CHAPTER VII.

AMY'S VALLEY OF HUMILIATION.
“Tat boy is a perfect Cyclops, isn’t he ?” said Amy, one day, as Laurie clattered by on horseback, with a flourish of his whip as he passed.
“How dare you say so, when he’s got both his eyes ? and very handsome ones they are, too,” cried Jo, who resented any slighting remarks about her friend.
“T didn’t say anything about his eyes, and I don’t see why you need fire up when I admire his riding.”
“Oh, my goodness ! that little goose means a centaur, and she called him a Cyclops,” exclaimed Jo, with a burst of laughter.
“You need n’t be so rude ; it’s only a ‘lapse of lingy,’ as Mr. Davis says,” retorted Amy, finishing Jo with her Latin. “T 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,
“T 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
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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 every one 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 don’t offer even a suck. They treat by turns ; and I’ve had ever so many, but haven’t returned them; and I ought, for they are debts of honor, you know.”
“How much will pay them off, and restore your credit ?” asked Meg, taking out her purse.
“A quarter would more than do it, and leave a few cents over for a treat for you. Don’t you like limes ?”
“Not much ; you may have my share. Here’s the money. Make it last as long as you can, for it isn’t very plenty, you know.”
“Oh thank you ! It must be so nice to have pocket-money ! Ill have a grand feast, for I have n’t tasted a lime this week. I felt delicate about taking any, as I could n’t return them, and I’m actually suffering for one.”
Next day Amy was rather late at school ; but could not resist the temptation of displaying, with pardonable pride, a moist brown-paper parcel, before she consigned it to the inmost re- cesses of her desk. During the next few minutes the rumor that Amy March had got twenty-four delicious limes (she ate one on the way), and was going to treat, circulated through her “set,” and the attentions of her friends became quite over- whelming. Katy Brown invited her to her next party on the spot ; Mary Kingsley insisted on lending her her watch till recess ; and Jenny Snow, a satirical young lady, who had basely twitted Amy upon her limeless state, promptly buried the hatchet, and offered to furnish answers to certain appalling sums. But Amy had not forgotten Miss Snow’s cutting re- marks about “some persons whose noses were not too flat to smell other people’s limes, and stuck-up people, who were not too proud to ask for them ;” and she instantly crushed “ that Snow girl’s ” hopes by the withering telegram. “ You need n’t be so polite all of a sudden, for you won’t get any.”
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A distinguished personage happened to visit the school that morning, and Amy’s beautiful 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 pretence 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 suc- ceeded 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 con- sidered of any particular importance. It was a most unfortu- nate 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, lan- guage of a school-girl, “he was as nervous as a witch and as cross as a bear.” The word “limes” was like fire to powder ; his yellow face flushed, and he rapped on his desk with an en- ergy which made Jenny skip to her seat with unusual rapidity.
“Young ladies, attention if you please !”
At the stern order the buzz ceased, and fifty pairs of blue, black, gray, and brown eyes were obediently fixed upon his awful countenance.
‘“ Miss March, come to the desk.”
Amy rose to comply with outward composure, but a secret fear oppressed her, for the limes weighed upon her conscience.
“Bring with you the limes you have in your desk,” was the
\
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unexpected command which arrested her before she got out of her seat.
“Don’t take all,” whispered her neighbor, a young lady of great presence of mind.
_ Amy hastily shook out half a dozen, and laid the rest down before Mr. Davis, feeling that any man possessing a human heart would relent when that delicious perfume met his nose. Unfortunately, Mr. Davis particularly detested the odor of the fashionable pickle, and disgust added to his wrath.
“Ts that all ?”
“Not quite,” stammered Amy.
“Bring the rest immediately.”
With a despairing glance at her set, she obeyed.
“You are sure there are no more ?”
“T never lie, sir.”
“So I see. Now take these disgusting things two by two, and throw them out of the window.”
