn't it
splendid of him? Don't you think he's the
dearest old man in the world? Here's the
key in the letter. We didn't open it, but we are
dying to know what he says, cried Jo,
hugging her sister and offering the note.

You read it! I can't, I feel so queer! Oh, it is
too lovely! and Beth hid her face in Jo's
apron, quite upset by her present.

much impressed by the note.

Try it, honey. Let's hear the sound of the
baby pianny, said Hannah, who always took
a share in the family joys and sorrows.

So Beth tried it, and everyone pronounced it
the most remarkable piano ever heard. It
had evidently been newly tuned and put in
apple pie order, but, perfect as it was, I
think the real charm lay in the happiest of all
happy faces which leaned over it, as Beth
lovingly touched the beautiful black and
white keys and pressed the bright pedals.

You'll have to go and thank him, said Jo, by
way of a joke, for the idea of the child's
really going never entered her head.

Yes, I mean to. I guess I'll go no, before I get
frightened thinking about it. And, to the utter
amazement of the assembled family, Beth
walked deliberately down the garden,
through the hedge, and in at the Laurences'
door.

Well, I wish I may die if it ain't the queerest
thing I ever see! The pianny has turned her
head! She'd never have gone in her right
mind, cried Hannah, staring after her, while
the girls were rendered quite speechless by
the miracle.

They would have been still more amazed if
they had seen what Beth did afterward. If
you will believe me, she went and knocked
at the study door before she gave herself
time to think, and when a gruff voice called
out, come in! she did go in, right up to Mr.
Laurence, who looked quite taken aback,
and held out her hand, saying, with only a
small quaver in her voice, I came to thank
you, sir, for. . . But she didn't finish, for he
looked so friendly that she forgot her
speech and, only remembering that he had
lost the little girl he loved, she put both arms

centaur, and she called him a Cyclops,
exclaimed Jo, with a burst of laughter.

You needn't be so rude, it's only a `lapse of
lingy', as Mr. Davis says, retorted Amy,
finishing Jo with her Latin. I just wish I had a
little of the money Laurie spends on that
horse, she added, as if to herself, yet
hoping her sisters would hear.

Why? asked Meg kindly, for Jo had gone off
in another laugh at Amy's second blunder.

I need it so much. I'm dreadfully in debt, and
it won't be my turn to have the rag money for
a month.

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

Why, I owe at least a dozen pickled limes,
and I can't pay them, you know, till I have
money, for Marmee forbade my having
anything charged at the shop.

Tell me all about it. Are limes the fashion
now? It used to be pricking bits of rubber to
make balls. And Meg tried to keep her
countenance, Amy looked so grave and
important.

Why, you see, the girls are always buying
them, and unless you want to be thought
mean, you must do it too. It's nothing but
limes now, for everyone is sucking them in
their desks in school time, and trading them
off for pencils, bead rings, paper dolls, or
something else, at recess. If one girl likes
another, she gives her a lime. If she's mad
with her, she eats one before her face, and
doesn't offer even a suck. They treat by
turns, and I've had ever so many but haven't
returned them, and I ought for they are debts
of honor, you know.

How much will pay them off and restore your

beautifully drawn maps received praise,
which honor to her foe rankled in the soul of
Miss Snow, and caused Miss March to
assume the airs of a studious young
peacock. But, alas, alas! Pride goes before
a fall, and the revengeful Snow turned the
tables with disastrous success. No sooner
had the guest paid the usual stale
compliments and bowed himself out, than
Jenny, under pretense of asking an
important question, informed Mr. Davis, the
teacher, that Amy March had pickled limes
in her desk.

Now Mr. Davis had declared limes a
contraband article, and solemnly vowed to
publicly ferrule the first person who was
found breaking the law. This much-
enduring man had succeeded in banishing
chewing gum after a long and stormy war,
had made a bonfire of the confiscated
novels and newspapers, had suppressed a
private post office, had forbidden
distortions of the face, nicknames, and
caricatures, and done all that one man could
do to keep half a hundred rebellious girls in
order. Boys are trying enough to human
patience, goodness knows, but girls are
infinitely more so, especially to nervous
gentlemen with tyrannical tempers and no
more talent for teaching than Dr. Blimber.
Mr. Davis knew any quantity of Greek,
Latin, algebra, and ologies of all sorts so he
was called a fine teacher, and manners,
morals, feelings, and examples were not
considered of any particular importance. It
was a most unfortunate moment for
denouncing Amy, and Jenny knew it. Mr.
Davis had evidently taken his coffee too
strong that morning, there was an east
wind, which always affected his neuralgia,
and his pupils had not done him the credit
which he felt he deserved. Therefore, to use
the expressive, if not elegant, language of a
schoolgirl, He was as nervous as a witch
and as cross as a bear . The word `limes'

So I see. Now take these disgusting things
two by two, and throw them out of the
window.

There was a simultaneous sigh, which
created quite a little gust, as the last hope
fled, and the treat was ravished from their
longing lips. Scarlet with shame and anger,
Amy went to and fro six dreadful times, and
as each doomed couple, looking oh, so
plump and juicy, fell from her reluctant
hands, a shout from the street completed
the anguish of the girls, for it told them that
their feast was being exulted over by the
little Irish children, who were their sworn
foes. This was too much. All flashed
indignant or appealing glances at the
inexorable Davis, and one passionate lime
lover burst into tears.

As Amy returned from her last trip, Mr.
Davis gave a portentous Hem! and said, in
his most impressive manner . . .

Young ladies, you remember what I said to
you a week ago. I am sorry this has
happened, but I never allow my rules to be
infringed, and I never break my word. Miss
March, hold out your hand.

Amy started, and put both hands behind
her, turning on him an imploring look which
pleaded for her better than the words she
could not utter. She was rather a favorite
with `old Davis', as, of course, he was
called, and it's my private belief that he
would have broken his word if the
indignation of one irrepressible young lady
had not found vent in a hiss. That hiss, faint
as it was, irritated the irascible gentleman,
and sealed the culprit's fate.

