 Chapter 1 of Good Wives In order that we may start afresh and go to Meg's wedding with free minds, it will be well to begin with a little gossip about the marches. And here let me premise, that if any of the elders think there is too much lovering in this story, as I fear they may, I'm not afraid the young folks will make that objection. I can only say with Mrs. March, what can you expect when I have four gay girls in the house, and a dashing young neighbor over the way? The three years that have passed have brought but few changes to the quiet family. The war is over, and Mr. March, safely at home, busy with his books, and the small parish which found in him a minister by nature as by grace, a quiet, studious man, rich in the wisdom that is better than learning, the charity which calls all mankind brother, the piety that blossoms into character, making it august and lovely. These attributes, in spite of poverty and the strict integrity which shut him out from the more worldly successes, attracted to him many admirable persons, as naturally as sweet herbs draw bees, and as naturally he gave them the honey into which fifty years of hard experience had distilled no bitter drop. Ernest young men found the gray-headed scholar as young at heart as they, thoughtful or troubled women instinctively brought their doubts to him, sure of finding the gentlest sympathy, the wisest counsel. Sinners told their sins to the pure-hearted old man, and were both rebuked and saved. How did men found a companion in him? Ambitious men caught glimpses of nobler ambitions than their own, and even worldlings confessed that his beliefs were beautiful and true, although they wouldn't pay. To outsiders the five energetic women seemed to rule the house, and so they did in many things, but the quiet scholar, sitting among his books, was still the head of the family, the household conscience, anchor, and comforter, for to him the busy, anxious women always turned in troubleous times, finding him in the truest sense of those sacred words, husband and father. The girls gave their hearts into their mother's keeping, their souls into their fathers, and to both parents, who lived and labored so faithfully for them, they gave a love that grew with their growth, and bound them tenderly together by the sweetest tie which blesses life and outlives death. Mrs. March is as brisk and cheery, though rather grayer than when we saw her last, and just now so absorbed in Meg's affairs that the hospitals and homes still full of wounded boys and soldiers' widows decidedly missed the motherly missionaries' visits. John Brook did his duty manfully for a year, got wounded, was sent home, and not allowed to return. He received no stars or bars but he deserved them, for he cheerfully risked all he had, and life and love are very precious when both are in full bloom. He resigned to his discharge, he devoted himself to getting well, preparing for business, and earning a home for Meg. With the good sense and sturdy independence that characterized him, he refused Mr. Lawrence's more generous offers, and accepted the place of bookkeeper, feeling better satisfied to begin with an honestly earned salary than by running any risks with borrowed money. Meg had spent the time in working as well as waiting, growing womanly in character, wise in housewifely arts, and prettier than ever, for love is a great beautifier. She had her girlish ambitions and hopes, and felt some disappointment at the humble way in which the new life must begin. Ned Moffat had just married Sally Gardner, and Meg couldn't help contrasting their fine house and carriage, many gifts, and splendid outfit with her own, and secretly wishing she could have the same. But somehow Envy and discontent soon vanished when she thought of all the patient love and labor John had put into the little home awaiting her, and when they sat together in the twilight, talking over their small plans, the future always grew so beautiful and bright that she forgot Sally's splendor, and felt herself the richest, happiest girl in Christendom. Joe never went back to Aunt March, for the old lady took such a fancy to Amy that she bribed her with the offer of drawing lessons from one of the best teachers going, and for the sake of this advantage Amy would have served a far harder mistress. So she gave her mornings to duty, her afternoons to pleasure, and prospered finally. Joe meantime devoted herself to literature and Beth, who remained delicate long after the fever was a thing of the past. Not an invalid exactly, but never again the rosy, healthy creature she had been, yet always hopeful, happy, and serene, and busy with the quiet duty she loved, everyone's friend, and an angel in the house, long before those who loved her most had learned to know it. As long as the spread eagle paid her a dollar a column for her rubbish, as she called it, Joe felt herself a woman of means, and spun her little romance as diligently. But great plans fermented in her busy brain and ambitious mind, and the old tin kitchen in the garret held a slowly increasing pile of blotted manuscript, which was one day to place the name of March upon the roll of fame. Joey, having dutifully gone to college to please his grandfather, was now getting through it in the easiest possible manner to please himself. A universal favorite, thanks to money, manners, much talent, and the kindest heart that ever got its owner into scrapes by trying to get other people out of them, he stood in great danger of being spoiled, and probably would have been, like many another promising boy. If he had not possessed a talisman against evil, in the memory of the kind old man who was bound up in his success, the motherly friend who watched over him as if he were her son, and last, but not least by any means, the knowledge that four innocent girls loved, admired, and believed in him with all their hearts. Being only a glorious human boy, of course he frolicked and flirted, grew dandified, aquatic, sentimental, or gymnastic, as college fashions ordained, hazed and was hazed, mocked slang, and more than once came perilously near suspension and expulsion, but as high spirits and the love of fun were the causes of these pranks, he always managed to save himself by frank confession, honorable atonement, or the irresistible power of persuasion which he possessed in perfection. In fact he rather prided himself on his narrow escapes, and liked to thrill the girls with graphic accounts of his triumphs over wrathful tutors, dignified professors, and vanquished enemies. The men of my class were heroes in the eyes of the girls, who never wearied of the exploits of our fellows, and were frequently allowed to bask in the smiles of these great creatures when Laurie brought them home with him. Amy especially enjoyed this high honour, and became quite a bell among them, for her ladyship early felt and learned to use the gift of fascination with which she was endowed. Meg was too much absorbed in her private and particular John to care for any other lords of creation, and Beth too shy to do more than peep at them, and wonder how Amy dared to order them about so. But Jo felt quite in her own element, and found it very difficult to refrain from imitating the gentlemanly attitudes, phrases, and feats, which seemed more natural to her than the decorums prescribed for young ladies. They all liked Jo immensely, but never fell in love with her, though very few escaped without paying the tribute of a sentimental sigh or two at Amy's shrine, and speaking of sentiment brings us very naturally to the dovecoat. That was the name of the little brown house Mr. Brooke had prepared for Meg's first home. Laurie had christened it, saying it was highly appropriate to the gentle lovers, who went on together like a pair of turtledoves, with first a bill and then a coup. It was a tiny house, with a little garden behind, and a lawn about as big as a pocket handkerchief in the front. Here Meg meant to have a fountain, shrubbery, and a perfusion of lovely flowers, though just at present the fountain was represented by a weather-beaten urn, very like a dilapidated slop bowl. The shrubbery consisted of several young larches, undecided whether to live or die, and the perfusion of flowers was merely hinted by regiments of sticks to show where seeds were planted. But inside it was altogether charming, and the happy bride saw no fault from Garrett to cellar. To be sure the hall was so narrow it was fortunate that they had no piano, for one never could have been got in whole. The dining-room was so small that six people were a tight fit, and the kitchen stairs seemed built for the express purpose of precipitating both servants and china palmel into the coal-bin. But once get used to these slight blemishes, and nothing could be more complete, for good scents and good taste had presided over the furnishing, and the result was highly satisfactory. There were no marble-top tables, long mirrors, or lace curtains in the little parlor, but simple furniture, plenty of books, a fine picture or two, a stand of flowers in the bay window, and scattered all about, the pretty gifts which came from friendly hands, and were the fairer for the loving messages they brought. I don't think the perian psyche Lory gave lost any of its beauty because John put up the bracket it stood upon, that any upholsterer could have draped the plain muslin curtains more gracefully than Amy's artistic hand, or that any storeroom was ever better provided with good wishes, merry words, and happy hopes than that in which Joe and her mother put away Meg's few boxes, barrels, and bundles, and I am morally certain that the spandy new kitchen never could have looked so cozy and neat if Hannah had not arranged every pot and pan a dozen times over, and laid the fire already for lighting the minute Miss Brooke came home. I also doubt if any young matron ever began life with so rich a supply of dusters, holders, and peace bags, for Beth made enough to last till the silver wedding came round, and invented three different kinds of dishcloths for the express service of the bridal china. People who have all these things done for them never know what they lose, for the homeliest tasks get beautified if loving hands do them, and Meg found so many proofs of this that everything in her small nest, from the kitchen roller to the silver vase on her parlor table, was eloquent of home love and tender forethought. What happy times they had planning together, what solemn shopping excursions, what funny mistakes they made, and what shouts of laughter arose over Laurie's ridiculous bargains. In his love of jokes, this young gentleman, though nearly through college, was as much of a boy as ever. His last whim had been to bring with him on his weekly visits some new, useful, and ingenious article for the young housekeeper. Now a bag of remarkable clothespins, next a wonderful nutmeg grater which fell to pieces at the first trial, a knife cleaner that spoiled all the knives, or a sweeper that picked the nap neatly off the carpet and left the dirt, labor-saving soap that took the skin off one's hands, infallible cements which stuck firmly to nothing but the fingers of the deluded buyer, and every kind of tinware from a toy savings bank for odd pennies to a wonderful boiler which would wash articles in its own steam with every prospect of exploding in the process. In vain Meg begged him to stop. John laughed at him, and Joe called him Mr. Toodles. He was possessed with a mania for patronizing Yankee ingenuity and seeing his friends fitly furnished forth, so each week beheld some fresh absurdity. Everything was done at last, even to Amy's arranging different-colored soaps to match the different-colored rooms, and Beths setting the table for the first meal. Are you satisfied? Does it seem like home, and do you feel as if you should be happy here? asked Mrs. March, as she and her daughter went through the new kingdom arm in arm, for just then they seemed to cling together more tenderly than ever. Yes, mother, perfectly satisfied, thanks to you all, and so happy that I can't talk about it, with a look that was far better than words. If she only had a servant or two it would be all right, said Amy, coming out of the parlor where she had been trying to decide whether the bronze mercury looked best on the what-not or the mantelpiece. Mother and I have talked that over, and I have made up my mind to try her way first. There will be so little to do that with Lottie to run my errands and help me here and there, I shall only have enough work to keep me from getting lazy or homesick, answered Meg tranquilly. Sally Moffat has four, began Amy. If Meg had four the house wouldn't hold them, and Master and Mrs. would have to camp in the garden, broken Joe, who, enveloped in a big blue pinafore, was giving the last polish to the door handles. Sally isn't a poor man's wife, and many maids are in keeping with her fine establishment. Meg and John begin humbly, but I have a feeling that there will be quite as much happiness in the little house as in the big one. It's a great mistake for young girls like Meg to leave themselves nothing to do but dress, give orders, and gossip. When I was first married, I used