There was a simultaneous sigh, which created quite a little gust, as the last hope fled, and the treat was ravished from their longing lips. Scarlet with shame and anger, Amy went to and fro six dreadful times ; and as each doomed couple — looking oh! so plump and juicy—fell from her reluctant hands, a shout from the street completed the anguish of the girls, for it told them that their feast was being exulted over by the little Irish children, who were their sworn foes. This—this was too much; all flashed indignant or appealing glances at the inexor- able Davis, and one passionate lime-lover burst into tears.
As Amy returned from her last trip, Mr. Davis gave por- tentuous “ 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
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teeth, threw pack her head defiantly, and bore without flinching several tingling blows on her little palm. They were neither many nor heavy, but that made no difference to her. For the first time in her life she had been struck ; and the disgrace, in her eyes, was as deep as if he had knocked her down.
“You will now stand on the platform till recess,’ said Mg. Davis, resolved to do the thing thoroughly, since he had begun.
That was dreadful. It would have been bad enough to go to her seat, and see the pitying faces of her friends, or the sat- isfied ones of her few enemies ; but to face the whole school, with that shame fresh upon her, seemed impossible, and for a second she felt as if she could only drop down where she stood, and break her heart with crying. A bitter sense of wrong, and the thought of Jenny Snow, helped her to bear it ; and, taking the ignominious place, she fixed her eyes on the stove-funnel above what now seemed a sea of faces, and stood there, so motionless and white that the girls found it very hard to study, with that pathetic figure before them.
During the fifteen minutes that followed, the proud and sensitive little girl suffered a shame and pain which she never forgot. To others it might seem a ludicrous or trivial affair, but to her it was a hard experience ; for during the twelve years of her life she had been governed by love alone, and a blow of that sort had never touched her before. The smart of her hand and the ache of her heart were forgotten in the sting of the thought, —
“T shall have to tell at home, and they will be so dis- appointed in me !”
The fifteen minutes seemed an hour ; but they came to an end at last, and the word “ Recess!” had never seemed so welcome to her before.
“You .can go, Miss March,” said Mr. Davis, looking, as he felt, uncomfortable.
He did not soon forget the reproachful glance Amy gave him, as she went, without a word to anyone, straight into the ante-room, 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
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like this ; Jo wrathfully proposed that Mr. Davis be arrested without delay ; and Hannah shook her fist at the “villain,” and pounded potatoes for dinner as if she had him under her pestle.
No notice was taken of Amy’s flight, except by her mates ; but the sharp-eyed demoiselles discovered that Mr. Davis was quite benignant in the afternoon, also unusually nervous. Just before school closed, Jo appeared, wearing a grim expression, as she stalked up to the desk, and delivered a letter from her mother ; then collected Amy’s property, and departed, carefully scraping the mud from her boots on the door-mat, as if she shook the dust of the place off her feet.
“Yes, you can have a vacation from school, but I want you to study a little every day, with Beth,” said Mrs. March, that evening. “I don’t approve of corporal punishment, especially for girls. I dislike Mr. Davis’s manner of teaching, and don’t think the girls you associate with are doing you any good, so I shall ask your father’s advice before I send you anywhere else.”
“That’s good !_ I wish all the girls would leave, and spoil his old school. It’s perfectly maddening to think of those lovely limes,” sighed Amy, with the air of a martyr.
“T am not sorry you lost them, for you broke the rules, and deserved some punishment for disobedience,” was the severe reply, which rather disappointed the young lady, who expected nothing but sympathy.
“Do you mean you are glad I was disgraced before the whole school ?” cried Amy.
“T should not have chosen that way of mending a fault,” replied her mother ; “but I’m not sure that it won’t do you more good than a milder method. You are getting to be rather conceited, my dear, and it is quite time you set about correcting it. You have a good many little gifts and virtues, but there is no need of parading them, for conceit spoils the finest genius. There is not much danger that real talent or goodness will be overlooked long ; even if it is, the consciousness of possessing and using it well should satisfy one, and the great charm of all power is modesty.”