Your hand, Miss March! was the only
answer her mute appeal received, and too
proud to cry or beseech, Amy set her teeth,
threw back her head defiantly, and bore

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

He did not soon forget the reproachful
glance Amy gave him, as she went, without
a word to anyone, straight into the
anteroom, snatched her things, and left the
place forever, as she passionately declared
to herself. She was in a sad state when she
got home, and when the older girls arrived,
some time later, an indignation meeting
was held at once. Mrs. March did not say
much but looked disturbed, and comforted
her afflicted little daughter in her tenderest
manner. Meg bathed the insulted hand with
glycerine and tears, Beth felt that even her
beloved kittens would fail as a balm for
griefs like this, Jo wrathfully proposed that
Mr. Davis be arrested without delay, and
Hannah shook her fist at the `villain' and
pounded potatoes for dinner as if she had
him under her pestle.

No notice was taken of Amy's flight, except
by her mates, but the sharp-eyed
demoiselles discovered that Mr. Davis was
quite benignant in the afternoon, also
unusually nervous. Just before school
closed, Jo appeared, wearing a grim
expression as she stalked up to the desk,
and delivered a letter from her mother, then
collected Amy's property, and departed,
carefully scraping the mud from her boots
on the door mat, as if she shook that dust of
the place off her feet.

Yes, you can have a vacation from school,
but I want you to study a little every day with
Beth, said Mrs. March that evening. I don't
approve of corporal punishment, especially
for girls. I dislike Mr. Davis's manner of
teaching and don't think the girls you
associate with are doing you any good, so I
shall ask your father's advice before I send
you anywhere else.

meaning in his merry black eyes that Beth
suddenly turned very red, and hid her face in
the sofa cushion, quite overcome by such
an unexpected discovery.

Jo let Laurie win the game to pay for that
praise of her Beth, who could not be
prevailed upon to play for them after her
compliment. So Laurie did his best, and
sang delightfully, being in a particularly lively
humor, for to the Marches he seldom
showed the moody side of his character.
When he was gone, Amy, who had been
pensive all evening, said suddenly, as if
busy over some new idea, Is Laurie an
accomplished boy?

Yes, he has had an excellent education, and
has much talent. He will make a fine man, if
not spoiled by petting, replied her mother.

And he isn't conceited, is he? asked Amy.

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

I see. It's nice to have accomplishments and
be elegant, but not to show off or get perked
up, said Amy thoughtfully.

These things are always seen and felt in a
person's manner and conversations, if
modestly used, but it is not necessary to
display them, said Mrs. March.

Any more than it's proper to wear all your
bonnets and gowns and ribbons at once,
that folks may know you've got them, added
Jo, and the lecture ended in a laugh.

Chapter Eight Jo Meets Apollyon

Girls, where are you going? asked Amy,
coming into their room one Saturday
afternoon, and finding them getting ready to
go out with an air of secrecy which excited

of this fairy piece. Next week you can go
with Beth and Hannah, and have a nice
time.

I don't like that half as well as going with you
and Laurie. Please let me. I've been sick
with this cold so long, and shut up, I'm dying
for some fun. Do, Meg! I'll be ever so good,
pleaded Amy, looking as pathetic as she
could.

Suppose we take her. I don't believe Mother
would mind, if we bundle her up well, began
Meg.

If she goes I shan't, and if I don't, Laurie
won't like it, and it will be very rude, after he
invited only us, to go and drag in Amy. I
should think she'd hate to poke herself
where she isn't wanted, said Jo crossly, for
she disliked the trouble of overseeing a
fidgety child when she wanted to enjoy
herself.

Her tone and manner angered Amy, who
began to put her boots on, saying, in her
most aggravating way, I shall go. Meg says I
may, and if I pay for myself, Laurie hasn't
anything to do with it.

You can't sit with us, for our seats are
reserved, and you mustn't sit alone, so
Laurie will give you his place, and that will
spoil our pleasure. Or he'll get another seat
for you, and that isn't proper when you
weren't asked. You shan't stir a step, so you
may just stay where you are, scolded Jo,
crosser than ever, having just pricked her
finger in her hurry.

Sitting on the floor with one boot on, Amy
began to cry and Meg to reason with her,
when Laurie called from below, and the two
girls hurried down, leaving their sister
wailing. For now and then she forgot her
grown-up ways and acted like a spoiled

description of the play. On going up to put
away her best hat, Jo's first look was
toward the bureau, for in their last quarrel
Amy had soothed her feelings by turning
Jo's top drawer upside down on the floor.
Everything was in its place, however, and
after a hasty glance into her various closets,
bags, and boxes, Jo decided that Amy had
forgiven and forgotten her wrongs.

There Jo was mistaken, for next day she
made a discovery which produced a
tempest. Meg, Beth, and Amy were sitting
together, late in the afternoon, when Jo
burst into the room, looking excited and
demanding breathlessly, Has anyone taken
my book?

Meg and Beth said, No. at once, and looked
surprised. Amy poked the fire and said
nothing. Jo saw her color rise and was
down upon her in a minute.

Amy, you've got it!

No, I haven't.

You know where it is, then!

No, I don't.

That's a fib! cried Jo, taking her by the
shoulders, and looking fierce enough to
frighten a much braver child than Amy.

It isn't. I haven't got it, don't know where it is
now, and don't care.

You know something about it, and you'd
better tell at once, or I'll make you. And Jo
gave her a slight shake.

Scold as much as you like, you'll never see
your silly old book again, cried Amy, getting
excited in her turn.

departed kitten, and Meg refused to defend
her pet. Mrs. March looked grave and
grieved, and Amy felt that no one would love
her till she had asked pardon for the act
which she now regretted more than any of
them.

When the tea bell rang, Jo appeared,
looking so grim and unapproachable that it
took all Amy's courage to say meekly . . .

Please forgive me, Jo. I'm very, very sorry.

I never shall forgive you, was Jo's stern
answer, and from that moment she ignored
Amy entirely.

No one spoke of the great trouble, not even
Mrs. March, for all had learned by
experience that when Jo was in that mood
words were wasted, and the wisest course
was to wait till some little accident, or her
own generous nature, softened Jo's
resentment and healed the breach. It was
not a happy evening, for though they sewed
as usual, while their mother read aloud from
Bremer, Scott, or Edgeworth, something
was wanting, and the sweet home peace
was disturbed. They felt this most when
singing time came, for Beth could only play,
Jo stood dumb as a stone, and Amy broke
down, so Meg and Mother sang alone. But
in spite of their efforts to be as cheery as
larks, the flute like voices did not seem to
chord as well as usual, and all felt out of
tune.

As Jo received her good-night kiss, Mrs.
March whispered gently, My dear, don't let
the sun go down upon your anger. Forgive
each other, help each other, and begin
again tomorrow.