to long for my new clothes to wear out or get torn, so that I might have the pleasure of mending them, for I got heartily sick of doing fancy work and tending my pocket handkerchief. Why didn't you go into the kitchen and make messes, as Sally says she does to amuse herself, though they never turn out well, and the servants laugh at her, said Meg. I did after a while, not to mess, but to learn of Hannah how things should be done, that my servants need not laugh at me. It was play then, but there came a time when I was truly grateful that I not only possessed the will, but the power to cook wholesome food for my little girls, and help myself when I could no longer afford to hire help. You begin at the other end, Meg, dear, but the lessons you learn now will be of use to you by and by when John is a richer man. For the mistress of a house, however splendid, should know how work ought to be done, if she wishes to be well and honestly served. Yes, mother, I'm sure of that, said Meg, listening respectfully to the little lecture, for the best of women will hold forth upon the all-absorbing subject of housekeeping. Do you know, I like this room most of all in my baby house, added Meg, a minute after, as they went upstairs and she looked into her well-stored linen closet. Beth was there, laying the snowy piles smoothly on the shelves and exulting over the goodly array. All three laughed, as Meg spoke, for that linen closet was a joke. You see, having said that if Meg married that brook she shouldn't have a scent of her money, Aunt March was rather in a quandary when time had appeased her wrath and made her repent her vow. She never broke her word, and was much exercised in her mind how to get round it, and at last devised a plan whereby she could satisfy herself. Mrs. Carroll, Florence's mama, was ordered to buy, have made, and marked a generous supply of house and table linen and send it as her present, all of which was faithfully done, but the secret leaked out and was greatly enjoyed by the family, for Aunt March tried to look utterly unconscious and insisted that she could give nothing but the old-fashioned pearls long promised to the first bride. That's a house-wifely taste which I am glad to see. I had a young friend who set up housekeeping with six sheets, but she had finger bowls for company and that satisfied her, said Mrs. March, patting the damask table cloths with the truly feminine appreciation of their fineness. I haven't a single finger bowl, but this is a set-out that will last me all my days, Hannah says, and Meg looked quite contented as well she might. A tall, broad-shouldered young fellow with a cropped head, a felt basin of a hat, and a fly-away coat came tramping down the road at a great pace, walked over the low fence without stopping to open the gate, straight up to Mrs. March, with both hands out, and a hearty, here I am, mother, yes, it's all right. The last words were an answer to the look the elder lady gave him, a kindly, questioning look which the handsome eyes met so frankly that the little ceremony closed, as usual, with a motherly kiss. For Mrs. John Brooke, with the makers' congratulations and compliments, bless you, Beth, what a refreshing spectacle you are, Joe. Amy, you are getting altogether too handsome for a single lady. As Laurie spoke, he delivered a brown paper parcel to Meg. Pulled Beth's hair ribbon, stared at Joe's bib pinnifor, and fell into an attitude of mock rapture before Amy, then shook hands all round, and everyone began to talk. Where is John? asked Meg anxiously, stopped to get the license for tomorrow, ma'am. Which side won the last match, Teddy? inquired Joe, who persisted in feeling an interest in manly sports, despite her nineteen years. Ours, of course, wish you'd been there to see. How is the lovely Miss Randall? asked Amy with a significant smile. More cruel than ever, don't you see how I'm pining away? And Laurie gave his broad chest a sounding slap, and heaved a melodramatic sigh. What's the last joke? Under the bundle in C. Meg, said Beth, eyeing the knobby parcel with curiosity. It's a useful thing to have in the house in case of fire or thieves, observed Laurie, as a watchman's rattle appeared amid the laughter of the girls. Any time when John is away and you get frightened, Mrs. Meg, just swing that out of the front window, and it will rouse the neighborhood in a jiffy. Nice thing, isn't it? And Laurie gave them a sample of its powers that made them cover up their ears. There's gratitude for you. And speaking of gratitude reminds me to mention that you may thank Hannah for saving your wedding cake from destruction. I saw it going into your house as I came by, and if she hadn't defended it manfully I'd have had a pick at it, for it looked like a remarkably plummy one. I wonder if you will ever grow up, Laurie, said Meg, in a matronly tone. I'm doing my best, ma'am, but can't get much higher, I'm afraid, as six feet is about all men can do in these degenerate days, responded the young gentleman, whose head was about level with the little chandelier. I suppose it would be profanation to eat anything in this spick-and-span bower, so as I'm tremendously hungry, I propose an adjournment, he added presently. Mother and I are going to wait for John. There are some last things to settle, said Meg, bustling Beth and I are going over to Kitty Bryant's to get more flowers for tomorrow, added Amy, tying a picturesque hat over her picturesque curls, and enjoying the effect as much as anybody. Come, Joe, don't desert a fellow. I'm in such a state of exhaustion I can't get home without help. Don't take off your apron whatever you do. It's peculiarly becoming, said Laurie, as Joe bestowed his especial aversion in her capacious pocket, and offered her arm to support his feeble steps. Now, Teddy, I want to talk seriously to you about tomorrow, began Joe, as they strolled away together. You must promise to behave well, and not cut up any pranks and spoil our plans. Not a prank. And don't say funny things when we ought to be sober. I never do. You are the one for that. And I implore you not to look at me during the ceremony. I shall certainly laugh if you do. You won't see me. You'll be crying so hard that the thick fog round you will obscure the prospect. I never cry unless for some great affliction. Such as fellows going to college, hey, cut in Laurie with a suggestive laugh. Don't be a peacock. I only moaned a trifle to keep the girl's company. Exactly. I say, Joe, how was Grandpa this week? Pretty amiable? Very. Why, have you got into a scrape and want to know how he'll take it, asked Joe rather sharply? Now, Joe, do you think I'd look your mother in the face and say all right if it wasn't? And Laurie stopped short with an injured air. No, I don't. Then don't go and be suspicious. I only want some money, said Laurie, walking on again, appeased by her hearty tone. You spend a great deal, Teddy. Bless you, I don't spend it. It spends itself somehow, and is gone before I know it. You are so generous and kind-hearted that you let people borrow, and can't say no to anyone. We heard about Henshaw and all you did for him. If you always spent money in that way, no one would blame you, said Joe warmly. Oh, he made a mountain out of a molehill. You wouldn't have me let that fine fellow work himself to death just for want of a little help, when he is worth a dozen of us lazy chaps, would you? Of course not. But I don't see the use of your having seventeen waistcoats, endless neckties, and a new hat every time you come home. I thought you'd got over the dandy period, but every now and then it breaks out in a new spot. Just now it's the fashion to be hideous, to make your head look like a scrubbing brush, wear a straight jacket, orange gloves, and clumping square-toed boots. If it was cheap ugliness I'd say nothing, but it costs as much as the other and I don't get any satisfaction out of it. Lori threw back his head, and lapped so heartily at this attack that the felt hat fell off, and Joe walked on it, which insult only afforded him an opportunity for expatiating on the advantages of a rough and ready costume, as he folded up the maltreated hat, and stuffed it into his pocket. Don't lecture any more there's a good soul. I have enough all through the week and like to enjoy myself when I come home. I'll get myself up regardless of expense to-morrow and be a satisfaction to my friends. I'll leave you in peace if you'll only let your hair grow. I'm not aristocratic, but I do object to being seen with a person who looks like a young prize-fighter, observed Joe severely. This unassuming style promotes study, that's why we adopt it, returned Lori, who certainly could not be accused of vanity, having voluntarily sacrificed a handsome curly crop to the demand for quarter-inch-long stubble. By the way, Joe, I think that little Parker is really getting desperate about Amy. He talks of her constantly, writes poetry, and moons about in a most suspicious manner. He'd better nip his little passion in the bud, hadn't he? added Lori, in a confidential elder brotherly tone, after a minute silence. Of course he had. We don't want any more marrying in this family for years to come. Mercy on us! What are the children thinking of? And Joe looked as much scandalized as if Amy and little Parker were not yet in their teens. It's a fast age, and I don't know what we are coming to, ma'am. You are a mere infant, but you'll go next, Joe, and we'll be left lamenting, said Lori, shaking his head over the degeneracy of the times. Don't be alarmed. I'm not one of the agreeable sort. Nobody will want me, and it's a mercy, for there should always be one old maid in a family. You won't give anyone a chance, said Lori, with a side-long glance and a little more color than before in his sunburned face. You won't show the soft side of your character, and if the fellow gets a peep at it by accident and can't help showing that he likes it, you treat him as Mrs. Gummidge did her sweetheart, throw cold water over him, and get so thorning no one dares touch or look at you. I don't like that sort of thing. I'm too busy to be worried with nonsense, and I think it's dreadful to break up family so. Now, don't say any more about it. Meg's wedding has turned all our heads, and we talk of nothing but lovers in such absurdities. I don't wish to get cross, so let's change the subject. And Joe looked quite ready to fling cold water on the slightest provocation. Whatever his feelings might have been, Lori found a vent for them in a long, low whistle and the fearful prediction as they parted at the gate. Mark my words, Joe. You'll go next. CHAPTER II The first wedding. The June roses over the port were awake bright and early on that morning, rejoicing with all their hearts in the cloudless sunshine, like friendly little neighbours as they were. Quite flush with excitement were their ruddy faces, as they swung in the wind, whispering to one another what they had seen. For some peeped in at the dining-room windows, where the feast was spread. Some climbed up to gnawed and smiled at the sisters as they dressed the bride. Others waved a welcome to those who came and went on various errands in garden, porch and hall, and all from the rosiest full-bloomed flower to the palest baby-bud offered their tribute of beauty and fragrance to the gentle mistress who had loved and tended them so long. Meg looked very like a rose herself. For all that was best and sweetest in heart and soul seemed to bloom into her face that day, making it fair and tender, with a charm more beautiful than beauty. Neither silk lace nor orange flowers would she have. I don't want to look strange or fixed up to-day," she said. I don't want a fashionable wedding, but only those about me whom I love, and to them I wish to look and be my familiar self. So she made her wedding gown herself, sewing into it the tender hopes and innocent romances of a girlish heart. Her sisters braided up her pretty hair, and the only ornaments she wore were the lilies of the valley, which her John liked best of all the flowers that grew. You do look just like our own dear Meg, only so very sweet and lovely that I should hug you if it wouldn't crumple your dress," cried Amy, surveying her with delight when all was done. Then I am satisfied, but please hug and kiss me everyone, and don't mind my dress. I want a great many crumples of this sort put into it today, and Meg opened her arms to her sisters, who clung about her with April faces for a minute, feeling that the new love had not changed the old. Now I am going to tie John's cravat for him, and then to stay a few minutes with father quietly in the study, and Meg ran down to perform these little ceremonies, and then to follow her mother wherever she went, conscious that in spite of the smiles on the motherly face there was a secret sorrow hid in the motherly heart at the flight of the first bird from the nest. As the younger girls stand together, giving the last touches to their simple toilet, it may be a good time to tell of a few changes which three years have wrought in their appearance, for all are looking their best just now. Jo's angles are much softened. She has learned to carry herself with ease, if not grace. The