“So it is !” cried Laurie, who was playing chess in a corner with Jo. “I knew a girl, once, who had a really remarkable talent for music, and she didn’t know it ; never guessed what sweet little things she composed when she was alone, and would n’t have believed it if any one had told her.”
“TI wish I’d known that nice girl ; maybe she would have
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helped me, I’m so stupid,” said Beth, who stood beside him, listening eagerly.
“You do know her, and she helps you better than any one else could,” answered Laurie, looking at her with such mis- chievous meaning in his merry black eyes, that Beth suddenly turned very red, and hid her face in the sofa-cushion, quite over- come 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 sung delight- fully, being in a particularly lovely humor, for to the Marches he seldom showed the moody side of his character. When he was gone, Amy, who had been pensive all the evening, said suddenly, as if busy over some new idea, —
“Ts Laurie an accomplished boy ?”
“Yes ; he has had an excellent education, and has much talent ; he will make a fine man, if not spoilt by petting,” re- plied her mother.
“ And he is n’t conceited, is he ?”’ asked Amy.
“Not in the least ; that is why he is so charming, and we all like him so much,”
“T 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 man- ner and conversation, 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. VIII. JO MEETS APOLLYON.
“Gris, where are you going?” asked Amy, coming into their room one Saturday afternoon, and finding them getting ready to go out, with an air of secrecy which excited her curiosity.
“Never mind ; little girls should n’t ask questions,” returned Jo sharply.
Now if there is anything mortifying to our feelings, when We are young, it is to be told that ; and to be bidden to “run away, dear,” is still more trying to us. Amy bridled up at this
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insult, and determined to find out the secret, if she teased for an hour. Turning to Meg, who never refused her anything very long, she said coaxingly, “Do tell me! I should think you might let me go, too ; for Beth is fussing over her piano, and I have n’t got anything to do, and am so lonely.”
“T can’t, dear, because you are n’t invited,” began Meg ; but Jo broke in impatiently, “ Now, Meg, be quiet, or you will spoil it all. You can’t go, Amy ; so don’t be a baby, and whine about it.”
“You are going somewhere with Laurie, I know you are 3 you were whispering and laughing together, on the sofa, last night, and you stopped when I came in. Aren’t you going with him ?”
“Yes, we are ; now do be still, and stop bothering.”
Amy held her tongue, but used her eyes, and saw Meg slip a fan into her pocket.
“T know ! I know ! you’re going to the theatre to see the ‘Seven Castles !’” she cried ; adding resolutely, “and I shall go, for mother said I might see it ; and I’ve got my rag-money, and it was mean not to tell me in time.”
“ Just listen to me a minute and be a good child,” said Meg soothingly. “ Mother doesn’t wish you to go this week, be- cause your eyes are not well enough yet to bear the light of this fairy piece. Next week you can go with Beth and Hannah, and have a nice time.”
“T 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.
“Tf she goes, I sha’n’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. “TI shall go ; Meg says I may ; and if I pay for myself, Laurie has n’t any- thing to do with it.”
“You can’t sit with us, for our seats are reserved, and you must n’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
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that isn’t proper, when you were n’t asked. You sha’n’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 spoilt child. Just as the party was setting out, Amy called over the bannisters, in a threatening tone, “ You “ll be sorry for this, Jo March ; see if you ain't.”
“ Fiddlesticks,” returned Jo, slamming the door.