Jo wanted to lay her head down on that
motherly bosom, and cry her grief and
anger all away, but tears were an unmanly

Laurie, than take a quiet minute and just
kiss her, or do some kind thing, and I'm sure
she'll be friends again with all her heart.

I'll try, said Amy, for the advice suited her,
and after a flurry to get ready, she ran after
the friends, who were just disappearing
over the hill.

It was not far to the river, but both were
ready before Amy reached them. Jo saw
her coming, and turned her back. Laurie did
not see, for he was carefully skating along
the shore, sounding the ice, for a warm
spell had preceded the cold snap.

I'll go on to the first bend, and see if it's all
right before we begin to race, Amy heard
him say, as he shot away, looking like a
young Russian in his fur-trimmed coat and
cap.

Jo heard Amy panting after her run,
stamping her feet and blowing on her
fingers as she tried to put her skates on, but
Jo never turned and went slowly zigzagging
down the river, taking a bitter, unhappy sort
of satisfaction in her sister's troubles. She
had cherished her anger till it grew strong
and took possession of her, as evil thoughts
and feelings always do unless cast out at
once. As Laurie turned the bend, he
shouted back . . .

Keep near the shore. It isn't safe in the
middle.

Jo heard, but Amy was struggling to her feet
and did not catch a word. Jo glanced over
her shoulder, and the little demon she was
harboring said in her ear . . .

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

Laurie had vanished round the bend, Jo

to her and began to bind up the hurt hands.

Are you sure she is safe? whispered Jo,
looking remorsefully at the golden head,
which might have been swept away from
her sight forever under the treacherous ice.

Quite safe, dear. she is not hurt, and won't
even take cold, I think, you were so sensible
in covering and getting her home quickly,
replied her mother cheerfully.

Laurie did it all. I only let her go. Mother, if
she should die, it would be my fault. And Jo
dropped down beside the bed in a passion
of penitent tears, telling all that had
happened, bitterly condemning her
hardness of heart, and sobbing out her
gratitude for being spared the heavy
punishment which might have come upon
her.

It's my dreadful temper! I try to cure it, I think I
have, and then it breaks out worse than
ever. OH, Mother, what shall I do? What shall
I do? cried poor Jo, in despair.

Watch and pray, dear, never get tired of
trying, and never think it is impossible to
conquer your fault, said Mrs. March,
drawing the blowzy head to her shoulder
and kissing the wet cheek so tenderly that
Jo cried even harder.

You don't know, you can't guess how bad it
is! It seems as if I could do anything when
I'm in a passion. I get so savage, I could hurt
anyone and enjoy it. I'm afraid I shall do
something dreadful some day, and spoil my
life, and make everybody hate me. Oh,
Mother, help me, do help me!

I will, my child, I will. Don't cry so bitterly, but
remember this day, and resolve with all your
soul that you will never know another like it.
Jo, dear, we all have our temptations, some

say the worse I get, till it's a pleasure to hurt
people's feelings and say dreadful things.
Tell me how you do it, Marmee dear.

My good mother used to help me . . .

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

But I lost her when I was a little older than
you are, and for years had to struggle on
alone, for I was too proud to confess my
weakness to anyone else. I had a hard time,
Jo, and shed a good many bitter tears over
my failures, for in spite of my efforts I never
seemed to get on. Then your father came,
and I was so happy that I found it easy to be
good. But by-and-by, when I had four little
daughters round me and we were poor,
then the old trouble began again, for I am
not patient by nature, and it tried me very
much to see my children wanting anything.

Poor Mother! What helped you then?

Your father, Jo. He never loses patience,
never doubts or complains, but always
hopes, and works and waits so cheerfully
that one is ashamed to do otherwise before
him. He helped and comforted me, and
showed me that I must try to practice all the
virtues I would have my little girls possess,
for I was their example. It was easier to try
for your sakes than for my own. A startled or
surprised look from one of you when I spoke
sharply rebuked me more than any words
could have done, and the love, respect, and
confidence of my children was the sweetest
reward I could receive for my efforts to be
the woman I would have them copy.

Oh, Mother, if I'm ever half as good as you, I
shall be satisfied, cried Jo, much touched.

I hope you will be a great deal better, dear,
but you must keep watch over your `bosom

I gave my best to the country I love, and kept
my tears till he was gone. Why should I
complain, when we both have merely done
our duty and will surely be the happier for it
in the end? If I don't seem to need help, it is
because I have a better friend, even than
Father, to comfort and sustain me. My child,
the troubles and temptations of your life are
beginning and may be many, but you can
overcome and outlive them all if you learn to
feel the strength and tenderness of your
Heavenly Father as you do that of your
earthly one. The more you love and trust
Him, and the less you will depend on human
power and wisdom. His love and care never
tire or change, can never be taken from you,
but my become the source of lifelong
peace, happiness, and strength. Believe
this heartily, and go to God with all your little
cares, and hopes, and sins, and sorrows,
as freely and confidently as you come to
your mother.

Jo's only answer was to hold her mother
close, and in the silence which followed the
sincerest prayer she had ever prayed left
her heart without words. For in that sad yet
happy hour, she had learned not only the
bitterness of remorse and despair, but the
sweetness of self-denial and self-control,
and led by her mother's hand, she had
drawn nearer to the Friend who always
welcomes every child with a love stronger
than that of any father, tenderer than that of
any mother.

Amy stirred and sighed in her sleep, and as
if eager to begin at once to mend her fault, l
Jo looked up with an expression on her face
which it had never worn before.

I let the sun go down on my anger. I wouldn't
forgive her, and today, if it hadn't been for
Laurie, it might have been too late! How
could I be so wicked? said Jo, half aloud,
as she leaned over her sister softly stroking

splendor, as gifts for her girls when the
proper time came.

A pair of silk stockings, that pretty carved
fan, and a lovely blue sash. I wanted the
violet silk, but there isn't time to make it
over, so I must be contented with my old
tarlatan.

It will look nice over my new muslin skirt, and
the sash will set it off beautifully. I wish I
hadn't smashed my coral bracelet, for you
might have had it, said Jo, who loved to give
and lend, but whose possessions were
usually too dilapidated to be of much use.

There is a lovely old-fashioned pearl set in
the treasure chest, but Mother said real
flowers were the prettiest ornament for a
young girl, and Laurie promised to send me
all I want, replied Meg. Now, let me see,
there's my new gray walking suit, just curl
up the feather in my hat, Beth, then my
poplin for Sunday and the small party, it
looks heavy for spring, doesn't it? The violet
silk would be so nice. Oh, dear!