curly crop has lengthened into a thick coil, more becoming to the small head atop of the tall figure. There is a fresh colour in her brown cheeks, a soft shine in her eyes, and only gentle words fall from her sharp tongue today. Beth has grown slender, pale, and more quiet than ever. The beautiful kind eyes are larger, and in them lies an expression that saddens one, although it is not sad itself. It is the shadow of pain which touches the young face with such pathetic patience. But Beth seldom complains and always speaks hopefully of being better soon. Amy is with truth considered the flower of the family, for at sixteen she has the air and bearing of a full-grown woman, not beautiful, but possessed of that indescribable charm called grace. One saw it in the lines of her figure, the make and motion of her hands, the flow of her dress, the droop of her hair, unconscious yet harmonious, and as attractive to many as beauty itself. Amy's nose still afflicted her, for it never would grow Grecian, so did her mouth being too wide and having a decided chin. These offending features gave character to her whole face, but she could never see it and consult herself with her wonderfully fair complexion, keen blue eyes and curls, more golden and abundant than ever. All three wore suits of thin silver grey, their best gowns for the summer, with blush roses in hair and bosom, and all three looked just what they were, fresh-faced, happy-hearted girls, pausing a moment in their busy lives to read with wistful eyes the sweetest chapter in the romance of womanhood. There were to be no ceremonious performances, everything was to be as natural and home-like as possible. So when Aunt March arrived, she was scandalised to see the bride come running to welcome and lead her in, to find the bridegroom fastening up a garland that had fallen down, and to catch a glimpse of the paternal minister marching upstairs with a grave countenance and a wine-bottle under each arm. Upon my word, here's a state of things! cried the old lady, taking the seat of honour prepared for her and settling the folds of her lavender moire with a great rustle. You oughtn't be seen till the last minute, child! I'm not a show, auntie, and no one is coming to stare at me, to criticise my dress, or to count the cost of my luncheon. I'm too happy to care what any one says or thinks, and I'm going to have my little wedding just as I like it. John, dear, here's your hammer, and a way went meg to help that man in his highly improper employment. Mr. Brook didn't even say thank you. But as he stopped for the unromantic tool, he kissed his little bride behind the folding door, with a look that made Aunt March whisk out her pocket-handkerchief with a sudden dew in her sharp, old eyes. A crash, a cry, and a laugh from Laurie, accompanied by the indecorous exclamation, Jupiter, come on! Joe's upset the cake again! caused a momentous flurry, which was hardly over when a flock of cousins arrived, and the party came in, as Beth used to say when a child. Don't let that young giant come near me! He worries me worse than mosquitoes! whispered the old lady to Amy, as the rooms filled, and Laurie's black-head towered above the rest. He has promised to be very good to-day, and he can be perfectly elegant if he likes, returned Amy, gliding away to warn Hercules to beware of the dragon, which warning caused him to haunt the old lady with the devotion that nearly distracted her. There was no bridal possession, but a sudden silence fell upon the room as Mr. March and the young pair took their places under the green arch. Mother and sisters gathered close, as if loathed to give Meg up. The fatherly voice broke more than once, which only seemed to make the service more beautiful and solemn. The bridegroom's hand trembled visibly, and no one heard his replies. But Meg looked straight up into her husband's eyes and said, I will, with such tender trust in her own face and voice, that her mother's heart rejoiced, and Aunt March sniffed audibly. Joe did not cry, though she was very near at once, and was only saved from a demonstration by the consciousness that Laurie was staring fixedly at her, with a comical mixture of merriment and emotion in his wicked black eyes. Beth kept her face hidden on her mother's shoulder, but Amy stood like a graceful statue, with a most becoming ray of sunshine touching her white forehead and the flower in her hair. It wasn't at all the thing, I'm afraid, but the minute she was fairly married, Meg cried the first kiss for Mommy, and turning gave it with her heart on her lips. During the next fifteen minutes she looked more like a rose than ever, for every one availed themselves of their privileges to the fullest extent, from Mr. Lawrence to Old Hannah, who adorned with a headdress fearfully and wonderfully made, fell upon her in the hall, crying with sob and a chuckle, bless you, dearie, a hundred times, the cake ain't hurt, a mite, and everything looks lovely. Everybody cleared up after that, and said something brilliant, or tried to, which did just as well, for laughter is ready when hearts are light. There was no display of gifts, for they were already in the little house, nor was there an elaborate breakfast, but a plentiful lunch of cake and fruit dressed with flowers. Mr. Lawrence, an Aunt March, shrugged and smiled at one another when water, lemonade, and coffee were found to be the only sorts of nectar which the three hewis carried around. No one said anything, however, till Laurie, who insisted on serving the bride, appeared before her with a loaded salver in his hand, and a puzzled expression on his face. As Joe smashed all the bottles by accident, he whispered, where am I merely laboring under a delusion that I saw some lying about loose this morning? No, your grandfather kindly offered us his best, and Aunt March actually sent some, but father put away a little for Beth and dispatched the rest to the soldier's home. You know he thinks that wine should be used only in illness, and mother says that neither she nor her daughters will ever offer it to any young man under her roof. Meg spoke seriously, and expected to see Laurie frown or laugh, but he did neither, for after a quick look at her he said in his impetuous way, I like that, for I have seen enough harm done to wish other women would think as you do. You are not made wise by experience, I hope? And there was an anxious accent in Meg's voice. No, I give you my word for it. Don't think too well of me either. This is not one of my temptations. Being brought up where wine is as common as water, and almost as harmless. I don't care for it, but when a pretty girl offers it, one doesn't like to refuse, you see. But you will for the sake of others, if not for your own. Come, Laurie, promise, and give me one more reason to call this the happiest day of my life. And Amand so sudden, and so serious, made the young man hesitate a moment. For ridicule is often harder to bear than self-denial. Meg knew that if he gave the promise he would keep it at all costs, and feeling her power used it as a woman may for her friend's good. She did not speak, but she looked up at him with a face made very eloquent by happiness, and a smile which said, No one can refuse me anything today. Laurie certainly could not, and with an answering smile he gave her his hand, saying heartily, I promise, Mrs. Brook, I thank you very, very much. And I drink long life to your resolution, Teddy, cried Joe, baptising him with a splash of lemonade, as she waved her glass and beamed approvingly upon him. So the toast was drunk, the pledge made, and loyally kept, in spite of many temptations. For with instinctive wisdom the girls had seized a happy moment to do their friend a service, for which he thanked them all his life. After lunch people strolled about by twos and threes through house and garden, enjoying the sunshine without and within. Meg and John happened to be standing together in the middle of the glass plot, when Laurie seized with an inspiration which put the finishing touch to this unfashionable wedding. All the married people take hands and dance round the new-made husband and wife. As the Germans do, while we bachelors and spinsters prancing couples outside, cried Laurie, promenading down the path with Amy, with such infectious spirit and skill that everyone else followed their example without a murmur. Mr. and Mrs. March, Aunt and Uncle Carol began it, others rapidly joining in, even Sally Moffat, after a moment's hesitation, threw her train over her arm and whisked Ned into the ring. But the crowning joke was Mr. Lawrence and Aunt March, for when the stately old gentleman jessayed solemnly up to the old lady, she just tucked her cane under her arm and hopped briskly away to join hands with the rest and dance about the bridal pair, while the young votes pervaded the garden like butterflies on a mid-summer day. Once a breath brought the impromptu ball to a close, and then people began to go. I wish you well, my dear. I hardly wish you well, but I think you'll be sorry for it, said Aunt March to Meg, adding to the bridegroom, as he led her to the carriage. You've got a treasure, young men, see you deserve it. That was the prettiest wedding I've been to for ages, Ned, and I don't see why, for there wasn't a bit of style about it," observed Mrs. Moffat to her husband as they drove away. Lorry, my lad, if you ever want to indulge in this sort of thing, get one of those little girls to help you, and I shall be perfectly satisfied, said Mr. Lawrence, settling himself into his easy chair to rest after the excitement of the morning. I'll do my best to gratify you, sir," was Lorry's unusually dutiful reply, as he carefully unpinned to the pose he Josie had put into his buttonhole. The little house was not far away, and the only bridal journey Meg had was the quiet walk with John from the old home to the new. When she came down, looking like a pretty quakeress in her dove-coloured suit and straw bonnet tied with white, as they all gathered about her to say good-bye, as tenderly as if she had been going to make the grand tour. Don't feel that I'm separated from you, mami dear, or that I love you any less for loving John so much, she said, clinging to her mother with full eyes for a moment. I shall come every day, father, and expect to keep my old place in all your hearts, though I am married. Beth is going to be with me a great deal, and the other girls will drop in now and then to laugh at my housekeeping struggles. Thank you all for my happy wedding day. Good-bye, good-bye! They stood watching her, with faces full of love and hope and tender pride, as she walked away, leaning on her husband's arm, with her hands full of flowers, and the dune sunshine brightening her happy face, and so Meg's married life began. End of Chapter 2 Read by Martina Sydney, Australia Good-wives, Chapter 3 This is a LibraVox recording. All LibraVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibraVox.org. Good-wives by Louisa May Alcott, Chapter 3 Artistic Attempts It takes people a long time to learn the difference between talent and genius, especially ambitious young men and women. Amy was learning this distinction through much tribulation. For a mistaking enthusiasm for inspiration, she attempted every branch of art with youthful audacity. For a long time there was a lull in the mud pie business, and she devoted herself to the finest pen and ink drawing, in which she showed such taste and skill that her graceful handiwork proved both pleasant and profitable. But over-strained eyes soon caused pen and ink to be laid aside for a bold attempt at poker-sketching. While this attack lasted, the family lived in constant fear of a conflagration. For the odor of burning wood pervaded the house at all hours, smoke issued from attic and shed with alarming frequency, red hot pokers lay about promiscuously, and Hannah never went to bed without a pall of water and the dinner-bell at her door in case of fire. Raphael's face was found boldly executed on the underside of the moulding-board, and back here is on the head of a beer-barrel. A chanting cherub adorned the cover of the sugar-bucket, and attempts to portray Romeo and Juliet supplied kindlings for some time. From fire to oil was a natural transition for burnt fingers, and Amy fell to painting with undiminished ardour. An artist's friend fitted her out with his cast-off palettes, brushes and colours, and she dobbed away producing pastoral and marine views such as were never seen on land or sea. Her monstrosities in the way of cattle would have taken prizes at an agricultural fair, and the perilous pitching of her vessels would have produced sea sickness in the most nautical observer, if the utter disregard to all known rules of shipbuilding and rigging had not convulsed him with laughter at the first glance. Swathe boys and dark-eyed Madonna's staring at you from one corner of the studio suggested Marillo, oily brown shadows of faces with a lurid streak in the wrong place, meant Rembrandt, boxed some ladies in drusical infants, Rubens, and Turner appeared in tempests of blue thunder, orange lightning, brown rain and purple clouds, with a tomato-coloured splash in the middle, which might be the