They had a charming time, for ‘‘ The Seven Castles of the Diamond Lake” were as brilliant and wonderful as heart could wish. But, in spite of the comical red imps, sparkling elves, and gorgeous princes and princesses, Jo’s pleasure had a drop of bitterness in it ; the fairy queen’s yellow curls reminded her of Amy ; and between the acts she amused herself with won- dering what her sister would do to make her “sorry for it.” She and Amy had had many lively skirmishes in the course ef their lives, for both had quick tempers, and were apt to be violent when fairly roused. Amy teased Jo, and Jo irritated Amy, and semi-occasional explosions occurred, of which both were much ashamed afterward. Although the oldest, Jo had the least self-control, and had hard times trying to curb the fiery spirit which was continually getting her into trouble ; her anger never lasted long, and, having humbly confessed her fault, she sincerely repented, and tried to do better. Her sisters used to say that they rather liked to get Jo into a fury, because she was such an angel afterward. Poor Jo tried desperately to be good, but her bosom enemy was always ready to flame up and defeat her; and it took years of patient effort to subdue it.
When they got home, they found Amy reading in the parlor. She assumed an injured air as they came in ; never lifted her eyes from her book, or asked a single question. Perhaps curi- osity might have conquered resentment, if Beth had not been there to inquire, and receive a glowing description of the play. On going up to put away her best hat, Jo’s first look was toward the bureau ; for, in their last quarrel, Amy had soothed her feelings by turning Jo’s top drawer upside down on the floor. Everything was in its place, however ; and after a hasty glance into her various closets, bags and boxes, Jo decided that Amy had forgiven and forgotten her wrongs,
There Jo was mistaken ; for next day she made a discovery
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which produced a tempest. Meg, Beth, and Amy were sitting together, late in the afternoon, when Jo burst in to the room, looking excited, and demanding breathlessly, “Has any one 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 !”
eo NOe tchave.n tb:
“You know where it is, then !”
“No,L 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.
“Ttisn’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 Ill make you,” and Jo gave her a slight shake.
““Scold as much as you like, you Il never see your silly old book again,” cried Amy, getting excited in her turn.
“Why not ?”
“T burnt it up.”
“What ! my little book I was so fond of, and worked over, and meant to finish before father got home ? Have you really burnt it ?” said Jo, turning very pale, while her eyes kindled and her hands clutched Amy nervously.
“Yes, I did! I told you I’d make you pay for being so cross yesterday, and I have, so, —
Amy got no farther for Jo’s hot temper mastered her, and she shook Amy till her teeth chattered in her head ; crying, in a passion of grief and anger, —”
“ You wicked, wicked girl! I never can write it again, and Ill never forgive you as long as I live.”
Meg flew to rescue Amy, and Beth to pacify Jo, but Jo was quite beside herself ; and, with a parting box on her sister’s ear, she rushed out of the room up to the old sofa in the garret, and finished her fight alone.
The storm cleared up below, for Mrs. March came home, and, having heard the story, soon brought Amy to a sense of the wrong she had done her sister. Jo’s book was the pride of her heart, and was regarded by her family as a literary sprout of great promise. It was only half a dozen little fairy tales, but Jo had worked over them patiently, putting her whole heart into her work, hoping to make something good enough to print.
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She had just copied them with great care, and had destroyed the old manuscript, so that Amy’s bonfire had consumed the loving work of several years. It seemed a small loss to others, but to Jo it was a dreadful calamity, and she felt that it never could be made up to her. Beth mourned as for a departed kit- ten, 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.”
“T 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 sung 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 ; for- give each other, help each other, and begin again to-morrow.”
Jo wanted to lay her head down on that motherly bosom, and cry her grief and anger all away ; but tears were an unmanly weakness, and she felt so deeply injured that she really could n’t quite forgive yet. So she winked hard, shook her head, and said, gruffly because Amy was listening, —
“Tt was an abominable thing, and she don’t deserve to be forgiven.”
With that she marched off to bed, and there was no merry or confidential gossip that night.
Amy was much offended that her overtures of peace had been repulsed, and began to wish she had not humbled herself, to feel more injured than ever, and to plume herself on her
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superior virtue in a way which was particularly exasperating. Jo still looked like a thundercloud, and nothing went well all day. It was bitter cold in the morning ; she dropped her pre- cious turn-over in the gutter, Aunt March had an attack of fidgets, Meg was pensive, Beth would look grieved and wistful when she got home, and Amy kept making remarks about people who were always talking about being good, and yet wouldn’t try, when other people set them a virtuous example.