Never mind, you've got the tarlatan for the
big party, and you always look like an angel
in white, said Amy, brooding over the little
store of finery in which her soul delighted.

It isn't low-necked, and it doesn't sweep
enough, but it will have to do. My blue house
dress looks so well, turned and freshly
trimmed, that I feel as if I'd got a new one.
My silk sacque isn't a bit the fashion, and
my bonnet doesn't look like Sallie's. I didn't
like to say anything, but I was sadly
disappointed in my umbrella. I told Mother
black with a white handle, but she forgot
and bought a green one with a yellowish
handle. It's strong and neat, so I ought not to
complain, but I know I shall feel ashamed of
it beside Annie's silk one with a gold top,
sighed Meg, surveying the little umbrella

style for a fortnight of novelty and pleasure.
Mrs. March had consented to the visit rather
reluctantly, fearing that Margaret would
come back more discontented than she
went. But she begged so hard, and Sallie
had promised to take good care of her, and
a little pleasure seemed so delightful after a
winter of irksome work that the mother
yielded, and the daughter went to take her
first taste of fashionable life.

The Moffats were very fashionable, and
simple Meg was rather daunted, at first, by
the splendor of the house and the elegance
of its occupants. But they were kindly
people, in spite of the frivolous life they led,
and soon put their guest at her ease.
Perhaps Meg felt, without understanding
why, that they were not particularly
cultivated or intelligent people, and that all
their gilding could not quite conceal the
ordinary material of which they were made.
It certainly was agreeable to fare
sumptuously, drive in a fine carriage, wear
her best frock every day, and do nothing but
enjoy herself. It suited her exactly, and soon
she began to imitate the manners and
conversation of those about her, to put on
little airs and graces, use French phrases,
crimp her hair, take in her dresses, and talk
about the fashions as well as she could. The
more she saw of Annie Moffat's pretty
things, the more she envied her and sighed
to be rich. Home now looked bare and
dismal as she thought of it, work grew
harder than ever, and she felt that she was a
very destitute and much-injured girl, in spite
of the new gloves and silk stockings.

She had not much time for repining,
however, for the three young girls were
busily employed in `having a good time'.
They shopped, walked, rode, and called all
day, went to theaters and operas or
frolicked at home in the evening, for Annie
had many friends and knew how to entertain

surprise.

The note is from Mother, and the flowers
from Laurie, said Meg simply, yet much
gratified that he had not forgotten her.

Oh, indeed! said Annie with a funny look, as
Meg slipped the note into her pocket as a
sort of talisman against envy, vanity, and
false pride, for the few loving words had
done her good, and the flowers cheered her
up by their beauty.

Feeling almost happy again, she laid by a
few ferns and roses for herself, and quickly
made up the rest in dainty bouquets for the
breasts, hair, or skirts of her friends,
offering them so prettily that Clara, the elder
sister, told her she was `the sweetest little
thing she ever saw', and they looked quite
charmed with her small attention. Somehow
the kind act finished her despondency, and
when all the rest went to show themselves to
Mrs. Moffat, she saw a happy, bright-eyed
face in the mirror, as she laid her ferns
against her rippling hair and fastened the
roses in the dress that didn't strike her as so
very shabby now.

She enjoyed herself very much that
evening, for she danced to her heart's
content. Everyone was very kind, and she
had three compliments. Annie made her
sing, and some one said she had a
remarkably fine voice. Major Lincoln asked
who `the fresh little girl with the beautiful
eyes' was, and Mr. Moffat insisted on
dancing with her because she `didn't
dawdle, but had some spring in her', as he
gracefully expressed it. So altogether she
had a very nice time, till she overheard a bit
of conversation, which disturbed her
extremely. She was sitting just inside the
conservatory, waiting for her partner to
bring her an ice, when she heard a voice
ask on the other side of the flowery wall . . .

she was quiet in her bed, where she could
think and wonder and fume till her head
ached and her hot cheeks were cooled by a
few natural tears. Those foolish, yet well
meant words, had opened a new world to
Meg, and much disturbed the peace of the
old one in which till now she had lived as
happily as a child. Her innocent friendship
with Laurie was spoiled by the silly
speeches she had overheard. Her faith in
her mother was a little shaken by the worldly
plans attributed to her by Mrs. Moffat, who
judged others by herself, and the sensible
resolution to be contented with the simple
wardrobe which suited a poor man's
daughter was weakened by the
unnecessary pity of girls who thought a
shabby dress one of the greatest calamities
under heaven.

Poor Meg had a restless night, and got up
heavy-eyed, unhappy, half resentful toward
her friends, and half ashamed of herself for
not speaking out frankly and setting
everything right. Everybody dawdled that
morning, and it was noon before the girls
found energy enough even to take up their
worsted work. Something in the manner of
her friends struck Meg at once. They treated
her with more respect, she thought, took
quite a tender interest in what she said, and
looked at her with eyes that plainly betrayed
curiosity. All this surprised and flattered her,
though she did not understand it till Miss
Belle looked up from her writing, and said,
with a sentimental air . . .

Daisy, dear, I've sent an invitation to your
friend, Mr. Laurence, for Thursday. We
should like to know him, and it's only a
proper compliment to you.

Meg colored, but a mischievous fancy to
tease the girls made her reply demurely,
You are very kind, but I'm afraid he won't
come.

No, thank you, ma'am, replied Sallie. I've
got my new pink silk for Thursday and don't
want a thing.

Nor I . . . began Meg, but stopped because it
occurred to her that she did want several
things and could not have them.

What shall you wear? asked Sallie.

My old white one again, if I can mend it fit to
be seen, it got sadly torn last night, said
Meg, trying to speak quite easily, but feeling
very uncomfortable.

Why don't you send home for another? said
Sallie, who was not an observing young
lady.

I haven't got any other. It cost Meg an effort
to say that, but Sallie did not see it and
exclaimed in amiable surprise, Only that?
How funny . . . She did not finish her speech,
for Belle shook her head at her and broke
in, saying kindly . . .

Not at all. Where is the use of having a lot of
dresses when she isn't out yet? There's no
need of sending home, Daisy, even if you
had a dozen, for I've got a sweet blue silk
laid away, which I've outgrown, and you
shall wear it to please me, won't you, dear?

