part in it I’d have done it better than this, and have written

a sensible note. I should think you ’d have known Mr. Brooke would n’t write such stuff as that,” she added, scornfully tossing down the paper.
“Tt’s like his writing,” faltered Meg, comparing it with the note in her hand.
“O Meg, you didn’t answer it?” cried Mrs. March quickiy
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“Yes, I did!” and Meg hid her face again, overcome with shame.
“Here’s a scrape! Do let me bring that wicked boy over to explain, and be lectured. I can’t rest till I get hold of him; ” and Jo made for the door again.
“Hush! let me manage this, for it is worse than I thought. Margaret, tell me the whole story,” commanded Mrs. March, oe down by Meg, yet keeping hold of Jo, lest she should
y off,
“T received the first letter from Laurie, who did n’t look as if he knew anything about it,” began Meg, without looking up. “T was worried at first, and meant to tell you; then I remem- bered how you liked Mr. Brooke, so I thought you would n’t mind if I kept my little secret for a few days. I’m so silly that I liked to think no one knew; and, while I was deciding what to say, I felt like the girls in books, who have such things to do. Forgive me, mother, I’m paid for my silliness now; I never can look him in the face again.”
“What did you say to him?” asked Mrs. March.
“TI only said I was too young to do anything about it yet; that I did n’t wish to have secrets from you, and he must speak to father. I was very grateful for his kindness, and would be his friend, but nothing more, for a long while.”
Mrs. March smiled, as if well pleased, and Jo clapped her hands, exclaiming, with a laugh, —
“You are almost equal to Caroline Percy, who was a pattern of prudence! Tell on, Meg. What did he say to that?”
“He writes in a different way entirely, telling me that he never sent any love-letter at all, and is very sorry that my roguish sister, Jo, should take such liberties with our names. It’s very kind and respectful, but think how dreadful for me!”
Meg leaned against her mother, looking the image of despair, and Jo tramped about the room, calling Laurie names. All of a sudden she stopped, caught up the two notes, and, after looking at them closely, said decidedly, “I don’t believe Brooke ever saw either of these letters. Teddy wrote both, and keeps yours to crow over me with, because I would n’t tell him my secret.”
“Don’t have any secrets, Jo; tell it to mother, and keep out of trouble, as I should have done,” said Meg warningly.
“Bless you, child! Mother told me.”
“That will do, Jo. I’ll comfort Meg while you go and get Laurie. I shall sift the matter to the bottom and put a stop to such pranks at once.”
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Away ran Jo, and Mrs. March gently told Meg Mr. Brooke’s real feelings. “ Now, dear, what are your own? Do you love him enough to wait till he can make a home for you, or will you keep yourself quite free for the present?”
“T’ve been so scared and worried, I don’t want to have anything to do with lovers for a long while, —perhaps never,” answered Meg petulantly. “If John doesn’t know anything about this nonsense, don’t tell him, and make Jo and Laurie hold their tongues. I won’t be deceived and plagued and made a fool of, —it’s a shame!”
Seeing that Meg’s usually gentle temper was roused and her pride hurt by this mischievous joke, Mrs. March soothed her by promises of entire silence, and great discretion for the future. The instant Laurie’s step was heard in the hall, Meg fled into the study, and Mrs. March received the culprit alone. Jo had not told him why he was wanted, fearing he would n’t come; but he knew the minute he saw Mrs. March’s face, and stood twirling his hat, with a guilty air which convicted him at once. Jo was dismissed, but chose to march up and down the hall like a sentinel, having some fear that the prisoner might bolt. The sound of voices in the parlor rose and fell for half an hour; but what happened during that interview the girls never knew.
When they were called in, Laurie was standing by their mother, with such a penitent face that Jo forgave him on the spot, but did not think it wise to betray the fact. Meg received his humble apology, and was much comforted by the assurance that Brooke knew nothing of the joke.
“T’ll never tell him to my dying day, — wild horses sha’n’t drag it out of me; so you'll forgive me Meg, and I'll do any- thing to show how out-and-out sorry I am,” he added, looking very much ashamed of himself.
“T’ll try; but it was a very ungentlemanly thing to do. I did n’t think you could be so sly and malicious, Laurie,” replied Meg, trying to hide her maidenly confusion under a gravely reproachful air.