“Everybody is so hateful, I’ll ask Laurie to go skating. He is always kind and jolly, and will put me to rights, I know,” said Jo to herself, and off she went.
Amy heard the clash of skates, and looked out with an im- patient exclamation, —
“There ! she promised I should go next time, for this is the last ice we shall have. But it’s no use to ask such a cross- patch to take me.”
“Don’t say that ; you were very naughty, and it is hard to forgive the loss of her precious little book ; but I think she might do it now, and I guess she will, if you try her at the right minute,” said Meg. “Go after them ; don’t say anything till Jo has got good-natured with Laurie, then 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.”
“Tl 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.
“Tl 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, look- ing like a young Russian, in his fur-trimmed coat and cap.
Jo heard Amy panting after her run, stamping her feet and blowing 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 is not safe in the middle.”
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Jo heard, but Amy was just struggling to her feet, and did not catch a word. Jo glanced over her shoulder, and the little demon she was harboring said in her ear, —
“No matter whether she heard or not, let her take care of herself.”
Laurie had vanished round the bend ; Jo was just at the turn, and Amy, far behind, striking out toward the smoother ice in the middle of the river. For a minute Jo stood still, with a strange feeling at her heart ; then she resolved to go on, but something held and turned her round, just in time to see Amy throw up her hands and go down, with the sudden crash of rotten ice, the splash of water, and a cry that made Jo’s heart stand still with fear. She tried to call Laurie, but her voice was gone ; she tried to rush forward, but her feet seemed to have no strength in them ; and, for a second, she could only stand motionless, staring, with a terror-stricken face, at the little blue hood above the black water. Something rushed swiftly by her, and Lauries voice cried out, —
“Bring a rail ; quick, quick !”
How she did it, she never knew ; but for the next few min- utes she worked as if possessed, blindly obeying Laurie, who was quite self-possessed, and, lying flat, held Amy up by his arm and hockey till Jo dragged a rail from the fence, and to- gether they got the child out, more frightened than hurt.
“ Now then, we must walk her home as fast as we can; vile our things on her, while I get off these confounded skates,” cried Laurie, wrapping his coat round Amy, and tugging away at the straps, which never seemed so intricate before.
Shivering, dripping, and crying, they got Amy home ; and, after an exciting time of it, she fell asleep, rolled in blankets, before a hot fire. During the bustle Jo had scarcely spoken ; but flown about, looking pale and wild, with her things half off, her dress torn, and her hands cut and bruised by ice and rails, and refractory buckles. When Amy was comfortably asleep, the house quiet, and Mrs. March sitting by the bed, she called Jo to her, and began to bind up the hurt hands.
“Are you sure she is safe ?”” whispered Jo, looking remorse- fully 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
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die, it would be my fault” ; and Jo dropped down beside the bed, in a passion of penitent tears, telling all that had hap- pened, 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. O 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 harder than ever.
“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 any one, and enjoy it. I’m afraid I shall do something dreadful some day, and spoil my life, and make everybody hate me. O mother, help me, do help me !”
“T will, my child, I will. Don’t cry so bitterly, but remem- ber this day and resolve, with all your soul, that you will never know another like it. Jo, dear, we all have our temptations, some far greater than yours, and it often takes us all our lives to conquer them. You think your temper is the worst in the world ; but mine used to be just like it.”
“Yours, mother ? Why, you are never angry !” and, for the moment, Jo forgot remorse in surprise.
“T’ve been trying to cure it for forty years, and have only succeeded in controlling it. I am angry nearly every day of my life, Jo ; but I have learned not to show it ; and I still hope to learn not to feel it, though it may take me another forty years to do so.”