You are very kind, but I don't mind my old
dress if you don't, it does well enough for a
little girl like me, said Meg.

Now do let me please myself by dressing
you up in style. I admire to do it, and you'd
be a regular little beauty with a touch here
and there. I shan't let anyone see you till you
are done, and then we'll burst upon them
like Cinderella and her godmother going to
the ball, said Belle in her persuasive tone.

Meg couldn't refuse the offer so kindly

several minutes she stood, like a jackdaw
in the fable, enjoying her borrowed plumes,
while the rest chattered like a party of
magpies.

While I dress, do you drill her, Nan, in the
management of her skirt and those French
heels, or she will trip herself up. Take your
silver butterfly, and catch up that long curl on
the left side of her head, Clara, and don't
any of you disturb the charming work of my
hands, said Belle, as she hurried away,
looking well pleased with her success.

You don't look a bit like yourself, but you are
very nice. I'm nowhere beside you, for Belle
has heaps of taste, and you're quite
French, I assure you. Let your flowers hang,
don't be so careful of them, and be sure you
don't trip, returned Sallie, trying not to care
that Meg was prettier than herself.

Keeping that warning carefully in mind,
Margaret got safely downstairs and sailed
into the drawing rooms where the Moffats
and a few early guests were assembled.
She very soon discovered that there is a
charm about fine clothes which attracts a
certain class of people and secures their
respect. Several young ladies, who had
taken no notice of her before, were very
affectionate all of a sudden. Several young
gentlemen, who had only stared at her at the
other party, now not only stared, but asked
to be introduced, and said all manner of
foolish but agreeable things to her, and
several old ladies, who sat on the sofas,
and criticized the rest of the party, inquired
who she was with an air of interest. She
heard Mrs. Moffat reply to one of them . . .

Daisy Marchfather a colonel in the armyone
of our first families, but reverses of fortune,
you know; intimate friends of the
Laurences; sweet creature, I assure you;
my Ned is quite wild about her.

afraid of you, he said, fumbling at his glove
button.

How absurd of you! The girls dressed me
up for fun, and I rather like it. Wouldn't Jo
stare if she saw me? said Meg, bent on
making him say whether he thought her
improved or not.

Yes, I think she would, returned Laurie
gravely.

Don't you like me so?' asked Meg.

No, I don't, was the blunt reply.

Why not? in an anxious tone.

He glanced at her frizzled head, bare
shoulders, and fantastically trimmed dress
with an expression that abashed her more
than his answer, which had not particle of
his usual politeness in it.

I don't like fuss and feathers.

That was altogether too much from a lad
younger than herself, and Meg walked
away, saying petulantly, You are the rudest
boy I ever saw.

Feeling very much ruffled, she went and
stood at a quiet window to cool her cheeks,
for the tight dress gave her an
uncomfortably brilliant color. As she stood
there, Major Lincoln passed by, and a
minute after she heard him saying to his
mother . . .

They are making a fool of that little girl. I
wanted you to see her, but they have
spoiled her entirely. She's nothing but a doll
tonight.

Oh, dear! sighed Meg. I wish I'd been
sensible and worn my own things, then I

Won't I! said Laurie, with alacrity.

Please don't tell them at home about my
dress tonight. They won't understand the
joke, and it will worry Mother.'

Then why did you do it? said Laurie's eyes,
so plainly that Meg hastily added . . .

I shall tell them myself all about it, and `fess'
to Mother how silly I've been. But I'd rather
do it myself. So you'll not tell, will you?

I give you my word I won't, only what shall I
say when they ask me?

Just say I looked pretty well and was having
a good time.

I'll say the first with all my heart, but how
about the other? You don't look as if you
were having a good time. Are you?' And
Laurie looked at her with an expression
which made her answer in a whisper . . .

No, not just now. Don't think I'm horrid. I only
wanted a little fun, but this sort doesn't pay, I
find, and I'm getting tired of it.

Here comes Ned Moffat. What does he
want? said Laurie, knitting his black brows
as if he did not regard his young host in the
light of a pleasant addition to the party.

He put his name down for three dances,
and I suppose he's coming for them. What a
bore! said Meg, assuming a languid air
which amused Laurie immensely.

He did not speak to her again till
suppertime, when he saw her drinking
champagne with Ned and his friend Fisher,
who were behaving `like a pair of fools', as
Laurie said to himself, for he felt a brotherly
sort of right to watch over the Marches and
fight their battles whenever a defender was

have company manners on all the time.
Home is a nice place, though it isn't
splendid, said Meg, looking about her with
a restful expression, as she sat with her
mother and Jo on the Sunday evening.

I'm glad to hear you say so, dear, for I was
afraid home would seem dull and poor to
you after your fine quarters, replied her
mother, who had given her many anxious
looks that day. For motherly eyes are quick
to see any change in children's faces.

Meg had told her adventures gayly and said
over and over what a charming time she
had, but something still seemed to weigh
upon her spirits, and when the younger girls
were gone to bed, she sat thoughtfully
staring at the fire, saying little and looking
worried. As the clock struck nine and Jo
proposed bed, Meg suddenly left her chair
and, taking Beth's stool, leaned her elbows
on her mother's knee, saying bravely . . .

Marmee, I want to `fess'.

I thought so. What is it, dear?

Shall I go away? asked Jo discreetly.

Of course not. Don't I always tell you
everything? I was ashamed to speak of it
before the younger children, but I want you
to know all the dreadful things I did at the
Moffats'.

We are prepared, said Mrs. March, smiling
but looking a little anxious.

I told you they dressed me up, but I didn't tell
you that they powdered and squeezed and
frizzled, and made me look like a fashion
plate. Laurie thought I wasn't proper. I know
he did, though he didn't say so, and one
man called me `a doll'. I knew it was silly,
but they flattered me and said I was a

mustn't, must she, Mother? said Meg,
looking distressed.

No, never repeat that foolish gossip, and
forget it as soon as you can, said Mrs.
March gravely. I was very unwise to let you
go among people of whom I know so little,
kind, I dare say, but worldly, ill-bred, and full
of these vulgar ideas about young people. I
am more sorry than I can express for the
mischief this visit may have done you, Meg.