“Tt was altogether abominable, and I don’t deserve to be spoken to for a month; but you will, though, won’t you?” and Laurie folded his hands together with such an imploring ges- ture, as he spoke in his irresistibly persuasive tone, that it was impossible to frown upon him, in spite of his scandalous be- havior. Meg pardoned him, and Mrs. March’s grave face relaxed, in spite of her efforts to keep sober, when she heard him declare that he would atone for his sins by all sorts of
LITTLE WOMEN 189
penances, and abase himself like a worm before the injured damsel.
Jo stood aloof, meanwhile, trying to harden her heart against him, and succeeding only in primming up her face in an ex- pression of entire disapprobation. Laurie looked at her once or twice, but, as she showed no signs of relenting, he felt in- jured, and turned his back on her till the others were done with eae when he made her a low bow, and walked off without a word.
As soon as he had gone, she wished she had been more for: giving; and when Meg and her mother went upstairs, she felt lonely, and longed for Teddy. After resisting for some time, she yielded to the impulse, and, armed with a book to return, went over to the big house.
“Is Mr. Laurence in?” asked Jo, of a housemaid, who was coming downstairs.
“Yes, miss; but I don’t believe he’s seeable just yet.”
“Why not? is he ill?”
* La, no, miss, but he’s had a scene with Mr. Laurie, who is in one of his tantrums about something, which vexes the old gentleman, so I dursn’t go nigh him.”
“Where is Laurie?”
“ Shut up in his room, and he won’t answer, though I ’ve been a-tapping. I don’t know what’s to become of the dinner, for it’s ready, and there’s no one to eat it.”
“T’ll go and see what the matter is. I’m not afraid of either of them.”
Up went Jo, and knocked smartly on the door of Laurie’s little study.
“ Stop that, or Ill open the door and make you! ” called out the young gentleman, in a threatening tone.
Jo immediately knocked again; the door flew open, and in she bounced, before Laurie could recover from his surprise. Seeing that he really was out of temper, Jo, who knew how to manage him, assumed a contrite expression, and going artisti- cally down upon her knees, said meekly, “ Please forgive me for being so cross. I came to make it up, and can’t go away till I have.”
“Tt’s all right. Get up, and don’t be a goose, Jo,” was the cavalier reply to her petition.
“ Thank you; I will. Could I ask what’s the matter? You don’t look exactly easy in your mind.”
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“T’ve been shaken, and I won’t bear it !” growled Laurie, indignantly.
“Who did it?” demanded Jo.
“ Grandfather ; if it had been any one else I’d have —” and the injured youth finished his sentence by an energetic gesture of the right arm.
“ That ’s nothing; I often shake you, and you don’t mind,” said Jo soothingly.
_ “Pooh ! you’re a girl, and it’s fun but Ill allow no man to shake me.” :
“T don’t think any one would care to try it, if you looked as much like a thunder-cloud as you do now. Why were you treated so?”
“Just because I would n’t say what your mother wanted me for. I’d promised not to tell, and of course I wasn’t going to break my word.”
“Could n’t you satisfy your grandpa in any other way?”
“No; he would have the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I’d have told my part of the scrape, if I could without bringing Meg in. As I couldn’t, I held my tongue, and bore the scolding till the old gentleman collared me. Then I got angry, and bolted, for fear I should forget myself.”
“Tt wasn’t nice, but he’s sorry, I know; so go down and make up. Ill help you.”
“Hanged if I do! I’m not going to be lectured and pummelled by every one, just for a bit of a frolic. I was sorry about Meg, and begged pardon like a man; but I won’t do it again, when I wasn’t in the wrong.”
“He didn’t know that.”
“ He ought to trust me, and not act as if I was a baby. It’s no use, Jo; he’s got to learn that I’m able to take care of myself, and don’t need any one’s apron-string to hold on by.”
“What peper-pots you are!” sighed Jo. “ How do you mean to settle this affair?”
“Well, he ought to beg pardon, and believe me when I say I can’t tell him what the fuss ’s about.”
“Bless you ! he won’t do that.”
“T won’t go down till he does.”
“Now, Teddy, be sensible; let it pass, and Ill explain what I can. You can’t stay here, so what’s the use of being melodramatic?”
“T don’t intend to stay here long, any way. Ill slip off and
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take a journey somewhere, and when grandpa misses me he ’ll come around fast enough.”