sun or a boy or a sailor's shirt or a king's robe, as the spectator pleased. Chalcol portraits came next, and the entire family hung in a row, looking as wild and crocky as if just evoked from a coal bin. Suffered into crayon sketches they did better, for the likenesses were good, and Amy's hair, Joe's nose, Meg's mouth and Laurie's eyes were pronounced wonderfully fine. A return to clay and plaster followed, and ghostly casts of her acquaintances haunted corners of the house or tumbled off closet shelves onto people's heads. Children were enticed in as models, till their incoherent accounts of her mysterious doings caused Miss Amy to be regarded in the light of a young ogreess. Her efforts in this line, however, were brought to an abrupt close by an untoward accident which quenched her ardour. Other models failing her for a time, she undertook to cast her own pretty foot, and the family were one day alarmed by an unearthly bumping and screaming and running to the rescue, found the youngest enthusiast hopping wildly about the shed, with her foot fast in a pan full of plaster, which had hardened with unexpected rapidity. With much difficulty in some danger she was dug out, for Joe was so overcome with laughter, while she excavated that her knife went too far, cut the poor foot, and left a lasting memorial of one artistic attempt at least. After this Amy subsided, till a mania for sketching from nature set her to haunting river, field, and wood for picturesque studies, and sighing for ruins to copy. She caught endless colds sitting on damp grass to book a delicious bit, composed of a stone, a stump, one mushroom, and a broken mullin stalk, or a heavenly mass of clouds that looked like a choice display of featherbeds when done. She sacrificed her complexion floating on the river in the midsummer sun to study light and shade, and got a wrinkle over her nose trying after points of sight, or whatever the squint and string performance is called. If genius is eternal patience, as Michelangelo affirms, Amy certainly had some claim to the divine attribute, for she persevered in spite of all obstacles, failures, and discouragements, firmly believing that in time she would do something worthy to be called high art. She was learning, doing, and enjoying other things, meanwhile, for she had resolved to be an attractive and accomplished woman, even if she never became a great artist. Here she succeeded better, for she was one of those happily created beings who pleased without effort, make friends everywhere, and take life so gracefully and easily that less fortunate souls attempted to believe that such a born under a lucky star. Everybody liked her, for among her good gifts was tacked. She had an instinctive sense of what was pleasing and proper, always said the right thing to the right person, did just what suited the time and place, and was so self-possessed that her sisters used to say, if Amy went to court without any rehearsal beforehand, she'd know exactly what to do. One of her weaknesses was a desire to move in our best society, without being quite sure what the best really was. Money, position, fashionable accomplishments, and elegant manners were most desirable things in her eyes, and she liked to associate with those who possessed them, often mistaking the false for the true, and admiring what was not admirable. Never forgetting that by birth she was a gentleman, she cultivated her aristocratic tastes and feelings, so that when the opportunity came she might be ready to take the place from which poverty now excluded her. My lady, as her friends called her, sincerely desired to be a genuine lady, and so was at heart, but had yet to learn that money cannot buy refinement of nature, that rank does not always confer nobility, and that true breeding makes itself felt in spite of eternal drawbacks. I want to ask a favour of you, Mama, Amy said, coming in with an important day one day. Well, little girl, what is it? replied her mother, in whose eyes the stately young lady still remained the baby. Our drawing class breaks up next week, and before the girls separate for the summer I want to ask them out here for a day. They are wild to see the river, sketch the broken bridge, and copy some of the things they admire in my books. They have been very kind to me in many ways, and I am grateful, for they are all rich, and know I am poor, for they never made any difference. Why should they? And Mrs. March put the question, with what the girls called her Maria Teresa Eyre. You know as well as I that it does make a difference with nearly everyone, so don't ruffle up like a dear motherly hen when your chickens get pecked by smarter birds. The ugly duckling turned out a swan, you know. And Amy smiled without bitterness, for she possessed a happy temper and hopeful spirit. Mrs. March laughed, and smoothed down her maternal pride as she asked. Well, my swan, what is your plan? I should like to ask the girls out to lunch next week, and take them a drive to the places they want to see, a row on the river, perhaps, and make a little artistic feed for them. That looks feasible. What do you want for lunch? Cake, sandwiches, fruit, and coffee will be all that is necessary, I suppose. Oh dear, no! We must have cold tongue and chicken, French chocolate and ice cream besides. The girls are used to such things, and I want my lunch to be proper and elegant, though I do work for my living. How many young ladies are there? asked her mother, beginning to look sober. Twelve to fourteen in the class, but a dare say they won't all come. Bless me, child, you'll have to charter an omnibus to carry them about. Why, mother, how can you think of such a thing? No more than six or eight will probably come. So I'll hire a beach-wagon and borrow Mr. Lawrence's cherry-bounce, Hannah's pronunciation of chadrabunk. All this will be very expensive, Amy. Not very. I've calculated the cost, and I'll pay for it myself. Don't you think, dear, that as these girls are used to such things, and the best we can do will be nothing new? That some simpler panning will be pleasanter to them, as a change, if nothing more, and much better for us than buying or borrowing what we don't need, and attempting to style not in keeping with our circumstances? If I can't have it as I like, I don't care to have it at all. I know that I can carry it out perfectly well, if you and the girls will help a little, and I don't see why I can't if I'm willing to pay for it," said Amy, with the decision that opposition was apt to change into obstinacy. Mrs. March knew that experience was an excellent teacher, and when it was possible, she left her children to learn alone the lessons which she would gladly have made easier, if they had not objected to taking advice as much as they did salt and sinner. Very well, Amy, if your heart has set upon it, and you see your way through without too great an outlay of money, time, and temper, I'll say no more, talk it over with the girls, and whichever way you decide, I'll do my best to help you. Thanks, mother, you are always so kind, and away with Amy to lay her plan before her sisters. Meg agreed at once, and promised her aid gladly offering anything she possessed from her little house itself to her very best salt spoons. But Joe frowned upon the whole project and would have nothing to do with it at first. Why in the world should you spend your money, worry your family, and turn the house upside down for a parcel of girls who don't care a six pence for you? I thought you had too much pride and sense to chuckle to any mortal woman, just because she wears French boots and rides in a coupé, said Joe, who being called from the tragical climax of her novel was not in the best mood for social enterprises. I don't chuckle, and I hate being patronised as much as you do, returned Amy indignantly, for the two still jangled when such questions arose. The girls too care for me and I for them, and there's a great deal of kindness and sense and talent among them, in spite of what you call fashionable nonsense. You don't care to make people like you to go into good society and cultivate your manners and tastes? I do, and I meant to make the most of every chance that comes. You can go through the world with your elbows out in your nose in the air and call it independence, if you like. That's not my way. When Amy wetted her tongue and freed her mind, she usually got the best of it, for she seldom failed to have common sense on her side, while Joe carried her love of liberty and hate of conventionalities to such an unlimited extent that she naturally found herself worsted in an argument. Amy's definition of Joe's idea of independence was such a good hit that both burst out laughing, and the discussion took a more amiable turn. Much against her will, Joe at length consented to sacrifice a day to Mrs. Grundy and help her sister through what she regarded as a nonsensical business. The invitations were sent, nearly all accepted, and the following Monday was set apart for the grand event. Hannah was out of humour because her week's work was deranged, and prophesied that, if no wash and an iron and wine done regular, nothing would go well anywhere else. This hitch in the main spring of the domestic machinery had a bad effect upon the whole concern. But Amy's motto was, nil desperandom, and having made up her mind what to do, she proceeded to do it in spite of all obstacles. To begin with, Hannah's cooking didn't turn out well, the chicken was tough, the tongue too salt, and the chocolate wouldn't froth properly. Then the cake and ice cost more than Amy expected, so did the wagon and various other expenses which seemed trifling at the outset, counted up rather alarmingly afterwards. Beth got cold and took to her bed. Meg had an unusual number of callers to keep her at home, and Joe was in such a divided state of mind that her breakages, accidents, and mistakes were uncommonly numerous, serious, and trying. If it hadn't been for mother I should never have got through, as Amy declared afterward, and gratefully remembered when the best joke of the season was entirely forgotten by everybody else. If it was not fair on Monday the young ladies were to come on Tuesday, an arrangement which aggravated Joe and Hannah to the last degree. On Monday morning the weather was in that undecided state which is more exasperating than a steady pour. It drizzled a little, shone a little, blew a little, and didn't make up its mind till it was too late for anyone else to make up theirs. Amy was up at dawn, hustling people out of their beds and through their breakfasts that the house might be got in order. The parlour struck her as looking uncommonly shabby, but without stopping to sigh for what she had not, she skillfully made the best of what she had, arranging chairs over the worn places in the carpet, covering stains on the walls with pictures framed in ivy, and filling up empty corners with homemade statutory, which gave an artistic air to the room, as did the lovely vases of flowers Joe scattered about. The lunch looked charmingly, and as she surveyed it she sincerely hoped it would taste well, and that the borrowed glass, china, and silver would get safely home again. The carriages were promised, Meg and Mother were all ready to do the honours, Beth was able to help Hannah behind the scenes. Joe had engaged to be as lively and amiable as an absent mind, an aching head, and a very decided disapproval of everybody everything would allow. And as she wearily dressed, Amy cheered herself with anticipations of the happy moment when, lunch safely over, she should drive away with her friends for an afternoon of artistic delights, for the cherry-bounce and the broken bridge were her strong points. Then came two hours of suspense, during which she vibrated from parlour to port, while public opinion varied like the weather-cock. A smart shower at eleven had evidently quenched the enthusiasm of the young ladies, who were to arrive at twelve, for nobody came. And at two the exhausted family sat down in a blaze of sunshine, to consume the perishable portions of the feast that nothing might be lost. No doubt about the weather to-day, they will certainly come, so we must fly around and be ready for them, said Amy, as the sun woke her next morning. She spoke briskly, but in her secret soul she wished she said nothing about Tuesday, for her interest, like her cake, was getting a little stale. I can't get any lobster, so you'll have to do without salad to-day, said Mr. March, coming in half an hour later with an expression of placid despair. Use the chicken, then. The toughness won't matter in the salad, advised his wife. Hannah left it on the kitchen table a minute, and the kethins got at it. I'm very sorry, Amy, added Beth, who was still a patroness of cats. Then I must have a lobster, for tongue alone won't do, said Amy decidedly. Shall I rush into town and demand one? asked Joe with magnanimity of a martyr. You'd come bring it and home under your arm without any paper, just to try me. I'll go myself, answered Amy, whose temper was beginning to fail. Shrouded in a thick veil, and armed with a gentile travelling basket, she departed, feeling that a cool drive would soothe her ruffled spirit and