Don't be sorry, I won't let it hurt me. I'll forget
all the bad and remember only the good, for
I did enjoy a great deal, and thank you very
much for letting me go. I'll not be sentimental
or dissatisfied, Mother. I know I'm a silly
little girl, and I'll stay with you till I'm fit to take
care of myself. But it is nice to be praised
and admired, and I can't help saying I like it,
said Meg, looking half ashamed of the
confession.

That is perfectly natural, and quite
harmless, if the liking does not become a
passion and lead one to do foolish or
unmaidenly things. Learn to know and value
the praise which is worth having, and to
excite the admiration of excellent people by
being modest as well as pretty, Meg.

Margaret sat thinking a moment, while Jo
stood with her hands behind her, looking
both interested and a little perplexed, for it
was a new thing to see Meg blushing and
talking about admiration, lovers, and things
of that sort. And Jo felt as if during that
fortnight her sister had grown up amazingly,
and was drifting away from her into a world
where she could not follow.

Mother, do you have `plans', as Mrs. Moffat
said? asked Meg bashfully.

Yes, my dear, I have a great many, all
mothers do, but mine differ somewhat from

says, unless they put themselves forward,
sighed Meg.

Then we'll be old maids, said Jo stoutly.

right, Jo. Better be happy old maids than
unhappy wives, or unmaidenly girls, running
about to find husbands, said Mrs. March
decidedly. Don't be troubled, Meg, poverty
seldom daunts a sincere lover. Some of the
best and most honored women I know were
poor girls, but so love-worthy that they were
not allowed to be old maids. Leave these
things to time. Make this home happy, so
that you may be fit for homes of your own, if
they are offered you, and contented here if
they are not. One thing remember, my girls.
Mother is always ready to be your
confidante, Father to be your friend, and
both of hope and trust that our daughters,
whether married or single, will be the pride
and comfort of out lives.

We will, Marmee, we will! cried both, with all
their hearts, as she bade them good night.

Chapter Ten The P.C. and P.O.

As spring came on, a new set of
amusements became the fashion, and the
lengthening days gave long afternoons for
work and play of all sorts. The garden had to
be put in order, and each sister had a
quarter of the little plot to do what she liked
with. Hannah used to say, I'd know which
each of them gardings belonged to, ef I see
'em in Chiny, and so she might, for the girls'
tastes differed as much as their characters.
Meg's had roses and heliotrope, myrtle,
and a little orange tree in it. Jo's bed was
never alike two seasons, for she was
always trying experiments. This year it was
to be a plantation of sun flowers, the seeds
of which cheerful land aspiring plant were to
feed Aunt Cockle-top and her family of
chicks. Beth had old-fashioned fragrant

occasion, Mr. Pickwick put on a pair of
spectacles without any glass, rapped upon
the table, hemmed, and having stared hard
at Mr. Snodgrass, who was tilting back in
his chair, till he arranged himself properly,
began to read:

____________________________________________________

THE PICKWICK PORTFOLIO

_____________________________________________________

MAY 20, 18

_____________________________________________________

POET'S CORNER

_____________________________________________________

ANNIVERSARY ODE

___________ Again we meet to celebrate With
badge and solemn rite, Our fifty-second
anniversary, In Pickwick Hall, tonight. We all
are here in perfect health, None gone from
our small band: Again we see each well-
known face, And press each friendly hand.
Our Pickwick, always at his post, With
reverence we greet, As, spectacles on
nose, he reads Our well-filled weekly sheet.
Although he suffers from a cold, We joy to
hear him speak, For words of wisdom from
him fall, In spite of croak or squeak. Old six-
foot Snodgrass looms on high, With
elephantine grace, And beams upon the
company, With brown and jovial face.
Poetic fire lights up his eye, He struggles
'gainst his lot. Behold ambition on his brow,
And on his nose, a blot. Next our peaceful
Tupman comes, So rosy, plump, and
sweet, Who chokes with laughter at the
puns, And tumbles off his seat. Prim little
Winkle too is here, With every hair in place, A
model of propriety, Though he hates to

to an alcove, hung with purple velvet, he
motioned them to kneel. Instant silence fell
on the gay throng, and not a sound, but he
dash of fountains or the rustle of orange
groves sleeping in the moonlight, broke the
hush, as Count de Adelon spoke thus:

My lords and ladies, pardon the ruse by
which I have gathered you here to witness
the marriage of my daughter. Father, we
wait your services.

All eyes turned toward the bridal party, and
a murmur of amazement went through the
throng, for neither bride nor groom removed
their masks. Curiosity and wonder
possessed all hearts, but respect
restrained all tongues till the holy rite was
over. Then the eager spectators gathered
round the count, demanding an explanation.

Gladly would I give it if I could, but I only
know that it was the whim of my timid Viola,
and I yielded to it. Now, my children, let the
play end. Unmask and receive my blessing.

But neither bent the knee,for the young
bridegroom replied in a tone that startled all
listeners as the mask fell, disclosing the
noble face of Ferdinand Devereux, the
artist lover, and leaning on the breast where
now flashed the star of an English earl was
the lovely Viola, radiant with joy and beauty.

My lord, you scornfully bade me claim your
daughter when I could boast as high a name
and vast a fortune as the Count antonio. I
can do more, for even your ambitious soul
cannot refuse the Earl of Devereux and De
Vere, when he gives his ancient name and
boundless wealth in return for the beloved
hand of this fair lady, now my wife.

The count stood like one changed to stone,
and turning to the bewildered crowd,
Ferdinand added, with a gay smile of

makes trouble in his club by laughing and
sometimes won't write his piece in this fine
paper I hope you will pardon his badness
and let him send a French fable because he
can't write out of his head as he has so
many lessons to do and no brains in future I
will try to take time by the fetlock and
prepare some work which will be all commy
la fo that means all right I am in haste as it is
nearly school time.

Yours respectably,

N. WINKLE

[The above is a manly and handsome
acknowledgment of past misdemeanors. If
our young friend studied punctuation, it
would be well.]

_________

A SAD ACCIDENT

__________

On Friday last, we were startled by a violent
shock in our basement, followed by cries of
distress. On rushing in a body to the cellar,
we discovered our beloved President
prostrate upon the floor, having tripped and
fallen while getting wood for domestic
purposes. A perfect scene of ruin met our
eyes, for in his fall Mr. Pickwick had
plunged his head and shoulders into a tub of
water, upset a keg of soft soap upon his
manly form, and torn his garments badly. On
being removed from this perilous situation,
it was discovered that he had suffered no
injury but several bruises, and we are
happy to add, is now doing well.