“T dare say; but you ought not to go and worry him.”
“Don’t preach. I’ll go to Washington and see Brooke; it’s gay there, and Ill enjoy myself after the troubles.”
“What fun you’d have! I wish I could run off too,” said Jo, forgetting her part of Mentor in lively visions of martial life at the capital.
“Come on, then! Why not? You go and surprise your father, and I’ll stir up old Brooke. It would be a glorious joke; let’s do it, Jo. Well leave a letter saying we are all right, and trot off at once. I’ve got money enough; it will do you good, and be no harm, as you go to your father. ”
For a moment Jo looked as if she would agree; for, wild as the plan was, it just suited her. She was tired of care and confinement, longed for change, and thoughts of her father blended temptingly with the novel charms of camps and hos- pitals, liberty and fun. Her eyes kindled as they turned wist- fully toward the window, but they fell on the old house opposite and she shook her head with sorrowful decision.
“Tf I was a boy, we’d run away together, and have a capital time; but as I’m a miserable girl, I must be proper, and stop at home. Don’t tempt me, Teddy, it’s a crazy plan.”
“ That ’s the fun of it,” began Laurie, who had got a wilful fit on him, and was possessed to break out of bounds in some way. “Hold your tongue!” cried Jo, covering her ears.
“¢ Prunes and prisms’ are my doom, and I may as well make “up my mind to it. I came here to moralize, not to hear about things that make me skip to think of.”
“T know Meg would wet-blanket such a proposal, but I
thought you had more spirit,” began Laurie insinuatingly.
“Bad boy, be quiet ! Sit down and think of your own sins;
don’t go making me add to mine. If I get your grandpa to apologize for the shaking, will you give up running away?” asked Jo seriously. ; >
“Yes, but you won’t do it,” answered Laurie, who wished “to make up,” but felt that his outraged dignity must be ap- peased first. ;
“Tf I can manage the young one I can the old one,” mut- tered Jo, as she walked away, leaving Laurie bent over a rail- road map, with his head propped up on both hands.
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“Come in !” and Mr. Laurence’s gruff voice sounded gruf- fer than ever, as Jo tapped at his door.
“It’s only me, sir, come to return a book,” she said blandly as she entered.
“Want any more?” asked the old gentleman, looking grim and vexed, but trying not to show it.
“Yes, please. I like old Sam so well, I think I’ll try the second volume,” returned Jo, hoping to propitiate him by ac- cepting a second dose of Boswell’s “ Johnson,” as he had rec- ommended that lively work.
The shaggy eyebrows unbent a little, as he rolled the steps toward the shelf where the Johnsonian literature was placed. Jo skipped up, and, sitting on the top step, affected to be search- ing for her book, but was really wondering how best to intro- duce the dangerous object of her visit. Mr. Laurence seemed to suspect that something was brewing in her mind; for, after taking several brisk turns about the room, he faced round on her, speaking so abruptly that “ Rasselas ” tumbled face down- ward on the floor.
“What has that boy been about? Don’t try to shield him. I know he has been in mischief by the way he acted when he came home. I can’t get a word from him; and when I threat- ened to shake the truth out of him he bolted upstairs, and locked himself into his room.”
“ He did do wrong, but we forgave him, and all promised not to say a word to any one,” began Jo reluctantly.
“That won’t do; he shall not shelter himself behind a prom- ise from you soft-hearted girls. If he’s done anything amiss, he shall confess, beg pardon, and be punished. Out with it, Jo, I won’t be kept in the dark.”
Mr. Laurence looked so alarming and spoke so sharply that Jo would have gladly run away, if she could, but she was perched aloft on the steps, and he stood at the foot, a lion in the path, so she had to stay and brave it out.
“Indeed, sir, I cannot tell ! mother forbade it. Laurie has confessed, asked pardon, and been punished quite enough. We don’t keep silence to shield him, but some one else, and it will make more trouble if you interfere. Please don’t: it was partly my fault, but it’s all right now; so let’s forget it, and talk about the ‘Rambler,’ or something pleasant.”
“ Hang the ‘ Rambler !’ come down and give me your word that this harum-scarum boy of mine has n’t done anything un-
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grateful or impertinent. If he has, after all your kindness to him, I’ ll thrash him with my own hands. ”
The threat sounded awful, but did not alarm Jo, for she knew the irascible old gentleman would never lift a finger against his grandson, whatever he might say to the contrary. She obedi- ently descended, and made as light of the prank as she could without betraying Meg or forgetting the truth.