fit her for the labours of the day. After some delay the object of her desire was procured, likewise a bottle of dressing, to prevent further loss of time at home, and off she drove again, well pleased with her own forethought. As the omnibus contained only one other passenger, a sleepy old lady, Amy pocketed her veil and beguiled the tedium of the way by trying to find out where all her money had gone to. So busy was she with her card full of refractory figures, that she did not observe a newcomer who entered without stopping the vehicle, till a masculine voice said, Good morning, Miss March. And, looking up, she beheld one of Laurie's most elegant college friends. Fervently hoping that he would get out before she did, Amy utterly ignored the basket her defeat, and congratulating herself that she had on her travelling dress returned the young man's greeting with her usual swabity and spirit. They got on excellently, for Amy's chief care was soon set to rest by learning that the gentleman would leave first, and she was chatting away in a peculiarly lofty strain when the old lady got out. And, stumbling to the door, she upset the basket, and O horror, the lobster, in all its vulgar size and brilliancy was revealed to the high-born eyes of a Tudor. By Jove she's forgotten her dinner cried the unconscious youth poking the scarlet monster into its place with his cane, and preparing to hand out the basket after the old lady. Please don't—it's—it's wine! murmured Amy, with a face nearly as red as her fish. Oh, really, I beg pardon, it's an uncommonly fine one, isn't it? said Tudor, with great presence of mind and an air of sober interest that did credit to his breeding. Amy recovered herself in a breath, set her basket boldly on the seat, and said, laughing, Don't you wish you were to have some of the salad he's to make, and to see the charming young ladies who are to eat it? Now that was tacked, for two of the ruling foibles of the masculine mind were touched. The lobster was instantly surrounded by a halo of pleasing reminiscences, and curiosity about the charming young ladies diverted his mind from the comical mishap. I suppose he'll laugh and joke over it with lorry, but I shan't see them, that's a comfort, thought Amy, as Tudor bowed and departed. She did not mention this meeting at home, though she discovered that thanks to the upset her new dress was much damaged by the rivulets of dressing that meandered down the skirt. But went through with the preparations which now seemed more irksome than before, and at twelve o'clock all was ready again. Feeling that the neighbours were interested in her movements, she wished to efface the memory of yesterday's failure by a grand success today, so she ordered the cherry-bounce and drove away in state to meet and escort her guests to the banquet. There's the rumble, they're coming, I'll go into the porch to meet them. It looks hospitable, and I want the poor child to have a good time after all her trouble, said Mrs. March, suiting the action to the word. But after one glance she retired with an indescribable expression, for, looking quite lost in the big carriage sat Amy and one young lady. Run, Beth, and help Hannah clear half the things off the table. It will be too absurd to put a lunch in for twelve before a single girl. Cry Joe, hurrying away into the lower regions too excited to stop even for a laugh. In came Amy quite calm and delightfully cordial to the one guest who had kept her promise. The rest of the family, being of a dramatic turn, played their parts equally well, and Miss Elliot found them a most hilarious set, for it was impossible to entirely control the merriment which possessed them. The remodeled lunch, being gaily partaken of, the studio and garden visited, and art discussed with enthusiasm. Amy ordered a buggy, alas for the elegant cherry-bounce, and drove her friend quietly about the neighbourhood till sunset when the party went out. As she came walking in looking very tired, but as composed as ever she observed that every vestige of the unfortunate fate had disappeared except a suspicious pucker about the corners of Joe's mouth. You've had a lovely afternoon for your drive, dear, said her mother as respectfully as if the whole twelve had come. Miss Elliot is a very sweet girl, and seemed to enjoy herself, I thought, observed Beth, with unusual warmth. Could you spare me some of your cake? I really need some. I have so much company, and I can't make such delicious stuff as yours, asked Meg soberly. Take it all, I'm the only one here who likes sweet things, and it will mould before I can dispose of it, answered Amy, thinking with a sigh of the generous store she had laid in for such an end as this. It's a pity Laurie isn't here to help us, began Joe, as they sat down to ice cream and salad for the second time in two days. A warning look from her mother checked any further remarks, and the whole family ate in heroic silence till Mr. March mildly observed. Salad was one of the favourite dishes of the ancients, and Evelyn. Here a general explosion of laughter cut short the history of salads to the great surprise of the learned gentleman. Bundle everything into a basket, and send it to the Hummels, Germans-like messes. I'm sick of the sight of this, and there's no reason why you should all die of a surfeit because I've been a fool, cried Amy, wiping her eyes. I thought I should have died when I saw you two girls rattling about in what you call it, like two kernels in a very big nutshell, and mother waiting in a state to receive the throng, sighed Joe, quite spent with laughter. I'm very sorry you were disappointed, dear, but we all did our best to satisfy you, said Mrs. March, in a tone full of motherly regret. I am satisfied. I've done what I undertook, and it's not my fault that it failed. I comfort myself with that, said Amy, with a little quiver in her voice. I thank you all very much for helping me, and I'll thank you still more if you won't allude to it for a month at least. No one did for several months, but the word fate always produced the general smile, and Laurie's birthday gift to Amy was a tiny coral lobster in the shape of a charm for her watchguard. End of Chapter 3, read by Martina, Sydney, Australia. Good Wives by Louisa May Alcott, Chapter 4 Literary Lessons Fortune suddenly smiled upon Joe, and dropped a good luck penny in her path. Not a golden penny exactly, but I doubt if half a million would have given more real happiness than did the little sump that came to her in this wise. Every few weeks she would shut herself up in her room, put on her scribbling suit, and fall into a vortex, as she expressed it, writing way at her novel with all her heart and soul. For till that was finished she could find no peace. Her scribbling suit consisted of a black woollen pinafore on which she could wipe her pen at will, and a cap of the same material, adorned with a cheerful red bow, into which she bundled her hair when the decks were cleared for action. This cap was a beacon to the inquiring eyes of her family, who during these periods kept their distance, merely popping in their head semi-occasionally, to ask with interest, does genius burn, Joe? They did not always venture even to ask this question, but took an observation of the cap, and judged accordingly. If this expressive article of dress was drawn low upon the forehead, it was a sign that hard work was going on. In exciting moments it was pushed rashly askew, and when despair seized the author it was plucked wholly off and cast upon the floor, at such times he intruded silently with Drew. And not until the red bow was seen gaily erect upon the gifted brow did any one dare address Joe. She did not think herself a genius by any means, but when the writing fit came on, she gave herself up to it with entire abandon, and led a blissful life unconscious of want, care, or bad weather, while she sat safe and happy in an imaginary world, full of friends almost as real and dear to her as any in the flesh. Sleep for sook her eyes, meals stood untasted, day and night were all too short to enjoy the happiness which blessed her only at such times, and made these hours worth living, even if they bore no other fruit. The divine aphalatus usually lasted a week or two, and then she emerged from her vortex hungry, sleepy cross, or despondent. She was just recovering from one of these attacks, when she was prevailed upon to escort Miss Crocker to a lecture, and in return for her virtue was rewarded with a new idea. It was a people's course, the lecture on the pyramids, and Joe rather wondered at the choice of such a subject for such an audience, but took it for granted that some great social evil would be remedied or some great want supplied by unfolding the glories of the pharaohs to an audience whose thoughts were busy with the price of coal and flour, and whose lives were spent in trying to solve harder riddles than that of the Sphinx. They were early, and while Miss Crocker set the heel of her stocking, Joe amused herself by examining the faces of the people who occupied the seat with them. On her left were two matrons, with massive foreheads and bonnets to match, discussing women's rights and making tatting. Beyond sat a pair of humble lovers, artlessly holding each other by the hand, a somber spinster eating peppermints out of a paper bag, and an old gentleman taking his preparatory nap behind a yellow bandana. On her right, her only neighbour, was a studious-looking lad, absorbed in a newspaper. It was a pictorial sheet, and Joe examined the work of art nearest her. I'dly wondering what unfortuitous concatenation of circumstances needed the melodramatic illustration of an Indian in full-war costume, tumbling over a purposes with a wolf at his throat, while two infuriated young gentlemen, with unnaturally small feet and big eyes, were stabbing each other close by, and a dishevelled female was flying away in the background with her mouth wide open. Pausing to turn a page, the lad saw her looking, and with boyish good nature offered half his paper, saying bluntly, Want to read it? That's a first-rate story. Joe accepted it with a smile, for she had never outgrown her liking for lads, and soon found herself involved in the usual labyrinth of love, mystery and murder. For the story belonged to that class of light literature in which the passions have a holiday, and when the author's invention fails, a grand catastrophe clears the stage for one half the dramatis personae, leaving the other half to exalt over their downfall. Prime, isn't it? asked the boy, as her eye went down the last paragraph of her portion. I think you and I could do as well as that if we tried. Returned Joe, amused at his admiration of the trash. I should think I was a pretty lucky chap if I could. She makes a good living out of such stories, they say, and he pointed to the name of Mrs. S. L. A. N. G. Northbury, under the title of the tale. Do you know her? asked Joe, with sudden interest. No, but I read all her pieces, and I know a fellow who works in the office where this paper is printed. Do you say she makes a good living out of stories like this? And Joe looked more respectfully at the agitated group and thickly sprinkled explanation points that adorn the page. Guess she does. She knows just what folks like, and gets paid well for writing it. Here the lecture began, but Joe heard very little of it. For a while Professor Sands was prosing away about Belle Zoni, Chiebs, Scarabay, and Hieroglyphics. She was covertly taking down the address of the paper, and boldly resolving to try for the $100 prize offered in its columns for a sensational story. By the time the lecture ended, and the audience awoke, she had built up a splendid fortune for herself, not the first founded upon paper, and was already deep in the concoction of her story, being unable to decide whether the jewel should come before the elopement or after the murder. She said nothing of her plan at home, but fell to work next day, much to the disquiet of her mother, who always looked a little anxious when genius took to burning. Joe had never tried this style before, contending herself with very mild romances for the spread eagle. Her theatrical experience and miscellaneous reading were of service now, for they gave her some idea of dramatic effect and supplied plot, language, and costumes. Her story was as full of desperation and despair as her limited acquaintance with those uncomfortable emotions enabled her to make it, and having located it in Lisbon, she wound up with an earthquake as a striking and appropriate denouement. The manuscript was privately dispatched, accompanied by a note, modestly saying that if the tale didn't get the prize, which the writer hardly dared expect, she would be very glad to receive any sum it might be considered worth. Six weeks is a long time to wait, and a still longer time for a girl to keep a secret. But Joe did both, and was just beginning to give up all hope of ever seeing her manuscript again when a letter arrived which almost took her breath away, for on opening it a check for a hundred dollars fell into her lap. For a minute she stared at it as if it had been a snake, then she read her letter and began to cry. If