ED.

______________________________________

does her best, But she is not fair to see,
And we cannot give her your place dear,
Nor worship her as we worship thee.

A.S.

__________________________________________

ADVERTISEMENTS

__________________________________________

Miss Oranthy Bluggage, the accomplished
strong-minded lecturer, will deliver her
famous lecture on WOMAN AND HER
POSITION at Pickwick Hall, next Saturday
Evening, after the usual performances.

___________________________________________

A weekly meeting will be held at Kitchen
place, to teach young ladies how to cook.
Hannah Brown will preside, and all are
invited to attend.

____________________________________________

The DUSTPAN SOCIETY will meet on
Wednesday next, and parade in the upper
story of the Club House. All members to
appear in uniform and shoulder their
brooms at nine precisely.

____________________________________________

Mrs. Beth Bouncer will open her new
assortment of Doll's Millinery next week.
The latest Paris fashions have arrived, and
orders are respectfully solicited.

____________________________________________

A new play will appear at the Barnville
Theatre,in the course of a few weeks,
which will surpass anything ever seen on the
American stage. THE GREEK SLAVE, or

We'll put it to a vote, said the President. All in
favor of this motion please to manifest it by
saying, `Aye'.

Contrary-minded say, `No'.

Meg and Amy were contrary-minded, and
Mr. Winkle rose to say with great elegance,
We don't wish any boys, they only joke and
bounce about. This is a ladies' club, and we
wish to be private and proper.

I'm afraid he'll laugh at our paper, and make
fun of us afterward, observed Pickwick,
pulling the little curl on her forehead, as she
always did when doubtful.

Up rose Snodgrass, very much in earnest.
Sir, I give you my word as a gentleman,
Laurie won't do anything of the sort. He
likes to write, and he'll give a tone to our
contributions and keep us from being
sentimental, don't you see? We can do so
little for him, and he does so much for us, I
think the least we can do is to offer him a
place here, and make him welcome if he
comes.

This artful allusion to benefits conferred
brought Tupman to his feet, looking as if he
had quite made up his mind.

Yes, we ought to do it, even if we are afraid.
I say he may come, and his grandpa, too, if
he likes.

This spirited burst from Beth electrified the
club, and Jo left her seat to shake hands
approvingly. Now then, vote again.
Everybody remember it's our Laurie, and
say, `Aye!' cried Snodgrass excitedly.

Aye! Aye! Aye! replied three voices at once.

Good! Bless you! Now, as there's nothing
like `taking time by the fetlock', as Winkle

this immortal club.

Hear! Hear! cried Jo, clashing the lid of the
warming pan like a cymbal.

Go on, go on! added Winkle and Tupman,
while the President bowed benignly.

I merely wish to say, that as a slight token of
my gratitude for the honor done me, and as
a means of promoting friendly relations
between adjoining nations, I have set up a
post office in the hedge in the lower corner
of the garden, a fine, spacious building with
padlocks on the doors and every
convenience for the mails, also the
females, if I may be allowed the expression.
It's the old martin house, but I've stopped up
the door and made the roof open, so it will
hold all sorts of things, and save our
valuable time. Letters, manuscripts, books,
and bundles can be passed in there, and as
each nation has a key, it will be uncommonly
nice, I fancy. Allow me to present the club
key, and with many thanks for your favor,
take my seat.

Great applause as Mr. Weller deposited a
little key on the table and subsided, the
warming pan clashed and waved wildly,
and it was some time before order could be
restored. A long discussion followed, and
everyone came out surprising, for everyone
did her best. So it was an unusually lively
meeting, and did not adjourn till a late hour,
when it broke up with three shrill cheers for
the new member. No one ever regretted the
admittance of Sam Weller, for a more
devoted, well-behaved, and jovial member
no club could have. He certainly did add
`spirit' to the meetings, and `a tone' to the
paper, for his orations convulsed his
hearers and his contributions were
excellent, being patriotic, classical,
comical, or dramatic, but never sentimental.
Jo regarded them as worthy of Bacon,

won't you?' I didn't hear any more, for I
basely turned and fled. I did actually run, and
whisked round the corner whee I felt safe.

Poor old Jo! She came in looking as if
bears were after her, said Beth, as she
cuddled her sister's feet with a motherly air.

Aunt March is a regular sapphire, is she
not? observed Amy, tasting her mixture
critically.

She means vampire, not seaweed, but it
doesn't matter. It's too warm to be particular
about one's parts of speech, murmured Jo.

What shall you do all your vacation? asked
Amy, changing the subject with tact.

I shall lie abed late, and do nothing, replied
Meg, from the depths of the rocking chair.
I've been routed up early all winter and had
to spend my days working for other people,
so now I'm going to rest and revel to my
heart's content.

No, said Jo, that dozy way wouldn't suit me.
I've laid in a heap of books, and I'm going to
improve my shining hours reading on my
perch in the old apple tree, when I'm not
having l. . .

Don't say `larks!' implored Amy, as a return
snub for the samphire' correction.

I'll say `nightingales' then, with Laurie.
That's proper and appropriate, since he's a
warbler.

Don't let us do any lessons, Beth, for a
while, but play all the time and rest, as the
girls mean to, proposed Amy.

Well, I will, if Mother doesn't mind. I want to
learn some new songs, and my children
need fitting up for the summer. They are

appeared but an inquisitive daddy-
longlegs, who examined her work with
interest, she went to walk, got caught in a
shower, and came home dripping.

At tea time they compared notes, and all
agreed that it had been a delightful, though
unusually long day. Meg, who went
shopping in the afternoon and got a `sweet
blue muslin, had discovered, after she had
cut the breadths off, that it wouldn't wash,
which mishap made her slightly cross. Jo
had burned the skin off her nose boating,
and got a raging headache by reading too
long. Beth was worried by the confusion of
her closet and the difficulty of learning three
or four songs at once, and Amy deeply
regretted the damage done her frock, for
Katy Brown's party was to be the next day
and now like Flora McFlimsey, she had
`nothing to wear'. But these were mere
trifles, and they assured their mother that
the experiment was working finely. She
smiled, said nothing, and with Hannah's
help did their neglected work, keeping
home pleasant and the domestic machinery
running smoothly. It was astonishing what a
peculiar and uncomfortable state of things
was produced by the `resting and reveling'
process. The days kept getting longer and
longer, the weather was unusually variable
and so were tempers, and unsettled feeling
possessed everyone, and Satan found
plenty of mischief for the idle hands to do.
As the height of luxury, Meg put out some of
her sewing, and then found time hang so
heavily that she fell to snipping and spoiling
her clothes in her attempts to furbish them
up a`la Moffat. Jo read till her eyes gave out
and she was sick of books, got so fidgety
that even good-natured Laurie had a
quarrel with her, and so reduced in spirits
that she desperately wished she had gone
with Aunt March. Beth got on pretty well, for
she was constantly forgetting that it was to
be all play and no work, and fell back into

says she is going to stay quietly in her room
all day and let us do the best we can. It's a
very queer thing for her to do, she doesn't
act a bit like herself. But she says it has
been a hard week for her, so we mustn't
grumble but take care of ourselves.