“Hum — ha — well, if the boy held his tongue because he promised, and not from obstinacy, I’ll forgive him. He’s a stubborn fellow, and hard to manage, ” said Mr. Laurence, rub- bing up his hair till it looked as if he had been out in a gale and smoothing the frown from his brow with an air of relief.
“So am I; but a kind word will govern me when all the king’s horses and all the king’s men could n’t,” said Jo, trying to say a kind word for her friend, who seemed to get out of one scrape only to fall into another.
“You think I’m not kind to him, hey?” was the sharp an- swer.
“Oh dear, no, sir; you are rather too kind sometimes, and then just a trifle hasty when he tries your patience. Don’t you think you are?”
Jo was determined to have it out now, and tried to look quite placid, though she quaked a little after her bold speech. To her great relief and surprise, the old gentleman only threw his spectacles on to the table with a rattle, and exclaimed frankly —
“You ’re right, girl, Iam! I love the boy, but he tries my patience past bearing, and I don’t know how it will end, if we go on so.”
“Tl tell you, he’ll run away.” Jo was sorry for that speech the minute it was made; she meant to warn him that Laurie would not bear much restraint, and hoped he would be more forbearing with the lad.
Mr. Laurence’s ruddy face changed suddenly, and he sat down, with a troubled glance at the picture of a handsome man which hung over his table. It was Laurie’s father, who had run away in his youth and married against the imperious old man’s will. Jo fancied he remembered and regretted the past, and she wished she had held her tongue.
“He won’t do it unless he is very much worried, and only threatens it sometimes, when he gets tired of studying. I often think I should like to, especially since my hair was cut; so, if
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you ever miss us, you may advertise for two boys, and look among the ships bound for India.”
She laughed as she spoke, and Mr. Laurence looked relieved, evidently taking the whole as a joke.
“You hussy, how dare you talk in that way? Where’s your respect for me, and your proper bringing up? Bless the boys and girls ! What torments they are; yet we can’t do without them,” he said, pinching her cheeks good-huinoredly. “Go and bring that boy down to his dinner, tell him it’s all right, and advise him not to put on tragedy airs with his grand- father. I won’t bear it.”
“He won’t come, sir; he feels badly because you didn’t believe him when he said he could n’t tell. I think the shaking hurt his feelings very much.”
Jo tried to look pathetic, but must have failed for Mr. Laur- ence began to laugh, and she knew the day was won.
“T’m sorry for that, and ought to thank him for not shak- ing me, I suppose. What the dickens does the fellow expect?” and the old gentleman looked a trifle ashamed of his own testiness.
“Tf I were you, I’d write him an apology, sir. He says he won’t come down till he has one, and talks about Washington, and goes on in an absurd way. A formal apology will make him see how foolish he is, and bring him down quite amiable. Try it; he likes fun, and this way is better than talking. Ill carry it up, and teach him his duty.”
Mr. Laurence gave her a sharp look, and put on his spec- tacles, saying slowly, “ You’re a sly puss, but I don’t mind being managed by you and Beth. Here, give me a bit of paper, and let us have done with this nonsense. ”
The note was written in the terms which one gentleman would use to another after offering some deep insult. Jo dropped a kiss on top of Mr. Laurence’s bald head and ran up to slip the apology under Laurie’s door, advising him, through the key-hole, to be submissive, decorous, and a few other agree- able impossibilities. Finding the door locked again, she left the note to do its work, and was going quietly away, when the young gentleman slid down the banisters, and waited for her at the bottom, saying, with his most virtuous expression of countenance, ‘‘ What a good fellow you are, Jo! Did you get blown up?” he added, laughing.
“No; he was pretty mild, on the whole. ”
“Ah! I got it all round; even you cast me off over there,
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ame I felt just ready to go to the deuce,” he began apologeti- cally.
“Don’t talk in that way; turn over a new leaf and begin again, Teddy, my son.”
“TI keep turning over new leaves, and spoiling them, as I used to spoil my copy-books; and I make so many beginnings there never will be an end,” he said dolefully.
“Go and eat your dinner; you ll feel better after it. Men always croak when they are hungry,” and Jo whisked out at the front door after that.