the amiable gentleman who wrote that kindly note could have known what intense happiness he was giving a fellow creature, I think he would devote his leisure hours, if he has any, to that amusement, for Joe valued the letter more than the money, because it was encouraging, and after years of effort it was so pleasant to find that she had learned to do something that was only to write a sensation story. A proud young woman was seldom seen than she. When having composed herself she electrified the family by appearing before them with the letter in one hand, the check in the other, announcing that she had won the prize. Of course there was a great jubilee, and when the story came everyone read and praised it, though after her father had told her that the language was good, the romance fresh and hearty, and the tragedy quite thrilling. He shook his head and said in his unworldly way, You can do better than this, Joe. Aim at the highest and never mind the money. I think the money is the best part of it. What will you do with such a fortune? asked Amy, regarding the magic slip of paper with a reverential eye. Send Beth and mother to the seaside for a month or two, answered Joe promptly. Oh, how splendid! No, I can't do it, dear. It would be so selfish! cried Beth, who had clapped her thin hands and taken a long breath, as if pining for fresh ocean breezes. Then stopped herself and motioned away the check which her sister waved before her. Ah, but you shall go. I've set my heart on it. That's what I tried for, and that's why I succeeded. I never get on when I think of myself alone, so it will help me to work for you, don't you see? Besides, mommy needs the change, and she won't leave you, so you must go. Won't it be fun to see you come home plump and rosy again? Hurrah for Dr. Joe, who always cures her patience. To the seaside they went, after much discussion, and though Beth didn't come home as plump and rosy as could be desired, she was much better, while Mrs. March declared she felt ten years younger. So Joe was satisfied with the investment of her prize money, and fell to work with a cheery spirit bent on earning more of those delightful checks. She did earn several that year, and began to feel herself a power in the house, for by the magic of a pen, her rubbish turned into comforts for them all. The Duke's daughter paid the butcher's bill, a phantom hand put down a new carpet, and the curse of the coventries proved the blessing of the marchers in the way of groceries and gowns. Wealth is certainly a most desirable thing, but poverty has its sunny side, and one of the sweet uses of adversity is the genuine satisfaction which comes from hearty work of head or hand, and to the inspiration of necessity we owe half the wise, beautiful, and useful blessings of the world. Joe enjoyed a taste of this satisfaction, and ceased to envy richer girls, taking great comfort in the knowledge that she could supply her own wants, and need ask no one for a penny. Little notice was taken of her stories, but they found a market, and encouraged by this fact, she resolved to make a bold stroke for fame and fortune. Having copied her novel for the fourth time, read it to all her confidential friends, and submitted it with fear and trembling to three publishers, she had last disposed of it, on condition that she would cut it down one third, and admit all the parts which she particularly admired. Now I must either bundle it back into my tin kitchen to mould, pay for printing it myself, or chop it up to suit purchases and get what I can for it. Fame is a very good thing to have in the house, but cash is more convenient, so I wish to take the sense of the meeting on this important subject, said Joe, calling your family counsel. Don't spoil your book, my girl, for there is more in it than you know, and the idea is well worked out. Let it wait and ripen, was her father's advice. And he practised as he preached, having waited patiently thirty years for fruit of his own to ripen, and being in no haste to gather it, even now, when it was sweet and mellow. It seems to me that Joe will profit more by making the trial than by waiting, said Mrs. March. Criticism is the best test of such work, for it will show her both unsuspected merits and faults, and help her to do better next time. We are too partial, but the praise and blame of outsiders will prove useful, even if she gets but little money. Yes, said Joe, knitting her brows, that's just it. I've been fussing over the thing so long, I really don't know whether it's good, bad, or indifferent. It will be a great help to have cool, impartial persons take a look at it, and tell me what they think of it. I wouldn't leave out a word of it. You'll spoil it if you do. For the interest of the story is more in the minds than in the actions of the people, and it will all be a muddle if you don't explain as you go on, said Meg, who firmly believed that this book was the most remarkable novel ever written. But Mr. Allen says, leave out the explanations, make it brief and dramatic, and let the characters tell the story. Interrupted Joe, turning to the publisher's note. Do as he tells you he knows what we'll sell, and we don't. Make a good popular book and get as much money as you can. Buy and buy when you've got a name. You can afford to digress and have philosophical and metaphysical people in your novels, said Amy, who took a strictly practical view of the subject. Well, said Joe, laughing, if my people are philosophical and metaphysical, isn't my fault, for I know nothing about such things, except what I hear father say sometimes. If I've got some of his wise ideas jumbled up with my romance, so much the better for me. Now, Beth, what do you say? I should so like to see it printed soon, was all Beth said, and smiled in saying it. But there was an unconscious emphasis on the last word, and a wistful look in the eyes that never lost the childlike candor, which chilled Joe's heart for a minute, with a foreboding fear, and decided her to make her little venture soon. So, with Spartan firmness, the young authoress laid her first spawn on the table, and chopped it up as ruthlessly as any ogre in the hope of pleasing everyone. She took everyone's advice, and, like the old man, and his donkey in the fable, suited nobody. Her father liked the metaphysical streak which had unconsciously got into it, so that was allowed to remain, though she had her doubts about it. Her mother thought that there was a travel too much description, out there for it nearly all came, and with it many necessary links in the story. Meg admired the tragedy, so Joe piled up the agony to suit her, while Amy objected to the fun, and, with the best intentions in life, Joe quenched the sprightly scenes which relieved the somber character of the story. Then, to complete the ruin, she cut it down one third, and confidantly set the poor little romance, like a picked robin, out into the big busy world to try its fate. Well, it was printed, and she got three hundred dollars for it, likewise plenty of praise and blame, both so much greater than she expected that she was thrown into a state of bewilderment, from which it took her some time to recover. You said, mother, that criticism would help me. But how can it, when it's so contradictory that I don't know whether I've written a promising book, or broken all the ten commandments? cried poor Joe, turning over a heap of notices, the perusal of which filled her with pride and joy one minute, wrath and dire dismay the next. This man says, an exquisite book full of truth, beauty and earnestness, all is sweet, pure and healthy. continued the perplexed authoress. The next. The theory of the book is bad, full of morbid fancies, spiritualistic ideas, and unnatural characters. Now, as I had no theory of any kind, don't believe in spiritualism, and copied my characters from life, I don't see how this critic can be right. Another says, it's one of the best American novels which has appeared for years. I know better than that. And the next asserts that, though it is original and written with a great force and feeling, it is a dangerous book. Tisn't some make fun of it, some overpraise, and nearly all insist that I had a deep theory to expound when I only wrote it for the pleasure and the money. I wish I'd printed it whole or not at all, for I do hate to be so misjudged. Her family and friends administered comfort and commendation liberally. Yet it was a hard time for sensitive, high-spirited Joe, who meant so well, and had apparently done so ill. But it did good for those whose opinion had real value gave her the criticism, which is an author's best education. And when the first sawness was over, she could laugh at her poor little book, yet believe in it still, and feel herself the wiser and stronger for the buffeting she had received. Not being a genius like Keats, it won't kill me, she said stoutly. And I've got the joke on my side after all. For the parts that were taken straight out of real life are denounced as impossible and absurd, and the scenes that I made up out of my own silly head are pronounced charmingly natural, tender and true. So I'll comfort myself with that, and when I'm ready, I'll up again and take another. Goodwives. Like most other young matrons, Meg began her married life with the determination to be a model housekeeper. John should find home a paradise, he should always see a smiling face, should fare sumptuously every day, and never know the loss of a button. She brought so much love, energy, and cheerfulness to the work that she could not but succeed, in spite of some obstacles. Her paradise was not a tranquil one, for the little woman, Fust, was overanxious to please, and bustled about like a true Martha, cumbered with many cares. She was too tired sometimes even to smile. John grew disceptic after a course of dainty dishes and ungrateful demanded plain fare. As for buttons, she soon learned to wonder where they went, to shake her head over the carelessness of men, and to threaten to make him sew them on himself, and see if his work would stand impatient in clumsy fingers any better than hers. They were very happy, even after they discovered that they couldn't live on love alone. John did not find Meg's beauty diminished, though she beamed at him from behind the familiar coffee pot. Nor did Meg miss any of the romance from the daily parting. When her husband followed up his kiss with the tender inquiry, shall I send some veal or mutton for dinner, darling? The little house sees to be a glorified bower, but it became a home, and the young couple soon felt that it was a change for the better. At first they played keep house, and froliced over it like children. Then John took steadily to business, feeling the cares of the head of the family upon his shoulders, and Meg laid by her Cambridge wrappers, put on a big apron, and fell to work, as before said, with more energy than discretion. While the cooking mania lasted, she went through Mrs. Cornelius' receipt book as if it were a mathematical exercise, working out the problems with patience and care. Sometimes her family were invited in to help eat up a two-bouches feast of successes, or Lottie would be privately dispatched with a batch of failures, which were to be concealed from all eyes in the convenient stomachs of the little hummels. An evening with John over the account books usually produced a temporary lull in the culinary enthusiasm, and a frugal fit would ensue, during which the poor man was put through a course of bread pudding, hash, and warmed over coffee, which tried his soul, although he bore it with praiseworthy fortitude. Before the golden mean was found, however, Meg added to her domestic possessions what young couples seldom to get on long without, a family jar. Fired with a house wifely wish to see her storeroom stocked with homemade preserves, she undertook to put up her own current jelly. John was requested to order home a dozen or so of little pots and an extra quantity of sugar, for their own currents were ripe and were to be attended to at once. As John firmly believed that my wife was equal to anything, and took a natural pride in her skill, he resolved that she should be gratified, and their only crop of fruit laid by in a most pleasing form for winter use. Home came four dozen delightful little pots, half a barrel of sugar, and a small boy to pick the currents for. With a pretty hair tucked into a little cap, arms bared to the elbow, and a checked apron which had a coquettish look in spite of the bib, the young housewife filled to work, feeling no doubts about her success, for hadn't she seen Hannah do it hundreds of times? The array of pots rather amazed her at first, but John was so fond of jelly, and the nice little jars would look so well on the top shelf that Meg resolved to fill them all and spend a long day picking, boiling, straining, and fussing over her jelly. She did her best. She asked advice of Mrs Cornelius. She racked her brain to remember what Hannah did that she left undone. She re-boiled, resugared, and restrained. But the dreadful stealth wouldn't gel. She longed to run home, bib and all, and as mother to lend her a hand. But John and she had agreed that they would never