That's easy enough, and I like the idea, I'm
aching for something to do, that is, some
new amusement, you know, added Jo
quickly.

In fact it was an immense relief to them all to
have a little work, and they took hold with a
will, but soon realized the truth of Hannah's
saying, Housekeeping ain't no joke. There
was plenty of food in the larder, and while
Beth and Amy set the table, Meg and Jo got
breakfast, wondering as they did why
servants ever talked about hard work.

I shall take some up to Mother, though she
said we were not to think of her, for she'd
take care of herself, said Meg, who
presided and felt quite matronly behind the
teapot.

So a tray was fitted out before anyone
began, and taken up with the cook's
compliments. The boiled tea was very
bitter, the omelet scorched, and the biscuits
speckled with saleratus, but Mrs. March
received her repast with thanks and
laughed heartily over it after Jo was gone.

Poor little souls, they will have a hard time,
I'm afraid, but they won't suffer, and it will
do them good, she said, producing the
more palatable viands with which she had
provided herself, and disposing of the bad
breakfast, so that their feelings might not be
hurt, a motherly little deception for which
they were grateful.

Many were the complaints below, and great
the chagrin of the head cook at her failures.

Of course I shall. I'm not a fool. And Jo went
off in a huff at the doubts expressed of her
powers.

Get what you like, and don't disturb me. I'm
going out to dinner and can't worry about
things at home, said Mrs. March, when Jo
spoke to her. I never enjoyed
housekeeping, and I'm going to take a
vacation today, and read, write, go visiting,
and amuse myself.

The unusual spectacle of her busy mother
rocking comfortably and reading early in the
morning made Jo feel as if some unnatural
phenomenon had occurred, for an eclipse,
an earthquake, or a volcanic eruption would
hardly have seemed stranger.

Everything is out of sorts, somehow, she
said to herself, going downstairs. There's
Beth crying, that's a sure sign that
something is wrong in this family. If Amy is
bothering, I'll shake her.

Feeling very much out of sorts herself, Jo
hurried into the parlor to find Beth sobbing
over Pip, the canary, who lay dead in the
cage with his little claws pathetically
extended, as if imploring the food for want
of which he had died.

It's all my fault, I forgot him, there isn't a
seed or a drop left. Oh, Pip! Oh, Pip! How
could I be so cruel to you? cried Beth, taking
the poor thing in her hands and trying to
restore him.

Jo peeped into his half-open eye, felt his
little heart, and finding him stiff and cold,
shook her head, and offered her domino
box for a coffin.

Put him in the oven, and maybe his will get
warm and revive, said Amy hopefully.

over the pans?

Sallie began to laugh, but Meg nodded and
lifted her eyebrows as high as they would
go, which caused the apparition to vanish
and put the sour bread into the oven without
further delay. Mrs. March went out, after
peeping here and there to see how matters
went, also saying a word of comfort to Beth,
who sat making a winding sheet, while the
dear departed lay in state in the domino
box. A strange sense of helplessness fell
upon the girls as the gray bonnet vanished
round the corner, and despair seized them
when a few minutes later Miss Crocker
appeared, and said she'd come to dinner.
Now this lady was a thin, yellow spinster,
with a sharp nose and inquisitive eyes, who
saw everything and gossiped about all she
saw. They disliked her, but had been taught
to be kind to her, simply because she was
old and poor and had few friends. So Meg
gave her the easy chair and tried to
entertain her, while she asked questions,
criticized everything, and told stories of the
people whom she knew.

Language cannot describe the anxieties,
experiences, and exertions which Jo
underwent that morning, and the dinner she
served up became a standing joke. Fearing
to ask any more advice, she did her best
alone, and discovered that something more
than energy and good will is necessary to
make a cook. She boiled the asparagus for
an hour and was grieved to find the heads
cooked off and the stalks harder than ever.
The bread burned black, for the salad
dressing so aggravated her that she could
not make it fit to ear. The lobster was a
scarlet mystery to her, but she hammered
and poked till it was unshelled and its
meager proportions concealed in a grove of
lettuce leaves. The potatoes had to be
hurried, not to keep the asparagus waiting,
and were not done at the last. The

remembering that she had given a last hasty
powdering to the berries out of one of the
two boxes on the kitchen table, and had
neglected to put the milk in the refrigerator.
She turned scarlet and was on the verge of
crying, when she met Laurie's eyes, which
would look merry in spite of his heroic
efforts. The comical side of the affair
suddenly struck her, and she laughed till the
tears ran down her cheeks. So did everyone
else, even `Croaker' as the girls called the
old lady, and the unfortunate dinner ended
gaily, with bread and butter, olives and fun.

I haven't strength of mind enough to clear up
now, so we will sober ourselves with a
funeral, said Jo, as they rose, and Miss
Crocker made ready to go, being eager to
tell the new story at another friend's dinner
table.

They did sober themselves for Beth's sake.
Laurie dug a grave under the ferns in the
grove, little Pip was laid in, with many tears
by his tender-hearted mistress, and
covered with moss, while a wreath of
violets and chickweed was hung on the
stone which bore his epitaph, composed by
Jo while she struggled with the dinner. Here
lies Pip March, Who died the 7th of June;
Loved and lamented sore, And not
forgotten soon.

At the conclusion of the ceremonies, Beth
retired to her room, overcome with emotion
and lobster, but there was no place of
repose, for the beds were not made, and
she found her grief much assuaged by
beating up the pillows and putting things in
order. Meg helped Jo clear away the
remains of the feast, which took half the
afternoon and left them so tired that they
agreed to be contented with tea and toast
for supper.

Laurie took Amy to drive, which was a deed