“That ’s a ‘label’ on my ‘sect,’” answered Laurie, quoting Amy, as he went to partake of humble-pie dutifully with his grandfather, who was quite saintly in temper and overwhelm- ingly respectful in manner all the rest of the day.
Every one thought the matter ended and the little cloud blown over; but the mischief was done, for, though others for- got it, Meg remembered. She never alluded to a certain person, but she thought of him a good deal, dreamed dreams more than ever; and once Jo, rummaging her sister’s desk for stamps found a bit of paper scribbled over with the words, “ Mrs. John Brooke;”’ whereat she groaned tragically, and cast it into the fire, feeling that Laurie’s prank had hastened the evil day for her.
999
CHAPTER AX PLEASANT MEADOWS
Like sunshine after storm were the peaceful weeks which followed. The invalids improved rapidly, and Mr. March be- gan to talk of returning early in the new year. Beth was soon able to lie on the study sofa all day, amusing herself with the well-beloved cats, at first, and, in time, with doll’s sewing, which had fallen sadly behindhand. Her once active limbs were so stiff and feeble that Jo took her a daily airing about the house in her strong arms. Meg cheerfully blackened and burnt her white hands cooking delicate messes for “the dear;” while Amy, a loyal slave of the ring, celebrated her return by giving away as many of her treasures as she could prevail on her sisters to accept.
As Christmas approached, the usual mysteries began to haunt the house, and Jo frequently convulsed the family by proposing utterly impossible or magnificently absurd ceremonies, in honor
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of this unusually merry Christmas. Laurie was equally im- practicable, and would have had bonfires, sky-rockets, and triumphal arches, if he had had his own way. After many skirmishes and snubbings, the ambitious pair were considered effectually quenched and went about with forlorn faces, which were rather belied by explosions of laughter when the two got together.
Several days of unusually mild weather fitly ushered in a splendid Christmas Day. Hannah “felt in her bones” that it was going to be an unusually fine day, and she proved herself a true prophetess, for everybody and everything seemed bound to produce a grand success. To begin with, Mr. March wrote that he would soon be with them; then Beth felt uncommonly well that morning, and, being dressed in her mother’s gift, — a soft crimson merino wrapper,— was borne in triumph to the window to behold the offering of Jo and Laurie. The Unquenchables had done their best to be worthy of the name, for, like elves, they had worked by night, and conjured up a comical surprise. Out in the garden stood a stately snow- maiden, crowned with holly, bearing a basket of fruit and flowers in. one hand, a great roll of new music in the other, a perfect rainbow of an Afghan round her chilly shoulders, and a Christmas card issuing from her lips on a pink paper streamer : -—
“THE JUNGFRAU TO BETH “ God bless you, dear Queen Bess! May nothing you dismay,
But health and peace and happiness Be yours, this Christmas Day.
“Here’s fruit to feed our busy bee, And flowers for her nose; Here’s music for her pianee, An Afghan for her toes.
“A portrait of Joanna, see, By Raphael No. 2, Who labored with great industry To make it fair and true.
“Accept a ribbon red, I beg, For Madam Purrer’s tail; And ice-cream made by lovely Peg, ~ A Mont Blanc in a pail.
“Their dearest love my makers laid Within my breast of snow:
Accept it, and the Alpine maid, From Laurie and from Jo.”
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How Beth laughed when she saw it, how Laurie ran up and down to bring in the gifts, and what ridiculous speeches Jo made as she presented them !
“T’m so full of happiness, that, if father was only here, I could n’t hold one drop more,” said Beth, quite sighing with contentment as Jo carried her off to the study to rest after the excitement, and to refresh herself with some of the delicious grapes the “ Jungfrau” had sent her.
“So am I,” added Jo, slapping the pocket wherein reposed the long-desired Undine and Sintram.
“T’m sure I am,” echoed Amy, poring over the engraved copy of the Madonna and Child, which her mother had given her, in a pretty frame.
“Of course I am !” cried Meg, smoothing the silvery folds of her first silk dress; for Mr. Laurence had insisted on giv- ing it.
“ How can I be otherwise?” said Mrs. March gratefully, as her eyes went from her husband’s letter to Beth’s smiling face and her hand caressed the brooch made of gray and golden, chestnut and dark brown hair, which the girls had just fast- ened on her breast.