annoy anyone with their private worries, experiments, or quarrels. They had laughed over the last word, as if the idea it suggested was a most preposterous one, but they had held to their resolve, and whenever they could get on without help, they did so, and no one interfered, for Mrs March had advised the plan. So Meg wrestled alone with the refractory sweet-meats all that hot summer day, and at five o'clock sat down in her topsy-turvy kitchen, rung her bedobbed hands, lifted up her voice, and wept. Now in the first flush of a new life she had often said, my husband shall always feel free to bring a friend home whenever he likes. I shall always be prepared. There shall be no flurry, no scolding, no discomfort, but a neat house, a cheerful wife, and a good dinner. John, dear, never stop to ask my leave, invite whom you please, and be sure of a welcome for me. How charming that was to be sure! John quite glowed with pride to hear her say it, and felt what a blessed thing it was to have a superior wife. But although they had company from time to time, it never happened to be unexpected, and Meg had never had an opportunity to distinguish herself till now. It always happened so in this veil of tears. There is an inevitability about such things which we can only wonder at, deplore, and bear as we best can. If John had not forgotten all about the jelly, it really would have been unpardonable in him to choose that day, of all the days in the year, to bring a friend home to dinner unexpectedly. Congratulating himself that a handsome repast had been ordered that morning, feeling sure that it would be ready to the minute, and indulging in pleasant anticipations of the charming effect it would produce, when his pretty wife came running out to meet him, he escorted his friend to his mansion, with the irresistible satisfaction of a young host and husband. It is a world of disappointments, as John discovered when he reached the dovecoat, the front door usually stood hospitably open. Now it was not only shut, but locked, and yesterday's mud still adorned the steps. The parlor windows were closed and curtained, no picture of the pretty wife sewing on the piazza, in white, with the distracting little bow in her hair, or a bright-eyed hostess, smiling a shy welcome as she greeted her guest. Nothing of the sort, for not a soul appeared but a sanguinary-looking boy asleep under the current bushes. I'm afraid something has happened. Step into the garden, Scott, while I look up Mrs. Brook, said John, alarmed at the silence and solitude. Around the house he hurried, led by a pungent smell of burnt sugar, and Mr. Scott strolled after him with a queer look on his face. He paused discreetly at a distance when Brook disappeared, but he could both see and hear, and being a bachelor, enjoyed the prospect mightily. In the kitchen, rain confusion and despair. One addition of jelly was trickled from pot to pot, another lay upon the floor, and a third was burning galey on the stove. Lottie, with teutonic phlegm, was calmly eating bread and current wine, for the jelly was still in a hopeless liquid state, while Mrs. Brook, with her apron over her head, sat sobbing dismally. My dearest girl, what is the matter? cried John, rushing in, with awful visions of scalded hands and sudden news of affliction and secret consternation at the thought of the guest in the garden. Oh, John, I am so tired and hot and cross and worried, I've been at it all till I'm all worn out. Do come and help me, or I shall die. And the exhausted housewife cast herself upon his breast, giving him a sweet welcome in every sense of the word, for her pinafore had been baptized at the same time as the floor. What worries you, dear? Has anything dreadful happened? asked the anxious John, tenderly kissing the crown of the little cap, which was all askew. Yes, sobbed Meg despairingly. Tell me quick, then, don't cry. I can bear anything better than that. Out with it, love. The jelly won't gel, and I don't know what to do. John broke a laugh, then, as he never dared to laugh afterward. And the derisive scott smiled involuntarily as he heard the hearty peel, which put the finishing stroke to poor Meg's woe. Is that all? Fling it out of the window, and don't bother any more about it. I'll buy you quartz if you want it, but for heaven's sakes don't have hysterics, for I brought Jack Scott home to dinner and... John got no further, for Meg cast him off, and clasped her hands with a tragic gesture as she fell into a chair, exclaiming in a tone of mingled indignation, reproach, and dismay. A man to dinner, and everything in a mess? John broke how could you do such a thing? Hush, he's in the garden. I forgot the confounded jelly, but it can't be helped now, said John, surveying the prospect with an anxious eye. You ought to have sent word, or told me this morning, and you ought to have remembered how busy I was, continued Meg petulantly, for even turtle doves will peck when ruffled. I didn't know it this morning, and there was no time to send word, for I met him on the way out. I never thought of asking leave when you have always told me to do as I liked. I never tried it before, and hang me if I ever do again, added John with an aggrieved air. I should hope not. Take him away at once. I can't see him. There isn't any dinner. Well, I like that. Where's the beef and vegetables I sent home? And the pudding you promised, cried John, rushing to the larder. I hadn't time to cook anything. I meant to dine at mother's. I'm sorry, but I was so busy, and Meg's tears began again. John was a mild man, but he was human, and after a long day's work to come home tired, hungry, and hopeful to find a chaotic house, an empty table, and a cross-wife was not exactly conductive to repose of mind or manner. He restrained himself, however, and a little squall would have blown over, but for one unlucky word. It's a scrape I acknowledge, but if you will end a hand, we'll pull through and have a good time yet. Don't cry, dear. Just exert yourself a bit, and fix us up something to eat, we're both as hungry as hunters, so we shan't mind what it is. Give us the cold meat and bread and cheese. We won't ask for jelly. He meant it to be a good-natured joke, but that one word sealed his fate. Meg thought it was too cruel to hint about her sad failure, and the last atom of patience vanished as he spoke. You must get yourself out of the scrape as you can, I'm too used up to exert myself for anyone. It's like a man to propose a bone and vulgar bread and cheese for company. I won't have anything of the sort in my house. Take that scot up to mothers, and tell him I am away, sick, dead, anything. I won't see him, and you too can laugh at me and my jelly as much as you like. You won't have anything else here. And having delivered her defiance all on one breath, Meg cast away her pinafore, and precipitately left the field to bemoan herself in her own room. What those two creatures did in her absence, she never knew. But Mr. Scott was not taken up to mothers, and when Meg descended after they had strolled away together, she found traces of a promiscuous lunch which filled her with horror. Lottie reported that they had eaten a much and greatly laughed, and the master bidder throw away all the sweet stuff and hide the pots. Meg longed to go and tell mother, but a sense of shame at her own shortcomings, of loyalty to John, who might be cruel but nobody should know it, restrained her, and after a summery cleaning up, she dressed herself prettily, and sat down to wait for John to come and be forgiven. Unfortunately John didn't come, not seeing the matter in that light. He had carried it off as a good joke with Scott, excused his little wife as well as he could, and played the host so hospitably that his friend enjoyed the impromptu dinner, and promised to come again. But John was angry, though he did not show it. He felt that Meg had deserted him in his hour of need. It wasn't fair to tell a man to bring folks home any time with perfect freedom, and when he took you at your word to flame up and blame him and leave him in the lurch, to be laughed at or pitied, know by George it wasn't, and Meg must know it. He had fumed inwardly during the feast, but when the flurry was over and he strolled home after seeing Scott off, a milder mood came over him. Poor little thing. It was hard upon her when she tried so heartedly to please me. She was wrong, of course. But then she was young. I must be patient and teach her. He hoped she had not gone home. He hated gossip and interference. For a minute he was ruffled again at the mere thought of it, and then the fear that Meg would cry herself sick softened his heart, and sent him on a quicker pace, resolving to be calm and kind, but firm, quite firm, and show her where she had failed in her duty to her spouse. Meg likewise resolved to be calm and kind, but firm, and show him his duty. She longed to run to meet him and beg pardon and be kissed and comforted, as she was sure of being, but, of course, she did nothing of the sort, and when she saw John coming began to hum quite naturally, as she rocked and sowed, like a lady of leisure in her best parlor. John was a little disappointed not to find a tender knee-obe, but feeling that his dignity demanded the first apology, he made none. Only came leisurely in, and laid himself upon the sofa, with the singularly relevant remark. We are going to have a new moon, my dear. I have no objection, was Meg's equally soothing remark. A few other topics of general interest were introduced by Mr. Brook, and wet blanketed by Mrs. Brook, and conversation languished. John went to one window, unfolded his paper, and wrapped himself in it, figuratively speaking. Meg went to the other window, and sowed as if new rosettes for slippers were among the necessaries of life. Neither spoke, both looked quite calm and firm, and both felt desperately uncomfortable. Oh, dear, thought Meg, married life is very trying, and does need infinite patience as well as love, as Mother says. The word mother suggested that other maternal consuls given long ago intercede with unbelieving protest. John is a good man, but he has his faults, and you must learn to see and bear with them remembering your own. He is very decided, but never will be obstinate, if you reason kindly, not oppose impatiently. He is very accurate, and particular about the truth, a good trait, though you call him fussy. Never deceive him by look or word, Meg, and he will give you the confidence you deserve, the support you need. He has a temper, not like ours, one flash and then all over, but the white, still anger that has seldom stirred, but once kindled is hard to quench. Be careful, be very careful not to wake his anger against yourself, for peace and happiness depend on keeping his respect. Watch yourself, be the first to ask pardon if you both err, and guard against the little piquets, misunderstandings, and hasty words that often pave the way for bitter sorrow and regret. These words came back to Meg as she sat sewing in the sunset, especially the last. This was the first serious disagreement. Her own hasty speeches sounded both silly and unkind, as she recalled them, her own anger looked childish now, and thoughts of poor John coming home to such a scene quite melted her heart. She glanced at him with tears in her eyes, but he did not see them. She put down her work and got up, thinking, I will be the first to say, forgive me. But he did not seem to hear her. She went very slowly across the room, for pride was hard to swallow, and stood by him, but he did not turn his head. For a minute she felt as if she really couldn't do it. Then came the thought, this is the beginning. I'll do my part and have nothing to reproach myself with. And stooping down, she softly kissed her husband on the forehead. Of course, that settled it. The pentonet kiss was better than a world of words, and John had her on his knee in a minute, saying tenderly, It was too bad to laugh at the poor little jellypots, forgive me dear, I never will again. But he did, oh bless you yes, hundreds of times, and so did Meg, both declaring that it was the sweetest jelly they ever made, for family peace was preserved in that little family jar. After this, Meg had Mr. Scott to dinner by special invitation, and served him up a pleasant feast without a cooked wife for the first course, on which occasion she was so gay and gracious, and made everything go off so charmingly that Mr. Scott told John he was a lucky fellow, and shook his head over the hardship of bachelorhood all the way home. In the autumn, new trials and experiences came to Meg. Sally Moffat renewed her friendship, was always running out for a dish of gossip at the little house, or inviting that poor dear to come in and spend the day at the big house. It was pleasant, foreign dull whether Meg often felt lonely. All were busy at home, John absent till night, and nothing to do but sow or read or potter about. So it naturally fell out that Meg got into the way of gadding and gossiping with her friend, seeing Sally's pretty things made her long for such, and pity herself because she had not got them. Sally was very kind, and often offered her the coveted trifles, but Meg declined