The patience and the humility of the face she loved so well was a better lesson to Jo than the wisest lecture, the sharpest reproof. She felt comforted at once by the sympathy and con- fidence given her ; the knowledge that her mother had a fault like hers, and tried to mend it, made her own easier to bear and strengthened her resolution to cure it ; though forty years seemed rather a long time to watch and pray, to a girl of fifteen.
“ Mother, are you angry when you fold yours lips tight to- gether, and go out of the room sometimes, when Aunt March scolds, or people worry you ?” asked Jo, feeling nearer and dearer to her mother than ever before.
“Yes, I’ve learned to check the hasty words that rise to my
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lips ; and when I feel that they mean to break out against my will, I just go away a minute, and give myself a little shake, for being so weak and wicked,” answered Mrs. March, with a sigh and a smile, as she smoothed and fastened up Jo’s dishevelled hair.
“ How did you learn to keep still? That is what troubles me — for the sharp words fly out before I know what I’m about ; and the more I say the worse I get, till it is 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 any one 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 practise 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 chil- dren was the sweetest reward I could receive for my efforts to be the woman I would have them copy.”
“© mother, if I’m ever half as good as you, I shall be satisfied,” cried Jo, much touched.
“T hope you will be a great deal better, dear ; but you must keep watch over your ‘bosom enemy,’ as father calls it, or it may sadden, if not spoil your life. You have had a warning ; remember it, and try with heart and soul to master this quick temper, before it brings you greater sorrow and regret than you have known to-day.”
“T will try, mother : I truly will. But you must help me,
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remind me, and keep me from flying out. I used to see father sometimes put his fingers on his lips, and look at you with a very kind, but sober face, and you always folded your lips pn or went away : was he reminding you then ?” asked Jo soitly.
“Yes ; I asked him to help me so, and he never forgot it, but saved me from many a sharp word by that little gesture and kind look.”
Jo saw that her mother’s eyes filled and her lips trembled, as she spoke ; and, fearing that she had said too much, she whispered anxiously, “ Was it wrong to watch you, and to speak of it ? I didn’t mean to be rude, but it’s so comfortable to say all I think to you, and feel so safe and happy here.”
“My Jo, you may say anything to your mother, for it is my greatest happiness and pride to feel that my girls confide in me, and know how much I love them.”
“T thought I’d grieved you.”
“No, my dear ; but speaking of father reminded me how much I miss him, how much I owe him, and how faithfully I should watch and work to keep his little daughters safe and good for him.”
“Yet you told him to go, mother, and didn’t cry when he went, and never complain now, or seem as if you needed any help,” said Jo, wondering.
“T 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 begin- ning, and may be many ; but you can overcome and outlive them all if you learn to feel the strength and tenderness of your Heavenly Father as you do that of your earthly one. The more you love and trust Him, the nearer you will feel to Him, and the less you will depend on human power and wisdom. His love and care never tire of change, can never be taken from you, but may become the source of life-long peace, happiness, and strength. Believe this heartily, and go to God with all your little cares, and hopes, and sins, and sorrows, as freely and confidingly as you come to your mother.” ;
Jo’s only answer was to hold her mother close, and, in the silence which followed, the sincerest prayer she had ever prayed left her heart without words « for in that sad, yet happy, hour,
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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 welcomes every child with a love stronger than that of any father, tenderer than that of any mother.
Amy stirred, and sighed in her sleep ; and, as if eager to begin at once to mend her fault, Jo looked up with an expres- sion on her face which it had never worn before.
“T let the sun go down on my anger ; I would n’t forgive her, and to-day, if it hadn’t been for Laurie, it might have been too late! How could I be so wicked ?” said Jo half aloud, as she leaned over her sister, softly stroking the wet hair scattered on the pillow.
As if she heard, Amy opened her eyes, and held out her arms, with a smile that went straight to Jo’s heart. Neither said a word, but they hugged one another close, in spite of the blankets, and everything was forgiven»and forgotten in one hearty kiss.