Now and then, in this work-a-day world, things do happen in the delightful story-book fashion, and what a comfort that is. Half an hour after every one had said they were so happy they could only hold one drop more, the drop came. Laurie opened the parlor door, and popped his head in very quietly. He might just as well have turned a somersault and uttered an Indian war-whoop; for his face was so full of suppressed excitement and his voice so treacherously joyful, that every one jumped up, though he only said, in a queer, breathless voice, “ Here’s another Christmas present for the March family. ”
Before the words were well out of his mouth, he was whisked away somehow, and in his place appeared a tall man, muffled up to the eyes, leaning on the arm of another tall man, who tried to say something and couldn’t. Of course there was a general stampede; and for several minutes everybody seemed to lose their wits, for the strangest things were done, and no one said a word. Mr. March became invisible in the embrace of four pairs of loving arms; Jo disgraced herself by nearly fainting away, and had to be doctored by Laurie in the china- closet; Mr. Brooke kissed Meg entirely by mistake, as he some- what incoherently explained; and Amy, the dignified, tumbled
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over a stool, and, never stopping to get up, hugged and cried over her father’s boots in the most touching manner. Mrs. March was the first to recover herself, and held up her hand with a warning, “ Hush ! remember Beth !”
But it was too late; the study door flew open, the little red wrapper appeared on the threshold, — joy put strength into the feeble limbs,— and Beth ran straight into her father’s arms. Never mind what happened just after that; for the full hearts overflowed, washing away the bitterness of the past, and leav- ing only the sweetness of the present.
It was not at all romantic, but a hearty laugh set everybody straight again, for Hannah was discovered behind the door, sobbing over the fat turkey, which she had forgotten to put down when she rushed up from the kitchen. As the laugh subsided, Mrs. March began to thank Mr. Brooke for his faithful care of her husband, at which Mr. Brooke suddenly remembered that Mr. March needed rest, and, seizing Laurie, her precipitately retired. Then the two invalids were ordered to repose, which they did, by both sitting in one big chair, and talking hard.
Mr. March told how he had longed to surprise them, and how, when the fine weather came, he had been allowed by his doctor to take advantage of it; how devoted Brooke had been, and how he was altogether a most estimable and upright young man. Why Mr. March paused a minute just there, and, after a glance at Meg, who was violently poking the fire, looked at his wife with an inquiring life of his eyebrows, I leave you to imagine; also why Mrs. March gently nodded her head, and asked, rather abruptly, if he would n’t have something to eat. Jo saw and understood the look; and she stalked grimly away to get wine and beef-tea, muttering to herself, as she slammed the door, “‘ I hate estimable young men with brown eyes !”
There never was such a Christmas dinner as they had that day. The fat turkey was a sight to behold, when Hannah served him up, stuffed, browned, and decorated; so was the plum-pudding, which quite melted in one’s mouth; likewise the jellies, in which Amy revelled like a fly in a honey-pot. Every- thing turned out well, which was a mercy, Hannah said, “ For my mind was that flustered, mum, that it’s a merrycle I did n’t roast the pudding, and stuff the turkey with raisins, let alone
bilin’ of it in a cloth.”
* Mr. Laurence and his grandson dined with them, also Mr. Brooke, — at whom Jo glowered darkly, to Laurie’s infinite
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amusement. Two easy-chairs stood side by side at the head of the table, in which sat Beth and her father, feasting modestly on chicken and a little fruit. They drank healths, told stories, sung songs, “reminisced,” as the old folks say, and had a thoroughly good time. A sleigh-ride had been planned, but the girls would not leave their father; so the guests departed early, and, as the twilight gathered, the happy family sat together round the fire.
“Just a year ago we were groaning over the dismal Christ- mas we expected to have. Do you remember?” asked Jo, breaking a short pause which had followed a long conversation about many things.
“Rather a pleasant year on the whole !” said Meg, smiling at the fire, and congratulating herself on having treated Mr. Brooke with dignity.
“T'think it’s been a pretty hard one,” observed Amy watch- ing the light shine on her ring, with thoughtful eyes.
“T’m glad it’s over, because we’ve got you back,” whis- pered Beth, who sat on her father’s knee.
“Rather a rough road for you to travel, my little pilgrims, especially the latter part of it. But you have got on bravely; and I think the burdens are in a fair way to tumble off very soon,” said Mr. March, looking with fatherly satisfaction at the four young faces gathered round him.