them, knowing that John wouldn't like it, and then this foolish little woman went and did what John disliked even worse. She knew her husband's income, and she loved to feel that he trusted her, not only with his happiness, but what some men seemed to value more, his money. She knew where it was, was free to take what she liked, and all he asked was that she should keep account of every penny, pay bills once a month, and remember that she was a poor man's wife. Till now she had done well, been prudent, and exact, kept her little account books neatly, and showed them to a monthly without fear. But that autumn the serpent got into Meg's paradise, and tempted her like many a modern eve, not with apples, but with dress. Meg didn't like to be pitied and made to feel poor. It irritated her, but she was ashamed to confess it, and now and then she tried to console herself by buying something pretty, so that Sally didn't think she had to economize. She always felt wicked after it, for the pretty things were seldom necessaries, but then they cost so little, it wasn't worth worrying about, so the trifles increased unconsciously, and in the shopping excursions she was no longer a passive looker on. But the trifles cost more than one would imagine, and when she cast up her accounts at the end of the month, the sum total rather scared her. John was busy that month and left the bills to her. The next month he was absent, but the third he had a grand quarterly settling up, and Meg never forgot it. A few days before she had done a dreadful thing, and it weighed upon her conscience. Sally had been buying silks, and Meg longed for a new one, just a handsome light one for parties. Her black silk was so common, and thin things for evening wear were only proper for girls. Aunt March usually gave the sisters a present of $25 apiece at New Years. That was only a month to wait, and here was a lovely violet silk going at a bargain, and she had the money, if she only dared to take it. John always said that was his, was hers. But would he think it right to spend not only the prospective five and twenty, but another five and twenty out of the household fund? That was the question. Sally had urged her to do it, and had offered to lend the money, and with the best intentions in life had tempted Meg beyond her strength. In an evil moment the shopman held up the lovely shimmering folds and said, A bargain I assure you, ma'am. She answered, I'll take it, and it was cut off and paid for. And Sally had exalted, and she had laughed as if it were a thing of no consequence, and driven away feeling as if she had stolen something, and the police were after her. When she got home, she tried to assuage the pangs of remorse by spreading forth the lovely silk, but it looked less silvery now. Didn't become her after all, and the words $50 seemed stamped like a pattern down each breath. She put it away, but it haunted her, not delightfully as a new dress should, but dreadfully like the ghost of a folly that was not easily laid. When John got out his books that night, Meg's heart sank, and for the first time in her married life she was afraid of her husband. The kind brown eyes looked as if they could be stern, and though he was usually merry, she fancied he had found her out, but didn't mean to let her know it. The house bills were all paid, the books all in order. John had praised her, and was undoing the old pocketbook which they called the bank. When Meg, knowing that it was quite empty, stopped his hand, saying nervously, You haven't seen my private expense book yet. John never asked to see it, but she always insisted on his doing so, and used to enjoy his masculine amazement at the queer things women wanted, and made him guess what piping was, demand fiercely the meaning of a hug me tight, or wonder how a little thing composed of three rose buds, a bit of velvet, and a pair of strings, could possibly be a bonnet and cost six dollars. That night he looked as if he would like the fun of quizzing her figures, and pretending to be horrified at her extravagance, as he often did, being particularly proud of his prudent wife. The little book was brought slowly out, and laid down before him. Meg got behind his chair under the pretense of smoothing the wrinkles out of his tired forehead, and standing there, she said, with panic increasing with every word. John, dear, I'm ashamed to show you my book, for I've really been dreadfully extravagant lately. I'm going about so much I must have things, you know, and Sally advised my getting it, so I did, and my New Year's money will partly pay for it, but I was sorry after I had done it, for I knew you'd think it wrong in me. John laughed, and drew a round beside him, saying good humoredly, Don't go and hide. I won't beat you if you have got a pair of killing boots. I'm rather proud of my wife's feet, and don't mind if she does pay eight or nine dollars for her boots, if they are good ones. That had been one of her last trifles, and John's eye had fallen on it as he spoke. Oh, what will he say when he comes to that awful fifty dollars, thought Meg with a shiver? It's worse than boots. It's a silk dress, she said, with the calmness of desperation, for she wanted the worst over. Well, dear, what is the damn total, as Mr. Montellini says? That didn't sound like John, and she knew he was looking up at her with the straightforward look that she had always been ready to meet, an answer with one as frank till now. She turned the page and her head at the same time, pointing to the sum which would have been bad enough without the fifty, but which was appalling to her with that added. For a minute the room was very still. Then John said slowly, but she could feel it cost him an effort to express no displeasure. Well, I don't know that fifty is much for a dress, with all the fur bellows and notions you have to finish it off these days. It isn't made or trimmed, side may faintly. For a sudden recollection of the cost still had to be incurred, quite overwhelmed her. Twenty-five yards of silk seems a good deal to cover one small woman, but I have no doubt my wife will look as fine as Ned Moffat's when she gets it on, said John Dryly. I know you are angry, John, but I can't help it. I don't mean to waste your money, and I didn't think those little things would count up so. I can't resist them when I see Sally buying all she wants and pitting me because I don't. I try to be contented, but it is hard, and I'm tired of being poor. The last words were spoken so low she thought he did not hear them, but he did, and they wounded him deeply, for he had denied himself many pleasures for Meg's sake. She could have bitten her tongue out the minute she had said it, for John pushed the books away and got up, saying with a little quiver in his voice. I was quite afraid of this. I do my best, Meg. If he had scolded her or even shaken her, it would not have broken her heart like those few words. She ran to him and held him close, crying with repentant tears. Oh, John, my dear kind, hard working boy, I didn't mean it. It was so wicked, so untrue and ungrateful. How could I say it? Oh, how could I say it? He was very kind, forgave her readily, and did not utter one reproach. But Meg knew that she had done and said a thing which would not be forgotten soon. Although he might never allude to it again, she had promised to love him for better or worse, and then she, his wife, had reproached him with his poverty, after spending his earnings recklessly. It was dreadful, and the worst of it was John went on so quietly afterward, just as if nothing had happened, except that he stayed in town later, and worked at night when she had gone to cry herself to sleep. A week of remorse nearly made Meg sick, and the discovery that John had countermanded the order for his new greatcoat reduced her to a state of despair which was pathetic to behold. He had simply said, in answer to her surprised inquiry as to the change, I can't afford it, my dear. Meg said no more, but a few minutes after he found her in the hall, with her face buried in the old greatcoat, crying as if her heart would break. They had a long talk that night, and Meg learned to love her husband better for his poverty because it seemed to have made a man of him, given him the strength and courage to fight his own way, and taught him a tender patience with which to bear and comfort the natural longings and failures of those he loved. Next day she put her pride in her pocket, went to Sally, told the truth, and asked her to buy the silk as a favor. The good-natured Mrs. Moffat willingly did so, and had the delicacy not to make her a present of it immediately afterward. Then Meg ordered home the greatcoat, and when John arrived, she put it on and asked him how he liked her new silk gown, one can imagine what answer he made, how he received his present, and what a blissful state of things ensued. John came home early, Meg gatted no more, and that greatcoat was put on in the morning by a very happy husband, and taken off at night by a most devoted little wife. So the year rolled round, and at midsummer there came to Meg a new experience, the deepest and tenderest of a woman's life. Lori came sneaking into the kitchen of the dovecoat one Saturday with an excited face, and was received with a clash of symbols. For Hannah clapped her hands with a saucepan in one, and the cover in the other. How's the little mama? Where is everybody? Why didn't you tell me before I came home? began Lori in a loud whisper. Happy is a queen, the dear! Every soul of them's upstairs a worshiping. We didn't want no hurry-kings round. Now go into the parlor, and I'll send them down to you, with which some would involve reply Hannah vanished, chuckling ecstatically. Presently Joe appeared, proudly bearing a flannel bundle laid forth upon a large pillow. Joe's face was very sober, but her eyes twinkled, and there was an odd sound in her voice of repressed emotion of some sort. Shut your eyes and hold out your arms, she said invitingly. Lori backed precipitably into a corner, and put his hands behind him with an imploring jester. No, thank you, I'd rather not. I shall drop it, or smash it, as sure as fate. Then you shan't see your nevy, said Joe decidedly, turning as if to go. I will, I will, only you must be responsible for damages. And obeying orders, Lori heroically shut his eyes, while something was put into his arms. A peel of laughter from Joe, Amy, Mrs. March, Hannah, and John caused him to open them the next minute, to find himself invested with two babies instead of one. No wonder they laughed, for the expression of his face was droll enough to convulse a quaker, as he stood and stared wildly from the unconscious innocence to the hilarious spectators with such dismay that Joe sat down on the floor and screamed. Twins by Jupiter was all he said for a minute, then turning to the women with an appealing look that was comically pious, he added. Take them quick, somebody, I'm going to laugh, and I shall drop them. Joe rescued his babies, and marched up and down with one on each arm, as if already initiated into the mysteries of baby tending, while Lori laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks. It's the best joke of the season, isn't it? I wouldn't have told you, for I set my heart on surprising you, and I flatter myself. I've done it, said Joe, when she got her breath. I've never was more staggered in my life. Isn't it fun? Are they boys? What are you going to name them? Let's have another look. Hold me up, Joe, for upon my life it's one too many for me. Return, Lori, regarding the infants with the air of a big, benevolent Newfoundland looking at a pair of infantile kittens. Boy and girl, aren't they beauties? Said the proud papa, beaming upon the little red squirmers as if they were unfledged angels. Most remarkable children I ever saw, which is which. And Lori bent like a well-sweep to examine the prodigies. Amy put a blue ribbon on the boy, and pink on the girl. French fashion, so you can always tell. Besides, one has blue eyes and one brown. Kiss the Uncle Teddy, said wicked Joe. I'm afraid they might not like it, began Lori, with unusual timidity in such matters. Of course they will, they are used to it now. Do it this minute, sir, Commander Joe, fearing he might propose a proxy. Lori screwed up his face and obeyed with a gingerly peck at each little cheek that produced another laugh and made the baby squeal. There, I knew they didn't like it. That's the boy. See him kick? He hits out with his fist like a good one. Now then, young Brooke, pitch into a man of your own size, will you? Cried Lori, delighted with a poke in the face from a tiny fist flapping aimlessly about. He's to be named John Lawrence, said the girl Margaret, after mother and grandmother. We shall call her Daisy, so as not to have two megs. And I suppose that manny will be Jack, unless we find a better name, said Amy, with odd-like interest. Name him Demi John, and call him Demi for short, said Lori. Daisy and Demi, just the thing. I knew Teddy would do it, cried Joe, clapping her hands. Teddy certainly had done it at that time, for the babies were Daisy and Demi to the end of the chapter. End of chapter. Recording by CalmDragon.net