“How do you know? Did mother tell you?” asked Jo.
“Not much; straws show which way the wind blows, and I’ve made several discoveries to-day.”
“ Oh, tell us what they are !” cried Meg, who sat beside him.
“Here is one;” and taking up the hand which lay on the arm of his chair, he pointed to the roughened forefinger, a burn on the back, and two or three little hard spots on the palm. “I remember a time when this hand was white and smooth, and your first care was to keep it so. It was very pretty then, but to me it is much prettier now,—for in these seeming blemishes I read a little history. A burnt-offering has been made of vanity; this hardened palm has earned something better than blisters; and I’m sure the sewing done by these pricked fingers will last a long time, so much good-will went into the stitches. Meg, my dear, I value the womanly skill which keeps home happy more than white hands or fashionable accomplishments. I’m proud to shake this good, industrious little hand, and hope I shall not soon be asked to give it away.”
If Meg had wanted a reward for hours of patient labor, she
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received it in a hearty pressure of her father’s hand and the approving smile he gave her.
“What about Jo? Please say something nice; for she has tried so hard, and been so very, very good to me,” said Beth, in her father’s ear.
He laughed, and looked across at the tall girl who sat op- posite, with an unusually mild expression in her brown face.
“In spite of the curly crop, I don’t see the ‘son Jo’ whom I left a year ago,” said Mr. March. “I see a young lady who pins her collar straight, laces her boots neatly, and neither whistles, talks slang, nor lies on the rug as she used to do. Her face is rather thin and pale, just now, with watching and anxiety; but I like to look at it, for it has grown gentler, and her voice is lower; she does n’t bounce, but moves quietly, and takes care of a certain little person in a motherly way which delights me. I rather miss my wild girl; but if I get a strong, helpful, tender-hearted woman in her place, I shall feel quite satisfied. I don’t know whether the shearing sobered our black sheep, but I do know that in all Washington I could n’t find anything beautiful enough to be bought with the five-and- twenty dollars which my good girl sent me.”
Jo’s keen eyes were rather dim for a minute, and her thin face grew rosy in the firelight, as she received her father’s praise, feeling that she did deserve a portion of it.
“Now Beth,” said Amy, longing for her turn, but ready to wait.
“There ’s so little of her, I’m afraid to say much, for fear she will slip away altogether, though she is not so shy as she used to be,” began their father cheerfully ; but recollecting how nearly he had lost her, he held her close, saying tenderly, with her cheek against his own, “I’ve got you safe, my Beth, and I’ll keep you so, please God.”
After a minute’s silence, he looked down at Amy, who sat on the cricket at his feet, and said, with a caress of the shining hair, —
“T observed that Amy took drumsticks at dinner, ran errands for her mother all the afternoon, gave Meg her place to-night, and has waited on every one with patience and good- humor. I also observe that she does not fret much nor look in the glass, and has not even mentioned a very pretty ring which she wears; so I conclude that she has learned to think of other people more and of herself less, and has decided to try and mould her character as carefully as she moulds her little clay
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figures. I am glad of this; for though I should be very proud of a graceful statue made by her, I shall be infinitely prouder of a lovable daughter, with a talent for making life beautiful to herself and others. ”
“What are you thinking of, Beth?” asked Jo, when Amy had thanked her father and told about her ring.
“T read in “ Pilgrim’s Progress’ to-day, how, after many troubles, Christian and Hopeful came to a pleasant green meadow, where lilies bloomed all the year round, and there they rested happily, as we do now, before they went on to their journey’s end,” answered Beth; adding, as she slipped out of her father’s arms, and went slowly to the instrument, “It’s singing time now, and I want to be in my old place. I’ll try to sing the song of the shepherd-boy which the Pilgrims heard. I made the music for father, because he likes the verses. ”
So, sitting at the dear little piano, Beth softly touched the keys, and, in the sweet voice they had never thought to hear again, sang to her own accompaniment the quaint hymn, which was a singularly fitting song for her: —
“ He that is down need fear no fall, He that is low no pride; He that is humble ever shall Have God to be his guide.
“T am content with what I have, Little be it or much; And, Lord! contentment still I crave Because Thou savest such.
“Fullness to them a burden is, That go on pilgrimage; Here little, and hereafter bliss, Is best from age to age!”